Anyone who has ever owned a dog should take a look at Two Nervous Dogs and its handy guide that translates Dogspeak into English. For example, it points out the importance differences between “moof” and “moof.. moof” and how each differs from “Mmff.”

It’s funny. And, you know what? I think the author is absolutely right.

No one ever gave me a surprise party – that is, until last night.

My friend Ken, the anal-retentive “cruise director,” and the Original Bill (each with spouse in tow) picked us up last night for what was to be just a laidback dinner in a newly discovered, comfortable, family owned restaurant. It is a BYOB place, so I was carrying three bottles of nice red wine in a bag. We had the usual laughs in the car on the way to the place, and it promised to be a nice, friendly, quiet way to end what was a pretty busy week.

As we entered the place, I made the necessary right turn and then a second right turn in the direction of the table where we have been seated in the past. As I made the second right turn, I heard “SURPRISE,” and I could see that a bunch of the Usual Suspects had assembled in advance. I also saw that daughter TJ was there with her husband, J. Even one of the Usual Suspects, who was out of state playing lots of golf and drinking lots of vodka, called in at that moment to say “Happy Birthday.”

There were plenty of well wishes, hugs, handshakes and lots of laughter.

I was completely flabbergasted and very touched by it all.

After an excellent dinner, which was accompanied by, cocktails (some of the Usual Suspects brought vodka), wine and more and more laughs, out came a beautiful, enormous, custom decorated cake.

After the dinner part of the evening was over, we headed off to a local and most excellent VFW Post, where we had more than a few drinks, some primo cigars, courtesy of Bill the Ham, and a few rather hilarious games of shuffleboard.

It was a very special night – one that I will never forget.

First, I would like to thank all those who sent good wishes to me yesterday. I appreciate them very much.

So, here’s how it went on my essentially blog-free birthday night. I had a great dinner, along with a couple glasses of excellent sangiovese wine. After dinner, I had a wonderful, fattening dessert, which was eaten guilt-free, as calories don’t count on one’s birthday. I opened some presents, which consisted of some fine bourbon and a few primo CD’s.

I fired up a CAO corona and sat down in Mr. Recliner, to watch the Yankees play Boston. Admittedly, I am not currently much of a baseball fan, but when I was a fan, I was a rabid Yankees fan – the stuff of another post. I nodded off (after finishing the cigar) while the Red Sox were in the lead, and I woke up to a tie score, five minutes before the game winning homer. After the game and the post game hoopla, I fell asleep again in Mr. Recliner. Up to this point, the night was excellent.

However, when I awoke, the television was showing Suzanne Somers’ latest infomercial, which features her looking fabulous working out on one of her latest exercise contraptions. Then it dawned on me.

It was also Suzanne Somers’ birthday.

In fact, Ms. Somers and I are exactly the same age (although it is possible that one of is as much as twenty-three hours and 59 minutes older than the other). She looks absolutely terrific, and I…well……

Damn.

I’m kicking back tonight and takin’ it easy, because, well, it’s my Birthday.

Have a mahvelous evening y’all.

Jim
Another urbane, judicious, interesting, charming, multi-talented, witty, and just plain swell LIBRAN.

Yep, that’s the catchy title of an anti-American propaganda video put together by North Koreas and shown on television in South Korea and Japan. If the producers’ goal was to piss off Americans, they succeeded in spades with this American.

Note: The audio portion of the video is in Korean (except for the two words in the catchy title), but subtitles are provided.

via Attu Sees All

I had a very pleasant business-related dinner in a very nice restaurant, which resulted in my arriving home quite late. At first I blamed the long day and my fatigue for my inability to think of anything to write that is worth reading. Then I came across this bit of excellent medical advice from my friend Brian the Air Force vet, which was:

Never hold your farts in; they travel up your spine into
your brain…and that’s when you get shitty ideas.

It’s all clear to me now.

Super G, who is a civilian (Jersey guy) working in Iraq at helping the Iraqis to build a government from the ground up reports in Babal On! that there are now bagels in Baghdad. Another step closer to the goal line, methinks.

I’m too tired to do much heavy lifting, so I figure that this is a good time to make a few additions to the blogroll. There are just so many great blogs out there that I will simply have to learn to read faster. I still am able to get through the entire blogroll and another bunch that are bookmarked, but it is getting to be a bit of a challenge. But, a good challenge, methinks.

These are the new additions. If you haven’t already checked them out, please do. I think you will like them as much as I do.

The Accidental Jedi Deb spent some time in the U.S. Navy (OCS), and has had first-hand experience with drill sergeants (called drill instructors there, I believe), a favorite subject of mine. She also does a helluva blog.

Velociworld This guy’s got grit and a great sense of humor.

Straignt White Guy The author is a guitar picker with excellent taste in music, and a sense of humor that goes for the jugular. Good stuff.

The Cheese Stands Alone I took an instant liking to LeeAnn and her writing, even though the title of her blog reminds me of my kindergarten angst about the possibility of a bad outcome in a spirited game of “Farmer in the Dell.”

Go forth and read.

How often have you had a conversation with a non-blogger that goes something like this?

“You mentioned that you have a blog? Did you say ‘blog’ or ‘blob’?”

“It’s a ‘blog,’ not a ‘blob.’ It’s short for weblog?”

“Oh, and what is a weblog?”

“Weblogs are internet sites on which people write dated entries.”

“Oh, so lots of people write things on your blog?”

“No, I’m the only one who writes things there.”

“Are you the only person who has a blog?”

“No, lots of people have blogs. In fact, it is estimated that a couple million people have them.”

“And they all write things in them?”

“That’s correct.”

“Who reads the stuff?”

“It depends on the blog. Some bloggers …”

(Laughter) “Did you say ‘bloggers’?”

“Yeah, that’s what people who have a blog are called.”

“So, you’re a ‘blogger’?” (more laughter)

“Yes I am.”

“What kind of things do you write?”

“I write whatever I feel like writing on any given day.”

“You’re shitting me. You sit down and write something every day and put it on the Internet?”

“That’s right.”

“Why would you want to do that? Do you get paid for doing it? Is it some kind of club?”

“No, I don’t get paid to do it, and no, it is not a club.”

“So, then, why do you do it?”

“I like to write. It is both relaxing and stimulating at the same time. It’s a pleasant mental exercise, and it provides an outlet for creative impulses.”

(More laughter) “Creative impulses? You mean like an artist or something?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“And people actually read the things you write?”

“Yeah, some people actually do read the things I write.”

“Who are they?”

“Although I know who some of my readers are, mostly I don’t know who they are.”

“And, I suppose that you read things that other people write.”

“Of course.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

(Beginning to lose patience)“Listen. I read other bloggers’ writing because it’s damned good. That’s why.”

“Are you telling me that a collection of people sitting at computers, who are not professional writers, are writing things worth reading?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Some bloggers focus on news and politics. Others share their thoughts and observations on a whole host of things. Sometimes the writing is very serious, and sometimes it is light and funny. You would be amazed at the amount of writing talent that is out there. Many bloggers are clearly talented enough to make a living writing, but, for one reason or another, they are not professional writers.”

“I dunno. It sounds pretty boring to me. I think I’d rather watch television. Don’t you miss lots of the new television programs by doing all that writing?”

“Yeah, but that’s OK, because I prefer to write and to read what other bloggers are writing.”

“OK, so how would I find your blog on my computer? You said it was on the Internet, didn’t you?. Do you have a website or something like that? Could you write instructions for me about how to find your site?”

“I’ll send you an e-mail.”

“Great. Nice seeing you. What do you say we do lunch sometime?”

“Yeah, sure. Sounds good. Take it easy.”

“Hey wait! Do you have my e-mail address?”

“I’m sure I have it somewhere. Bye.”

(Thinking to self) “What an asshole.”

(Thinking to self) “What an asshole.”

Yes, I did bring my laptop with me to Cooperstown. Before I left, I made sure that I had all the damned cords necessary to connect it to electricity and shit. I made sure that I also had my laminated 8” x 11” multi-colored idiot card, replete with pictures that purported to tell me how to get a “dial up” connection via AT&T.

I had to take special care packing the damned thing in the car in order in order to prevent it from getting thumped during the ride by a bouncing nine iron. I figured that all this effort was worth the trouble, because I would finally be able to be one of those “reporting-from-a-remote-location” bloggers.

When I arrived at the hotel room, I carefully unzipped all the zippers and un-tore the Velcro stuff (Is “un-tear” what one does to undo Velcro?), and got about setting things up. I located the cord that plugs into the wall to get electricity to the laptop, and I found where the other end plugs into the computer. Excellent.

Then it was time to hook up the telephone-type wire. Sure enough, there was a little telephone jack under the desk. I began to think that this really was going to be a snap. I reached into one of the many pouches in the multi-zippered, multi-Velcro’d, multi-pouched bag and located what had the look of a telephone cord. I could see where it plugged into the wall, and I could see where it plugged into the back of the laptop. Snap City.

Wrong.

This cord was too big to fit into either place. I stared at it like a damned fool for a full minute, wondering if the hotel was screwed up, or if the computer was screwed up, or if I was screwed up. Like even a bigger jackass, I tried it a few more times, but it was the equivalent of trying to fit a baseball through a keyhole.

I returned to the multi-zippered, multi-Velcro’d, multi pouched bag and located yet another telephone-type cord. By now, I was beginning to break a sweat. Back on my knees under the desk, I found myself beginning to wonder whether getting online was worth all this aggravation. However, I was elated to see that the cord fit nicely into the wall jack, and it even produced the satisfying little “click” indicating that I had just hit the long ball. Primo.

Back on my feet. Now, I just had to plug the other end of the telephone-type cord into the computer. Another problem. The damned thing did not fit into the place in the back of the computer where I thought it went. With each passing second, the laptop came closer to becoming a flying object. More staring. More sweating. I was ready to give up, when I saw that the telephone jack for the computer is not located on the back of the computer, but rather it is on the side of the damned thing.

Just who are the miserable, sadistic bastards who make these things?

I plugged the telephone-type cord it into the laptop and heard the telltale “click.” I wanted to “high-five” someone, but there was no one there, so I quietly congratulated myself for my hard-won technical successes so far. I knew that I was just moments away from being on the web.

I opened up the cover on the thing and managed to find the power switch. This was not a given, because at the office the entire gizwiz is plugged into something called a “port replicator” that has its own on-off switch.

In a second or two, my login screen lit up. Yes!!!

I entered my login name and password. Internet here I come.

I sat down at the desk with my little piece of paper containing my two special passwords, knowing I would need them in a moment or two. I looked at the first bit of instruction on the laminated idiot card, and it said:

After that the idiot card listed about a half dozen more steps necessary to getting online.

I placed my index finger on the nipple-like widget in the middle of the keyboard to move the cursor to the requisite part of the screen. The cursor tended to “mosey” rather than to sail directly to my desired location, and it would tend mosey where it damned well pleased. After a minute or so on the nipple, I managed to muscle the cursor to the task bar at the bottom of the screen, where I saw that there were several little “clickable” icons.

Unfortunately, none of them was a red triangle.

What?? You’ve got to be shitting me!

I re-checked the idiot card, certain that I must have missed something. Nope. I had read it right. The very first step in the process was to click on the goddamned red triangle. I then carefully read the entire idiot card to see how to deal with a “no red triangle” situation. Of course, the idiot card was stone silent on the “no red triangle” scenario. I am certain that the satanic shits who make laptops and their minions from hell who write instructions must have decided that a really cool way to drive some jerk in a Cooperstown hotel nuts would be to direct the sorry ass to click a red triangle on the task bar and then not put a red triangle on the friggin’ task bar.

I struggled with the nipple mouse a bit more to try find what I thought might have been a hidden red triangle, all to no avail. Demonstrating supreme stupidity, I even worked the drunken mouse up to “help.” I should have known from past experience that “Help” never is.

I took a couple deep, cleansing breaths to fend off the urge to smash the thing with my fist. Then I looked at my watch and realized that I was about to be late for dinner, so I turned off the power and closed the cover on Mister Laptop.

That’s where the piece of cybershit sat for the duration of the trip – on the desk, powerless, and about as useful as a cinder block with a power cord. Friday morning I crawled back under the desk, untethered the torture device from the hotel, and placed it, along with the useless cords and the even more useless idiot card back in the multi-zippered, multi-Velcro’d, multi-pouched, useless bag for the trip back to Jersey and to its home on the dumbass “port replicator,” where it shall remain forever more.

I really should have known better.