There are certain kinds of events that I am gleeful about seeing certain people participate in, because I just know that the experience will give rise to something interesting or comical. Along those lines, think “Garage Sale” and “Topdawg” from Two Nervous Dogs.

Yes, Topdawg was a seller at the Topdawg Garage Sale where he (or is it “she?” Sorry. I honestly am not sure whether Topdawg is a boy dog or a girl dog) reports experiencing “high entertainment in the spectacle of watching people pay money for things I am about to unceremoniously shitcan anyway.”

I would have been willing to pay money (considerably more than was brought in by the sale of the “White Plastic Hamper Chock Full O’ Rags”) just to have been able to watch it all happen.

I wonder if I can get it on VCR.

Saturday, Saaaturday
Saturday, Saturday, Saaturday
Saturday, Saturday
Saturday, Saturday …

Catchy lyric, that.

“Sir” Reginald Dwight…feh.

The No-Content Jitters (hereinafter, “NCJ”) strike at times when I realize that much of the day has gone by and I haven’t given a single thought to what I might write about. The onset of NCJ is fairly subtle and only mildly disconcerting. However, as time passes the symptoms (i.e. the unsettling feeling of being doomed to spending the rest of my life without ever having a single thought that’s worth a damn) become more and more unpleasant.

I find that this often happens on days when, for reasons dictated by Life 101, I forego my morning walk. It has been my experience that it is during that hour-long sweaty strut that the electrochemical soup in my cruller sometimes gives birth to an idea or two. Today there was no walk, ergo, no sweat-spawned ideas.

As prime writing time approaches, one looks for excuses explanations for what is perceived as the beginning of the end of one’s ability to be anything even remotely resembling creative or interesting: “I was too busy today with other things that are necessary for me to think about in order to avoid miss-a-meal colic.” Or, “My mind was occupied with the news of the day, which is often too awful or too aggravating to constitute subject matter I care to write about.” Or, “The news is interesting, and is something I want to write about, but I surely could not do it justice. Other people are much better at that.” Or, “I’m just too tired to be thinking of goofy shit to write, and besides, all this writing stuff is a waste of time anyway.”

I think you get the picture.

Welcome to NCJ Anonymous.

Me: “My name is Jim, and I have NCJ.”

Group: (in unison) “Hi, Jim.”

Me: “They say that the first step to successful treatment is recognizing and admitting the problem, and that’s why I am here.”

(applause from Group)

Group: (in unison) “That’s right, Jim.”

Me: “I don’t have anything to write about today. I didn’t take my walk. I was busy at work. The War on Terror and the presidential campaign have occupied my mind.”

Group: (in unison) “You’re blocking, Jim.”

Me: “No. I swear. That must be it. It’s not that there is nothing to write about. Hell, there are an infinite number of things that people can write about. There’s a whole Library of Congress full of stuff that people have written about. It must be that I’m just too busy thinking about other things. I’m tired too. That’s gotta be it.”

Group: (in unison) “You’re still blocking, Jim.”

Me: “No, I’m not. You people don’t understand.”

Group: (in unison) “You’re full of shit, Jim.”

Me: “I’m full of shit? What kind of Support Group is this anyway?”

Group: (in unison) “It’s a No-Bullshit Support Group, Jim.”

Me: “I’m not full of shit. I’m tired and really busy with other things. It is you people who are full of shit.”

Group: (in unison) “You can’t bullshit bullshitters, Jim.”

Me: “I’ve about had it with you. I’m tired. I’ve had enough of this silliness, and I want to get out of here and do other things.”

Group: (in unison) “You’re getting warmer, Jim.”

Me: “Now, you are being ridiculous. What the hell are we doing here? Playing huckle-buckle-beanstalk, for Chrissakes?”

Group: (in unison) “Why don’t you just admit it, Jim?”

Me: “Admit it? Admit what?”

Group: (in unison) “Why don’t you admit that you just don’t feel like writing today, Jim?”

Me: “That’s not true.”

Group: (in unison) “Jim, …. Jim, … Jim – You cannot bullshit us. You must not bullshit yourself.”

Me: “I can’t admit that. I can’t.”

Group: (in unison) “Yes you can, Jim.”

Me: “I d-d-d-don’t think I can do that.”

Group: (in unison) “Yes you can, Jim. You must, Jim. Try it. You’ll see.”

Me: (following a long, emotion-packed pause) “I …don’t….feel……… I CAN”T!!”

Group: (in unison) “You’re being an asshole, Jim. Just admit the truth, Jim. It will set you free.”

Me: (following an even longer pause) “O.K., I…don’t….feel….like….writing….today.”

(raucous, enthusiastic applause from Group)

Me: “Are you happy now?”

Group: (in unison) “Are you happy now, Jim?”

Me: “I’ll be blogging this tomorrow.”

Please welcome to the blogosphere a brand new blog entitled, “Road Warrior Rules for Survival.” I am always pleased and flattered by being included in someone’s blogroll, but there is something particularly pleasing and flattering about being listed (along with some truly excellent bloggers) on the blogroll of a brand new blog.

Thanks, Tammi. And, good luck to you.

Take a look at the letter to John Kerry from Colonel Glenn Lackey, U.S. Army, Retired. Colonel Lackey did combat tours in Vietnam, Somalia and the Gulf War. He, like most veterans I know, does not consider himself to be among Mr. Kerry’s “Band of Brothers”.

The letter was originally published by Jay Bryant at Townhall.com. I found it over at doubleplusgood infotainment.

Sgt. Hook, a dedicated soldier, great writer, and all-around great guy, is moving out to Afghanistan. His soldiers should consider themselves lucky to be led by such a fine man.

I wish him the very best, and I hope he manages to get his hands on a computer over there. Unlike me, he’ll most certainly be able to whip the thing into submission.

Good luck, Sarge. When you and your soldiers collar Osama, please tell him that this is another “Royal Irish Ass” he can kiss.

I considered doing this post as an “Update” to yesterday’s ravings, but I decided that it probably can stand alone.

First of all, I would like to thank all those, especially Dan and Craig, for the advice. I would also like to thank all of you for reading what was probably my least-edited, most angry post ever. Had I written it today, I believe I could have squeezed lots of yuks out of my four-hour beating that administered by so-called “support” folks. In fact, if someone would have recorded my interaction with the fellow from India, I believe it would be a laugh riot. The recording that one listens to for an hour before getting to speak with someone at Dell states that the call “may be monitored for quality control purposes.” I sure as shit hope someone monitored mine.

I figure that if I did not have a stroke last night, I’m good to go for many years. For instance, when someone whose English is weak indicates to me that they have not understood something I said, I typically repeat what I said, but I say the words much slower and clearer than I did the first time. This guy never did that. On those many, many, many occasions when I told him that I hadn’t understood him and requested that he repeat what he said, it was as if he pressed “play” on a recorder and played back the exact same unintelligible sing-song crap – same speed, with no attempt to speak more clearly. It was mentally and physically exhausting.

Anyway, here’s the update.

The gentleman from Bombay or Calcutta or from wherever did in fact call back as promised – Well, almost as promised. Instead of calling back in a half hour, which would have meant a call at approximately 11:15 PM, he called back at 1:15 AM and awakened me from a deep, but cyber-nightmare-filled sleep. He wanted to know if the problem was “all better now.” I have to assume that he thought that God or Krishna must have intervened in the ninety or so minutes since we last spoke.

I ambled sleepily over to the computer, just to be able to answer his stupid question righteously, as I knew damned well the problem wasn’t fixed. I said, “No. I am still getting the same error.”

He seemed genuinely surprised. “Eet is not better, suhr? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am sure.”

After a pregnant pause (there were lots of those), he said, “OK, suhr, I vill call you in a few days. OK?”

I thought, “Call me in a few days? Why? A movie and a vegetarian dinner, maybe?”

When I got to work today, Mike, one of the IT guys, just happened to stop by, and I shared my story with him, including the part about my rage-driven bad blogging. He was howling with laughter until I told him that both of the support people insisted that I had to “re-add” my TCP/IP. He stopped laughing and said, “Both those people are full of shit.” At this point, I was thinking, “Great. Dueling IT geeks. Who needs this?” But Mike continued, “If you blogged about it all, that means that your TCP/IP was just fine. My experience is that problems like yours are almost always caused by a bad e-mail clogging up the system.”

He then told me how to get to my e-mail on the web (I have had Comcast for years and never knew I could do that. I know, I know. Color me pathetic.) and said, “You can probably fix it from here.” Within three minutes, I opened web-mail and deleted all the e-mails I did not recognize.

I then read the comments to my post and saw that Dan and Craig had suggested the same fix. Mind you, that is exactly what the Comcast person the night before had said (i.e. that “a corrupt e-mail” caused the problem), and I specifically asked Comcast Lady No. 2 and Gunga Farookin’ Din whether that could be the problem, and both insisted that, “Nooooo. It is a much bigger problem.” Neither of these “experts” ever asked me whether I could connect to the internet. Unbelievable.

The ultimate test came when I arrived home earlier and clicked on Microsoft Outlook, and out poured my e-mails. Eureka!!

A couple parting thoughts:

To Comcast:

Try to find people who know what the hell they are doing, rather than reading from a script and having sorry asses like me (and, believe it or not, people even more computer illiterate than I) running in circles and needlessly screwing around with their operating systems, fer Chrisssakes.

To Dell:

If you know that your customers will have to report an “alpha-numeric” number in order to have someone speak with them, how about putting the gott-damned thing where it can be seen without pulling the computer out of a dark, wire-filled hole and thereby risking unplugging some of that spaghetti.

If you know that your customers will have to identify the model of the gott-damned computer, please do not put it in teeny letters at the very bottom of the tower. Reading things that are a half-inch from the floor is a bitch with progressive bifocals, Sparky. Try it some time.

Finally, you should know that in about a year I will be ready to purchase a new computer. You had damned well better believe that I will make it my business to find out if a company’s support staff: (a) speaks English, and (b) has any farookin’ idea what they are talking about.

Oh, and one more thing. The offshore phone connection stinks. It is full of static and often cuts out, making the unintelligible Hindiblabber even more difficult to understand, if that is possible.

To Cousins Annie and Gary:
Yes, on reflection, it is clear that I probably caught some of the “Uncle Billy genes,” which is both frightening and flattering, because, as we all know, even with all his foibles, he was one of a kind. Take heed, however, for you are part of the same gene pool, as is Jack (the Kerry thing notwithstanding). I must say that your comments got me to thinking fondly about ol’ Uncle Billy, which in turn prompted me to promise myself to write an Uncle Billy post in the near future. Stay tuned.

My incoming Comcast e-mail cratered again. I called Comcast again, hoping for a repeat of the quick fix I got last night. However, this time I was told that I would have to “re-ad my TCP/IP” (whatever) and that I needed an operating system disc at the ready. I had to locate and sift through all the goddamned discs that came with the computer. Of course, none of the discs that came with this f***ing computer seemed to match the description the Comcast person gave me. She told me to call Dell, get an operating system disc and get back to her when I received it.

So I called Dell. After about a 45 minute wait, I got a gentleman who might have been answering the phone in India, or he might be an Indian man answering from somewhere else — I could not tell. I had to ask him to repeat everything at least three times. Before he would talk to me, he wanted my “alpha-numeric” number on the back of the computer. Getting to the back of the computer tower is no easy task. It is a spaghetti mess, and it is dark.

I said, “Look, I was told that I needed an operating system disc. Can you just send me the disc?” I had to repeat the foregoing about five times. It was as if I never said anything. He simply repeated, “Sir, would you give me the number from the back of your computer.” I located a dying flashlight, tipped the tower so that I could find the f***ing alpha-numeric bar code number on the back of the computer, which I had to read upside down.

I gave him the number. In fact, I gave him the number at least four times, which roughly matched the number of times I had to repeat my name, address and phone number. We did this linguistic back and forth for another hour while I did all the “Settings” and “Network” clicking he told me to do. In the meantime, he described one of the discs I have as being the operating system disc, but he still had me clicking all over the place. He was acting as if he could fix the problem there.

Next came the inevitable request that I re-start the computer. All that turned out to mean was that we could repeat the entire unintelligible and exasperating process from scratch. He obviously thought that he had it wired, as he said, “I’m sending you an e-mail now.” (Actually, he had to say that about four times before I could understand him). I told him that he could send fifty e-mails if he wanted, but I was still getting the same error. In fact, I asked him if he wanted me to try to send myself a goddamned e-mail from AOL. He ignored me and repeated that he was “sending me an e-mail” and that I should have it soon.

He told me that he would call me back in a half hour. It is now forty-five minutes later, the f****ing e-mail still doesn’t work ane he hasn’t called. I have been at this shit for almost four hours.

I’ve got five to one says he doesn’t call.

Did I mention that I f***ing hate computers?

Right about now I hate just about everyfuckingthing.

Yesterday, as I was walking down the stairs to the men’s room, I passed a group of three women who had exited the ladies’ room and who were walking up the stairs. One of the women said to the others, “He didn’t mean it that way. He just said that she looked like an ugly little monkey.”

I must assume that the fellow the woman was referring to was a genuine Nuance Meister.

Oh, now that I’ve mentioned it, does anyone know whether the female drive to pee in groups is some sort of hard-wired genetic thing? You know, like elaborate nest building behavior or swallows returning to Capistrano?

My incoming Comcast e-mail is not working and has not worked since Friday afternoon (outgoing is OK). I was hoping that the problem was Comcast’s, but given the duration of outage, I’m thinking that something may be wrong at this end.

I’m about to call Comcast.

Have mercy on me.

Update: Holy Shitsky (as they say in Russia) …. It took fewer than four minutes to speak with a human, and it took her about three minutes to determine that I had a corrupted e-mail that was causing a massive e-mail traffic jam, sort of like a cyber-stenosis, for you medically minded folks. Once she deleted the turd in the cyber punchbowl, a veritable tsunami of e-mails resulted, including spam, of course.

I suspect that the Satanic Red Triangle sent me the stinker. Curse you Satanic Red Triangle.