I remember yesterday, when the world was younger—when everything smelled faintly of vinyl records and cigarettes, and no one had yet decided that being permanently offended was a lifestyle choice. The 1970s—at least the bits I can recall—were a curious time. Women’s hair were a towering work of architectural ambition, and the men? Well, they strutted about in bell-bottomed Levi’s like they were auditioning for a Bee Gees cover band.
By the 1980s, life was all moonwalks and mullets. Michael Jackson was king—not metaphorically, but actually—and every kid I knew secretly practiced the “Thriller” routine in their bedroom mirror. Simpler times, really. We pledged allegiance, we prayed before class, and no one was arguing about who should use which bathroom. There was a comforting lack of outrage. You just got on with it—spelling tests, BMX bikes, and trying not to die of embarrassment when your mother called you “my handsome boy” in front of your friends.
Then came the 1990s—high school. If you had a pair of Converse, preferably scuffed but not too scuffed, you were golden. None of these modern-day worries about “finding yourself” or “living your truth.” No, you just lived. And if you felt the need—the need for speed—well, you had Maverick and Goose for that. We hung out with friends all day long, laughed at things that probably aren’t even legal to joke about anymore, and life rolled on. Carefree, uncomplicated, and deliciously unfiltered.
College? A blur of books and my first real relationship—a whirlwind of late-night talks, stolen kisses, and the vague suspicion that I should probably be paying more attention to my coursework. But who had time for that when there were hearts to break and futures to imagine?
Then came the 2000s—a whole new world, promising global adventures and oversized mobile phones. Off I went to faraway lands, chasing work, experience, and—if I’m honest—pure, unadulterated adventure.
And then—9/11 happened.
Everyone remembers where they were. Me? I was sitting in a restaurant in Saudi Arabia, home country of the 15 out of 19 terrorists responsible for the attack, picking at a plate of kabsah—a local affair involving roasted chicken and enough spices to trigger an international incident. The television was on, and I—ever the picture of situational awareness—thought I was watching a new action movie. Until I saw those three letters—CNN. And suddenly, it wasn’t a movie. The world shifted beneath my feet.
To add to the absurdity, there I was, sitting in the middle of Riyadh, wearing a bright blue “Aim High, U.S. Air Force” T-shirt—a gift from a friend. Every head turned my way. It wasn’t paranoia; it was an instinctual, animal awareness that I suddenly looked like a walking foreign policy problem. I paid, left, and drove straight to the nearest embassy, where I was greeted by two .50 caliber machine guns and a confused-but-ready U.S. Marine. It was surreal—a world where everything that once felt simple and familiar now felt fragile and exposed.
A few months later, I went home—to beautiful England. Cold, hazy, foggy, wonderful England. But it wasn’t the same. Nothing was.
You see, there was a time when the world was young—when all you needed was a good pair of shoes, a pack of friends, and dreams that stretched as far as the summer sky. But after 9/11? The world grew older overnight. And no amount of moonwalks or Top Gun replays could bring back the innocence we lost.
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A Kings 
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