Time Flies

Happy Blogiversary!

Has it really been a year since I started this silliness?  And you guys keep coming around to read it, even without a Community Service order!  You all deserve a big pat on the back.  Please take one each out of petty cash.  Just watch where you put your hands.

A whole year??!  Time flies when you’re making fun.  With BrainRants makin’ it look easy, and a daughter who pushed her creaky old father down the slippery slope, I thought I’d have a go at it.  The first thing I learned was that it wasn’t anywhere near as easy as Rants, and some of you others make it look.

Like so many other avocations, I find myself safely in the middle.  The authors, socio-political commentators and humorists among you show me levels to aspire to, though likely never achieve.  I keep up with the other raconteurs, constantly trying to throw in a small ration of humor, even among my rants, as well as interesting and educational, social and geographical trivia.

Never saddled with a need to publish, I started slowly, gradually increasing the pace until I was putting out a post every two days.  I cut that back to every three days when panic ensued about where new topics would come from.  Since I’m writing this before my actual blogiversary, I won’t know the exact count, but it should run about 125 posts in the last year.

Perhaps I’ve been fortunate, but I’ve only encountered a couple of blog sites that I would describe as terrible, one that was an admitted psychotherapy project for a young, female, drug-using runaway.  Another was about the adventures of a young woman trying to find Mr. Right, and too often getting Mr. Right Now.  It began to read like the script from year 18 of a TV soap opera, desperate for followers.  I finally had to give it up when the contradictions and fantastic co-incidences became too much to believe.

I’ve found sites with posts about Popsicle stick carving and salt shaker filling.  Though I see no followers, likes, or comments, there must be at least a few people who stop by to read.  I like to hold my head and my hubris high, and assure myself that, at least I’m not that boring.

Some bloggers post every day, a few, more than once a day, even if it’s just pictures of clouds and a few words.  I still haven’t learned how to insert pictures or videos.  My forte is the (electronically) printed word.  I try to make my posts about something, even when it’s not something important.  It just takes me a couple of days to find each new subject and put together a cohesive story about it.

I try to hold my posts to a maximum of a thousand words.  Even with an interesting post, attention spans and patience start to wear off quickly, much farther than that.  I’ve revisited some of my early posts, and found rookie mistakes, huge paragraphs, half a page long.  It’s a wonder that I managed to garner any followers at all.  I’ve learned tighter, more concise presentation

I liken myself to one of my favorite pop bands, Jethro Tull, the British band with the American name.  Like almost every other English group of the time, they thought they were a “Blues” band.  Their first couple of albums were lame, experienced out of context, and yet they’ve hung in for over thirty years.  They’ve travelled, had fun, made some decent money, and still have long-time fans.  If only I do a quarter as well.

My posts are all free, and I try to ensure that you get full value for what you pay.  What you have paid is, attention….and friendship, and comments and following, and guidance, and encouragement, and compliments, and inclusion.  As I’ve been told, and responded to, the measure of the worth of me and my site, is not in the great numbers of people who only comment, “Nice post.”, but the numbers of great people who have made me one of them, and made the last year a real hoot.  I thank you all – again!

When I published my 100th post, my insecurity had me worrying about where to find grist to mill out a few more.  More and more I feel I’m mostly past that.  I now have about fifteen unpublished drafts ahead, and new thoughts pop up from time to time.  Some of them may seem chronologically misplaced, like when I post about a late September trip in late November, but you guys seem patient with the old fogy.

I count myself extremely fortunate to have found such a circle of great thoughts, in great blogs, by great writers.  I am not what I was a year ago.  I am much improved, and I hope to use your support and guidance to further improve me in the next year.  I hope that my meager offerings have improved my readers’ lives in some small way, and plan to try to increase the dividends.

Excelsior!!

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Shotgun

Take one idea from column A, and two from column B, and make a blog about it.  You’ve done it before.

There’s a new Mini that sits just down the street from my place occasionally.  It’s a nice looking little thing.  What caught my attention, as little details often do, was the fact that it has an Alabama, Crimson Tide licence plate ring on it.  Actually, since Ontario requires front and rear plates, it has two Crimson Tide plate rings.  Ontario is a long way from Alabama.  If I ever see the driver, I may ask whether it’s a Southern boy (or girl) moved north, or an Ontarian who went south for schoolin’.

I also saw, the other day, a licence plate ring for Red Rocket Motors.  It’s an interesting name, and I’d never seen one before, so Curious George ran a Bing search on it.  Turns out, it’s from the small city 25 miles east of my home town, and a hundred miles north of here.  They are on the Sunset Strip, the Golden Mile section of highway on the west side, as it leaves the city.  Their website revealed that they are the official supplier of vehicles to Wiarton Willie.  Oh, the excitement! I can hear your heart racing from here.  It’s like being the greatest dog-catcher, in Enid, Oklahoma.

Wiarton Willie is Southern Ontario’s answer to Punxsutawney Phil, the weather-prognosticating Pennsylvania rodent.  Red Rocket’s site included a ten-minute video of the Groundhog-day parade in Wiarton, showcasing all the cars and trucks sold to the town and its residents.  There are hundreds of people in the parade, but very few watching.  Of course not.  This is a small town.  If there are hundreds in the parade, there’s no-one left to watch it.

I should leave this next item till BrainRants is back from Afghanistan.  He would get a wry laugh out of it.  It seems that Los Angeles had a power blackout recently for several hours one night.  911 operators received hundreds of panicked calls about strange lights in the sky.  “Are we being invaded by space aliens!?”  “Was the power destroyed by a meteor shower?  Are we all going to die?”  Those are stars, you techno-goofs!  When the power comes back on, do a Google search.

I did a Google search a few days ago and learned a new term, in a fit of pissed-offedness.  The term is Differential Discrimination.  It is often used when referring to how women come up short in jobs and salary.  This time it was a men’s problem.  Not as big or serious as some that women face, but still, a problem of respect.  I went to the bathroom.  It was a Men’s bathroom in a commercial establishment.  The problem was that, right next to it, was a Ladies’ bathroom.  If the gals get to be “Ladies”, why can’t the guys be described as “Gents?”  If we are merely “Men”, why can’t you females be “Women?”  This is not an isolated bitch.  I’ve seen this disparity in dozens of places.  I liked the signs at the dog show.  They had ‘Setters” and “Pointers.”

Sequels and prequels and reboots, everything old is new again.  I read the other day that the Spice Girls were going to reunite and do a short tour.  Surely this is at least the sixth sign of the Apocalypse!  One more, and that Mayan winter cruise looks more and more sure, and a helluvalot better idea than another Spice Girls tour.  I apologised to an Englishman last week for Celine Dion, Shania Twain, Avril Lavigne and Alanis Morissette.  I want a written note of regret on my desk tomorrow for the Spice Girls.

As my blog followers and comments grow, so do the strange search terms that I’ve seen other bloggers make fun of.  I wrote of my brother having a weekend gig, driving limos, so I could understand the question, “Can we overload a limo with seventeen people?”  Depends on the limo.  A triple-stretch Hummer could take thirty, with room for a hot-tub.  I got, “Scientific vaporisor techniques to conclude their findings.”  I think that one was British, North Americans spell the word *vaporizer*.  I know I’ve used the words, “to, their”, and probably “conclude”, but I don’t think I’ve used any of the rest, in any of my posts, so I don’t understand that one.  I finally got a *dirty* one.  Someone searched, “Wife homemade rape tube.”  Maybe I’m not watching enough on-line porn.  I don’t get that one either.

When I first started taking the wife down the big multi-lane highway, to her new rheumatologist in the big city, they were stripping and re-paving hunks and chunks of the road.  The right lane and/or the middle lane, a half mile here, a quarter-mile there.  It took them a year to get it all done.  It’s lovely to drive on now.  It’s nice and smooth, and it plays whale-song.  Apparently, somehow, as the new blacktop was being laid and smoothed, it didn’t go completely smooth.  There must be series after series of small ridges.  As you drive your car over them, it’s like a needle on an old-time record.  Your tires play back a rising and falling noise that sounds much like whale-song on a National Geographic special.  Driving faster raises the pitch but, it still woohs, up and down.  Very pretty, in a way.  I wonder if the truckers hear it, and what it sounds like to them.

Well, my attention span’s exhausted, I imagine yours is too.  I’ll save some more trivia for another day.