Every blogger loves a parade

When I started Thinking Positive last year, I didn't realize what a huge responsibility maintaining a blog can be.

As of this morning, TP has acquired 23 "followers": readers who have taken the time to not only publicly declare their association with this blog but, in many cases, add photos of themselves in living color to this page.

I'm still trying to figure out how a schmo like me deserves to have a single follower, let alone 23.

Swine flu fears notwithstanding, 23 followers is nothing to sneeze at.

True, my gang of 23 trails the number of Ashton Kutcher's followers on Twitter by 999,977, but it's more than three times the number of dwarves who clung to Snow White's hemline. Twenty-three followers is a smaller posse than the number of bunnies hovering around Hugh Hefner on an average day in the Playboy Mansion, but it's bigger than the size of the Manson Family. Britney Spears' fans may be able to pack Staples Center on successive nights, but my 23 followers could fill just about any Starbucks, and that should count for something.

By the way, I am eager for follower No. 24 to arrive. The number 23 reminds me of a bad Jim Carrey movie.

With so many of people following me, I'm terrified I'm going to get all of you lost.

I'm a guy who, after hundreds of visits to Disneyland, still has trouble getting from Critter Country to Tomorrowland without referring to a map or asking for directions. Followers, if I ever announce a field trip for the people who read this blog, bring a change of underwear.

But having a Band of Buddies who call themselves followers is rush-inducing. I love seeing your mugs every morning when I sit down to write the day's post. You are a fabulous mix of 23 people, animals, tattoos and a cartoon rendering of a beer bottle.

To those of you who are represented by gray silhouettes: you give me goose pimples, too.

And to the mysterious follower who identifies himself or herself with a 28-character string of consonants, vowels and numerals: you fuel my fantasies.

Are you one of my old English teachers monitoring my grammar and spelling skills? Are you the Bad Boy I've been searching for all of my life? Are you a libel lawyer? Are you the IRS? Are you the bureaucrat I needled in this blog last winter? Are you a visitor from another planet? Are you Prince? That's it! You are Prince, aren't you?

It's a hoot knowing that even utter strangers can become one of my followers. Sure, Gary Hart regrets inviting news reporters to follow him back in 1987, but I'm not likely to be photographed anytime soon cradling a 29-year-old model in my lap.

But, followers, don't abandon me if a photo of me pouring tequila down my G-tube should surface after Cinco de Mayo.