Because look what happened to the twelfth:
To quote Doug Mataconis: “Doctor Who has Ebola? Now we’re really screwed.”
Because look what happened to the twelfth:
To quote Doug Mataconis: “Doctor Who has Ebola? Now we’re really screwed.”
Francis W. Porretto gets in the final word — well, it ought to be final — on that celebrity-nude-photo business:
The “she ought to have known better” crap is exactly that: crap. The companies that promote the use of their “cloud” services are forever telling us about the depth and power of their security measures. Is a very young professional actress, highly unlikely to have been schooled in the technologies and their vulnerabilities, supposed to be more aware of the risks than the average non-technical American? If the same thing were to happen to any of her detractors, would they enjoy the degree of opprobrium that they’ve heaped upon Jennifer Lawrence? Would they feel their naivety had earned it?
And the cloud doesn’t care what its proponents say about it, either:
— InfoSec Taylor Swift (@SwiftOnSecurity) August 15, 2014
Besides, there are non-technical issues to be dealt with:
Let’s not neglect the other aspect of the matter: that Lawrence photographed herself in the nude so her boyfriend would have a sensuous reminder of her when the two of them were far from one another. There are “conservatives” reproaching her for that, too. Apparently that Lawrence would permit someone — someone other than themselves, that is — to see her in all her unclothed glory grates unbearably across their neo-Grundyish sensibilities.
This is approximately where someone comes in and completes the circle by saying “But she should have considered the risks involved.” Well, yeah. But life itself is a prolonged exercise in risk management. If you haven’t noticed this by now, you’re either 8 years old or you’ve been appointed to a high government post.
And the little dweebs who spent their data allotments for the month begging for download links for these pictures? Morally indistinguishable from the little dweebs who spent their data allotments for the month pirating software.
Lynn has an idea for dealing with comment spam, and like most such ideas, it springs from frustration:
Comment spam has been really horrendous lately. I used to get, usually, no more than 20 a day. Since last Saturday it’s been 300 – 500 a day! The first time comment moderation is stopping it all but I still have to take the time to delete all of them.
That certainly qualifies as “horrendous.” (I’ve had just over 600 this month. Then again, I have several thousand IPs blocked on general principle.)
Someone once said that spammers should be crucified alongside the highways. Right now that seems like a pretty good idea.
That someone was Eric Scheie of Classical Values, about 11 years ago. The original post has vanished from Blogspot, as posts will sometimes do, but I excerpted the money quote here.
But then I think, why litter the countryside with so much garbage. Let’s just publish their real names and addresses. But then I think, no I have a better idea. Let’s make them pay. Literally. Someone needs to come up with a system to automatically charge spammers by the minute, with the proceeds going to the website owner, minus a small percentage to maintain the system. Five cents for each minute until the spam comment is deleted, even if it is held in the moderation queue for that time. I would be wealthy!
Hmmm. If this ever comes to pass, I’m going to have to unblock several thousand IPs on general principle.
Note: The wp-ban plugin, used here, has turned away approximately 530,000 attempts to dump stuff here before it ever gets to Akismet, which has rejected 36,000 on its own. It is not infallible — no software is — but I’m not getting 300-500 spams a day either.
When I was a Music Education major at The Ohio State University, we had a guest speaker, the district Music supervisor from the Columbus Public Schools, come speak in our Introductory Music Ed class. He gave us the secret to keeping our jobs forever:
- Don’t steal money from your district
- Don’t have sex with your students
“They must not be teaching you that anymore, because we keep firing teachers,” he said.
I’m just trying to imagine Robert Stacy McCain’s response to that.
The ad placement to the right evokes a single sentiment: “Gee, ya think?”
You can't make this shit up. (That's an advert to the right). pic.twitter.com/BjlAvfKRT9
— Connor Tomas O'Brien (@mrconnorobrien) October 23, 2014
There needs to be a formal deward — polar opposite of “reward” — for convincing yourself that you’re clever despite abundant evidence to the contrary. A timely example:
By employing Joe Buck to call games, Fox Sports pretty much automatically wins the race for the worst baseball coverage ever. But they decided to gild the lily by airing several members of both World Series teams miming along to Meghan Trainor’s brainless ode to female esteem based on male approval, “All About that Bass.”
At least it wasn’t BASEketball.
Now if someone had actually sat down and rewritten the song from a proper baseball perspective, that would constitute shaking it like they’re supposed to do. (“I’m all about third base, no shortstop”? Not funny, but more effort than has been put forth up to now. )
As opposed to “debugged,” since the annual termite inspection here at the palatial estate turned up nothing that wanted to chew on the structural wood, the same clean bill of health I’ve received every year since I took possession of the place eleven years ago. I doubt it, really, but I’d like to believe it’s the abundance of spiders outside, who will happily chow down on many six-legged creatures; there exists at least one web spanning eight vertical feet. (We watched its occupant making really good time heading upwards.)
Surprisingly, the trees on the premises didn’t seem to be harboring any of the critters either, and the deadest one — the one containing the most detritus, anyway — might be far enough away from the house to make reconnaissance missions problematic, since they’d almost certainly have to get through SpiderNet.
It’s a really good catalog, with a few howlers now and then:
The onslaught of Christmas catalogs is slowly beginning. I got two in the past 10 days from Victorian Trading Company. I love the products they sell, I love looking at the catalogs, but sometimes their descriptions are way too precious or even outright wrong. But sometimes they make me laugh. Like this one. Here’s the relevant sentence: “A number of years ago we aligned ourselves with an avid naturist who meticulously retrieves intricate web and preserves them under glass”
Yes. Naturist. (NB: very small photo of naked people — it’s a wikipedia page). And yes, I know, there is the alternate definition of the term that means “naturalist,” but if they MEAN “naturalist,” they should say it. I daresay a lot of us, when we hear “naturist,” we think of what that wikipedia page is about, first. If I am talking about someone who studies nature, I always say “naturalist.”
Which makes more sense to me. (Arkansas, the Natural State — says so on the license plates — is the one state least hospitable to naturists, though they have no problem with naturalists.)
As for the creators of those intricate web samples:
(I wouldn’t be around spiders naked on a bet. I’m not an arachnophobe but if I’m about to get in the shower and I see one in the tub, it has to go before I will get in)
I have had this happen only twice, so I can’t generalize except as follows: On my own premises, I will attempt to coax the creature to relocate itself. In a bathroom in a motel in Albuquerque, I will fetch a shoe and do my worst.
In shakier times, Marvel, having regained the film rights to the Fantastic Four comic, promptly sold them off to 20th Century-Fox, and Roger suspects that this is the reason why the comic is being killed off:
So, it would seem, if Marvel cancels the comic book, the movies won’t do as well. If Fox stops making movies, the rights to the movie portrayals revert to Marvel. THEN Marvel can (and probably will) bring back the FF, because, as someone who read the four-color items for three decades, almost nothing is permanent in the comic books.
FF has been sort of snakebit in theaters, anyway. The 1994 film version, breathed upon by Roger Corman, was made mostly to avoid losing the film rights, which a German firm had picked up for a mere handful of Deutsche Marks. (It was not, you may be sure, a special-effects fest, and Stan Lee claimed, well after the fact, that the producers never really intended to release it at all.)
Fox is rebooting the film franchise in 2015, probably for the last time: there’s supposedly a sequel scheduled for 2017, but if this thing bombs as badly as I think it will … never mind, I can’t even bring myself to think about this. FF was my favorite comic for a long, long time; I actually bought a bound volume of the first 40 issues for something like $100. Ostensibly, it was because I fancied myself a scientist almost on par with Reed Richards, but eventually I figured it was because I wanted to get my far-too-inflexible hands on Sue Storm.
One of the locals who believes fervently that there need to be enough traffic lanes to convey him — the hell with the rest of us — from Point A to any subsequent point without any discernible delay, once made the mistake of calling, in my presence, for the widening of Interstate 35 between 40 and 44, a five-mile stretch that is only two lanes in each direction for four of those miles. I have to drive those four miles twice a day, and when things are moving the way they’re supposed to be moving, there are, in fact, no discernible delays; the highway accommodates its capacity at the indicated speed limit — 60 mph — or perhaps a little over, with ease.
What’s slowing things down, of course, is this guy:
Do you know someone whose confidence in his driving strikes you as unwarranted? Who swishes back and forth among the lanes like a matador showing off before a packed stadium? Who routinely takes his eyes off the road for frivolous reasons, for example to send a text message? Who removes both hands from the wheel to grope through the snacks in his center console or the CDs on the passenger side floor? Have you ever said to yourself “He’s an accident looking for a place to happen?”
You’re right. The odds are that he, or someone very like him, will cause the next highway accident, and possibly a few lives in the bargain. But there’s no telling that to him. He takes the mere mention of risk as a mortal insult. He probably has one of those idiotic “NO FEAR” decals emblazoned on his rear windshield, where it can conveniently obstruct his road vision.
And even if he hasn’t caused an accident this time, he’s certainly caused discombobulation among his fellow motorists, who will slam on the brakes lest they encounter him more closely; the next 3.5 miles, the pattern repeats, and all of a sudden there’s a traffic jam despite perfectly ordinary levels of traffic. This is probably inevitable in an area where 75 percent of the drivers consider themselves to be above average.
Will Truman will tell you that this is not the routine you want to see running at the Department of Motor Vehicles:
Basically, the issue was this:
1) Without the VIN, the car was not officially registered.
2) Registration was required before they could accept the VIN verification form.
3) The car could not be registered without an accepted VIN verification form.
You can prove you have (unofficial?) registration by giving them the temporary registration card, but we didn’t have that. The lady at the DMV was actually skeptical there was any way out of this that didn’t involve buying a new car.
But on their second visit, they somehow managed to exit this loop:
[W]e got a different lady who was much more helpful. Actually, she wasn’t helpful at all, but since it was a complicated situation and she had just started the job two days before, she took us to someone who could help us. Within an hour, everything had been settled. She basically called the person in the state capital who had transcribed the VIN number incorrectly, and they quietly corrected it, with everything quietly falling into place.
The advantage of dealing with new and untried personnel: they don’t yet know all the reasons why the customer is always wrong.
Now that we’ve entered the “craft cocktail” era, drinks with double-digit price tags are just par for the course. And in many cities, there’s a decent chance that your fancy craft drink now comes with a large, crystal-clear cube or rectangle that melts unhurriedly in your glass. That’s right: Artisanal ice is a thing.
Excuse me? That’s what we said when the Washington City Paper reported that a restaurant called Second State will charge $1 per “hand-cut rock” if you order from its rye whiskey menu. (If you order one of the cocktails, which range from $11 to $17, the fancy cubes are included gratis.)
And apparently it’s a cut above the stuff routinely coughed up by your Frigidaire:
Regular ice is cloudy because of the minerals like calcium in tap water, [Joe] Ambrose says. (Editor’s note: Air bubbles that form as water crystallizes also contribute to the clouds, as some commenters informed us.) So he filters water, and then puts it in a big machine made by Clinebell — the same machine that makes those huge blocks for ice sculptures.
The machine churns out 200- to 300-pound blocks of crystal-clear ice. Ambrose or his partner, Owen Thomson, director of the beverage program at Range restaurant, then cut up these giant blocks into 25-pound slabs or 2-inch cubes with a band saw.
“It’s hard work: You’re dealing with ice and slippery surfaces, and working with a blade that’s made for cutting up cows,” says Ambrose. “It’s a little scary, especially when the blades wear down and pop and metal goes flying across the room. Oh, and your hands get really cold.”
I expect a dispenser for these to show up in next year’s Sub-Zero hyperfridges.
Stephanie Bice won the Republican runoff for Senate District 22, in west Edmond and northern Canadian County; there is no further opposition, so she will take her seat after the first of the year. Between now and then, we can only hope that she will improve her grasp on what is and isn’t possible:
— Stephanie Bice (@stephaniebice) October 22, 2014
Preventing droughts? Are we hiring an Equestrian weather patrol? Because last I looked, the jet stream and the clouds didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to what we want. We can certainly mitigate the effects of drought, but anything beyond that is out of our hands.
The #GamerGate kerfuffle might lead some of you to think that OMG, there’s so much sexism out there. You probably should have seen it thirty years ago:
I got the job on a whim. I happened to be in the store looking at Intellivision games. I didn’t have an Intellivision, but was interested in perhaps buying a console. I got to talking to the manager of the store about video games and at the end of the conversation, he offered me a job. I took it.
That job was a lesson in sexism. All too often, guys would come in looking for advice on which games or console to buy, or to browse our massive D&D section and when I went to help them, they would ask if my manager was around, or they would tell me they didn’t need my help. I’d try to engage them, talk to them about the games, but they would always, in various phrasing, say they want a guy to help them. That they didn’t think I’d be able to answer their questions or know enough about the games to help them make their decisions. Sometimes I would be the only employee in the store (when my manager was there, he backed me up) and they were stuck with me. They would pepper me with questions, making me “prove” my knowledge or my fandom. This was the same attitude I faced as a sports fan — guys often making me prove my worth, as if i had to pass a test to be allowed into their “club.”
“But you’re a girl!” followed her all through womanhood:
I eventually quit that job — a job I thought was my dream job (I was only about 19, what did I know) — because I was tired of being on the verge of tears all the time. The thing was, I still loved working there. I loved being surrounded by video games all day. I loved that part of my job was demonstrating the games but I also loved that part of the job was demonstrating my knowledge and so often I wasn’t given that chance because I was a girl and what do girls know about video games?
Which is not to say that things have actually improved since those days:
I’m just as frustrated now as I was when I stood in that store and had a guy tell me “I don’t mind you working here because you have a nice ass, but I still want Steve to help me.” The harassment women are feeling today is a hundred times worse than that. The internet has allowed men to swarm in masses and attack as one. Women are being driven out of their homes because of threats made by rabid misogynists.
There are, of course, no stories with but a single side. If you’re just now coming upon this issue, here are two of them. My usual position on these matters is that everyone who steps into them eventually gets something unspeakable on their shoes. The “swarm” technique, I assure you, is genuine, an unwanted reminder of the atavistic tribalism that not one of us has ever completely outgrown.
The auto company once known as Luftfahrzeug-Motorenbau GmbH, founded in 1909 by Wilhelm Maybach, wound down operations after World War II, and Daimler-Benz bought what was left of it in 1960. For some reason, forty years later Daimler decided to revive the make as an ultra-lux brand — sort of a Mercedes-Benz SS-Class, if you know what I mean — positioning it against the likes of Rolls-Royce. Between 2002 and 2011, Maybach moved about 3000 cars, about what Rolls-Royce did in any one of those years, and the badge was quietly put back into the vault.
Once a name best known for providing a platform for Kanye West’s and Jay Z’s Mad Maxian fantasies, Maybach is set to return from the grave under the bright lights of the 2014 Los Angeles Auto Show as a Mercedes model.
Car and Driver reports the Maybach will be around 18 feet in length, slotting between the S550 and the deceased Maybach 57, according to head of global design, Gordon Wagener.
Other features include a turbocharged V12, rear-wheel drive, Mercedes’ Magic Body Control suspension, luxurious materials, and a badge here and there to let the proletariat know a god and/or goddess is being chauffeured, not some Silicon Valley dirtbag.
The 57, in case you’d forgotten, was so called because it stretched 5.7 meters, out there with the late, lamented Buick Electra 225. (There was an even-longer 62, which made it four inches past the twenty-foot mark.)
Something this size ought to seat about eight; I expect it will hold just about half that many.
Nobody is expecting much from the just-out-of-blankies Utah Jazz this season. Still, they’d won four of six preseason games before wandering into Oklahoma City, and all five Jazz starters rolled up double figures well before the official beginning of garbage time, inside the four-minute mark. (Enes Kanter led everyone with 27 points.) It’s a situation we’ve seen before: the Thunder can defend, but they foul. They foul a lot. Utah took 41 foul shots, more than two-thirds of them in the first half, collecting 30 points. (OKC attempted 26, made 13.) And scoring is intermittent at best: the Thunder managed to hit ten of 22 three-point shots, but managed only four fast-break points all night. So the Jazz walk away with a 105-91 win — the seventh time out of seven OKC gives up a triple-digit score — and we get to wonder Wha’Hoppen?
It wasn’t all dross, of course: no game in which Nick Collison can make two treys can be considered a total loss, and training-camp invitee Michael Jenkins managed to create a +10 for the night without making a shot. What’s more, Perry Jones came up with 20 points despite bricking five free throws. Anthony Morrow is calm and collected and occasionally accurate; Serge Ibaka is starting to look like the Serge Protector of old. And Russell Westbrook (14 points, 11 assists) pitched no hissy fits.
Still, from about five minutes in, the Jazz looked like they owned the place, and since they have to come back twice more during the regular season — did I mention this was a preseason game? — well, this can’t be allowed to stand, especially if the Jazz are supposed to suck. Meanwhile, we look forward to the first regular-season game, a week from tomorrow, in the
Rose Garden Moda Center.