It feels almost self-aggrandizing to refer to those who look forward to reading my columns as “fans.” I really do value the feedback though, and I’ve even been told, “I’m a fan of your writing,” before I puff up, yet feign humility.

There are others out there — most likely classless, humorless, joyless dregs — who barely disguise their non-fan status. I don’t agree with them, but will defend to the end their right to express their lack of literary taste.

With all our modern, technological wonders such as Facebook, iPods and Etch-A-Sketch, reading is a dying art among our youth.

When I spoke several years ago to a Powell High School English class taught by former debate coach Jack Brimhall, (who’s a full inch shorter than myself) I was shocked at how many of his students admitted they seldom pick up a newspaper.

But my youngest and new favorite fan, Terrence Schmidt, has restored my confidence in our youth. The first time I met Terrence was at the Park County Animal Shelter where he and his father, Gene, were walking dogs. As I talked to Gene, this young chap, probably only about 10 at the time, looks up at me and says, “I bought your book.”

Never mind that I found out later he paid a quarter for the book at a garage sale — the point is that he bought, read and liked it. I couldn’t have been more flattered if he’d have said, “Hey Mister; I think your long, thinning hair looks cool!”

Terrence is not a fair-weather, here-today-gone-tomorrow kind of fan, either. Much like me with my Pittsburgh Pirates, he’s stuck with me through prolonged slumps and repeated strikeouts. Last week, as I stuffed myself with soup at Peter’s Café — and you’ll not find a heartier assortment of soups anywhere — Terrence’s mother, Heidi, came out from the kitchen and engaged me in her usual, good-natured banter. They don’t even charge extra for banter, nor butter, down at Peter’s. But that’s neither here nor there.

Heidi and Gene related how they found my recent letter to the editor offering a solution to the residential lawn, deer problem, (hang a rubber spider from a tree branch) under their son’s pillow. Under his pillow…now that is loyalty! Young Terrence is sophisticated enough to know there’s no such thing as the tooth fairy, but he certainly knows that the Doug Fairy is no myth. I deliver humor to the toothless.

In an age where few kids take time to read, and mothers find risqué photos of Megan Fox under pillows, it warmed my heart cockles to know at least one young intellectual truly appreciates my body of work. My hat’s off to you, Terrance, revealing my long, lustrous locks. The hair looks cool, does it not?

But as I said, not everyone is a fan. An elderly potential juror in my driving-while-suspended trial several years ago, when I acted as my own lawyer, didn’t think I was so cute. As Scott Kolpitcke, city attorney at the time, and I questioned the jury poll, Scott asked if any were familiar with my columns. The grins told me I had at least a few fans in the group, and then Judge Webster asked if anyone felt the need to recuse themselves for conflict-of-interest reasons.

One at a time, each had to join us in the Judge’s chambers to explain their reasons. Most were legitimate and understandable, but one surly “gentleman” nearly singed my mustache with his heated harangue. He declared that he was good friends with local policemen and attends many of their social functions. Then he brusquely added, “And I’d believe any police officer over Doug Blough, any day.”

Even though he had never even met me before, I thanked him for his honesty. As the Judge escorted him from the room, I whispered to Scott, “He’s the president of my fan club, ya know.” Scott and I shared a healthy guffaw before eventually locking horns in a courtroom battle of legal expertise in which I placed a close second.

Ironically, one juror later told me, and two others told my nephew the same thing, that the entire jury wanted to find in my favor, had I simply claimed someone else had been driving that night my truck ran out of gas, and I walked home. One of my best friends still tells people, “Doug wasn’t even under oath, but he still wouldn’t just say he wasn’t driving. Only an idiot wouldn’t lie under those circumstances!”

So, to that grouchy grinch who judged me unfairly only because he drinks beer at police barbecues, I say, “Shame on ya, fella!” And to my youngest fan I say, “Ah Terrence, you had me at ‘I bought your book.’”