I’ve lived through half a century of Inaugural Addresses, from Dwight Eisenhower’s — his second, anyway — to Barack Obama’s, which gives me an opening to look back at some memorable bits from those speeches.

I was somewhere between unemployed and underemployed for much of the late 1980s, and I’m pretty sure thoughts like these crossed my mind at the time:

During my sabbatical I tried to gain some clarity into what I might “want to do.” But I realized I’m doing it: relaxing, keeping up with the news, cooking, doing odd projects, reading, and fiddling with the stock market.

So I guess I’m just a person who is unmotivated and has no vision, but who needs income, and will have to posture and compromise to get something that pays.

And eventually, it was something that paid about 40 percent as much as I’d made earlier, simply because it was an improvement over zero.

I remember this blurb from a nearby cubicle: “People work for money. You want loyalty, buy a dog.”

I think this describes most workers. But for most people, satisfaction is achieved by buying houses and TV’s and clothes and trinkets. So for these people, the work/money contract is satisfactory.

The whole employment exercise affirms this: the emphasis is on trickery — how to dress, how to banter, the “right” questions to ask — basically how to manipulate everything you need to, in order to get an offer.

Many employers, too, seem to perversely demand conformity in interviews — they only want certain pat responses and questions. Which indicates they aren’t really interested in your answers, but rather your ability to conform and internalize routine.

I keep telling myself that I have enough house/TV’s/clothes/trinkets to last a lifetime, and maybe eventually I’ll believe it.

And I suspect I’m a disappointing interview subject, if one expects cut and dried answers: I’m more likely to tell you what I think I can do, not what I’ve already done. HR types looking for specific buzzwords and/or credentials will therefore presumably not be impressed. Further, HR types with no sense of humor will not be impressed with some of my responses to stock questions: more than once I have answered “Why did you leave your last position?” with “mutual illness.” Asked to explain this, I said: “I was sick of them, and they were sick of me.”

At the end of 2007, an operation called Big Industrial LLC took over the former Bridgestone/Firestone tire plant on the city’s west side and announced plans to rework it into an industrial park, which they planned to name for Will Rogers.

At the time, I said this:

[I]n recognition of market realities — turning the whole place over to a single firm is unlikely — Big Industrial is prepared to subdivide as needed.

“Unlikely” is a long way from “impossible,” though, and now Big Industrial itself is out of the picture, having sold the facility:

Producers Cooperative Oil Mill Inc. acquired the former Bridgestone/Firestone Dayton Tire factory, which has more than 1 million square feet, plus 170 acres near SW 25 and Council Road.

PCOM currently occupies a facility at 6 SE 4th St, an area coveted by city planners for future “Core to Shore” development; there’s been an oil mill there for over 100 years, and currently PCOM, which was established in 1944, has the capacity to process 1000 tons of whole cotton seed a day.

The move won’t happen overnight, though:

Producers Cooperative, which underwent a $3 million expansion just last year, isn’t in a hurry, said Gary Conkling, president and chief executive.

“All we’re really doing is planning for the future,” he said Friday. “We’ve kind of looked for land for several years.”

The sale presumably will not affect Liquidation Services, Inc., contract reseller of Department of Defense surplus and scrap items, which began leasing 325,000 square feet in one plant building in November, especially if PCOM isn’t moving in any time soon.

Sale price for the old tire plant was announced as $14.2 million.

You can’t get a whole lot closer than this. With Oklahoma City down 112-109, Jeff Green drew a foul from Jason Thompson; Green sank the first free throw, bricked the second, got the rebound and made an 8-foot jumper to tie. The Kings had one second left to score, and they didn’t.

So it was overtime, and veteran point guard Bobby Jackson, doing his second tour of duty for Sacramento, took command of matters, rattling off six of the Kings’ ten points in the last five minutes and giving a smallish Arco Arena crowd something to cheer: after eight losses in a row, the Kings edged the Thunder, 122-118.

This game is another example of the reserves stepping up: Beno Udrih was out, and rookie Bobby Brown ran the point, yielding to Jackson later. Center Brad Miller also was sitting, giving Spencer Hawes the opportunity to start. Meanwhile, sharpshooter Kevin Martin racked up 37 points, and John Salmons scored a double-double: 19 points, 10 rebounds. Weirdly, two Kings fouled out: Thompson and swingman Francisco Garcia.

With that many Sacramento fouls, you’d expect the Thunder to be at the line a lot, and they were: Russell Westbrook got 20 of 22 all by himself, the team finishing with 33 of 39. Kevin Durant hit his first nine shots before cooling off a bit, still getting 33 for the day’s work, behind Westbrook (34) and ahead of Green (28). Green also had 13 rebounds for one of two Thunder double-doubles; Nick Collison got the other (10 points, 15 boards).

Two issues for OKC: turnovers (again!), and scant contribution from the bench, which managed only 11 points and 12 rebounds. But this was a close one all around, with 15 ties, and in the end, the Kings proved just a little bit hungrier, or something.

Three games coming at the Ford, and none of them will be easy: Nuggets on Wednesday, Blazers on Friday, and most of these same Kings on Sunday.

Automakers are suffering because they can’t sell any cars; auto dealers are suffering because, well, they can’t sell any cars. Dealers, however, have alternative revenue streams, which the manufacturers will help them tap. Witness this mailing:

As a loyal customer, we know you are passionate about maintaining your vehicle with Infiniti expert service.

To thank you for your commitment, we are offering you a $50 rebate on your next Infiniti service visit.

And there’s a simulated $50 bill tucked into the fold.

There’s just one issue for me: I don’t happen to need $50 worth of service right this minute. (At 116,250 miles, the next service interval, it’s time for an oil change, and that’s it; the tab doesn’t approach $50.) The sensible thing to do, therefore, would be to hold it for the hyperexpensive 120k service, but that’s not happening before the end-of-March deadline.

Here’s what’s on the 120k Premium Maintenance list:

• Replace engine oil and filter
• Lubricate all locks/hinges
• Replace automatic transmission fluid
• Replace climate-controlled seat filter (M45/M35/Q45, if so equipped)
• Replace differential oil
• Replace engine air filter
• Replace engine coolant/flush system
• Replace engine drive belts
• Replace in-cabin microfilter
• Replace manual transmission oil
• Replace radiator cap
• Replace transfer case oil (4WD/AWD)
• Replace wiper blades
• Rotate tires (except G35 Coupe, Sport)
• Optional: flush automatic transmission (flush with ATF)
• Inspect the following:

__ All lights
__ Axle & suspension parts
__ Brake lines & cables
__ Brake calipers, pads, rotors
__ Brake light & cruise control switches
__ Drive shaft boots (4WD/AWD)
__ Exhaust system
__ Front suspension ball joints
__ Fuel lines/connections
__ Fuel tank vapor vent system hoses
__ Headlights/adjust if necessary
__ Propeller shaft (4WD/AWD)
__ Steering gear and linkage
__ Steering linkage ball joints

The tire store will give me a free rotation, so that can be eliminated; I don’t have AWD, so those items are irrelevant; I replaced all the belts at 90k, so they should be okay; all the expendable brake parts have been done within the last 24 months and there are no obvious signs of problems.

I would, however, like some input into this mysterious “climate-controlled seat filter” on the higher-end models. I can think of some things related to seats that really ought to be filtered, you know?

Looks like it’s time for another fresh batch of “WTF were they thinking?” entries pulled from this week’s searches.

you think you’re so cool:  Hey, it’s winter. Warmth costs money.

nair got in my labium:  Note to Technorati: We need a “TMI” tag.

can Oklahoma secede from the union:  No percentage in it; we’d have to pay Customs duties on the things we bought on Texas sales-tax holidays.

no colon tattoo:  I certainly wouldn’t want a tattoo on my colon.

short skirt windy day:  Truly, the Lord doth answer thine prayer, or at least mine.

how hard is web coding:  If I can do it, it can’t be too awfully hard.

is fortified wine the alcoholic beverage that gives the best buzz?  Depends on what you fortify it with. For maximum buzz, I recommend 6 oz. of live hornets.

can u fix a timing belt with panty hose:  Not while you’re wearing them.

how often should Infinite timing belts be changed?  If they’re truly Infinite, you’ll never be able to reach the damn pulley.

free download “this is the song that never ends”:  If it truly never ends, you’ll never be able to finish the damn download.

Perhaps this situation supports the case for what I’ve been calling an “emptiness tax”:

In Downtown Austin, blight manifests itself in the primary forms of:
1) parking lots (or razed lots)
2) parking garages
3) chain link fence
4) perpetual disrepair

The Northeast quadrant of Downtown Austin takes the cake for parking garages. The area is desolate and completely void of human interaction. Unimproved parking lots are scattered throughout Downtown. It could easily be argued that Downtown Austin blight reaches its zenith on 6th Street. (slideshow) Broken doors, windows, tattered chain link fence, destroyed ATMs, it’s all there.

As I see it, the problem of blight is rooted with the owner of the property that is creating or hosting the blight. The economic behavior of hoarding undeveloped property in the CBD is contrary to the density goals of Downtown Austin stake holders. It is also contrary to the city’s and county’s goals of collecting ad valorem taxes. Perhaps more importantly, razing your lot and wrapping it in chain link fence is contrary to the sense of community.

As an example, Marriott, while it won’t be building in the Austin CBD for a year or two, has already torn down a pair of storefronts on the location it plans to use, prompting this complaint:

Downtown Austin is pockmarked with vacant lots and surface parking lots. We badly need a mechanism for discouraging property owners from warehousing vacant lots downtown. The solution is not to shut out all redevelopment to eliminate the risk of this kind of behavior. What we need is a vacant-lot surcharge or something like it. A surcharge calibrated to compensate the other downtown property owners, businesses and visitors for the very real cost of blighting a block. This might encourage property owners/developers to leave existing buildings in place or to fill in currently vacant lots, even if the structures are inexpensive and small.

Whether such a surcharge would be legal is a question for another day…

Establishing a surcharge of this sort might be easier, at least on our side of the Red River, than changing the property-tax laws. If blight carries with it externalities, and I believe it does — at the very least, it imposes costs, in the form of lower property values, upon the blighted neighborhood — to me, at least, it does not seem unreasonable to call upon the owners of blighted property to provide some form of reimbursement for those costs.

(Title adapted from a photo caption at the first link.)

The big problem with printing a whole lot of money, as Washington is about to do, is that any immediate stimulus it provides to the economy will be offset by long-term inflation. To minimize this effect, you need some way of getting those extra dollars out of the economy as quickly as they got in — but how in the world do you do that?

Possibly like this:

The answer is simple: chocolate gelt. Edible currency. Fiat finger food! It’ll circulate for a while, then gradually disappear as people consume it. For those of you who still believe in economics, I think the technical rationale is that the currency will be consumed once its marginal deliciousness (or whatever) exceeds its face value. Personally, I think it’ll probably just be consumed by the drunk, hungry or drunk & hungry. Either way, there’s a built-in safety check against long-term inflationary effects.

There are, of course, some technical problems to be overcome:

The foil would have to be significantly upgraded to make regular handling of the currency viable — perhaps some sort of carefully engineered tin design would be necessary. Also, it may be that chocolate is too cheap (or melting-prone) a commodity to turn into a useful form of currency. Or perhaps forgers would refill empties with Hershey’s chocolate — presumably inferior to delicious federal chocolate. But there are solutions to these problems. Maybe we could use ampules of liquor. Or, simpler still, the government could storm Hidden Valley, seize its ranch-producing operations and make the Treasury Department the only source of our precious national condiment.

I have no reason to think government chocolate would necessarily be of any higher quality than government cheese, but otherwise, this plan is just full of win — and, of course, saturated fats.

(Via Megan McArdle.)

My current keyboard, an IBM Model M, is now old enough to vote — its 18th birthday was last October — and I have no plans to replace it.

And if I ever have to, I want one of these:

Just had an idea. To make cleaning keyboards easier they should come with crumb trays that you can pull out to clean, like a toaster.

The price, of course, would be higher, but think how long they might last.

This is not the first First Lady we grew up hearing about:

Our image of the mother of our country, vague and insubstantial as it is, is drawn from portraits painted after her death showing a frumpy, dumpy, plump old lady, a fussy jumble of needlework in her lap, wearing what could pass for a shower cap with pink sponge rollers rolled too tight underneath.

But today, 250 years after Martha and George tied the knot, a handful of historians are seeking to revamp the former first lady’s fusty image, using the few surviving records of things she wrote, asking forensic anthropologists to do a computerized age-regression portrait of her in her mid-20s and, perhaps most importantly, displaying for the first time in decades the avant-garde deep purple silk high heels studded with silver sequins that she wore on her wedding day.

Far be it from me to complain about a smidgen of revisionism, but then again, why do we remember her as Frumpy McFrumpstein?

[E]ach generation of Americans … has played its part in solidifying Martha’s stodgy image, transforming her into an icon of demure Victorian perfection in the 19th century and, in the antiheroic 20th century, the mousy, fat, rich widow that dashing and virile Washington married only for money.

Emily Shapiro, a curator at Mount Vernon, wandered through the museum on a recent day, pointing to the most famous images of Martha. All of them are, as one historian describes it, of the double-chinned Old Mother Hubbard variety. To Shapiro, the white-haired images, painted shortly after both George and Martha had died, served to foster a sense of legitimacy for the fledgling country. “The country was still so young,” she said. “I think it was reassuring to see its leaders as older, distinguished, stately and gray-haired people.”

I hope we’re over that sort of thing; I wouldn’t want 23rd-century kids to think Michelle Obama was a dead ringer for Aunt Jemima.

This whole “Be Positive” crap is just totally irritating:

I realize I may be alone in this sentiment, but it completely cracks me up when people in authority start lecturing their subordinates about being positive. It’s always in a meeting where the bosses will go on and on making their point about how crucial it is to be positive, i.e. agree with them. Usually these sessions are accompanied with small group activities where people are called on to come up with positive solutions to a certain set of problems, kind of like going to “centers” in kindergarten.

Often this is accompanied by exhortations to “think outside the box,” to which you dare not come back with “Exactly what box is this we’re supposed to be thinking outside of?” (Actually, I’d be more likely to say “Exactly what box is this outside of which we’re supposed to be thinking?” Not that the results would be any better, but it adds Smug Points, which I value greatly in these circumstances.)

Besides, no one is really listening anyway:

The reason I pretty much tune it out is because, one, it’s pretty darn condescending when you get down to it, and I don’t like being talked down to. There is an underlying assumption that we are not positive people to begin with, and that we need to be force fed this tripe. Be happy, I get it, no one wants to be around a big grumpus all the time. I understand, but don’t try to get into my head, it’s nobody’s business what goes on in there, except for myself and the 6 people on the internet who read this blog.

The last person who accused me of being negative was told, “No, I’m not. No, no, no, NO.”

Okay, let’s suppose for a moment that the Winter Dance Party tour had been completed as originally scheduled, instead of crashing to a halt in the middle of an Iowa cornfield fifty years ago. What would have happened? Let’s speculate.

Buddy Holly had just split from the Crickets and was attempting a solo career which at the time really wasn’t going anywhere. He did, however, have a couple of assets: a major label that wasn’t at the time in the habit of dumping slumping acts, and a portfolio of songs that would prove eminently coverable in years to come. Holly had already gone to New York to cut “It Doesn’t Matter Anymore”; it doesn’t seem unreasonable to think that he might have ended up as a songwriter somewhere in the general vicinity of the Brill Building. (Then again, “It Doesn’t Matter Anymore” wasn’t one of his own; Paul Anka wrote it.)

J. P. Richardson, aka the Big Bopper, also had songwriting chops: he wrote “Running Bear” (Johnny Preston) and “White Lightning” (George Jones). “White Lightning” in particular gave him Nashville credibility; like many rock and roll acts — think Brenda Lee, Conway Twitty, or Wanda Jackson — he could have transitioned to country rather easily.

Ritchie Valens, I suspect, would have reclaimed the rest of his surname, which was “Valenzuela,” and become Carlos Santana before Carlos Santana ever did.

And Don McLean, bless him, would be better known for that lovely little song about Vincent van Gogh.

Alternate theories are welcomed.

If you’re not utterly panic-stricken by the seemingly-endless parade of fearmongers in the news, you’re probably smart enough to live in my neck of the woods, and there’s a better chance you can actually afford it now:

The Housing Affordability Index composite level for December was 158.8. A composite H.A.I. value of 158.8 means that a family earning the median income has 158.8 percent of the income needed to qualify for a mortgage on a median-priced home. (In other words, a higher index number means housing is more affordable; a lower index number means housing is less affordable.) The index had fallen during most of the housing bubble, when it became more and more expensive to buy a home. But … December’s composite level was the highest the index has reached since the association began collecting this data in 1971.

And there’s nothing to be gained by playing along with OMG IT’S A DEPRESSION hype, either:

In troubled times, it makes sense to be prudent. But, while irrational exuberance is hazardous, so is irrational gloominess. Acting as if you’re destitute because slightly more people are experiencing bad times than were doing so a few months ago is not only bad for your own quality of life but contributes to a vicious cycle that slows down the recovery.

In the meantime, I’m keeping an eye on three houses within a block of my own, the least expensive of which can be had for $112,500 — and which six years ago was worth about $70k.

Venomous Kate gave it the old college try, but One Hundred Years of Solitude didn’t do a thing for her:

When I’d first mentioned that I was reading this book, Craig commented that “the last paragraph … is one of the best in literature”. I agree, but probably not for the same reason.

After having spent 21 nights of misery reading this book (because I’m too stubborn to quit reading any book, no matter how much I despise it), I loved that last paragraph, too … if only because it meant I was finally done with the damned thing.

Frankly, as García Márquez goes, I prefer Love in the Time of Cholera, but then, as the phrase goes, I would.

And now I find myself with an opportunity: to supply another worthy last paragraph, and to solicit reader favorites. Here’s one of mine:

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

(From “The Dead,” the final story in James Joyce’s Dubliners.)

One of several arguments in favor of Ogden Nash’s “A Lady Who Thinks She Is Thirty”:

I also like the poem because it flies in the face of “best before” dates (and yes, there is an abominable program on one of the networks — Fine Living, maybe? that talks about a woman’s “best before” date. Which makes me both sad and angry) and reminds us that we all have value regardless of how old we are or what we look like.

Some otherwise-serious people actually believe in that sort of thing. Three years ago, John Derbyshire at NRO came up with this:

While I have no doubt that Ms. [Jennifer] Aniston is a paragon of charm, wit, and intelligence, she is also 36 years old. Even with the strenuous body-hardening exercise routines now compulsory for movie stars, at age 36 the forces of nature have won out over the view-worthiness of the unsupported female bust.

It is, in fact, a sad truth about human life that beyond our salad days, very few of us are interesting to look at in the buff. Added to that sadness is the very unfair truth that a woman’s salad days are shorter than a man’s — really, in this precise context, only from about 15 to 20. The Nautilus and the treadmill can add a half decade or so, but by 36 the bloom is definitely off the rose.

You may be sure that I gave this at least a fraction of the scorn it deserved.

You want some serious stimulation of the economy? Three words, says Chris Lawrence: “payroll tax holiday.” To wit:

Pour $800 billion into a payroll tax holiday (probably the fastest way to inject money into the economy — it could be implemented and have money in peoples’ pockets by April 1st if passed today) of some form and there are basically four outcomes I can see:

1. People spend the money. This stimulates the economy.
2. People save the money. This provides more money for banks to loan to stimulate the economy.
3. People pay off debt. The banks become better capitalized and less likely to go belly-up at taxpayer expense. This also provides more money for banks to loan to stimulate the economy.
4. People remit the money to relatives overseas. This improves our balance-of-payments and increases demand for stuff we export to those countries.

There are several reasons why this won’t happen, but you can probably guess the one that matters:

Then again, politicians can’t easily take credit for any of those outcomes, hence why it’s more fun to spend the money on things that we’d spend money on anyway at a later date.

Which is a shame, since I would love to hear someone try to say with a straight face that diverting even a mere fistful of dollars away from the sacred Social Security Trust Fund means your Aunt Tillie is going to have to downgrade from Fancy Feast to some indifferent store brand.

It’s Superuseless Superpowers!

Meet the equally-useless Lati-Dude and Longi-Dude:

Ever wish you could conjure up a duplicate of yourself? This power is exactly that. Only your doppeluseless appears at the opposite point of the earth. Bad if you need backup in a dark alley … great if you’re organizing the American comeback tour for “Men at Work.”

Alternate nomenclature: Pode and Anti-Pode.

(Via Syaffolee.)

There was $1.8 million budgeted for land acquisition for the new Oklahoma City Thunder practice facility, and they won’t have to spend all of it:

The city council voted unanimously Tuesday to approve an agreement to buy the land, which is owned by Integris. The city will pay $497,843 for the land, about $100,000 less than what an independent appraiser said it was worth.

But here’s the neat part:

The land is at NE 95 and N Oklahoma Avenue, just east of the McBride Clinic Orthopedic Hospital at 9600 N Broadway Extension.

Right in back of it, if I’ve counted my blocks correctly. You can’t get a whole lot more convenient than that.

Not a new lingerie feature, but a vigilante of sorts:

A “phantom” with a grudge is roaming the streets of Blenheim [NZ] armed with tubes of expanding building foam, exacting revenge on “wide-mouthed” boy-racer style car exhausts.

In an anonymous letter sent to The Marlborough Express, the self-styled “Phantom Expander” said he or she was randomly targeting vehicles with wide exhausts and filling them with the expanding foam.

“I have taken it upon myself to respond to the socially maladjusted Blenheim pinheads that have chosen to have a wide-mouthed-boy-racer exhaust installed on their car,” the letter said.

The writer said in the letter received late last week that eight vehicles had already been targeted.

I hold no brief for non-muffling mufflers with fart-can outlets, but I have a feeling that the Expander will be fairly quickly caught in the act, and that the catcher, far from being amused, will take action against the lad’s own exhaust, as it were. One can only hope.

(Via Autoblog.)

Well, it appears that there isn’t going to be a World Tour ’09, for the simple reason that I can’t afford it.

By careful attention to my Vast Quantities of Plastic, I had nearly $10,000 of available credit and a balance of about $4100, which left plenty of room for a reasonably-short trip.

No more. Awash in Bailout Funds Bank and Trust Company (Member FDIC) decided that I had too much headroom, and cut that line down below $5000. It is highly unlikely that I will be able to bring that balance down far enough to leave me any space for the trip; further, the historical record shows that institutions of this sort are very much inclined to make further cuts as the balance declines, insuring that you never again have much of a margin.

I am disinclined to try to get another card, and the fact that this drives up my utilization ratio substantially makes it unlikely that anyone would give me one at this point. Absent a sudden influx of funding, something I have no reason to expect, I think I’m better off just shelving the whole deal.

Didn’t we just see this in January? Carmelo Anthony gets the last bucket of the game, and the Nuggets slide by, 114-113. And they did it this time without Chauncey Billups, which proves pretty persuasively that Denver has serious depth: J. R. Smith scored 22, including four treys, from off the bench, and Chris “Birdman” Andersen rolled up 12 points and seven boards before fouling out. They hardly needed ‘Melo to knock down 32, but he did, with 11 assists to boot, and Nenê was, well, Nenê, with 20.

Like that earlier game, this one was winnable: the Thunder racked up 70 first-half points, good for an 11-point lead, but Denver ratcheted up the defense in the second half, and the usual OKC sixteen turnovers led to suboptimal results. Still, the Three Musketeers shone: Kevin Durant had 31, Jeff Green 24 and Russell Westbrook 20. And Joe Smith was back to snag some timely boards: he got six in less than 14 minutes. Both Earl Watson and Nick Collison were in double figures.

And yet: ‘Melo. As clutch players go, he’s up there with the clutch-est.

The Blazers will be here Friday.

Evidently it’s beginning now.

Not only has the death blow been dealt to this summer’s plans, whatever I may have conceived them to be, but the insomnia has returned with a vengeance. What’s more, sleeping on my left side, once the preferred position, is no longer possible without just-shy-of-excruciating pain. Seek medical assistance? Not in the budget.

I simply cannot function like this. I apparently don’t have the strength to fight these battles anymore. And if all I have to look forward to is more of the same, then the best I can hope for is not having to live through it.

If you’re thinking “Geez, is that all it takes to knock him for a loop?” the answer should be distressingly obvious. It appears that whatever emotional stability I had was faked up from a combination of desperation and pharmaceuticals.

And now — the truth comes out? Maybe. I’m not sure what the truth is anymore. Perhaps I never was. Right now, with my eyes watering and my mouth dry as the surface of Mars, it’s difficult to give much of a damn one way or another.

Which means that at some level, I’ve already conceded defeat; the rest is simply a matter of logistics.

The only question that remains is whether I’m worse off now than I was in 1999 — and whether it makes the slightest bit of difference one way or another.

And not exactly symmetrical, either:

I suppose the first question with any shoe by Diane von Furstenberg — this one, despite its Brazilian origins, is called “Milano” — is “Can you wear this with a wrap dress?” (A definite maybe, say I.) At an inch and a half, it’s not exactly calculated to bestow height upon you, but it’s probably easier on your sense of equilibrium. Still, a black suede wedgy flat (or flattish wedge) with seemingly-random cutouts is really neither bedroom nor boardroom, so you really ought to have some destinations in mind before dispatching $168 to Bluefly.

(Via Shoewawa.)

Hmmm. Bacon floss has a spiritual cousin, or something:

In South Korea their favorite toothpaste, Bukwang, tastes exactly like Dr. Pepper. When some Korean friends of mine visited the US for the first time, they tried Dr. Pepper. They wondered if I was insulting them or playing with them by giving them toothpaste-flavored soda to drink. It took a while to explain but we have had a good laugh ever since then. But they will not drink Dr. Pepper. I do not blame them.

The score was subsequently evened, you may be sure:

They paid me back by having me eat Korean foods that would burn off the roof of my mouth. It is the differences between cultures that make life so enjoyable.

I note for reference that the last tube of Pepsodent I used contained no detectable traces of Pepsi.

It’s got to be true. I mean, take a look at this:

The very next day, with exactly the same chance for precipitation but two degrees warmer — and look how different things are!

(Found here between 10:30 and 11 am CST.)

Andrew Ian Dodge reports that we are CoTVing into Feb. with the new Carnival of the Vanities, the 320th in the series.

Biggest 320 around, of course, is the Airbus 320; here’s what fishing one out of the Hudson River looks like.

The stimulus package, says Nick Gillespie, is “a classic Washington two-step”:

Propose something costing a bazillion dollars. Your opponent offers a “realistic” and “principled” objection and counters with something costing a bazillion dollars minus $X. You both agree, reluctantly of course, to something that ends up costing a bazillion dollars minus $X, plus $Y so that the price tag comes [in] lower than your original bid but higher than your opponent’s. Net result: Taxpayers are still out close to a bazillion dollars.

And as Ev Dirksen may or may not have said, a bazillion here, a bazillion there, and pretty soon you’re talking about real money.

There might be someone in this town who’s happy with the local transit system, but it’s not Steve Lackmeyer, who poses several questions to its administration, including this zinger:

When you meet Jane Jenkins, the new incoming president of Downtown Oklahoma City Inc., you will brag about:

A. Downtown trolley service that is ridiculed and deemed unreliable by downtown residents.

B. Largely vacant retail space in most of the downtown garages run by COTPA.

C. Downtown trolley information signs that no longer provide route information to locals and visitors.

D. A board that includes no major downtown leaders as trustees.

Well, there’s Mayor Mick Cornett and City Manager Jim Couch, but they more or less have to be there.

Is it possible that this agency, tasked with both transit and parking — plus managing retail space in those parking garages — is simply out of its depth?

Despite the government’s having caved on the DTV deadline, Oklahoma City stations are expected to go ahead with the switch on the 17th of February:

Officials with KFOR, KWTV, KOCO, KOKH and OETA in Oklahoma City and KSWO in Lawton said the switch from analog to digital signals is ready and will occur as planned.

As KOKH goes, so goes co-owned KOCB; KFOR will presumably switch over KAUT as well. (The KSWO move is important to OKC, because KOCO will be on channel 7, the channel being vacated by KSWO.)

Tulsa, maybe not so much:

Griffin Communications owns KOTV in Tulsa and KWTV in Oklahoma City. Griffin President David Griffin says he’s filed a request with the FCC to switch [KOTV] — but says he could change his mind if all the stations don’t agree.

KJRH general manager Mike Vrabac says station officials have met to discuss a date to make the switch at the same time but haven’t met since yesterday’s vote in Congress.

Last I looked, KTUL was carrying the same wire story, but nothing else.

In the course of constructing a short story, Spider Robinson once observed, “If a person who indulges in gluttony is a glutton, and a person who commits a felony is a felon, then God is an iron.”

Roger Scruton finds Biblical antecedent for just such a premise:

There is already a developing streak of irony in the Hebrew Bible, one that the Talmud amplifies. But a new kind of irony dominates Christ’s judgments and parables, which look on the spectacle of human folly and wryly show us how to live with it. A telling example is Christ’s verdict in the case of the woman taken in adultery: “Let he who is without fault cast the first stone.” In other words: “Come off it; haven’t you wanted to do what she did, and already done it in your hearts?” Some have suggested that this story is a later insertion — one of many that the early Christians culled from the store of inherited wisdom attributed to the Redeemer after his death. Even if that is true, however, it merely confirms the view that the Christian religion has made irony central to its message. It was a troubled, post-Enlightenment Christian, Søren Kierkegaard, who pointed to irony as the virtue that united Socrates and Christ.

The late Richard Rorty saw irony as a state of mind intimately connected with the postmodern worldview — a withdrawal from judgment that nevertheless aims at a kind of consensus, a shared agreement not to judge. The ironic temperament, however, is better understood as a virtue — a disposition aimed at a kind of practical fulfillment and moral success. Venturing a definition of this virtue, I would describe it as a habit of acknowledging the otherness of everything, including oneself. However convinced you are of the rightness of your actions and the truth of your views, look on them as the actions and the views of someone else and rephrase them accordingly. So defined, irony is quite distinct from sarcasm: it is a mode of acceptance rather than a mode of rejection. It also points both ways: through irony, I learn to accept both the other on whom I turn my gaze, and also myself, the one who is gazing. Pace Rorty, irony is not free from judgment: it simply recognizes that the one who judges is also judged, and judged by himself.

For the sake of semi-completeness, here’s Rorty’s definition of the “ironist” (from Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity, 1989):

(1) [The ironist] has radical and continuing doubts about the final vocabulary she currently uses, because she has been impressed by other vocabularies, vocabularies taken as final by people or books she has encountered; (2) she realizes that argument phrased in her present vocabulary can neither underwrite nor dissolve these doubts; (3) insofar as she philosophizes about her situation, she does not think that her vocabulary is closer to reality than others, that it is in touch with a power not herself.

I note that neither Scruton nor Rorty has anything to say about Alanis Morrissette.

As a matter of course, I have dashed off a letter to Awash in Bailout Funds Bank and Trust Company (Member FDIC), protesting their actions.

It goes like this:

I see you’ve given me the old Bailout Haircut: trimming [this credit line] because some magical formula told you to. While there’s no question that you can do that legally — so far as I can tell, the agreement lets you do anything this side of poisoning my dog with no recourse — I’m going to ask you to reconsider this action … for the following Not All That Bad Reasons:

1. You’ve never gotten a payment late;
2. I was hoping to be able to go on some sort of vacation this summer;
3. This action makes me wonder whether it’s worth keeping the checking account I’ve had open for thirty-four years, which you acquired more than a decade ago.

Of course, it may well be that nowadays you can’t be bothered with anyone with a New Improved FICO under 800, and you’d hardly be alone in that; it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of us smaller account-holders don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world, as the phrase goes. Just the same, I’d like to see some of the enthusiasm with which your staff originally issued and activated these cards applied to the fine art of customer relations: I know you can do it — I’ve been dealing with [bank name] since the [previous bank name] days — and I’d like to think you haven’t forgotten how.

I estimate the probability of success at one in three, which is below my current batting average but probably appropriate for these Desperate Times.

Incidentally, I don’t have a dog.

Tax tips — that’s tips, mind you — from Lynn:

I have a tip for any adult heterosexual male Americans who might be reading this. Go get your taxes done at Jackson Hewitt. For the past three years the woman who did our taxes (a different woman every year) has had a fine big pair of boobs, prominently displayed either in a tight sweater or a low cut blouse. This year’s young female tax preparer had a somewhat smaller pair but still nicely displayed in a tight white sweater. And she had on a blue bra.

It’s not that I go around noticing such things all the time but when you’re sitting there for fifteen minutes or so with nothing to do but watch someone typing and that person has gone to the trouble of making it so obvious, you can’t help but notice. And what is it with Jackson Hewitt anyway. I don’t notice this anywhere else. I go to Wal-mart or the grocery store or any other store and the female employees are almost always dressed modestly. This is the Bible Belt after all so that’s what I normally expect but for some reason Jackson Hewitt consistently, year after year, hires women who are not shy about displaying what God gave them.

Now she tells me.

Xarcadia on migraine:

I have spoken to a lot of people who have migraines and who have suffered from this illness for months or years. After having seen doctors who prescribe medications that don’t work on a consistent basis migraneurs begin to get disheartened. If you see the wrong doctor, or the wrong type of doctor, or just too many doctors who don’t know what they are talking about — eventually this begins to cause a feeling of despair to emerge. Your perspective changes from “Well one day I will get the right medication and this pain will finally end” to “Well, I suppose this is my life, so I had just better learn to deal with being in pain all the time”. The realization that you are probably going to be in pain for the rest of your life is staggering. You think of all the days ahead of you and wonder what the point is if you are just going to get up and be in pain every day. Why bother? May as well just stay in bed. You can’t really enjoy anything, food has no flavour and you worry that you will throw it up anyway. You can’t go out and socialize anymore and slowly your network of friends shrinks until there is no one left. If you have a really really bad day at work, you can’t just come home and have a glass of wine to unwind if you choose to, because now it may no longer be a choice. One glass (or even half of one) may be enough to trigger a migraine that could last for weeks. It is an extremely isolating feeling.

What’s scary is how close this is to traditional depression — except for the blinding pain. “And if all I have to look forward to is more of the same, then the best I can hope for is not having to live through it,” said I; add to that the incessant pound, pound, pound, and I’d be almost ready to look through the PDR to see if I had the right combination of ingredients on hand to put myself out of my misery.

In 1947, when the system of area codes was established, Oklahoma got one for the entire state: 405. (Florida had one; California had three.)

This proved to be not enough, and 918 was carved out of the northeast part of the state in 1953. A third code, 580, appeared in 1997, comprising areas in 405 beyond the Oklahoma City metro.

Come 2011, there will be a new number in the northeast, which may be 539, 572, 578, or something else entirely. There are two ways to handle these changes today: a split, in which part of the existing area is given the new number and the remainder of the area retains the old one, as 580 was split from 405. There’s also the possibility of an overlay, in which two (or more) codes exist in the same area: nobody has to change numbers, but everyone has to dial 10 digits instead of seven.

Before you ask: 666 is not available at this time.

We’ve seen it before: Oklahoma City jumps out to a huge lead — in this case, 60-40 at the half — and then the opponents whittle away at it. And the Trail Blazers have some serious whittlers: Brandon Roy got hot in the third quarter, Travis Outlaw in the fourth, and Portland managed to pull within eight. But that was as close as they’d get: the Thunder, for the first time in recorded history never trailing in a game, won it by nine, 102-93.

Two factors helped sink the Blazers: Greg Oden got into foul trouble early and only played sixteen minutes, and they missed rather a lot of free throws in the fourth quarter. Still, they made big shots, Roy finishing with 30 points, Outlaw with 20 off the bench, and LaMarcus Aldridge with 18.

But OKC had big numbers, even outrebounding the Blazers 43-37. Nick Collison got 13 of those boards and 21 points, one of two double-doubles for the Thunder. (The other: Earl Watson, with 12 points and 11 assists.) Kevin Durant knocked down 31 and Jeff Green 20. And OKC kept the turnovers down to twelve, six of which came from Russell Westbrook, who finished with 10 points.

If there was a signature moment, though, it was late in the third quarter, when Earl Watson did a no-look pass to Jeff Green, whose subsequent slam actually ripped the net away from the iron, delaying the game about ten minutes while the basket was repaired.

The homestand is now even at 1-1, with the Kings coming in Sunday.

Proffered treatment for what allegedly ails me was, to be charitable, ineffective. At 3:30 this morning I finally fell asleep in the big chair in the living room, and after two and a half hours of fairly fitful slumber, if little thrash, I woke up dizzy and disoriented, and stumbled twice on the way to the bathroom.

As the phrase goes, I can’t go on living like this. In fact, this may be even more appropriate a description than I thought: while combing through the insurance materials online — I still haven’t received anything resembling a card from the bastards — I discovered that they will not cover my antihypertensives unless I throw away 120 days of my life experimenting with stuff that may or may not work, but which will cost less. It is precisely crap like that which will drive us into some form of government-inflicted health care; right now, the system we have is about as popular as Rod Blagojevich, and for many of the same reasons.

(Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m lucky to have anything in this day and age, especially this day and at my age. It’s probably just a matter of time before they put a bullet in my head, or someplace equally nasty, in the name of the Holy Bailout.)

Prompted by Michele, I have determined that as far as the Chinese are concerned, I am a consumer of cheap crap a Snake. Let’s see about that:

Snakes have always been the seducers of human beings. If you know the story of “The White Snake”, you will understand what I mean. In reality, Snake people are born charming and popular. Snakes are spotlight magnets, and they will not be ignored. Peer group attention and public recognition are the least of what he expects. Yet Snakes are never noisy or deliberately outspoken, and they have have excellent manners.

This has, of course, nothing to do with Whitesnake. And while I insist that I don’t seek the limelight and don’t care a fig for fame, readers might point out that not only do I have a SiteMeter, but I actually pay for it.

I have been outspoken at times, occasionally even deliberately.

Most people are secretly or hopelessly in love with Snakes. Gather those frustrated folk you know and most likely, they are probably in love with a Snake. Irresistible as they seem, the Snake never wastes time in idle gossip. He thinks often and deeply. He is an intellectual, a philosopher, a cerebral person. Snake people rely heavily on first impressions, on their own feelings, on their sympathies, rather than on facts, on the advice and opinions on others. He seems to have a kind of sixth sense in this way.

If I seem to have a sixth sense, it’s because the other five aren’t working correctly, or something. And this description seems to conflict with my established INTJ status.

In money matters, the Snake has good luck: he doesn’t have to worry — he’ll always be able to lay his hand on money when he needs it. Generally, Snakes are careful but generous with friends and family. The Snake should stick to careers that won’t involve him in any risk — even the risk of working too hard, for to tell the truth, the Snake is a bit lazy.

I think I have all of $35 in my PayPal account. (I suppose I could stash a few more dollars in there, but I’m too lazy.)

In love, the Snake male is romantic and charming. He has a sense of humor and the female is usually beautiful and successful. but if a Snake chooses a partner, he’ll be jealous and possessive — even if he no longer loves her. Rejection is the worst blow his delicate ego can suffer. The Snake must be received, welcomed, accepted and approved by those with whom he comes in contact. They need a lot of security.

Hmpf. If it weren’t for rejection, I’d get no reaction from those beautiful and/or successful females at all.

As with real snakes, which hibernate in the cold season and come out when it’s warm, Snake people shine in the hot months. And the Snake born at midday in the heat of a tropical summer will be happier than one born in the middle of an icy night in winter. The destiny of those born under this sign is so sensitive to the inclemencies of climate that the almanac warns Snakes born on a stormy day that they will face danger throughout their lives.

Well, I do have a fairly-advanced case of Seasonal Affective Disorder. And I don’t recall what the weather was like the day I was born; I wasn’t allowed to go outside back then.

There’s a lot more to the description, but I think I can dismiss it with a hiss or two.

It’s been a frying pan over at the Oklahoma City Public Schools of late; the dust-up over Superintendent John Q. Porter ended in 2008 with the departures of both Porter and Board of Education chairman Cliff Hudson. Karl Springer, highly-regarded head of the suburban Mustang district, took over as Superintendent in September; former Mayor Kirk Humphreys succeeded Hudson as board chair.

On Tuesday, Humphreys seeks a full term; he is challenged by former Sen. Angela Monson. (I live in District 2, which is represented by Gail Vines; she drew no opponent.)

This is a tough call. I used to live in Monson’s Senate district, and her dedication to duty is, I think, pretty much unquestionable. Humphreys, who gave up his seat as Mayor to run for Senate — he lost to Tom Coburn — had previous school-board experience in the Putnam City district. The Oklahoman has endorsed Humphreys, citing a need for “continuity” on the board.

Two things concern me about Humphreys: his status as a Good Ol’ Boy at the Chamber of Commerce, and his manifest phobia regarding Teh Ghey. And Monson, unlike Humphreys and, well, me, is not a big fan of school-choice measures, though she concedes that expanded choice is the way of the future.

The perfect chairperson, I conclude, has yet to appear.

Sports Illustrated’s Chris Mannix sees four Thunder players who could be on the market between now and the trade deadline on the 19th: Chris Wilcox, Nick Collison, Joe Smith and Earl Watson. His analysis:

Because interim coach Scott Brooks has done a good job settling players into their roles, a major shakeup is doubtful. But don’t expect GM Sam Presti to pass up a cost-cutting, draft-pick-returning deal for Watson or one of his big men.

Of the four, two — Wilcox and Smith — have expiring contracts. With Smith currently pulling more minutes than Wilcox, I have to figure Weezy is considered the more expendable. Watson’s contract runs through next season; Collison’s, the year after that.

Assuming, as I do, that the Thunder will re-sign Desmond Mason and will turn the remaining free agents loose, Oklahoma City will have about $45 million in salary next year, leaving $15-20 million in cap space. (The NBA trade rules are just this side of Byzantine.)

Otherwise, this could happen to you:

A British graduate student was left “reeling” after his university threw out a bag of lizard excrement he had spent seven years collecting in the rainforests of the Philippines.

Daniel Bennett had collected 35kg of faeces of the rare butaan lizard during field work abroad, as part of his PhD research at Leeds University in northern England.

But he was devastated on returning from the Philippines to find that the bag, which was unmarked, had been thrown out with the rubbish in a clear-out of his laboratory.

“To some people it might have been just a bag of lizard s—,” he told Times Higher Education, which ran the story under the headline “Oh crap, there goes my work”.

“But to me it represented seven years of painstaking work searching the rainforest with a team of reformed poachers to find the faeces of one of the world’s largest, rarest and most mysterious lizards.

“Its loss left me reeling and altered the course of my life forever.”

A settlement has been offered and deemed inadequate:

The University has offered him £500 ($A1120) in compensation and an apology, after the student lodged an official complaint about the loss.

But Mr Bennett says this is not enough, and has vowed to “see them in court”.

(Via JammieWearingFool.)