back in the day
It was mid-October 2008. We were fighting wars in five countries, and the two of 'em we knew about weren't going well. The economy was wounded and spewing fresh blood every day. Otherwise-sane adult women were addicted to vampire/coming of age/romance novels written by Mormon housewives. The Red Sox were dangerously close to a dynasty.
The tap water all down the East Side of Manhattan turned brown, but the city told us to go ahead and drink it. Beverly Hills Chihuahua was #1 at the Box Office. Somebody came up with the idea for the $1000 lap dance, which included the parting gift of the stripper's autographed g-string.
Fox News commentator Sarah Palin was running for Vice-President. I shit you not, look it up.
They were the dying days of the marijuana prohibition era, which meant, among other things, that you might be smoking dried-out pesto sauce at any given moment.
Keith Olbermann was the best the left could muster.
I was nursing a sore foot and a probably-cracked rib, and I was drinking way too much coffee.
Then again:
Steve Nash was still playing basketball, about to start his last great season. You really had to see it. Dick Cavett had a blog you could read for free. We could still get excited about new technology. There were more great shows on TV than ever before, although I didn't have time to watch them.
The Facebook Murders hadn't happened yet.
David Letterman was still two years away from retirement. Our kids were still tiny and controllable and had no idea how to use their cuteness as a weapon.
I could still run and play sports and crack bad jokes. You were fifteen pounds lighter and still had fantasies of a different life.
And goddammit, we could order beer at work.
If you were alive then, I hope you appreciated it. I hope you put on your fall jacket and got outside on a crisp Saturday afternoon when you could. I hope you had laughter-filled brunches with friends and watched the big game in a bar while eating the deep fried food of your choice. I hope you tickled your kids until they were mad at you.
And I hope you got some pictures while you were at it. You were one lucky son of a bitch.
The tap water all down the East Side of Manhattan turned brown, but the city told us to go ahead and drink it. Beverly Hills Chihuahua was #1 at the Box Office. Somebody came up with the idea for the $1000 lap dance, which included the parting gift of the stripper's autographed g-string.
Fox News commentator Sarah Palin was running for Vice-President. I shit you not, look it up.
They were the dying days of the marijuana prohibition era, which meant, among other things, that you might be smoking dried-out pesto sauce at any given moment.
Keith Olbermann was the best the left could muster.
I was nursing a sore foot and a probably-cracked rib, and I was drinking way too much coffee.
Then again:
Steve Nash was still playing basketball, about to start his last great season. You really had to see it. Dick Cavett had a blog you could read for free. We could still get excited about new technology. There were more great shows on TV than ever before, although I didn't have time to watch them.
The Facebook Murders hadn't happened yet.
David Letterman was still two years away from retirement. Our kids were still tiny and controllable and had no idea how to use their cuteness as a weapon.
I could still run and play sports and crack bad jokes. You were fifteen pounds lighter and still had fantasies of a different life.
And goddammit, we could order beer at work.
If you were alive then, I hope you appreciated it. I hope you put on your fall jacket and got outside on a crisp Saturday afternoon when you could. I hope you had laughter-filled brunches with friends and watched the big game in a bar while eating the deep fried food of your choice. I hope you tickled your kids until they were mad at you.
And I hope you got some pictures while you were at it. You were one lucky son of a bitch.
Labels: 2008
posted by hans q. bungle at 00:30
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