So Where's the Mighty Oak?

Five years is a long time. It's 1,827 days (two leap years, '08 and '12) or 43,848 hours or 2,630,880 minutes  or (deep breath) 137,852,800 seconds. Luckily no one had to be awake for all of that. It was five years today I started running up that hill with this effort in this space on The Internet, or Interent as I too often write. Today is the most recent of all those days and this was the first one.

Yeah, I know, und wer sagt, "Übung macht den Meister"? Point in fact, perfect practice makes perfect. Any other kind makes what you now have before you, a variant of the dog's breakfast. Speaking of that, if you reading this are the somewhat self-consciously self-important person who took exception to my characterization of your volunteer effort as just such some years ago in this ether, remember how I said I was sorry to upset you? I lied. I wasn't and I'm still not. And your mom dresses you funny. Herr Ober! Ich möchte bitte zahlen.

If you were here for the take-off I hate to disappoint you when I tell you this is the landing, but I'd also be lying if I did that since I started out writing for myself and all those seconds later, self-centered ba$tard that I am, that's still why I do it. If you stop by on a regular or even irregular basis, I do thank you, but I don't necessarily notice. My inner world is so much more interesting than anything from anywhere and anyone else.

I was inspired by a continuing on-line commentator about local politics at one of our newspapers who, as I was to discover, was only fitful vice faithful in penning and posting. I may be bad (I know, may?) but I am consistent and will strive, though often fail, to remain so. I would encourage you to follow that example. The key to success is showing up; how else to explain the Baltimore Orioles, Kim Kardashian or the Tea Party.

I turned to the vastness of cyber-space five years ago to find my voice and attempt, admittedly with little hope of success, to make it heard. Probably the latter was a bridge too far, I knew, but I hoped you might realize I was waving and not drowning. And everyday ever since.

This time three years ago someone asked if I would pen, as 2010 dawned, a once-a-week newspaper column about the derring-do (and other kinds, too) in The Rose of New England, explaining he felt I had a  level headed and sane view of our local politics. I was tempted to suggest he should expand his circle of acquaintances and then realized he had, which is how we came to meet. The Wednesday space doubles as the newspaper column and is always about Norwich, Connecticut-at least that's what I tell the people at the paper. Sometimes it's true.  

I started out not knowing where any of this was going and I still don't but, let's face it, we're making great time. That's a guy joke, but you're probably not surprised at my attempted humor. Luckily it's still only a misdemeanor in this state.

More days than not when I sit down to write (I've tried it standing up, usually because someone is playing the National Anthem), I have no idea what it will be about and the suspense is painful as I race to the finish. Even more days than that when I'm done, I still don't know what it's about. So if you don't get this, you're not alone. Small solace, I imagine.

It takes more energy to be a light than to be a horn and no one has ever accused me of being bright. Loud is, however, a very different story. Some days I eat the bear and some days it eats me. As long as you hold the napkins, I'll keep using liverwurst  as an aftershave. Everybody dies of something. Stick close kiddo, cos it definitely ain't gonna be from boredom. See you tomorrow  
-bill kenny