A Decade of Decadence
As one of the oldest, if not THE oldest, Pajibans (haven't seen Ralphie around much lately), I'm pretty settled into life, job- and family- and spousewise, and really, not a hell of a lot about that has changed any for a long time (that's right, we're just waiting for the Grim Reaper). Mrs. Tater and I have avoided the major traumas so far. Even at our advanced age, we haven't had to bury a parent or a child. We haven't lost a job. Haven't had a life-threatening ill ...
That brings me to my own personal Best Of/Worst Of The Aughts.
Best thing: The heart attack I should have had but didn't. I spent one summer early in the aughts walking around with many of my heart arteries sealed or closing fast. But that didn't really bother me a lot, unless I was exerting myself more than usual. Mowing the lawn, for instance, I had to stop and take a few breathers until that brick on my chest went away. But I just thought, "Damn, you're out of shape. You need some exercise." So I took up walking, but after awhile I'd have to stop every quarter mile until the weight went away. Still, I didn't think it merited going to the doctor until October -- OCTOBER! -- which resulted in an almost immediate hospital stay and three stents (the artery that had shut completely they didn't even bother trying to open).
Still here nearly 10 years later.
Oh, winning four games of "Jeopardy!" in 2001 was pretty cool, too.
The worst thing: The cancer, of course, which I've detailed extensively here lately and which you probably wish I'd just shut the fuck up about already, so suffice to say: Even that hasn't been REALLY bad. Could have been a lot worse. But it would be a bitch of a decade in anyone's life if a bout of even easily eliminated cancer weren't the worst thing that happened to you.
This is, of course, all by way of soliciting the Best Thing and the Worst Thing that happened to you in the aughts.
And of wishing you and your'n a scathing, bitchy new decade!
TATER BARLEY BANKS is not to be trusted. He probably makes up everything he writes about himself, especially the stuff about living in West Virginia. Don't be fooled. In truth, he lives in Pajibaland, where he speaks gibberish as , (TCFKAB), spends his time sitting on a park bench, eyeing little girls with bad intent, and is developing a 25-letter alphabet, now that his key doesn't work. He has no blog, no Facebook page and no MySpace page, so don't try to find him. If you're so inclined, you can email Tater.