While Michelle Obama was cavorting with dozens of her nearest and dearest intimates, someone else was celebrating a birthday.
We were eight years old on Saturday, thanks for remembering. (Don’t worry, we forgot too.) Blog years are like dog years, or close enough. A lot of blogs our age are long since dead. Maybe they were on to something.
We’re moving a little slower these days than in our heady youth. Indeed, we tried to end it all last year (or I did). But Aggie bound our wounds and sent us back into the fray. For which we are grateful. Imagine having signed off before the worst year of Obama’s presidency (among stiff competition)!
When we started, Barack Obama was a simple senator; the surge had “won” Iraq; kill ratios against the Taliban were routinely 100-1; and the economy had been kicking tail for years. Now look at us—rather the US.
Some may call this blog a failure, a useless pursuit, “the expense of spirit in a waste of shame” (as Shakespeare described us). Guilty as charged.
Though I prefer the few epithets we’ve set aside over the years: “The hobgoblin of little blogs.” “A knack for taking the already disturbing and turning it into the abjectly ghastly.” “Hamsters with hobbies.” Guilty as charged.
We used to have higher hopes… I guess, No, really, we did. We—I—thought this might be a tiny cherished gem buried deep within the mountainous blogosphere. Not the Mother Lode, maybe, but not pyrite either. The fool’s gold was in thinking we made a difference. That we made a sound. That we made a ripple in the great ocean of the Internet. Even if we did accomplish the latter two, sounds die away and ripples are lost to other ripples, waves, tides.
In the end, we just scratched an itch—like we all do every night in our sleep, in unmentionable areas. This isn’t the end, of course, though that will come eventually. Until we find the right ointment, however, there will be itches to scratch. If you don’t want to watch, avert your eyes.
By all means, please toast us, if it crosses your mind.