Oh, and one more thing, 2011 . . .

Thank you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Thank you so much.

Thanks to each of you who’s taken the time to stop in and read my blog. It means the world to me.

Of the many things that struck me following the death of Christopher Hitchens, one that stands out was why he said he was so prolific.

“Writing,” he said, “is my recreation.”

I feel that way, too.

Blogging for me is essentially like bar time without the hangover. What I write about here is exactly the same as what me and my friends talk about in The Pond, the lively little tavern that’s just beneath my feet.

We talk about family, sports, politics, oddball news and those are the exact same topics that wind up as blog fodder.

I began blogging in May 2008 and didn’t tell a soul for six months. Then I told Ron. He’s been reading ever since and I often think when considering a topic, “Hmmm, would Ron approve?”

Happily, he usually does.

One gauge of the blog’s success: I now know of eight readers named Ron. If positive readership trends continue, by June there will be 20 Ron readers.

The last year, especially the last six months, have shown sharp readership spikes.

A 2011 recap:

The three most widely read, according to the highly unreliable stats page are this straight-faced travel story about the Kinzua Skywalk, which benefitted from a friendly endorsement on a state park website, this one about the recent discovery of another Earth-like planet ripe for exploitation and, of course, this one about exotic sexual practices from the South Pacific.

Some of my favorites have included this March 10 one about how I became a prosetitute (it lead to me coining an alternative word for blogging, “auth-whore”); this one about the phone message Miss America left me; and anything that lets me bash Pat Robertson always leaves me with warm feelings.

It’s been a very difficult year with my demented mother. I’ve heard from a number of readers and friends who commiserate. I try not to write about this too much, but every time I do I’m grateful for the reaction. This one about her Kleenex obsession seemed to ring a lot of bells. And this one about how I faux-outed my friend John got a good reaction.

I wrote about my socks, the death of jukeboxes, Roberto Clemente, and what I think about when I think about Dolly Parton.

I’m grateful to RedRoom.com, the only other site on which I simultaneously post. They promote the heck out of my stories with encouraging tweets and getting 2,000 hits a day is becoming common. And the great comments I get from so many friendly folks always gives me a lift.

I remain thrilled by the reaction to this Barbara M. Neill story in the Latrobe Bulletin. It led to scores of new readers here at home and has me hoping Barbara gets a dream job with “USA Today” in 2012 where her first assignment is to promote unheralded blogs with Amish in the title.

Since I decided five months ago to increase my output, my readership has doubled.

I ask you help continue this trend by in 2012 referring the blog to friends and sharing it on the social media whenever you find it worthy. That makes a huge difference.

All told, the blog enthusiasm and the increasing readership convinced me it’s time to put some of it all together in a themed book and release it on my own.

See, I’ve been pitching an idea to publishers for years and am always blown away by the reaction. Top editors and agents have raved about it and the writing. I know they are sincere because I’ve seen the other side of it with a handful of other proposals that are cruelly scorned.

This one they truly love. They say it’s funny, it’s touching, and they’d all leap to publish it if only . . .

“Yes?”

“If only your last name was Kardashian.”

The book is about crayons.

More on that soon.

Traditional publishers may not believe in me, but I know a man who does.

He’s one of the most highly sought-after and influential endorsers in marketing history: Arnold Palmer.

He’s read the book, thinks it’s great, and has agreed to provide the promotional foreward.

And he doesn’t even care that my name isn’t Kardashian.

I’m starting to think you don’t either and for that . . .

Thanks!

And Happy New Year!

What I think about when I think about Dolly Parton

So I’m driving down the road when I become consumed with thoughts of Dolly Parton’s sexuality.

It’s like she was constructed in a secret lab to inspire every boy’s first erection.

I’m not a breast man but, man, those breasts. I wonder if her cleavage is visible from the International Space Station.

I’m listening to a country radio station and she and Kenny Rogers are singing “Islands in the Stream,” an innocuous 1983 Bee Gees love ditty.

I wonder what’s going on in Rogers’s mind as he swaps verses with Parton. I’d bet $1 million I can guess.

What’s simultaneously going on in Dolly’s mind, I can’t begin to fathom, but we can probably rule out she’s thinking about doing to Rogers what Rogers is probably thinking about doing to her.

Rogers has been married five times and has fathered five children.

There’s no evidence that Dolly at 65 and for four decades one of the most sexual looking beings on the planet, has ever actually had sex. She’s reared no children or been linked to any illicit lovers in a scandal-free life spent entirely in the spotlight.

She’s married, or so we’re told, but there are endangered spotted owls more outgoing than Carl Thomas Dean, the man she wed in 1966.

Yet, every time I hear Parton sing, read something about her, or see her acting or yapping on TV, the very second thing I think is, “Wow, that Dolly Parton is still so cool.”

It’s true.

She’s just so cool.

“I don’t resent dumb blond jokes,” she says, “because I’m neither dumb nor blond.”

When Oprah asked her in 2003 if she’s ever had plastic surgery, she said, “If I have one more face lift, I’m going to have a beard.”

The first mammal ever cloned was born in 1996 and named Dolly in her honor (the sheep’s creators said Parton was the inspiration because the key cell was extracted from an ample mammary gland).

Parton’s response: “Hey, there’s no such thing as baaa-d publicity.”

She’s one of the most beloved people in entertainment. New York Magazine recently did a story about her and it was evident the jaded writer wanted very much to expose her in ways that had nothing to do with the ways Hugh Hefner’s tried in vain to expose her.

But the story couldn’t be more generous or flattering. It says she’s unfailingly kind. She treats everyone the same. She’s a joy to be around. She makes everyone feel better about themselves just by being in her orbit.

It made her sound in so many ways like Fred Rogers with 48-DD breasts.

She’s just 4-foot-11 but projects in ways more vast than a Macy’s Day float, all big and unnatural. Just the sight of her makes you want to stroll down Fifth Avenue with her on the end of a really long pole  -- and please don’t read more into that than there already is.

The announcer said Dolly -- the singer, not the sheep -- has a new album, “Better Day,” coming out this week.

I hope it does gangbusters. I just love Dolly. She’s a remarkable and uniquely American creation. Both Barbara Streisand and Jane Fonda are more critically acclaimed, but no one is more beloved and admired than the The Backwoods Barbie.

I’m thinking of all this after I’ve thought about the very first thing me and men like Kenny Rogers still think about when we first think about the ever-audacious Dolly.

They can clone sheep, but there’ll never be another just like Dolly.

No one will ever fill her shoes.

Not to mention her brassiere.