Dooce . . .

. . . The blogger who became a transitive verb.

I've read her for years, and am impressed with her writing and photography skills. I particularly like her monthly letters to Leta.

However, sometimes Heather just needs to take a deep breath and contemplate her navel.

Anyone who has read my blog - both of you :o} - knows that my politics differ from hers. However, I hope I usually present logical reasons for my positions, and don't attack everyone who disagrees with me.

The MTV rabble . . .

. . . may love this guy.

But in terms he should understand:

Bugger off, wanker!

Although I didn't see him on the VMA awards, perhaps he is the cause of my recent first-place finish in the local cookie-tossing contest.

It really doesn't bother me that celebrities - or anyone else, for that matter - have opinions. I don't even care how logical, or, conversely, stupid they are. However, there's a place and time for everything. Awards shows are not for political punditry.

Advice that fared the Dixie Chicks well: Shut up and sing! Or, in this case, just STFU.

Oh, and grand-daughter wanted to add her opinion

Move along . . . move along . . .

. . . nothing to see here, nothing to see.

Because I spent most of the night calling O'Rourke on the big white phone. And, I had to call work and bail out of a presentation to the Naval Base Executive Officer.

No, I don't drink.

How I spent much of the last week . . .

. . . Well, not exactly. There were also scones.

Where's Bulldog ? . . .

. . . Gone to Texas.

Last Wednesday, Mrs. B. and I hopped on the big silver bird and flew to Dallas to visit son #1 (J) and family. Since arriving, we have done absolutely nothing productive - which I consider to be an excellent plan.

On Saturday afternoon, we were treated to a trip to Medieval Times. I'm sure our Brit friends would find it a bit hokey, but it was fun. Food with no utensils, jousting, duels, fair maids, busty serving wenches. Brennig would have appreciated the fact that the knights rode Andalusian horses.

A side benefit (perhaps to the backside also) is that J is a very accomplished baker. We have hot scones available every morning, and he's made lemon cookies, snickerdoodles, and a great birthday cake for Mrs. B. She's 29 again. I don't know if gen-you-wine Brit scones are better than J's, but if they are, I'm booking passage next week.

Photos later . . . when I tire of sitting by the pool with my feet up and reading a novel.

Sound wars . . .

. . . or, rap vs rock.

Pardonnez-moi if you're a rap fan. I am not. I suspect there is some measure of talent in composing and recording rap, but it's lost on me. In general, I find the artistic quotient of rap on about the same plane as Serrano's Piss Christ. Belay that. Rap is a level or two lower. I particularly hate the thumping bass and rattling sheet metal on the cars driving by with the amp set on 10.

Bear in mind that this intemperate rant was just to set the parameters of what follows.

Since the gas gauge in my car was bouncing near the "E" level, I pulled into a service station do-it-yourself gasoline dispensing place and began filling the tank. Then, a young lady pulled in beside me at the adjacent pump with the above-mentioned music junk blaring, woofers woofing, sheet metal rattling, and Snoop Dog railing about Obama and Bush.

Not only did she pull in and stop, she left the car with engine running and music on full and went into the office. I thought about reaching into her car and turning it off. Not worth being arrested for, I decided.

So, while my tank was filling, I sat in my car and turned on the radio. Aha! Creedence Clearwater. Born on the Bayou. I lowered my windows and cranked it to 10 just as she walked back to her car. Parry and riposte. Bose trumps Toyota every time.

Juvenile? Maybe. But didn't I mention that I really hate rap?

Opportunities . . .

. . . that don't happen.

Back Here, I mentioned - rather obtusely, I might add - that there may be an interesting opportunity lurking around.

In 2001, the company I worked for hired a new CEO. Anxious to make his imprint, he instituted a profit improvement plan. For the uninitiated, that's corporate code for we need to cut expenses, and the easiest way is eliminating jobs.

Most of the corporate vice-president jobs were cut, and unfortunately mine was one of those. Adding to the "that sucks" column of the ledger was the fact that I would probably have been able to retire about now if I had been able to stay.

After sitting out six months, on my on volition, Mrs. B and I moved to the beach, and I started a new career in military planning with the U. S. Navy. This is a great job. Not only do I have the chance to work at the largest Navy base in the world, what I do is in direct support of our military men and women.

In an unexpected turn of events, in May I received a call from my old company - the CEO, in fact. He was inquiring whether I might be interested in a project manager's job overseas. The benefits are substantial, including 3x my current salary, health insurance, a house, car, phone and living expenses abroad. The net would amount to a little over 4x what I make now.

It wasn't risk-free, however, because the location of the project is Tel Aviv, Israel. From all I hear, Tel Aviv is a great city, and is probably the least risky part of the country.

Mrs. B. and I anticipated a trip to Israel to look things over before committing. However, the opportunity is not likely now. An European company that was looking to exit from the project change it's mind and renewed.

The opportunity is not dead . . . but it at least has a very bad limp.

Sigh . . .