To be that man...

If I could make a career change at this stage of my life I would probably become a Luchador. Being a wrestler has always been a life long dream of mine since before I can remember and I distinctly remember in 7th grade having a very serious conversation with my family about dropping out of school to join a wrestling troupe. I never followed through though and the closest I got to becoming pro wrestler was pile-driving my brother on the living room floor. At the time I was really pissed off at my family for not letting me go, but now I realize that they had the foresight to see the direction professional wrestling was heading in the 90's and had my best interests in heart. Thanks.

But now that I'm an adult, nothing is really stopping me from becoming a wrestling phenom except ability. The desires still there though and that got to count for something. I'd wear a green sequence cape with matching mask and my name would be Gran Tortuga. My finishing move would be called the "Choque de Caparazón".

Shout out to Mr. Wrestling II.

Lucha Libre shirt from Threadless.com

More Bar. Less Genius.

The little computing boxes that those magical people at Apple make are fantastic. There are hundreds of reasons to be a fan, but for me, it's always been about the status symbol. That little nibble-bit fruit logo makes me better than you... and I've always been willing to pay top dollar for that. However nowadays it seems that everybody is jumping onboard the Cupertino Express. Everywhere I turn, I see some underachiever brandishing my beloved computer company's hardware like a fashion accessory. The sanctuary of the Apple Store once exclusive to an elite aristocracy is now overrun by the rank and file masses. Congratulations are in order to Apple though. They've turned the sinking ship of the 90's around and run aground on a continent full of riff raff willing to climb aboard for the ride. If I was so gosh-darn in love with every piece of wiz-bang, flashy spark they came out with, I'd turncoat for fear of being mistaken as one of the fad chasers. I'd wager this is how those blue bloods who came up with meth must of felt when the secret recipe got leaked to the trailer park.

In other news...

As prophesied, yesterday, was my 30th birthday. I haven't altogether forgotten the whimsy of youth, but I can safely say that I feel the weight of adulthood as the shadows of responsibility and sober maturity loom overshoudler and multiply in viscosity and darkness by variables directly linked to my chronological age. It goes without saying that turning thirty was a lot different that turning twenty, but turning thirty was also surprisingly different from turning twenty-nine. When I turned twenty-nine, I still had my twenties and all the irreverence that comes along with them to hold on to. It was easy to feel good about myself and what I had accomplished by looking comparatively at my life at twenty-nine versus the know-nothing I was at a youthfully eager twenty. But now at thirty, I face a ten year blank slate into the future. Without the turbulence of my twenties to measure myself up to I think my future accomplishments may not feel as rewarding, because in the future, I won't be comparing myself to the reckless twenty year old... I'll have to compete with the man I am today... and the man I am today is tough competition. My forty year old self better come correct. I hope there are jetpacks by then.

List of notable people who died when they were 30 years old.

American Way of Life

Via: Matt Bors

My father's son

Tomorrow, (June 16, 2009) is my thirtieth birthday, which means that it's been just over thirty years since my father was forced to leave the United States and return to Iran. I have had virtually no contact with him at all with the exception of a couple of letters that made it to me in the early 80's addressed to my mother. Through those letters, I know that I have at least one brother in Iran born to my father's Iranian wife, three years younger than me. He is as much a ghost to me as my father is... more imaginary than real; more folk lore than kinfolk, but a brother none the less.

Today on the television and all over the internet there are images. Iran's youth are finding their voice. They are finding their muscle; their heart and soul. I see young men and women awake, screaming in unison and uniting their mass so they will not be ignored. I cannot help but wonder if one of the faces I see might be my brother's. Long ago I gave up hope of ever meeting my father or any of my Iranian family, but in the eyes of those fighting back today, I see myself. I see faces that look like mine. It lingers. I hope for my family's well being, as imaginary as they may be to me. I wonder if they ever think about me.