Back in the dawn of time, when I was a little curmudgeon, one of my aunties used to bring me a present from Germany, whenever she went to visit. It was the coolest thing, and I loved it to death. What was this marvel?

Soap. (Insert your own lame jokes here about growing up in a small southern town, laugh at will and get back to the point.) But not just any old soap. It was soap in the shape of a teddy bear. Once it was out of its wrapper, it grew fuzz. (On purpose. Jeez, guys, get over it already.) It became a fuzzy bear. Once you used it , the fuzz didn't grow back. Something else cool happened. When you used the bar up, there was a tiny Cracker Jack-type toy inside the soap. Usually, as I recall, another tiny little plastic bear.

Well, Aunt Helga long ago passed into family legend, and I have never seen that soap ever again.

But I want to. I believe in the power of the Internet. I believe that if I put this request out there, someone will remember the soap. Someone will know what it was called (other than soap, duh.) Someone will be able to tell me if it is still produced, where and how to get it.

I believe.

P.S. I found it myself. Fuzzy Wuzzy Soap is the name, and some guy has a single, mint-in-box bar for a mere $125. See?

"The United States Coast Guard has a rule of thumb its members call the "rule of gross tonnage." It basically states that the bigger boat gets the right-of-way."

Yep. The bigger the boat, the more right of way. Maybe that's why people in SUVs drive like they own the road. Maybe they all drive citing the Rule of Gross Tonnage. It's my theory, anyway.

Today, I was forced to drive to work, something that I just dread. But it was a magnificent morning, the air was cool, traffic wasn't too obnoxious, and the sun was shining in spangles through the trees, as I took the back roads to the hospital.

I was cut off in the middle of a traffic circle by some a-hole in a Lincoln Navigator, who felt that he could merge into my lane despite the fact that I, in my little VW, already occupied that space.

Maybe he couldn't see me way down there, so close to the ground, or maybe he was driving according to the Rule of Gross Tonnage. But the fact that he was in a Lincoln SUV gave rise to this new take on the old gross tonnage law: in an auto, gross tonnage refers to the amount of money you spent on the thing you are driving. The more you spent, the more right of way you have. That would explain a lot about the kind of cars that cut me off in traffic, merge into my lane even when there is no room to do so, why someone will think it's ok to whip in to a parking space I'm clearly waiting for (complete with indicator light blinking) and like that. I drive a cheap car, there for I have less right of way.

And let me rant a little about the fact that Lincoln makes an SUV. (Aside: doesn't everyone?) What ever happened to playing to your strengths? Lincolns have been the gold standard for American luxury autos since they were being built on carriage frames. So why, why, why, would you try to make that leap to station wagon on steroids? Why not just continue with what made you famous? And another thing: why would anyone on this planet need an SUV with a turbo engine, manufactured by Porsche? If you wanted a Porsche, why would you want anything other than its flagship car, the 911? And why does Porsche manufacture any of its vehicles with an automatic transmission? If you are driving what I consider to be one of the finest sports cars in the world, why would you have an automatic? Must I remind you that the stick is to driving what bareback is to horses? Ultimate oneness with the beast.

Well, anyway... The Rule of Gross Tonnage. The more gross tonnage, the more right of way, or the modern version, the more you gross, the more right of way you have.

There was a little accident on the train today. Someone in a wheelchair fell on the tracks, thereby bringing mass transit to a mass stand still. Before you ask, no report yet on the guy who fell.

I was on the first train behind the accident, and so had first crack at the bus brought in to take us commuters on north. I got in the line, and watched in amazement as people streamed in from both sides, so that the woman in the purple leather jacket who started out directly in front of me, drifted further and further away, even though neither of us moved. While we had been in proximity, she commented to me about the man who pushed in front of her. The guy who pushed between us as she spoke was in a striped shirt and a beard. I last saw him getting on the bus.

By the time I managed to get to the bus doors, the driver shut them on me, saying this bus is full. The woman in the purple jacket was on board and seated. I backed out of the door well, and as I did, another five people pressed past me and on board.

That's when I lost it and said to the bus driver "If the bus was full, where did those five people fit?" Well, he asked, where are you going? To the hospital, I replied. OK, he said, where do you think you can ride?

As we have this conversation, another two people push past and cram their fat asses into the door well. The driver closed the doors and the bus left.

Now, I ask you, how did I end up missing the bus, when I was at the front of the line for so long? Because I refused to push, shove, cut, or otherwise exhibit rude behavior to my fellow humans during an inconvenience such as a transit failure.

I crossed the highway and flagged a cab. I also shared the cab with two other employees. We had a nice ride, thanks.

*read an earlier rant about the nano-second people.

It was time for my driver's license to be renewed, so I did it the modern way: on the internet. Or at least, I tried to. Instead I received a letter from the State of Florida, very politely apologizing for having misplaced my photo, and asking me to "expeditiously" beat a path to the nearest Licensing Bureau and get a new one.

This concerned me, because, through some fluke of the universe, I have, or had, the world's best driver's license photo. It looked like me. It was, at the same time, a flattering picture of me. I have on make up. I have on a smile. I do not look like I just wandered in from some half-way house for the criminally insane.

Nevertheless, when the State asks one to make one's way in an "expeditious" manner to the license bureau on pain of losing your license if you don't, you go.

I made an appointment, thereby saving myself the agony of a three-hour wait. I took care with my makeup this morning, and dressed in a solid color with a simple neckline. I drove to the licensing office, and found the only open spot in the lot. There was still time on the meter. Things were going quite well, I thought. Then I got into the office. On my way in, I had to pass the line that, at 9 A.M. was already out the door, and past someone in the line who reeked of piss and beer.

There was only one person in the line for appointments. When she finished, I presented my letter from the State to the woman at the counter, and she looked at me and said: "I'm on break now. The man will take care of you." So I turned to the gentleman she indicated, and started again. "I have an appointment. I have a letter. I have my old license." "Right. Confirmed. Go stand in that line." So I did.

And stood, and waited, and stood, and waited. And finally got to talk to the next clerk. She couldn't get it. I have a license that needs to be renewed, but the computer is telling her that it's a duplicate. At no cost to me. Fine. Take the freaking photo and let's go. After much deliberation, and with two other people getting to put in their opinions, I was finally sent to the end of the room, to the photo guy.

First photo: He tells me to take off my glasses, without noticing that my license says I actually need to have them on to drive. I take them off. He shoots. I look scary, and he says: your hair is sticking up. I say: it always sticks up. It's curly. Let's take another one.

Second photo: I start to position myself to minimize my flaws maximize my better features, and as I do, the two women standing in the next line over start to shriek like magpies and point at me and carry on about how I'm "posing" for the photo. The guy snaps the shutter as I turn and stare daggers at the women. He refuses to let me see it and tells me we're going for three.

Third photo: I look at the camera, I think about attempting to smile and he says, there. This one is better. I look, and there on the computer screen is the vilest photo of me since my employee badge photo. It is in extreme close-up. I see the San Andreas Fault where I normally see crows feet. Although my forehead is powdered, it looks like a giant shining beacon of grease. I have jowls like Deputy Dawg, a feature not found on my face in real life. In fact, my new driver's license photo looks a lot like Michael Jackson's mug shot.

I don't know whether to cry or call a plastic surgeon.

There's a story in the paper this morning about the various groups that are planning to sue the Miami police over civil rights violations during the FTAA.

I'd like to refresh everyone's memories, if I might, about what a true violation of civil rights by military or civilian forces looks like.



or maybe



That, my friends, is silencing dissent.

When you take to the streets to protest, you must understand the covenant that you are undertaking. Yes, it is your right to go in the streets, but it is the right of the government to keep you from rioting. In Kent State, the National Guard fired live rounds. In Miami, there was bruising from rubber bullets.

According to the protesters themselves, they were wearing black masks. You cannot wear a mask in a mob protest rally and expect there to be no repercussions. Think for a minute, son. If the police were in riot gear (which they were), masked and anonymous (which they were) would you feel safe, or like this was a confrontation doomed to end badly? Well, those guys behind the shields felt exactly the same about you. Masked, anonymous, and clearly up to mischief.

While I'm on the subject of rights, I'd like to revisit the Constitution of the United States. I've been reading it, and reading it, and I have yet to find the right to not be offended. In fact, as best as I can tell, that whole first amendment thing is pretty much the right TO BE offended. As in, I don't like what you say, I don't like what you stand for, but under the laws of this country, you can say and think pretty damn near anything you want, and it is everyone else's obligation to ignore you or agree as they see fit.

This is how that works, for those of you new to the whole concept: I say, for example that I think George W. Bush has the intellect of a shoe. You are free to agree, or to disagree. If you agree, you keep reading my blog. If you disagree, you send me e-mail calling me names. Or if you are the FBI, you open my dissident folder and start keeping track of all the times I say Dubya is a self-serving moron. Either way, though, I have the right to my opinion.

You do not have the right to silence my opinion because it offends you. I'm offended by plenty of stuff, as readers of my blog are well aware. Occasionally, I let the offender know that I am offended. But usually, I just bitch about it here, to my own amusement, and presumably, yours.

That's the bottom line of the first amendment, you see: Everyone has the right to their opinion, and the right to express that opinion. Nobody has the right to prevent you from expressing your opinion.

In theory, at any rate. I can ban your comments, because this is my private, personal press, and I don't have to let you blither if I don't want to. The Miami Herald can choose not to print some lunatic's single-brain-celled screed about making English the exclusive and mandatory language for all visitors to this community. Not because they wish to silence a dissenting opinion (that multi culturalism is bad), but because such letters are usually written in crayon and with no sense of grammar or literary elan. You can find me such a bleeding heart liberal pinko retard that you develop a tic every time you read me, and so choose not to read this blog, or even block it from your personal computer.

The one thing an individual in this republic cannot do, is prevent another individual's voice from being heard. Otherwise, believe me, I would prevent Rush Limbaugh from ever being heard on the radio again. It is not my job, nor my right, to silence him.

The only way offensive viewpoints can be made to disappear is to not listen to them. If everyone would quit buying Madonna's albums, eventually she would have to stop making them. Look at how well that worked in the case of her remake of "Swept Away." It stunk. Nobody went to the movies to see it. It never even made it to video. Now she's having a hard time getting roles.

Censorship doesn't work. Ignoring what offends you works better.

OK, obsessive compulsive behavior alert. I woke up this morning to the sound of birds. Various songs and calls. It was beautiful. I could identify the cardinals and the orioles, but someone was making a racket I couldn't recognize.

I went outside to feed the koi, and there, in the avocado tree, was a flock of ... something. They were jay-sized. They were black, with a white eye line. They had long-ish, sharp beaks (like a blue jay). The beaks were bright orange. They had white wing patches.

They are not in my Audubon Field Guide to the Birds of North America. They are not starlings, or red-winged black birds. They are not anything I can tell.

Nor, after an hour of internet research, and let me tell you, I can write a search query better than most folks, are they on the internet. I can't even find an on-line field guide.

Of course, I didn't get a photo, either. Any birders out there with any sort of clue? Remember, it's winter and I live on the end of Florida, so there are migratory birds passing through.