The birthdays have been rolling in hot and heavy here lately, and Saturday was the 17th for Bonita. I set up the fire pit on the back patio where the kids could hang out and The Reverend Mother baked the Cafe Latte chocolate and pecan layer cake. We had some of our family over while Bonita invited her friends from the youth group at the church where she has grown up. These youth were all Hispanic and spoke mostly in Spanish. I know a little Spanish, but this can be disconcerting. At one point I think they were mocking our curtains, but I can’t be sure.

The kids were a good group, each was gracious and respectful when they arrived and they all thanked us for having them over when they left. In between they were a pretty exuberant group without the sulky faces and attitude you sometimes get with teenagers when they have to be around adults (yeah, yeah, I know adults can put on some pretty strange faces and attitudes when they have to be around teen-agers, too). We pretty much left them alone and they hung out outside near the fire for awhile but the Mall Diva and Tiger Lilly eventually lured everyone into our basement for the infamous “Dance-Dance Revolution” game. Sometimes I think these two sit around trying to think of ways to get people to come over so they can stomp them into the game’s vinyl dance pads.

Well, it wasn’t long before the young men in the group had to call for reinforcements, and five more gentlemen soon arrived. These were introduced with names such as Israel and Rueben (Gad and Napthali apparently couldn’t make it) They were soon flung into battle, but Bonita and the girls had reinforcements of their own: the Reverend Mother was summoned to the basement and she continued the humiliation. Her domination of one of the young men greatly amused his comrades, one of whom called out, “She’s whipping you like your mother!” No wonder these guys have learned to be respectful!

The place was definitely rocking, whether from the loud music and loud voices, or all the youthful exuberance (or hormones) bouncing off the walls. The next generation certainly has some advantages over us older types, however; for instance, no matter how loud it got, you could always see at least two of the youngsters talking on their cellphones as well. I can barely operate my cell phone when I’ve got 50 feet of air space around me.

It was a really fun night and Bonita was thrilled. We were delighted to meet her friends and we’ll be happy to see more of them in the future. We don’t have too many photos from the party because the room was so full there wasn’t room to squeeze a digital camera in there, but I may post a few in the updates later.

I saw the ad, but I don’t remember what they were selling. Well, of course, we know what they were selling, it’s just that I can’t remember what this particular product was, or how it was going to help me achieve whatever it was I didn’t know I was missing. The picture was a young couple in bed in their underwear. He was underneath her, boxer shorts and rippling abs, even lying on his back. She was poised above him, long, lithe legs and pastel scanties and an intense but sensitive look upon her face.

They are young and fit, of course, and they have to be as the unseen photographer says, “hold it, just like that…a little longer now…now turn your hip slightly” as the lights flash stark and artificial like the supposed intimacy they are illuminating. In reality he may be thinking of his boyfriend and she’s probably thinking how great it will be to get home and put on some comfy flannel pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt, or about the mole on the back of her thigh that they will airbrush out. But all that is necessary is that we buy the illusion, buy the sandwich, buy the toothpaste, buy whatever is pictured in the corner of the ad and not think about the artificiality of it all.

Except.

Except, my dear, that this is how you look to me, this is the way you look at me, this is the moment that never gets old. This is the way we were, this is the way we are, this is the way I will always see us. Illusions, allusions, I care not. Whatever you’re selling, my love, put me down for a whole case.

Port McClellan, via Drudge, links today to a nighttime satellite photo of North and South Korea that is, well, night and day.

The article featuring the photo is from the Daily Mail of London, not exactly the New York Times of credibility (though the NYT isn’t exactly the NYT of credibility any more, either). The story begins:

North Korea might now have The Bomb, but it doesn’t have much electricity

As the world grapples with how to rein in the “axis of evil” state which this week conducted a nuclear test, this spectacular satellite photo unveiled yesterday by US Defence Secretary Donald Rumsfeld shows in stark detail the haves and have-nots of the Korean peninsula.

The regime in the north is so short of electricity that the whole country is switched off at 9 p.m. – apart from the capital of Pyongyang where dictator Kim Jong-il and his cohorts live in relative luxury. But even there, lighting is drastically reduced.

The result, as shown in this picture taken one night earlier this week, is a startling contrast between the blacked-out north and the south, which is ablaze with light, particularly around major cities and the capital, Seoul, in the north-west of the country.

Mr Rumsfeld showed the picture to illustrate how backward the northern regime really is – and how oppressed its people are. Without electricity there can be none of the appliances that make life easy and that we take for granted, he said.

A Hoax?

While the photo is illuminating, the absolute darkness in North Korea outside of Pyongyang is almost too absolute. Then there were some things in the Mail article that kind of tweaked my antenna. Reading over it again, I couldn’t find any reference to just where Secretary Rumsfeld was and who he was talking to “yesterday” when he showed that photo.

Could it be a hoax? It’s easy to be alert to fake or misleading information coming from the left, and in fact this skepticism has had to become standard procedure. I hope, however, that I can be as sensitive to similar bad vibes even if the pictures or news line up with my own expectations or world view. A lie is a lie, whether “left” or “right”; in fact I’d be even more outraged if I discovered a lie that was from “my side”. The truth is sufficient for our arguments.

Therefore I did a little checking. I couldn’t find anything about a similar speech by Secretary Rumsfeld on the CNN, Fox or Snopes sites (or anything about “Rumsfeld North Korea Satellite Image”), but a Google search did turn up a presentation he gave that included this satellite imagery — on December 23, 2002, linked on GlobalSecurity.org.

It appears the image is authentic, even if the latest reporting is suspect. I’m glad I took the time to poke around a bit before passing it on.

As for the conditions the people of North Korea are living under, I suggest that the not give up on Kim Jong Il just yet. He is showing that he won’t rest until his whole country is glowing in the dark. (But that’s just my opinion).

He’s back. (And here and here.)

Or maybe not.

Doug’s been away so long it’s almost kind of hard to remember his style. The new posts are very good, so they could easily be from Doug. But there seems to me be a bit of, oh, Tucci-ness to them, too. That guy gets around the MOB quite a bit (keep your doors locked, people), but he’s mostly been associated with a certain group that’s been known to play a good-natured blogging prank or two.

I’m hoping it’s the real deal. Welcome back, Big Fella.

Avast and look lively, ye slimy mollusks! International Talk Like A Pirate Day is hull-down on the horizon and’ll be on us faster’n you can say, “Blow me down!” You Jolly Rogers and Jolly Ritas out there best be polishing up your conversational broadsides before September 19 if’n ya don’t wants to have yer booty kicked!

Follow the link above for more scuttlebutt, and if ya needs a refresher, eyeball The Five A’s of Talking Pirate video — it’s what ya call educational. Arrrr!

Talk about putting a call on hold:

(AP) Cell phones found inside four prisoners

The prisoners are gang-members in El Salvador. According to the article,

Capt. Juan Ramon Arevalo, director of the prison known as Zacatras, said the gang members had introduced the cell phones, wrapped in plastic bags, into their bodies through their…

Well, there are only so many ways to get contraband into prison, so you figure it out. Let’s just say the “vibrate” ring-tone setting may have been problematic. Man, talk about your “anywhere” minutes!

I guess that really makes them “cell” phones, though. Can’t you just picture a prisoner’s friend getting a call at 2:00 a.m. and saying, “What ******* is calling me at this hour?”

Not content with trying to get his pro-life, pro-family, pro-small business points across in his blog or through his work as official graphic designer and tee-shirt maven to the MOB, my friend Derek Brigham has decided to run for the Minnesota Senate in District 45. The 45 is a deep-blue bastion and current fiefdom of long-time DFL incumbent Ann Rest.

If you want to help Derek to join the State Senate and change our government towards more conservative leadership (especially within the Republican Party), please go to his site and make a FULLY REFUNDABLE (up to $50 if you live in MN) donation. He needs to make his donations goal before the end of August, so the time is now. Please help if you can. It won’t cost you a thing through the MN PCR donation plan.

Scrappleface with another classic:

Why Do They Hate Airplanes?

Obi Sium is running for Congress in Minnesota’s Fourth District, a seat currently held by liberal DFLer Betty (I don’t remember the words to the Pledge of Allegiance) McCollum who replaced the late Bruce Vento in the long-time DFL stronghold.



Sium is Eritrean by birth, a U.S. citizen by choice, a civil engineer by profession, and a Republican by philosophy. Oh, and a non-entity by the standards of the St. Paul Pioneer Press, which has ignored his campaign except for a short article back in May that both announced and dismissed his candidacy.



Here then are a list of the top 10 things Obi can do to get the PiPress to cover him:

10. Go bar hopping with Mike Hatch’s daughters.



9. Go cruising with Norm Coleman’s dad.



8. Change his name to Obi Ventoson.



7. Say that the streets of St. Paul were laid out by drunken Irishmen.



6. Get bumper stickers that say, “What would Obi do?”



5. Promise to propose a nationwide smoking ban.



4. Propose raising taxes.



3. Call a press conference to criticize the President or the war.



2. Get Michael Brodkorb at Minnesota Democrats Exposed to mention him — and then wait three months for the PiPress to break the story.



…And the number one way he can get the Pioneer Press to cover him…



1. Call the newspaper and say he is “Obama.”

Kevin Ecker is trying to organize a Splatball (or Paintball) Battle Royale pitting the local lefty and righty MOBsters against each other on the field of valor and latex projectiles. So far the righties have shown more interest in getting all Pulp Fiction with it, while the other side appears to have its head tucked under its collective left wing.

If it’s an outdoor event I don’t know if I’ll be able to participate since running around on uneven terrain dodging sniper fire isn’t something on the approved activities list for my knee. I can’t, however, be called a “chickenhawk” because I actually have played splatball before. A few years ago an evening of splatball was the featured attraction of a bachelor party for a friend of mine. It was wintertime so we rented an indoor splatball arena, in this case a warehouse-sized building with an urban warfare motif inside featuring false building fronts, windows, doors, alleys and a no-man’s-land in the middle that also had some cover.

Former governor Jesse Ventura once said, “You haven’t hunted until you’ve hunted man,” and that was one of the few things he said that I could agree with. I’d never played splatball before that night and when the whistle blew to start the first game I got a rush of adrenaline unlike any I’d ever experienced playing football or basketball or even from getting into fights; the thought that someone I might not even be able to see might be drawing a bead on me at that very moment definitely got my heart pumping. I didn’t like the idea of standing still on defense so I decided to join a couple of guys who were going to try and get around the other team’s flank. To do so, however, I’d have to cross an open space about 10 feet wide. I took the first two steps of my dash…and took a paintball pellet on the forehead part of my visor. Actually it hit the air vent of the visor, and the paint dripped through the vent and into my eyes. Thirty seconds into the game and I was baptized, literally, by fire — and I hadn’t even fired a shot yet! The good, they die young.

Fortunately there were several more games to go and many more chances to get my licks in. One problem we were having, however, was that the temperature outside was about 20 below, and the warehouse was minimally heated. With all the energy we were expending the temperature wasn’t uncomfortable for us, but the plastic skin of the pellets we were shooting grew brittle and would rupture easily, squibbing your shot and jamming your gun when it happened. One time I had laboriously worked my way around and behind a guy on the other team; leaping out from cover I shouted, “Die, scum!” or something similar, triggering my gun as my opponent turned. Instead of hearing a satisfying, “pssshh-THWACK!” I heard a muffled blub and purple paint seeped out of my barrel while my would-be victim dove over a box and tried to return fire as I did my own disappearing act.

In another game, each side was allowed a “medic”; if you were hit you could get back in the game if your team’s medic could get over and touch you. Right off the bat this friend of mine took off on a banzai charge right at the middle of the other team’s defensive wall. He was shot down directly under the guns of the other team, and began calling for the medic. Our medic decided, however, that this was a terminal case and not worth picking up a few more welts in the attempt.

Another variation in the rules called for a player on each side, previously and secretly designated by the referee, to turncoat on his teammates. Unfortunately for me, the “spy” on our team was sharing a bunker with me as we tried to pick off any heads that popped up in the sector in front of us. In the middle of the battle I heard,

“Hey, John.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m the spy. Surrender?”

He held his gun on me, the barrel about a foot from my wide target, close enough to raise a welt the size of a popsicle. I considered.

“Ah, oui, mon ami,” I said.

All in all it was a very fun time and it took a couple of hours for my heart rate to return to normal afterwards, and another day or two for the various bumps and bruises on my body to fade. The memories haven’t faded yet, and I have warm thoughts of my night on the front lines. If I do it again, however, I’m going to be sure my ammo is warm, too.