I don’t know who Paul Banks is. There, I said it.
I started blogging a couple of months ago after defecting from another alledged website for writers. I escaped along with a few other refugees, some of whom you might have seen poking around here and there. A lot of the people in our little group have children, and some have grown children. A few even have grandkids. I’m one of the younger members of that group.
Then I came here and found a most excellent group of talented writers. They are sweet and clever and they’ve made me laugh out loud on more than a few occasions. The trouble is, they’re young. Most of the time I can keep up with what they’re talking about, but they keep going on about someone named Paul Banks. I’m too scared to tell them I don’t know who the crap Paul Banks is. That makes me feel old.
So today, on the ninth anniversary of my twenty-ninth birfday, I’ve decided to get in touch with my rapidly approaching middle age. I was born during the Nixon administration, so fucking what? That doesn’t make me a bad person. And at least I can say I was around for Woodstock and the moonwalk. OK, so I happened to be a fetus at the time, so sue me.
If anyone else out there would like to join me in celebrating my impending doom please feel free to leave a comment below. If anyone needs me I’ll be in the kitchen with my head in the oven.