For my birthday this year, I decided to do something completely for me. Every year my wife tells me to plan something, and I usually just shrug—“Sure, let’s do dinner, but nobody better fraking sing to me or plop a sombrero on my head.” This year, though, I made actual plans.
I wanted to go to Astoria and see the Goonies House, the Kindergarten Cop school, and Stephanie’s house from Short Circuit. I also had my sights set on the Next Level Pinball Museum in Hillsboro, Oregon. And you know what? We made the plans, and we stuck to them.
Growing Up Different
I grew up in a family where “manly” meant grunting, farting, fishing, and hunting. My brother fit right in. My dad loved that. Me? Not so much. I loved books, toys, games, sci-fi, movies—you get the point. I wasn’t your typical reservation Indian kid.
My grandparents raised us a lot while my parents worked hard—my mom excelling at everything she touched, my dad grinding in a lumber mill so we never had to go without. I’ll always be grateful for that.
But birthdays and Christmases? Those were mine. G.I. Joe figures and vehicles, Star Wars ships, Hot Wheels, Legos, and most importantly… Atari games.
The Golden Age of Arcades
Atari ruled our living room, but the arcades ruled my imagination. My two favorites were Starbase 1 and Tiffany’s Ice Cream Shop.
Starbase 1 had it all—black carpet, low lights, and row after row of glowing cabinets. Defender, Asteroids, Centipede, Joust, Afterburner, and my all-time favorite, Mr. Do’s Castle. People argued that Dig Dug was better. Nah. Watching a clown chuck a ball and erase enemies? Way better than pumping them up like balloons.
Then Tiffany’s came along. Suddenly we could play Smash TVand have a hot fudge sundae. Absolute paradise.
Growing Up… and Growing Back In
Of course, life crept in. Adulthood buried the toys, the games, the nerdy passions. I told myself I was too old. For years I only let myself peek in—dropping quarters at a Tilt arcade in a mall, or browsing eBay for toys I “shouldn’t” buy.
But on my 52nd birthday? I leaned in. Hard. I drove six hours to relive 80s nostalgia and spent the day in an arcade, shoulder to shoulder with my little brother and my oldest son, mashing buttons and grinning like kids again. Honestly? Best birthday I’ve had in decades.
The Point
Never stop loving the things you love—no matter how old you are.
I get just as much joy out of building Legos and models now as I did when I was 10. I can lose hours in front of a video game and come away just as happy as ever.
Society will try to tell you to grow out of it. Don’t. Follow your passion, and life will be far more enjoyable and fulfilling—I promise you.
Take the time to be who you are. And enjoy the things that make you smile.
Numbers can feel arbitrary and useless unless they have a specific connection to something familiar. So, let’s put one to the test.
52 — It’s a whole, even number. Its factors are 1, 2, 4, 13, 26, and of course, 52. Let’s get a little nerdier: the square root is 7.2111… In binary, it’s 110100. The Roman numeral? LII.
Now step away from the math for a second and see where 52 shows up around us. There are 52 weeks in a year (I know, easy one). A standard deck of playing cards has 52 cards—not counting jokers. A piano has 52 white keys. There’s even a whale called the “52-Hertz Whale,” supposedly the loneliest whale in the world because no other whales sing at its frequency. Area 52? Yeah, that’s real—and just as secretive as Area 51.
How about people who are 52?
Jim Parsons (March 24, 1973) – Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory
Neil Patrick Harris (June 1, 1973) – Doogie Howser, Barney Stinson, and the incredible Dr. Horrible
Kate Beckinsale (July 26, 1973) – Underworld, Pearl Harbor
Skwirl707 (August 5, 1973) – That would be me. “I’m not saying I’m getting old, but I sneezed at 52 and threw out my back, my knee, and a tax return from 1997.”
I turn 52 in just a few days, and honestly—I still feel like that kid back home who had no clue what the hell life was about. Can you say impostor syndrome? I’ve never been one to panic about getting older. “OH MY FRAKKING GOD I’M GETTING OLD!” wasn’t really my thing… until now. Sure, my body isn’t in the best of shape, but hey—it’s still a shape. Beach balls count, right?
This past week hit a little harder than most. Not because of world events, but because three major influences from my childhood passed away: Malcolm-Jamal Warner, Ozzy Osbourne, and Hulk Hogan. These weren’t just celebrities to me. They were part of the foundation of who I became. Theo Huxtable was a kind of role model in all his hilarious, chaotic Cosby Show mayhem. Ozzy? He was my gateway into metal music. And Hogan—well, Hulk Hogan was the base of the giant, glittering monolith that was the WWF during my youth.
Malcolm-Jamal Warner
Growing up, Malcolm-Jamal Warner was one of those TV figures who felt less like a character and more like someone I could’ve actually known—maybe even been friends with. I was 11 when The Cosby Show first hit the air. That weird in-between age where toys were getting boring, games were getting serious, and girls were suddenly showing up on the radar. Theo Huxtable landed right in the middle of all that. He was awkward, funny, full of wild ideas that didn’t always work out—basically, he was me.
The way he clashed with his dad? That hit home. I’ll never forget the ear-piercing episode—that scene mirrored a real conversation I had with my own dad. And that horrendous shirt he bought once? Still hilarious. Theo had that ADHD vibe long before I had a word for it: scatterbrained, impulsive, and always trying to do right in his own way. I honestly think if Theo were real and lived nearby, we’d have hung out.
Malcolm-Jamal never faded after The Cosby Show either, which I always respected. One of my favorite roles of his is in The Tuskegee Airmen as Leroy “Cappy”—quiet strength, steady presence, unforgettable. He helped shape who I became just by showing up and being real.
Ozzy Osbourne
Ozzy didn’t just arrive—he exploded into my life. I had heard Black Sabbath before but hadn’t put a name to the voice. Then my brother brought home Tribute, and that changed everything. That CD never left rotation. Ozzy’s voice wasn’t smooth—it was gritty and raw, like someone who’d been to hell and back and brought the echo with him.
He wasn’t polished or picture-perfect. He walked against the grain of what the industry expected, and I loved that. Ozzy didn’t ask for permission—he just was. And while I never saw myself as a singer, there was always that little voice in the back of my head saying, “Well hell, if Ozzy can do it…”
His music was the backdrop to an era of rebellion and weirdness I proudly lived through—Dio, AC/DC, Whitesnake, Cinderella, Ratt. But Ozzy stood in the middle of it like some wild, chaotic shaman. He was mood, myth, and madness. And I loved every bit of it.
Hulk Hogan
Hulk Hogan wasn’t just a wrestler—he was the wrestler. I first saw him in the late ’70s or early ’80s on Sunday mornings, sitting with my dad. Back then, most channels just showed church programs—but we had wrestling. Hogan vs. Rowdy Roddy Piper was my introduction, and it felt like watching a superhero brawl in real time. Hogan with his golden hair and ripped shirts. Piper in his kilt and wild fury. It was spandex theater at its finest—and I was hooked.
Hogan had this never-say-die energy. He’d be getting stomped, the ref would lift his arm—once, twice… and then the third time he’d hold it up and explode. That comeback moment? That taught me something important: the good guy doesn’t always win easy, but he fights back. My friends and I would cut our old T-shirts so we could “Hulk out” too—just made sure our moms didn’t find out.
Years later, I met a guy named Jim who wrestled as a “Blue Trunk”—the guys who lose to make the stars look good. He told me Hogan was the real deal. Paid for meals, never ignored fans, always kind. That meant everything to hear.
When Hogan turned heel with the dyed beard, I wasn’t on board—but I got it. He was giving the fans a story. Watching Hogan Knows Best later reminded me he was human. Flawed. Struggling. But still showing up. Still trying. That’s what stuck with me. That’s what I still carry.
So yeah… 52 is just a number. But sometimes, it’s also a mile marker. A moment to pause and thank the heroes, the weirdos, the trailblazers, and the myth-makers who helped shape a little fat Indian kid from Northern California into the man behind this keyboard.
Thanks for the memories, Malcolm. Thanks for the madness, Ozzy. And thanks for always fighting back, Hulk.
Whatcha gonna do, brother… when 52 runs wild on you?
