I read somewhere that trying to publish poetry in America is like throwing a feather into the Grand Canyon and waiting to hear it hit bottom. Heh. I think it’s the same way with bloggers, about whom it has been said, “Never before have so many written so much to be read by so few.” Guilty. Still, I’m a happy nobody.

RtB is three years old today. Can it really be? Looking at the “Archives”  menu on your right, I’d say yep, it sho can.

It’s no big deal in the grand scheme of bloggy things, mind. Some blogs have been around for ten years or longer. I can’t hold up my three little candles to those behemoths. But really now, how many blogs about absolutely nothing have run for ten years? Not many, I’ll wager. So, hopefully, I’m off to a good start.

Once again I thank all (90 of) my worldwide readers for stopping by Finkville once in awhile to see if I’d happened upon an intelligent thought overnight. Commenting fiends — and you know who you are — I adore you. I appreciate the folks who read but don’t comment, too, even though I think you’re scaredy cats (come on, really, I’m harmless).

Highest of fives also to my online writing idol, Ross.

This endeavor represents the longest I’ve “kept at” anything outside family and career in my life. I do not possess innate self-discipline, believe it. My mom was always after me to do the daily household chores (“See? If you’ll just fold up your halfslip and put it in the dresser drawer like so, you’ll never lose it again”), and it seems like I fought her at every step. I will let the errant Starbucks cup or Pepsi Max can sit on the garage floor forever. I’ve been losing the same 20 pounds for 30 years. Personal tenacity is not my strong suit.

Therefore, this almost-daily writing odyssey must provide me with some comfort, or a feeling of acceptance and peace in a weary, crazy world. I certainly think so today. So I thank all my fiends for coming to my little party every day (or at least on occasion). I am both happy and humbled that you do.

Fink out (and up) for another year.

Tolstoy finger puppet:

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Zimbabwe’s inflation:

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Lucky Break Wishbones. Just $8.50 for ten in a package.

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I triple-dog dare you to drink this.

And on that note, I’ll go make the coffee. The non-predigested kind, thanks.

B & W photos: Getty Images/LIFE

…may you rest in pieces.

Almost a year after our interesting I-71 debacle with the flying boxes, the Finkmobile gets into another jam — this time, with flying animals.

[The only reason I’m making light of this is because my son, who was driving my car at the time, his wife and my grandsons were unhurt.]

We’d traded cars yesterday, and #1 Son had just come home from the road, and was looking forward to a fun day with his sons at the zoo today. R & R over the weekend was apparently on the schedule as well. Instead, he got a car full of Bambi’s mom. Fortunately, after some major body work, it’ll all be good as new, but for now, it’s not so pretty. I just thank the good Lord it wasn’t the windshield that took the brunt:

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Since another car hit the deer after my son, he called the law and notified them. They came out to his house, looked at the damage, and provided the only thumbs-up event of the evening. Hence, the very excited 3-year-old:

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Too much close-call stuff for Grammie Fink last night. But hey, another paint job, couple o’ new doors, some new headlights…it could be worse.

Yes, I gave in and stayed home today. I don’t take sick days very often, but it was all I could do to get through the school day and my rehearsals yesterday. Not so good. Phenergan is my friend.

But I’ve never gone more than two days without a post. Can’t start that trend now, what with my third birfday coming up, can I? Mais non. So here it is. I’ll tell the tale while it’s still somewhat fresh in my mind.

I had a dream this morning. I know it was this morning, because the Thriller’s alarm startled me out of it. I was with my students on choir tour, but instead of NYC, we were in Dallas. It wasn’t a part of Dallas I’ve ever seen, or that even exists. It looked more like, say, a European city, with old, delightful apartment buildings and shops, lined up close together on narrow streets. As I sat on the tour bus and told my students, “We’ll be seeing this part of the city later,” a text-messagy-type update scrolled across my phone screen: Paul McCartney dead.  Then my phone went dead. I couldn’t retrieve the message to see if that was what I’d really read, or if I was mistaken.

Immediate switch to a concert venue. Students have vanished; I’m there with people I don’t know to listen to a band I’d never heard of. I’m sitting on the right side of what I believe was a church, but I’m seated under an eave, where I can’t get phone service. Finally, I can take it no more. I ask the man next to me if he’d heard anything about McCartney, and he said, “Oh, yeah. I heard that on the news yesterday.”

Rinnnng, rinnnng, rinnnng…

This is why I never remember my dreams: they’re too stupid. I think I know why the phone was involved, though, seeing as how I spent three hours last night rebuilding the replacement Droid Verizon sent me (my camera and gallery went kaput, so I finally used the insurance policy I’ve been paying into for years). It’s still not where I want it settings-wise, but it’s getting there. Thank the gods for backups of contacts, ja? I just wish Android would have saved the free apps as well as the paid ones.

Anyway, I’m not sure why McCartney was involved. We can’t lose that guy yet, please. Do you know another 68-year-old man with full-voice high Bs? What a performer, wow. Beyond words.

OK, I’m off to make tea and curl up on the couch.