Two years ago I put together a CD-R, a foreshortened version (with some songs shuffled) of an earlier mix tape. The track list follows:
- One (Three Dog Night)
- Two Divided by Love (The Grass Roots)
- Knock Three Times (Dawn)
- Let the Four Winds Blow (Fats Domino)
- Five O'Clock World (The Vogues)
- Six Man Band (The Association)
- Seven Little Girls Sitting in the Back Seat (Paul Evans and the Curls)
- Eight Days a Week (The Beatles)
- Love Potion No. 9 (The Searchers)
- Ten Commandments of Love (Harvey and the Moonglows)
- Twelve Thirty (The Mamas and the Papas)
- Only Sixteen (Sam Cooke)
- At Seventeen (Janis Ian)
- Eighteen with a Bullet (Pete Wingfield)
- 19th Nervous Breakdown (The Rolling Stones)
- Twenty Flight Rock (Eddie Cochran)
- Twenty-Four Hours from Tulsa (Gene Pitney)
- 25 or 6 to 4 (Chicago)
- 26 Miles (The Four Preps)
- Forty Days (Ronnie Hawkins)
- Sixty Minute Man (Billy Ward and the Dominoes)
- When I'm Sixty-Four (The Beatles)
- Questions 67 and 68 (Chicago)
- Rocket 88 (Jackie Brenston and his Delta Cats)
- 96 Tears (? and the Mysterians)
- 98.6 (Keith)
- A Hundred Pounds of Clay (Gene McDaniels)
Incidentally, "Forty Days" is the same song as Chuck Berry's "Thirty Days." The tape version substituted Boyd Bennett's "Seventeen" and Alice Cooper's "I'm Eighteen," the Clovers' version of "Love Potion No. 9," and added Nena's "99 Luftballons" and the Drifters' "Three Thirty Three."
Playing time: 79:30. Not available on Wendex Records (111077-2).
The Lonely Lib/Con reviews the case of Terri Schiavo, and sees another issue in its shadow:
In service to their ideology they've entirely sacrificed both reason and humanity. Compared to that, a man who wants to kill his wife for money is easy to sympathize with.
There's no money in abortion, of course, unless you're the provider of same; what makes these issues run parallel to one another is the idea that a person should die for the convenience of another.
Should this notion prove defensible, I'll start working on a list.
The events of this day perhaps have emboldened me, and it's about time.
I will not be silenced, no matter what the Federal Election Commission or any other government agency throws at me in an attempt to circumvent the First Amendment.
Thank you for sticking to your guns.
I don't really know whom they're looking for, and I don't really give a damn. I can, however, recommend that if anyone for any reason ever asks you to return their call at 866-877-0026, do so only long enough to tell them to perform an anatomical impossibility of your choice and then hang up with ferocity.
What'll you bet that if the Democrats had thirty-five votes in the Senate, instead of forty-five, Boxer would be insisting on a two-thirds majority for confirmation?
Now if she wants to introduce a Constitutional amendment to require a three-fifths, or whatever, majority, that's just fine with me. Otherwise, she needs to find something else to piss and moan about. (And unfortunately, she almost certainly will.)
The Oklahoma House has passed, 93-7, a bill to insulate food producers from lawsuits by activists who seek to force their personal food choices on everyone.
House Bill 1554, by Dale DeWitt (R-Braman), protects food producers who meet existing state and Federal standards from civil liability for claims of weight gain or obesity. Said DeWitt:
The Senate will consider this bill in due course. Similar measures have passed in sixteen states and are under consideration in twenty others.
Drudge has this out no other sources yet that I can see.
The Chairman of the Health, Education, Labor, and Pension (HELP) Committee, Mike Enzi (R-Wyoming) has requested Terri Schiavo to testify before his congressional committee, the Drudge Report has learned. In so doing it triggers legal or statutory protections for the witness, among those protections is that nothing can be done to cause harm or death to this individual.
Members of Congress went to the U.S. Attorney in DC to ask for a temporary restraining order to be issued by a judge, which protects Terri Schiavo from having her life support, including her feeding and hydration tubes, removed.
As Drudge says, "Developing."
As McGehee says, "Dang! Dia-freakin'-bolical!"
(Update: A writ of habeas corpus [link requires Adobe Reader] has been filed by Terri's family.)
(Update, 11:20 am: Fox News reports the House Government Reform Committee has subpoenaed Terri, two attending physicians, the hospice administrator, and Michael Schiavo. They are to appear next Friday at 10 am. Via BlogsforTerri.)
(Update, 2 pm: Judge Greer tells them what they can do with their subpoena.)
I rolled out of bed at 5:45 yesterday morning and hit the freeway by 6:30. The tricky part was arriving at the 44/35 junction at exactly the same time as the 18-wheeler with only a few feet of ramp to work with.
The solution, as always, was simple enough: second gear, 5500 rpm, and gone. Still, this is not a road on which I'd like to be doing 80 mph at sunrise, so I gradually scaled myself back to something resembling the speed limit (60) over the next half-mile or so.
And I remembered something Mayor Cornett had said during his State of the City address:
With timing that can only be described as impeccable, a police officer on a motorcycle appeared in the left lane. Didn't do much for my sense of incredible ease, but he wasn't looking my way, and by then I was pretty much synchronized with the traffic flow anyway.
I shall endeavor to keep it under 80 this morning.
(Update: Peaked at 74 mph.)
Sometimes this is all you need to know:
The right man for the job, clearly:
You know Donna will be there opening night.
The universe was unavailable for comment.
But had the universe answered its phone, I'm sure it would have said something to the effect of "Bwahahahaha!"
I suppose this will cement my reputation as some sort of right-wing reprobate: I'm about to quote approvingly from a speech by Justice Antonin Scalia.
Today, barely twenty years later, it is difficult to get someone confirmed to the Court of Appeals. What has happened? The American people have figured out what is going on. If we are selecting lawyers, if we are selecting people to read a text and give it the fair meaning it had when it was adopted, yes, the most important thing to do is to get a good lawyer. If on the other hand, we're picking people to draw out of their own conscience and experience, a new constitution, with all sorts of new values to govern our society, then we should not look principally for good lawyers. We should look principally for people who agree with us, the majority, as to whether there ought to be this right, that right, and the other right. We want to pick people that would write the new constitution that we would want.
And that is why you hear in the discourse on this subject, people talking about moderate, we want moderate judges. What is a moderate interpretation of the text? Halfway between what it really means and what you'd like it to mean? There is no such thing as a moderate interpretation of the text. Would you ask a lawyer, "Draw me a moderate contract"? The only way the word has any meaning is if you are looking for someone to write a law, to write a constitution, rather than to interpret one.
Which makes me wonder how much legislation is introduced on the basis of "Wouldn't this be nice?" instead of "Will this pass Constitutional muster?" And I suppose I'm conservative enough to think that if the answer to the latter is No, it doesn't much matter what the answer to the former might be.
(Found by way of Power Line.)
The Ohio House had passed an amendment to the Buckeye State's transportation budget to get rid of the front license plate, saying it was an unnecessary expense, but the Senate version of the bill, which retains the front plate, prevailed in committee, arguing that displaying a front plate served the needs of law enforcement.
Before you ask, yes, Timothy McVeigh, on the way out of Oklahoma, was busted on a plate violation, but he didn't have any plates on the car. (Oklahoma has managed just fine for sixty-one years with only rear plates.)
I am neither popular nor possessed of substance bulk, perhaps but I do know which other blogs send me the most traffic. Day in, day out, the following (listed alphabetically by first non-article word) show up most often in my referrer logs:
Four men, four women. (My two largest traffic days ever came from a post by Michelle Malkin, but this was a fluke.) If there's really a "boys' club," no one's given me the Secret Handshake yet. And I don't really have a "blogfather," since I was out here before most of my regular reads; further, to my knowledge, no one sees me in this role.
I must point out that neither ScrappleFace nor LGF has ever linked to any individual article of mine, but I seem to rank somewhere above the middle of their blogrolls, and I have had some email correspondence with Scott Ott.
Oh, and I got pointed to the Cobb article by La Shawn Barber (in lieu of the usual "Via" tag).
Not C-130, which is the Air Force's Hercules aircraft.
Instead, you should see the 130th Carnival of the Vanities, hosted this week by Bird's Eye View, and once again bringing you high-quality bloggage in a single handy digest. As He Who Does Not Need The Linkage might say, you might find a blog you like better than this one.
If that doesn't make you squirm, consider this:
Please consider, Dear Reader: Which would you prefer? Love like Terri's spouse, or love like that of her parents?
The actions of the spouse would appear to be in conflict with a loving spouse, but not in conflict with a malevolent one. But that is merely circumstantial evidence. He cannot be prosecuted for speculative malevolence for his ailing spouse.
But a justice system that was not detached from its obligations under the social contract would clearly see the potential conflict and mercifully take the ailing daughter from the custody of the spouse and put her in the care of her parents who will look over her without financial gain.
And one thing more bothers me. American liberals, who fancy themselves the protectors of the downtrodden, have been utterly silent on this matter. Can it be because they don't, even for a moment, want to appear on the same side of an issue as those hated "pro-life" people?
And one does not lure the kiddies into the classical camp with Das Lied von der Erde, for sure.
It's been gone for nine years now, and its owner died last month, but The Downtown Guy thinks it's time to resurrect Molly Murphy's in Bricktown.
I'm thinking it's a hell of an idea. If they're going to pitch Bricktown as a place where Things Happen, well, things were always happening at Molly's. The Oklahoma Gazette once described it as "a mixture of 20s Art Deco and the Taj Mahal," and they weren't kidding. And if the environment was wacky, the staff was insane. The food was okay, maybe a little better than that, but you didn't go to Molly's because you were peckish; you went to Molly's because you wanted to see just what in the heck was going to happen next, and it didn't bother you that you had to wait an hour and twenty minutes to get in.
Yeah, I know: reviving the original Molly's would be right up there with building a shrine to That '70s Show. But everything old eventually is new again, and frankly, I think it's time I got a chance to embarrass my grandchildren, who sooner or later will have to go to the bathroom.
I pulled into the Batteries Plus store on the way home today in search of a replacement 3.6-volt for my cell phone. As the guy was installing the new one, he offered this bit of pragmatism:
He looked at the front of my phone, which dates back to the Old Silurian times, and added:
Now we all learned about planned obsolescence back in the 1950s, when Detroit figured out that annual automobile model changes were good for the bottom line. And really, I can't say I'm too surprised at this, since rather a lot of wireless customers say goodbye after their contracts are up and go to someone else who might have an entirely different technology and almost certainly has an entirely different phone to vend.
Just for the sake of argument, this is the first battery I've bought for this phone since it was new in May 2001. And technically, the old battery wasn't quite dead; it just wouldn't hold a charge beyond the two-bar (of four) level.
Gawker gives this the snark it deserves:
In the spirit of innovation which has always characterized this site (okay, quit laughing, dammit), we now present what boils down to a caption contest with no picture. Your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to produce a suitable headline for the New York Post story linked above that sounds as Dawn Eden-like as possible. Assuming I can talk her into it (and if I can't, I've got more worries than I thought I did), Dawn herself will pick the winner.
Post your entry as a comment below. I expect this will be open through Friday at least.
A couple of weekends ago I noted the general disappearance of Burger King in the metro area.
They're not all gone Burger King HQ says there are thirty-five locations remaining in central Oklahoma, though their definition of "central" extends as far as McAlester but local franchiser Ken Knight, who at one time owned fourteen Burger Kings in the area, has shuttered all fourteen, and he and Burger King are going their separate ways due to what Burger King calls a "history of ... failure to meet Burger King operating standards".
(Yes, Burger King has operating standards. Knock it off.)
At least two of the closed Burger Kings had been sharing space with gas stations: a Shell at NE 23rd and I-35, and a Conoco at Pennsylvania and I-44.
Of course and she comes this close to admitting as much in the comments her real objections to Kansas come straight out of Thomas Frank. Not that I mind; I liked Frank's book, which is nicely detailed and spiffily written. But Frank's assumption, that Kansans, culturally and economically, would logically be aligned with the Democrats had they not been somehow seduced in recent years by the GOP, ignores the simple fact that Kansans have almost always voted Republican. Seduction? More likely inertia. Whatever the GOP equivalent of the yellow-dog Democrat, Kansas has 'em.
And while I join Merritt in her dislike for mayonnaise, I can't bring myself to badmouth Kansas; oceans and mountains are wonderful things, but not essential things. Of course, if you want generic with diversity, you come to Oklahoma.
If it's dark enough outside and you get halfway from the driveway to my front door, the floodlights come on.
This is no big deal, but it got me wondering just how small an interloper can be spotted by the motion detector.
And while I was pondering this matter last night, the floodlights came on, and I got to the window in time to see one of the neighborhood cats at a slow, deliberate pace, as though he'd had nothing to do with it and just happened to be passing by.
Which could possibly be true I mean, I didn't see the cat trip the beam. But he certainly wasn't startled by it.
One of the more persuasive arguments in favor of same-sex marriage is "Yeah, let them suffer like the rest of us."
Over at Wizbang, Jay Tea has a little ditty 'bout Jan and Diane, two American kids from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts who wound up having to work up four tax returns: two to the Feds, separately; a joint return to Massachusetts, which, unlike the IRS, considers them legally wed; and a simulated Federal return at the joint rates, because Massachusetts requires the numbers from such be carried over to the state return.
This sort of thing is old news to more, um, traditional couples who might live in State A and work in State B, but it serves as a reminder that everything isn't sweetness and light even if the government actually approves of one's marriage.
I must point out here, for the sake of
propriety face-retention, that it has been suggested that I provide a shot of myself for the sake of perplexing Dr Hanson, and, well, I don't have any compelling reasons really good excuse to refuse, so, well, here's a relatively recent not all that old shot that I vaguely resemble in a fuzzy sort of way and have used in shrunken form elsewhere as a calling card marginally-convincing form of identification.
The Freedom of Information Act requires that the agency receiving the FOIA request act upon it within twenty days.
Unless you're San Francisco Chronicle reporter Seth Rosenfeld, who has been waiting on a FOIA request from the FBI since 1981.
Rosenfeld, who has been researching Cold War activities by the FBI at the University of California-Berkeley, has received about 200,000 pages so far, but 17,000 are still not forthcoming. The FBI, ever-helpful, suggested that Rosenfeld file a request under FOIA to ask what's taking so long.
Now that's gridlock.
(Via Population Statistic.)
What makes the perfect song? Rich Appel, in his monthly newsletter Hz So Good, proposes criteria:
Hard to argue with that, though I'd stretch it out a few more seconds; seemingly every Motown hit up through 1967 or so ran somewhere between 2:40 and 3:00.
And not every song that extends beyond the three-minute mark is flirting with tedium, but there was for quite some time an unwritten law that said Thou Shalt Shut Up Already: Phil Spector "accidentally" misprinted the first batch of labels for the 3:40ish "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'" as 3:05, so as not to discourage DJs of that era with its sheer length. And Billy Joel got in a barb with "The Entertainer":
If you're gonna have a hit, you gotta make it fit
So they cut it down to 3:05.
"The Entertainer" runs 3:38 on Streetlife Serenade; for the 45-rpm single, they cut it down to oh, never mind.
I mention in passing that Dawn Eden's biggest hit, a cover of Kirsty MacColl's "They Don't Know About Us" (on The Stiff Generation, released by Groove Disques) on which she's backed by the Anderson Council, checks in at a brisk 2:53, six seconds faster than Tracey Ullman's version, which was a US Top Ten hit.
Fusilier Pundit goes through the list of nominees for positions on the National Rifle Association's Board of Directors, and makes recommendations thereto. If you're a voting member of the NRA, do give Fûz a look; his priorities make a lot of sense, at least to me.
A week ago Monday, the Baltimore Sun published an op-ed by Christopher Hanson, professor of journalism at the University of Maryland, which acknowledged the power of blogs but complained that they were no substitute for Big Media. A sample:
Two words: Dan Rather.
But what really vexed me was his gripe about the seeming frivolity of some of us:
Some of us like our iconoclasts to be sorta glamourous when they can. It's not essential or anything nobody is on my blogroll on the basis of physical appearance but what's the harm?
Since this sort of thing apparently disturbs Professor Hanson greatly, I'm collecting glamour shots of bloggers for The Annoy Christopher Hanson Campaign. If you'd like to participate and possibly be singled out for abuse in his next op-ed, feel free.
(Update, 15 March, 2:50 pm: Christopher Hanson responds via email: "I am trying to be annoyed but am actually flattered by the attention.")
The session isn't over yet, but I can't imagine anyone coming up with anything more asinine than this. Witness HR 1746, by Dan Sullivan (R-Tulsa):
Any agency or governmental entity of this state that develops and implements a nondiscriminatory policy based on sexual preference shall be null and void.
SECTION 2. This act shall become effective November 1, 2005.
1) Sullivan didn't realize that the text as written calls for the outright abolition of any such "agency or governmental entity";
2) He did realize that.
Either way, it's the sort of thing that makes you wonder if Sullivan was always this stupid, or if he had to train for it. No wonder the Tulsa World has such dripping contempt for the electorate: they vote for people like Sullivan.
Matt Deatherage has much, much more. Incidentally, this thing passed the House in its original form 65-28; there being only 57 Republicans in the House, somehow at least eight Democrats got sucked, so to speak, into voting for it. What were they thinking?
(With thanks to Matthew.)
Could there possibly be any catchphrase beaten to death more egregiously than the expansion of WMD?
Nickelodeon used to run a strange little show called Roundhouse, which I watched faithfully every week during its four-year run, because it was utterly without shame, because Aaron Spelling once threatened a lawsuit after they made fun of Tori, and because there was a June Cleaver-level hottie in the cast named Shawn Daywalt, who drew the Mom assignments in the comedy sketches, and who since seems to have vanished from the face of the earth.
In its role as a sort of SNL for kids, Roundhouse was fond of fake ads, and didn't shy away from the tasteless. One particularly memorable combination of both involved a breakfast cereal for children who picked their noses: "New Booger Bran from Mucus Mills," declaimed Daywalt. "You'll know it's nutritious, but the kids will think it's snot."
About 2500 bloggers and readers of blogs have so far signed the Online Coalition's letter to FEC chair Scott Thomas requesting an exemption for blogs to the Bipartisan Campaign Reform Act of 2002, aka McCain-Feingold, aka The Incumbents' Preservation Act.
Look at the big picture, folks. This isn't about our precious Internet. It's about the very concept of free speech.
What we're seeing is not a crazy offshoot of campaign finance "reform" legislation. It's a logical consequence of it. Something this important can't be handled by legislation, and left to the whims of lawmakers and regulators. It is a constitutional issue, and affects all free speech.
Which, of course, is absolutely true. Still, there's little to no chance that this measure is going to be scrapped anytime soon, and until such time as it is, I'm thinking that I will have to content myself with wangling an exemption, with the hope that some future Supreme Court will choose to send this law to the dustbin, or that some day there will be more exemptions than provisions and the entire house of cards will come crashing down.
The perfect, as they say, is sometimes the enemy of the good. Right now, I'm settling for the good.
(Regular readers will note that this is the exact opposite of my stance on dating and relationships. The consistent, as they say, is sometimes the enemy of the flexible.)
(Update, 15 March, 3:30 pm: Dan Lovejoy is definitely in agreement with Patterico.)
Women, according to the arbiters of political correctness, are an oppressed minority. I've always thought this was rather a bizarre notion, since women actually outnumber men nationwide, something "minorities" just don't do, and the term "oppression" is open to all manner of interpretations, not all of them consistent with history or with Webster's.
The only time you're likely to hear any mention of female numerical superiority, though, is in discussions of dating, where it is a common complaint that there aren't enough guys to go around. Men will look at this and sniff, "Yeah, right, so where are all the girls?" That's usually my cue to quote the late Jan Berry, who was bound for Surf City, where it's two to one.
There's no surfing to speak of in Bristol, Virginia, but it's almost two to one: 1.85 single women per single man, according to Census numbers and ePodunk. The flip-side is Crowley County, an outpost in the southeastern Colorado plains, where the men outnumber the women by slightly more than two to one.
In my own particular county, I'm facing a small numerical surplus of women, to the tune of twenty percent or so, but it's not a tune I know by heart, and picking it out, note by note, is a difficult task at best. Besides, narrowing the field to the one very specific subset required "women who will actually put up with the likes of me" is likely to produce an empty set, and a lot of other empty things besides.
(Suggested, quite inadvertently, by Michael Blowhard.)
John Phillips, editor at large for Car and Driver, has a couple of things in common with me: we're both in our early 50s, and we've both been to the Oklahoma Panhandle once. The difference is that Phillips drove there (with a photographer) in a European-spec three-cylinder turbo Smart ForTwo, and his observations got into the magazine's April issue (not on their Web site as of this writing). I can't tell whether he actually liked the place or not. A sample or three:
Scary prospect. And there's this:
There's a picture of said tumbleweed, too. Let's hope the C/D Web site picks up on it.
Um, 28,478 (US Census Bureau estimate, 1 July 2003).
But I suspect he just might have enjoyed the trip:
And you know, if I saw one of these up close and personal, I just might giggle myself.
After last week's industrial-strength excursion, and what with the arrival of weather suitable for yard work, I didn't get around much today, but there were a few things worthy of note besides the wholesale destruction of weeds.
My big Midwestern bank has been absorbed into an even bigger East Coast bank, and they're saying they want all the signs changed over within the next six weeks. Given the amount of new signage I've seen at the local branches, which is to say none whatsoever, I'd say they have their work cut out for them.
About twenty-five years ago, I visited Memphis, and fortunately, it's easy to find Elvis Presley Boulevard on the maps; actual street signs are few and far between, and the only one I saw was mounted about two stories above the ground, presumably to discourage theft. (I'm sure this sort of thing didn't happen when it was merely Highway 51 South.) North of Britton Road in The Village is a noncontinuous residential street called Abbey Road. When I was househunting, one of the first notions I got was to go look on this street, for obvious Fab Four-related reasons, but houses on those few blocks seldom seemed to be for sale, and the neighborhood in question seemed to be out of what I thought to be my price range anyway, so I gave the matter no further thought until today, when I was stuck in the usual May Avenue traffic, and ducked down a side road to evade it. A couple of turns, and there I was except that, contrary to the standard prevailing on other Village street signs, the sign for Abbey Road (this one, anyway) merely says ABBEY, with no further designator; for all the casual visitor could tell, it could be Abbey Drive or Abbey Place or even Abbe Lane. Have people been stealing street signs from The Village? And should we blame Polythene Pam?
Just in the past twenty-four hours, people have wandered to this site inquiring about Pamela Anderson's bust size (which I understand is variable, but considerable), Debra Messing's bust size (which I understand is consistent, but not huge), and Ann Coulter's height (which probably doesn't matter, since she'll look you in the eye regardless).
In addition to these, there are the usual requests for photos of the following sans clothing: model Michelle Lombardo, KWTV news babe Amy McRee, and, most unexpectedly, Laura Ingraham. What's more, the number of Olsen-twin requests is up as well, though Teri Polo requests seem to be on the wane at last. There are, I'm starting to believe, people who think that there exist nude photos of everyone on earth, and that those photos can and will be found if you dig far enough into Google.
It is circumstances such as these which make me somewhat more grateful for my nonentity status: I would probably be horrified were someone searching for me with these specifications.
(For the record, I'm six feet tall, and if I ever run into Ann Coulter, I'll expect her to tower over me, but then I expect her to be wearing heels, and besides I slouch a bit; and only once, in 1984, before the era of digital cameras and readily-available scanners, have I ever posed for a photograph unclothed, not counting whatever baby pictures may have been shot back in the Eisenhower administration, which were presumably done without my consent anyway.)
Miss Black and White meets up with a friend, the subject turns to Star Wars, and the truth comes out:
From which proceeds the following:
- There are presumably three guys on the planet who enjoy shopping for shoes;
- Mere delight in the fact that the store actually has something in my size (I wear a 14 EE) probably doesn't count;
- My dance card isn't going to fill up any faster.
And you know, I probably could have cut the last couple of words.