I've been blogging for going on five years now-an eternity in this day and age. It certainly seems like this is something of a dying art. I suppose in a couple of years this form of communication will go the way of the paper journals and diaries some of us might have kept as kids.
I really don't know how much more there is to write about here. I do know I've met a lot of good people on here from around this mudball, learned a lot, had some fun, shed a few tears, and argued until all hours of the morning when I should have been asleep. At times I don't think I've measured up to some of your standards, and at times I wonder why some of you who've travelled the world and seen and done all kinds of cool stuff are interested in the musings of a hick river rat from the deepest interior of the Land of the Free whose idea of a big night out is watching the local nine play baseball on a summer's evening.
The blog seems to have been replaced by social networking sites. And they're fine, but at times it's a lot of clatter. It can be like being at a party and trying to have a conversation with everyone in the room at the same time. To me, that's a bit wearing. And there isn't a lot of privacy unless direct messages are used.
Perhaps to our children, this type of communication will be the norm and us 'single-channel' types will be looked at like we're retarded. My generation is one of the last that grew up using a handwritten letter for communication. It seems-not right, in a way. There is something about a letter, or even e-mail (which I'm told is also going slowly obsolete), that is cool. Someone had to actually take time, sit down, and put thoughts on paper (or viewscreen). You were important enough, special enough, or pissed off someone enough for them to take time out of their lives to write to you. Sometimes 140 characters just doesn't cut it.
I honestly don't know how many posts are left in me. The well's kind of dry right at the moment. It depends a lot on how things go in the rest of my life. If I see some interesting things this summer, I'll do a write-up and pics-or maybe just throw a vid on YouTube and say 'To hell with it'. But blogging just doesn't feel like it did even two or three years ago. Reckon that's how life is, and the pace isn't going to slow down, barring a major catastrophe or everyone just saying 'Enough'.
The past few weeks have been rather exhausting on a lot of fronts. With a bit of luck, some things have been cleared up and the rest have been whittled down to manageable. Time for some new stuff to crop up! I still feel a bit raw, though, and am going to endeavor to clear my mind and soul a bit.
A lot of you have been a great comfort, inspiration, and/or advisors to me over the past year or so: MickH, Doc, Bangar, BigBadAl, Moko, Ausgaz, Havock, Steve, Murph, NatV, Mayhem (wish I'd have gone to Australia to meet women before I'd settled down-two fine ladies there), Barnesy, Drej, Mr-Stu, and Savo. If you got left off, oops. Sorry about that, Chief!
If I could be anywhere right now for some R&R, it'd be at a resort I know of in the middle of Chequamagon National Forest in Wisconsin, on Teal Lake, northeast of Hayward, smack in the center of our Northwoods.
It'd be mid-summer. It's always fairly cool up in that part of the world, so it wouldn't be terribly hot or humid. This cabin would be the one I'd stay in. I'll be in the chair, cold one in hand, fishing rod propped up to catch an unwary bluegill or perch. The only sounds are the shussh of a low breeze in the trees and the gentle lap of the water against the shoreline. Eventually, I'll go out in the canoe for a row around the lake. No motorboats or jetskis up there to drown out the sounds of nature.
When the evening rolls around and the sun sets on the far shore of the lake, I'll start a fire in the pit. Might be I'd cook up the day's catch-more possibly cooking up a batch of burgers (since while the fishing might be good, the catching might be lousy) over the fabled bed of glowing coals that most camp cooks and grillers dream about when the cooking area is either an inferno or a pile of wet, rained-out ashes. After dinner, I'll get the fire cranked back up-the kind of fire that people sit around and tell bullshit stories to each other, or cuddle up with their sweetest, or simply gaze at and relax in the majesty that is the outdoors. I'd best grab a sweatshirt since it cools off at night in those parts, even in summer. Across the lake, as the sky turns darkest orange in the west and the myriad stars appear in the encroaching darkness, I'll hear the loons calling their song of the primeval forest.
If the mosquitoes get bad (even Heaven must have a rough spot or two), I'll retreat to the screened-in porch, park my carcass on the porch swing, and relax with the last Leinenkugel of the evening.
If this sounds good to you, hey, there's always an extra Leinie in the icechest. Pull up a log, sit down, and grab some chow. All it'll cost you is a story at the campfire. Or I could always pack a deck of cards for a bit of poker. Y'all would be welcome there. Cheers!