I was born in 1976, a scrappy Gen X kid who managed to hitch a ride on the rollercoaster of the ’80s and ’90s—a time when pop culture hit like a tidal wave and left you drenched in its fleeting brilliance. Those were the golden years, an era before binge-watching or Reddit spoilers, when missing a big TV moment wasn’t just an inconvenience; it was social suicide. FOMO was our unwritten creed, and we lived by it, chasing every thrill as if the universe itself might forget to press record.

 

Back then, the world didn’t hand you entertainment on a silver platter. You had to show up, lean in, and soak up the moment or lose it forever. Whether it was a new episode of MacGyver or the neighborhood’s unsanctioned BMX tournament, you had to be there. And we were. Fully.

 

Outside was our dominion, a place of adventure and endless possibilities. My siblings and I roamed the suburban wilds of Westchester, New York, unbound by curfews until my mom clanged her infamous cowbell from the back porch. That bell wasn’t just a signal; it was a summons. We’d come tearing through the streets like knights on a quest, leaping fences, dodging sprinklers, and probably committing mild trespassing, all for the promise of dinner. Not bad for a suburb that fancied itself sophisticated.

 

Of course, the indoors had its siren call, too: video games. My son today might live on a steady diet of YouTube walkthroughs and in-app purchases, but we had none of that hand-holding nonsense. Beating The Legend of Zelda wasn’t just a pastime—it was a war of attrition. My friends and I waged battles over months, armed with scribbled maps and whispered tips traded in hushed tones during lunch breaks. We didn’t skip the struggle; we were forged in it. Every dungeon we conquered taught us something about grit, persistence, and the value of passing the controller to the kid with the fastest thumbs.

 

My dad, a pharmaceutical exec, was the strong, silent type, his success measured by the evolution of our driveway cars. A man of precision and purpose, he’s now retired, spending his golden years chauffeuring elderly neighbors to doctor appointments—a role that no doubt perplexes Uber drivers. He’s also the kind of man who is convinced he knows a faster route than Google, no matter the destination, armed with a sense of direction that’s equal parts confidence and chaos.

 

My mom, on the other hand, was—and still is—a creative whirlwind. At 83, she runs her own art gallery, proving daily that passion trumps age. Together, they’ve spent decades in an endless tug-of-war, my dad insisting she rein it in, my mom urging him to loosen up. Spoiler alert: neither budged. And thank God for that.

Music was my first true love. My inaugural concert was Guns N’ Roses at Madison Square Garden in 1991. It wasn’t just a concert; it was an awakening. Years later, I even got to meet Axl Rose, and for a brief moment, the cosmos aligned in a way that felt absurdly perfect—proof that even a suburban misfit could find magic.

 

My twin brother and I were nomads of education, hopping schools in my parents’ eternal search for “academic excellence.” We eventually landed at Salisbury Boarding School in Connecticut, which appears often in my book. Let’s just say the stories are only slightly fictionalized. Mostly.

 

Professionally, I’ve dabbled in everything: investment banking, advertising, consulting. Truthfully, I’ve never quite fit in with the buttoned-up corporate crowd, but I’ve gotten away with cosplaying as a "professional" for 25 years. LinkedIn? Oh, it’s just a theater of shallow applause and disingenuous “Congrats!” messages. But I play along. Mostly.

 

Social media, though, rewrote the rules of connection. Back in the AOL chat room days, it was a minefield of arguments and typos. But somehow, through all that digital chaos, I met my wife, Sarah, on Match.com. She messaged me because she liked my dog. I thought she was a catfisher. Turns out, she wasn’t. She’s fierce, brilliant, and the strongest woman I know. She’s the muse behind every powerful female character in my writing, and she still puts up with me—a fact I take as evidence that miracles exist.

 

We now live in Westchester with two boys and two dogs. Our oldest son has special needs, and advocating for Autism awareness has become central to our lives. He’s non-verbal, and while we haven’t had a spoken conversation yet, every gesture or sound he makes feels like a gift. Technology, which I once scorned for making life too easy, has become his voice. It’s a bittersweet reminder that progress is never just one thing.

 

This book? It’s been brewing for decades. During COVID, I finally found the time to write it, fueled by caffeine and Sarah’s exasperation. “Who writes a book when they barely read?” she said. Fair point. But she cried when she finally read it, which is how I know I got something right. And if you’re wondering, yes, the book’s Sara-without-an-h is named after her. I just dropped the “h” to keep her from saying “I told you so.”

 

Of course, writing this book hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing. Sarah maintains a daily to-do binder for me—a three-ring, color-coded gauntlet of tasks that looms over my desk like a judge’s gavel. For the last two years, trying to fit writing and editing this book around her pointed scorn at how epically I’ve failed to conquer that binder has been its own kind of battlefield. Every morning, I enter the day with the optimism of a soldier in a trench, and every evening, I retreat, wounded by unfulfilled checkboxes and her all-knowing glare. But hey, Hemingway had his demons. I have Sarah’s binder.

 

In the end, this book is a love letter—to the ’80s and ’90s, to the struggles that made us stronger, and to the magic of chasing something real in a world that so often settles for fake. It’s a little improbable, but, then again, so is life.

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I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.