It’s a pity that Pulitzer Prizes are not awarded for complaint letters, because the following letter would be a contender. Here is but a sample:

Dear Cretins,
. . .
My initial [cable TV, internet modem and phone] installation was cancelled without warning, resulting in my spending an entire Saturday sitting on my fat arse waiting for your technician to arrive. When he did not arrive, I spent a further 57 minutes listening to your infuriating hold music, and the even more annoying Scottish robot woman telling me to look at your helpful website….HOW?

I alleviated the boredom by playing with my testicles for a few minutes – an activity at which you are no-doubt both familiar and highly adept. The rescheduled installation then took place some two weeks later, although the technician did forget to bring a number of vital tools – such as a drill-bit, and his cerebrum.
. . .

Read the whole thing.

Via Mr. Snitch

Compulsively picking at a scab, probing a chipped tooth with your tongue until it’s raw, peeling away at the necrotic epidermis spawned by sunburn, scratching an imaginary itch until your skin is raw — there is no explaining this form of self-mutilation to which many of us, including Yours Truly, sometimes succumb.

One of the more ugly forms of this malady is that nagging urge to click on the New York Times online ravings of the likes of Maureen Dowd, Paul Krugman or Frank Rich. I do it more often than I care to admit, each time feeling angry with myself, much as if I had slowed down to gawk at a gruesome traffic accident.

As of today, The Times has taken a step that will go a long way to allowing my scabs to heal. From now on, in order to be able to read the aggravating drivel of Dowd, Krugman, Rich and others, one has to enroll in TimesSelect at a cost of $49.95 per year.

There are precious few things in life of which I am certain. However, the chances are infinitely greater that I will stick a feather in my ass and fly to Pittsburgh than they are that I will pony up $49.95 or even one penny to read the Dowdkrugmanrich crap.

I can already feel the healing beginning to kick in.

The following is a collection of “quick takes” that I jotted down or committed to memory during my trip to Barcelona.

The Quick Test. If you want to quickly determine whether a person in an airport (or wherever) is an American or a European, check out the footwear. This method, which works for men and women, has, I believe, a reliability quotient of greater than 90%. Obviously, Europeans are well aware of the reliability of the Quick Test, which accounts for them immediately speaking English to you before you open your mouth.

This really is nothing new, as the Quick Test was just as accurate when I lived in Europe in 1969-1970. The fact is that Europe tends to be a year or so ahead of the US in terms of footwear style. By the time Americans get around to adopting European styled footwear, the Europeans have moved on to something else.

Bad Idea. A fairly raucous and feisty group of Italians, who appeared to be students in their late teens or early twenties, thought it might be fun to try to make an ass out of a TSA Security Guy at Newark Airport. The officer’s facial expression and the words, “Are you people looking for a problem?” obviously needed no translation.

Smoker Fairness. The airports in Duesseldorf, Munich, and Barcelona all have designated smoking areas, unlike many American Airports (such as Newark), where one has to exit the airport to have a smoke and proceed again through security to return to the gate. Europeans have not been afflicted with the anti-smoking hysteria and insensitivity to smokers that have become the norm in the US.

Cell Phones. If you are a Verizon customer, you can leave the phone off during your trip and save the battery for when you return home. It doesn’t work in any of the three cities mentioned above.

Gasoline. We are knocked to our knees around here with gasoline hitting the $3.00 – $3.25 per gallon range. When one converts liters to gallons and Euros to dollars, the folks in Barcelona pay about $7.00 per gallon, which, in no small measure, accounts for the many downsized cars and motor scooters seen in Barcelona (see below).

Kamikaze Motor Scooter Drivers. If I remember the numbers correctly, Barcelona has 600,000 cars and 300,000 motor scooters. It is common to see people (men and women) in business attire blasting through the streets astride motor scooters. Their apparent fearlessness in weaving in out of traffic and cutting in front of cars, buses and trucks was something that I had a hard time becoming accustomed to. I guess people who drive cars, buses and trucks in Barcelona expect to see these death-defying mosquito-like maneuvers. I also saw a motor scooter guy with a passenger on the back; the driver had a guitar between his legs and the passenger had a guitar between her and the driver. Amazing.

Languages. I never cease to be amazed and frankly humbled by the number of Europeans who can effortlessly slide in and out of three different languages.

Barcelona Buskers. Three come to mind. First, there was a trio in the plaza in front of the old cathedral comprised of a banjo player (yes, a banjo!), a trombone guy, and a piano player. They sounded just like a New Orleans Dixieland band. For a moment I had wondered whether they might actually be displaced New Orleans musicians turning a buck, but it became apparent that they were locals. The people in the plaza were loving it, and one Spanish gentleman who appeared to be in his nineties hopped out of the crowd and did an impromptu buck and wing. I thought it was great.

I also spent about twenty minutes listening to a fellow play exquisite classical guitar. It was as good as I have ever heard, and the guy’s payment consisted of people tossing money into his open guitar case.

Finally, at a traffic light, a juggler leapt in front of the bus on which we were traveling and did a bit of juggling with those things that look a bit like bowling pins. He dropped the pins on several occasions. In his defense, I would guess that he had to keep one eye on the traffic light so he could avoid being run over and to be able to stop his act in enough time before the light changed to run to the waiting cars to hold out his hat for payment. Unfortunately, he was dressed in a clown suit, and I hate farookin’ clowns – even juggling ones.

I hope to have a bit more to say about the wonderful city of Barcelona in the next day or so as I continue to collect my thoughts on the matter.

Barcelona? Munich? New Jersey? Yes, all of the above.

It’s safe to say that following a two-day whirlwind visit with Eric and Mrs. SWG, complete with more than a couple cocktails, surviving this international foray (which, of course also involved, a goodly amount of “refreshments”) taxed my partying abilities to the max. The clock in the kitchen says 6:15 p.m., but for me it’s after midnight.

Of course, any thoughts of serious blogging I may have had were dashed when I was confronted with six or seven hundred comment spams, which were pouring in over the transom and had had to be dealt with. If you find that you have been “banned,” please let me know, and I will fix it. It’s a fatigue thing.

I trust I will have a bit to say about Barcelona and whatever when my atomic case of jet lag passes.

We had a great time with Eric and Mrs. SWG. Of course, I am currently nursing a rather nasty hangover. The Ambassador of the Blogosphere has returned for another day in NYC before his trip back to Tennessee, where I imagine he will have to decompress from having spent a week in the Northeastern Nuthouse.

Speaking of traveling, I will be away from the keyboard until the middle of next week, as I am headed here on business. After finally having learned my lesson, I will not be bringing the laptop from hell with me.

Play nice.

While New Jersey was clobbered with a sufficient amount of rain to result in flooding that caused the closure of the Garden State Parkway, NYC (at least all the while Eric was there) got only slight drizzle. As his train pulled into the station in Jersey, the sun came out. Go figure.

Today we are heading Down the Shore. At the moment the weather looks quite sketchy, but I’m hoping that the sun continues to follow the Ambassador of the Blogosphere.

Any time now, I’ll be heading over to the rain-soaked train station to collect The Ambassador of the Blogosphere and his most excellent bride, as they will be spending a couple days in the Garden State. I hope to show them some of the good, the bad and the ugly of New Jersey (light on the ugly), including a trip “down the shore.”

I also hope to expose them to a bit of Jersey cuisine, which may include a sausage (pronounced SAH-sij, or sah-ZEECH), pepper and onion sandwich on the boardwalk, some local Italian fare and, most definitely, Taylor Ham.

Unfortunately, the weather has not been cooperating. We are currently experiencing bone-rattling, drenching thunderstorms. However, if venturing out in that stuff becomes impracticable, I have lots of ice on hand (clear ice, of course – one always uses clear ice), a modest selection of Scotch whiskey as well as a not-so-modest selection of other libations, both distilled and brewed. I also have two guitars, a pile of CDs and a dry house.

I think we’ll do just fine.

My friend Brian, the Air Force Vet, sent me the following clever bit, entitled “Ode to the Spell Checker”:

Eye halve a spelling chequer

It came with my pea sea

It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.

Eye strike a key and type a word
And weight four it two say

Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me strait a weigh.

As soon as a mist ache is maid,
It nose bee fore two long,

And eye can put the error rite
Its rare lea ever wrong.

Eye have run this poem threw it
I am shore your pleased two no,

Its letter perfect awl the weigh
My chequer tolled me sew.

Sadly, I can relate.

No problem.

Cousin Jack has written a beautiful tribute to his former boss, teacher, mentor and long-time friend, Professor Boris Bittker of Yale Law School, who recently passed away.

There’s no denying that Cousin Jack certainly knows how to turn a phrase.