And so it was that I was pleased to see a new advertisement that not only met my criteria for good advertising, it also was for a good cause, one arguably better than my pasta, computer, or future.

It seems that a company with the self-aggrandizing name of Triumph International set up shop in Myanmar, née Burma. Although no country is run by saints, the thugs doing business as “The State Peace and Development Council” have earned one of the worst human rights records in the world. The dictators, whose regime has employed slave labor, apparently hired a good public relations consultant; they used to refer to their regime as “The State Law and Order Restoration Council.”

Triumph International is owned by a large German company; its flacks claim it uses no children or forced labor in its factory. The article I read didn’t elaborate on whether this was a reference to the third Reich’s labor practices, or whether the statement was a response to rumors that the Triumph International factory was refurbished by child labor.

The people who are trying to starve the Myanmar regime of outside financial support had the services of some very good advertising help; the anonymous copywriter came up with the uplifting boycott phrase, “Support Breasts, Not Dictators.”

Who could argue with that?

I was tempted to make a photograph of the sign, then thought, “Why bother?” Photographs don’t really document anything any more, if they ever did. I could put a “Live Alien Dancing Meat Salad” sign on the front of the store, so it didn’t seem worth the modest effort to document someone else’s typo.

So I didn’t.

“I didn’t know it was your birthday,” I admitted.

“It’s not,” Gareth confirmed. “I’m afraid that I stopped having birthdays decades ago.”

“Then whose birthday are we celebrating?” I asked.

“I wasn’t thinking of any particular person,” Gareth said. “I was talking about my new invention; I spell it b-i-e-r-t-h-d-a-y.”

“Aha!” I replied. “So every day’s a bierthday, isn’t it?”

“It’s purr-fect, in a puma sort of way,” Gareth proclaimed.

We enjoyed a very happy bierthday indeed.

We both ended up walking up Battery Street, where I saw an amazing site. As the young woman enveloped glum business workers in her odoriferous wake, the office drones stopped walking, glanced at the source of the patchouli oil, then stared into space for a few seconds.

I had a pretty good idea that each of them were asking themselves the same question: how did I get here from there? None of the businesspeople smiled; but then they rarely do when they’re on the street.

I give the problem maybe ten seconds of thought, then pick a character at random.

“That one will work just fine,” I advise.

“Why did you choose that one?” he asks.

“Basic design considerations,” I explain. “For a project such as this, all you have to do is avoid doing something wrong. And if your design isn’t wrong, then it must therefore be right.”

Dr. Allard looks skeptical.

“If you’re really concerned about your sister’s wedding,” I advise, “don’t waste too much time on printed matter that no one’s going to read. Just make sure there’s plenty to eat and drink, and everyone will live happily ever after.”

I was surprised to find two typos: “track” instead of “truck,” and “4069” instead of “4096,” or two to the twelfth power. Or perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised at all, since I probably have at least one typo on almost every each page I write.

I suppose seeing a typo in a big-budget book is like seeing mustard on the prime minister’s jacket. Mustard spills are common, natural, and everywhere. Everywhere that is, except on the prime minister’s jacket.