I’ll be 36 by the end of the year, and as far as I’m concerned that’s pretty young, especially in this world where 60 is the new 40. It follows that 36 is the new 16.
Still, once in awhile I get reminders that I’m no longer a spring chicken. Like when I realize it’s been a quarter century since the Dolphins were in the Super Bowl, even though I vividly remember watching that embarrassing defeat. Or when I find out that hot girl in a new TV show was born in 1990.
The emergence of Vampire Weekend has had this affect on me as well.
Meet Me In Montauk 