If you were to put all of these blog entries end to end, depending on the font, you would have just about a mile of blog. This is my coy way of saying that you are currently reading the five thousandth iteration of what is on my mind. Five thousand. That's a lot of stuff on my mind.
Don't blame my parents, though my mom and dad have certainly inspired a great many of the stories and memories found here. They are also responsible for supporting this habit of writing since way back in second grade when I was writing stories about Snoopy playing quarterback for the Denver Broncos. Don't blame them, either, by the way. I have used this space to voice my opinions and observations about professional sports, much to the dismay of my younger brother. You can't blame him, either, since the only ones he acknowledges are the ones in which he appears. There have been a few of those. My older brother too. My family has been featured more than some, and this is especially true of the kid I raised from a puppy. My son has been a very good sport as I have related stories of his youth while reflecting on my own as it fades. And my wife who has been showcased for her attentions and distractions and her love and support of all this meandering.
Friends, some of whom tune in for a glimpse of the past, or a taste of what happened this past week. Strangers who have stopped in here to find out what all this fuss is about, some of whom have returned again and again, just to see if all this fuss has continued. It has. I am still here, writing tales of what once was and what might be. I'm telling stories because it's what I do. Forgive me if you've heard this one before, but I have been telling stories since that second grade flurry. And before that. I used to think that I wanted an audience and now I have one. It may not be the adulation of opening night or provide me with book signings and hobnobbing with all those other writers of stories, but look: I made you read this.
That's the trick, ultimately: Getting someone to read this. Otherwise it's only five thousand journal entries. Kept under lock and key, this blog would still be that exercise of getting what is on my mind out on paper. Or on a screen. And I suppose, to that end, I should thank Al Gore for creating the Internet so that I would have a place to hang all this thought laundry. Thanks Al. And to all those other innovators and creators who have inspired me. To all those destroyers and hypocrites that have lodged something in my metaphorical craw, thank you for supplying grist for this mill.
The story mill, where I work every day. The place where you'll find thousands of stories. Some of them are funny. Some of them are sad. Some of them are poems. And happily, most of them are less self-congratulatory than this. Thank you for your patience. Tomorrow, we'll get back to the stories.