The guys at Hillbuzz are perplexed by the sudden lack of filth in the Gulf of Mexico:

Since oil is not a solid, but a liquid, like water, predicting where it ends up might be more complicated than looking for rubber ducks that were dumped off a large freighter (which happened in the 80s … and provided scientists [with] all sorts of data on how the currents worked and where debris in the oceans ends up). But, we just think it’s bizarre the “experts” are stumped on where all this oil is.

Well, actually, the rubber duck incident was in 1992, but let’s go on, shall we?

“It disappeared” or “something drank it” are not good enough answers.

Though, we’ve always said that eventually SOMETHING would evolve to eat petroleum products that are supposedly accumulating into a giant garbage dump in the middle of the Pacific. We saw a special once about this place that plastics supposedly go, that traps all sorts of animals who are too stupid to get out of the way. That’s where all of those plastic rings from soda packs are strangling all sorts of things, apparently. With all of that material out there, it just seems obvious that some kind of bacteria or critter would evolve to feast on all of it as a food source in due time. That’s what seems to happen to everything else in the ecosystem. Looking at the course of life on this planet, that’s happened time and time again where some pressure forced organisms to adapt, survive, and thrive.

Who knows? It might even work on the GOP.

Then again, we probably don’t want to encounter one of these theoretical creatures in the, um, flesh. After pondering for several minutes and realizing that what I’d come up with was basically tentacle porn starring Cthulhu, I figured I’d better change the subject.

So: how about those Sox?

What prompted all this was a nifty piece at the Car Lust blog on one of the last gasps of Graham-Paige Motors, formally known as “Spirit of Motion” but for fairly obvious reasons referred to as “Sharknose.” It lost G-P a ton of money through 1940 and was abandoned, leaving the automaker with but a single model: the Hollywood, a variation on the old Cord Beverly, albeit converted to rear-wheel drive. The Cord dies were actually owned by Hupmobile, another dying marque, which was putting out its own version under the name “Skylark”; both Hollywood and Skylark were defunct after 1941.

The rest of the G-P story is pretty interesting — after returning to some semblance of profitability producing war hardware, Joseph W. Frazer took over the company, and in 1946 put G-P to work building the Frazer automobile, a twin to the Kaiser. G-P bailed out, selling its interests to Kaiser-Frazer, and went into the real-estate business, eventually taking the name of its major property: Madison Square Garden.

But what I wanted to harp on was “Hollywood” and “Skylark,” both of which were reused as model names in the Fifties by different automakers. Hudson’s two-door hardtop variant of the Wasp (1952-54) bore the Hollywood badge; Buick produced its first Skylark in 1953.

And it occurs to me that this process works better with automakers that are really most sincerely dead. Edsel, in its mercifully-brief three-year lifespan, offered seven series — four “cars” (sedans/hardtops/ragtops) and three wagons. Of those seven nameplates, four were ultimately revived: Citation (Chevrolet, 1980), Pacer (American Motors, 1975), Ranger (Ford, 1983, still in production), and Villager (Mercury, 1992).

Does this mean that somewhere down the line we’re going to see revivals of the Cutlass and the Fury and the Monterey and the Vue? I wouldn’t bet on it, but obviously weirder things have happened.

Sheri texteth not, yet the punishment of the damned is regularly visited upon her:

I use my iPhone a LOT for TWEETING, using various Twitter apps. And every time I type the word HELL in, iPhone changes my HELL to HE’LL. Which irritates the living shit out of me. I type the word HELL maybe 100 times a day. Or I want to.

Not only does the auto-correct change it to “he’ll” but even when I backspace over it and make it HELL — HELL, GODDAMN IT, HELL! — it still won’t “stick.” Sometimes I try several times, thinking it will “learn” to accept that I like HELL. It never does.

And apparently you can’t just add the word to the dictionary, the way you can with EVERY OTHER GODDAMN APPLICATION ON THE PLANET. (I’m typing this in Firefox 3.6.8; in addition to the lame substitutions like “siphon” and “Haiphong,” there is, by the Power of Mozilla, an “Add to Dictionary” function, and “iPhone” is now recognized.)

Perhaps she should text Steve Jobs. Hell fix it.

Old and busted: “obese.” New hotness: “fat.” It’s all in a day’s work for Mighty Government:

GPs and other health professionals should tell people they are fat rather than obese, England’s public health minister says.

Anne Milton told the BBC the term fat was more likely to motivate them into losing weight. She said it was important people took “personal responsibility” for their lifestyles.

But health experts said the word could stigmatise those who are overweight.

Meanwhile in the States, the search goes on for a suitable replacement for “officious.” I recommend “sacked.”

General Motors has announced pricing on the Chevrolet Volt — $41,000 base, before applicable tax credits — and at least some of the analysts find this off-putting. For example:

“I’m not sure the Volt is going to be a volume vehicle,” said George Magliano, director of automotive industry forecasting for North America at IHS Global Insight. “The technology still isn’t there to make them cheap. At the end of the day, the consumer pays a hefty premium to make a statement.”

And when they say “premium”, by gum, they mean premium:

[I]f you check out GM’s just-released standard equipment sheet … you’ll find that the Volt’s gasoline range extender requires premium fuel.

Generally, you’re not going to use that much of it — inside the Volt’s 40-mile (or so) range, you’re supposedly not going to use any of it — but one particular subgroup of green-machine buyers (the technical term is cheapskates) is going to find this teetering on the very edge of acceptable, just on general principle.

This is probably not the optimum configuration, but I admire the concept:

(From Fountain Abbey, with the following caveat: “It would definitely be cool to fire this weapon into a crowd of zombies, but it wouldn’t do much to stop them unfortunately.”)

Well, you have to give them credit for more than mere truthiness:

The ACC preseason football poll is out. Virginia’s website, Virginiasports.com, says Virginia Picked By Media to Finish Sixth in ACC Coastal Division.

Let’s see. There are twelve teams in the ACC, and two divisions. So UVa must be headed for — well, let’s see how this sort of thing is handled elsewhere:

The Baltimore Sun says Media picks Maryland football team last in ACC’s Atlantic Division.

Sixth, even.

Which made me think of this:

Somehow this reminds me of the old Cold War-era joke about the auto race between an American Chevrolet and a Soviet-built Moskvich. The Chevy won. Pravda duly reported that the Moskvich placed second, while the filthy American capitalistmobile came in next to last.

All in how you look at it, comrade.

TrueHoop’s Henry Abbott opens his mail and finds this:

It’s often pointed out that the Miami Heat regularly measure body fat percentage on their players and that it’s required they be below a certain threshold in order to play. Antoine Walker was famously withheld from games for not meeting this requirement, for instance… While athletics are often a whole different breed than most other jobs, this seems to tread into discriminatory territory that would never be allowed in any other workplace.

For “would never,” read “will, starting almost immediately,” no thanks to the lackeys of the Nanny State.

Then again, I am notoriously lackey-intolerant. And Abbott, to his credit, objects:

Generally, the proper response is to say “butt out.” If I can do my job day in and day out, the other stuff about me is my business. And in the NBA, Charles Barkley and Shaquille O’Neal, among others, would seem to prove that players can perform at elite levels without being the leanest people in the room.

And high salaries are not a good enough excuse to demand players be held to a different standard.

I was thinking of a different combination of seven letters — albeit still configured as four/three — but the message is much the same.

And this, you may be sure, is one of them:

A 56-year-old woman has unintentionally beaten the record for the slowest solo swim because tides held her up as she crossed the English Channel.

Jackie Cobell thought she would swim 21 miles (34km) but swam 65 miles (105km) in 28 hours and 44 minutes.

The previous record for slowness, set by Henry Sullivan (an American!) in 1923, was 26 hours 50 minutes.

It’s 21 miles from Dover to Calais, across the Channel at its narrowest. Petar Stoychev holds the current record for fastest solo swim, at 6 hours, 57 minutes, 50 seconds.

Well, this has to be a first: only two of my candidates lost. (One didn’t win outright but will face the second-place finisher in a runoff.)

What’s going to be interesting this November is the US Senate seat, for which Dr. No is being challenged by Euell Gibbons.

Sometimes the timing is perfect. It was 5:06 when one of the election officials, standing, said to the four seated by the wall: “And the five o’clock rush starts now.”

At which point I strode in, alone. “Must be me,” I said. A couple minutes later, I’d finished up ballot #502 for my precinct and exited, wondering where the rest of the rush was.

You’ll note that I didn’t run down a list of favored candidates for this primary. And frankly, it’s because I didn’t have a whole lot of enthusiasm for anyone on my ballot: there were a couple I figured I ought to help defeat, and negative votes count the same as the other kind, but otherwise, I was looking at three columns’ worth of Meh. Not a good enough reason to stay home, but not enough for me to demand my little “I Voted” sticker either.

Wending its way through the Massachusetts General Court — it’s passed the Senate, and is awaiting consideration in the House — is a so-called “right to repair” bill, at the heart of which is this:

The manufacturer of a motor vehicle sold in the Commonwealth shall make available for purchase to independent motor vehicle repair facilities and motor vehicle owners in a non­-discriminatory basis and cost as compared to the terms and costs charged to an authorized dealer or authorized motor vehicle repair facility all diagnostic, service and repair information that the manufacturer makes available to its authorized dealers and authorized motor vehicle repair facilities in the same form and the same manner as it is made available to authorized dealers or an authorized motor vehicle repair facility of the motor vehicle.

This does not sit well with the Alliance of Automobile Manufacturers:

They argue the real reason for the law is for parts manufacturers to get access to confidential company information to remanufacture original equipment and make cheaper versions.

“Our unlikely coalition of law enforcement organizations, Massachusetts business groups, labor unions, auto dealers, automakers and, most importantly, independent repairers recognizes that consumers already have the right to have their vehicle serviced by the repairer of their choice,” said Charles Territo, a spokesman for the Alliance. “This legislation is, was and will always be about parts not repair.”

Then again, how hard is it to walk into O’Reilly or AutoZone or even Pep Boys and come away with a knockoff version of an OEM part? Auto components have been reverse-engineered since about ten minutes after they were first engineered.

And what can’t I get? Nissan won’t sell me the CONSULT system used by dealerships — I can find a used one on eBay, though software updates are out of the question — but I can get all the repair information I can stand for $17 a year. Of the major makes, only BMW isn’t allowing this sort of thing; at the other extreme, Hyundai owners can get this stuff free.

So I’m not sure what I should think about this bill. It seems to me that if the manufacturers were really sweating the idea of cheap Chinese parts, they might, oh, refrain from teaming up with Chinese automakers who might copy their technology. Fat chance of that. That leaves the psychological angle: so long as the public suspects there may be some compelling reason to go back to the dealership rather than entrust Ol’ Betsy to the neighborhood garage, that particular cash cow will remain mostly unbutchered.

“Pace yourself,” they say, in their usual inscrutable style, but slow and steady, Aesop notwithstanding, may not always get you to the finish line. Hence, the idea of the writing sprint:

[I]t felt somewhat anticlimactic when I finally wrapped up the story at approximately 69,000 words. But at least it’s that — completed. I think I feel more relieved than excited. Creating something at a quick pace is mentally exhausting. I definitely need the week to recover before I tackle next month’s project.

What’s unique about this particular project is that it had been almost entirely written using writing sprints on Twitter. Sometimes others joined me on the sprints, sometimes no one did. But I think what the writing sprints really did was to keep my mind focused on writing with minimal time wasted doing something else.

Not being a writer in this sense — yeah, I grind out a lot of text in a month’s time, but nothing resembling a coherent narrative — I probably don’t need such intensity of focus. If I wanted to try my hand at fiction, though, I’d have to put several body parts to the grindstone and keep them there. So it’s a good thing that the example does exist and is accessible, on the off-chance that I get a decent idea.

The sprint announcements can be found on Twitter using the hashtags #julnowrimo and (if you’re really in a hurry) #julno. And yes, you can read the entire novel.

The Car and Driver New Car Issue (September — seems to me like it used to come out in October) has this factoid about the 2011 Chevrolet Camaro:

The V-6 engine gets a claimed boost in horsepower from 304 to 312, made possible by a final SAE certification and an ongoing urea-based rivalry with the Mustang.

Wonder which whiz kid on the staff came up with that one?

It’s hard to find Shitterton, Dorset: it’s not that big a place — it’s classified as a hamlet, smaller than a village — and people keep stealing the sign for some inscrutable reason.

Not any more:

“We thought, ‘Let’s put in a ton and a half of stone and see them try and take that away in the back of a Ford Fiesta’,” Mr [Ian] Ventham said.

Mr Ventham, who chairs the parish council, asked his neighbors to chip in, the district council added some more, and the entrance to Shitterton is now marked with a lovely engraved Purbeck stone that probably weighs close to a ton and a half. Someone may yet make off with it, but it’s not going to be quite so easy.

(Via Fark.)

Last fall, Esquire did their annual “Sexiest Woman Alive” feature on Kate Beckinsale, during the interview for which she quipped: “If you’re any kind of a human, you know the title is utterly ludicrous.”

Which of course is true. And then I found this shot from late-night TV:

Scratch that word “utterly.”

The title is explained after the jump.

Read the rest of this entry »

This creature practically sells himself:

We challenged artist Alan Dickinson to create his most macabre, haunting zombie statue exclusively for Toscano — and he certainly delivered! Not for the faint of heart, this gray-toned Zombie of Montclaire Moors statue features the most zombie-like eyes you’ve ever seen. Captured in meticulous detail in quality designer resin, this zombie garden statue brings the flesh-hungry undead to your daffodil bed!

There are only two other things you need to know: the price, which is $89.95, and this:

Arrives in 3 pcs.

Yes, but which three?

(Tweeted by E. M. Zanotti in the general direction of Sister Toldjah.)

On the way home, I spotted a truck with the ever-popular American Automobile Association oval, which apparently was sent to assist a motorist in the neighborhood. Instead of a wrecker, they’d sent a pickup, and it bore the following legend on its flanks: “AAA Batteries Delivered & Installed.”

And for just a moment, I was befuddled: “Geez. AAA batteries are only yea big. You can carry a dozen in a pocket if you don’t mind sitting funny.”

Then, of course, the fog lifted. Oh. Those batteries. From AAA. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t call them and ask for a box of nine-volts.

LabRat detects something missing in the most recent adventures of Bond, James Bond:

The over-the-topness is the appeal. I adored both Charlie’s Angel movies, gold-plated dual-wielded 50.-cal Deagles and all. Loved Shoot ‘Em Up. Kung Fu Hustle is a Hong Kong cinema masterpiece. I can’t wait for The A-Team to come to DVD. I dislike the new James Bond movies partly because I hate shakycam, but mostly because I think James freaking Bond should be saving the world from nuclear prostitutes and laser-guided bears, not involving himself with some sort of incomprehensible intrigue involving Bolivian water supplies. Screw realistic torture scenes, I want to watch him jump out of a plane into another plane while driving an Aston Martin and smoking three cigars.

You got that, Eon Productions? Bears. With frickin’ lasers.

No way I could pass up this one. The actual house is in Southlake, Texas, and will cost you a cool $5 million.

(Via, as per the tag, LovelyListing.com.)