The Oklahoma City Philharmonic, which will be working its way through Berlioz’ Symphonie fantastique this weekend, put up this, um, item on the orchestra’s Facebook page:
Might fill some seats at that.
The Oklahoma City Philharmonic, which will be working its way through Berlioz’ Symphonie fantastique this weekend, put up this, um, item on the orchestra’s Facebook page:
Might fill some seats at that.
If it appears that doge has let itself out and not come back, well, this is what happens to the meme of the moment: eventually the moment passes. But give Kyle Chayka credit for exploring the tail end, so to speak:
Curious about the lasting effects of Doge, I asked the National Shiba Club of America if the meme had spurred any sudden interest in the dogs. “Some Shiba people really seem to enjoy it, but we have not heard of an increase in popularity of the breed in general,” wrote back Lori Pendergast, the NSCA’s corresponding secretary.
Fittingly enough, Pendergast’s email was written in Comic Sans.
Wow. Much appropriate.
I don’t know if I can make a meme of this, but let’s see what happens:
(Via no, actually, I did this myself. I have no idea why.)
“Six Songs of Me” is a meme I didn’t invent, though I’ve done three installments of a series called “Songs in the Key of Me” (Vents #487, #685 and #754), none of them answering any specific criteria except having mattered to me at for some reason at some time. As it happens, the Guardian invented this meme, and I figure, if Peter can do this, so can I.
Pick up on this if you like; there is no taggage involved.
It is seldom wise to deny LeeAnn anything her wrath is implacable and her methods are inscrutable but I have to beg off for one-twelfth of this meme of hers, on the basis that the first post of every year (since 2007, anyway) has been devoted to the worst post titles of the previous year, so there’s no January entry. That said:
¹ Not technically a sentence.
(Similar project here.)
This morning, Tam disclosed the 15 tracks most played on her iPod. I noted thereupon that I couldn’t follow suit at the time, 890 (!) tracks in iTunes were tied for Most Played with 29 plays each so I decided to write down the first 15 out of the Randomator (my semi-trick auto playlist). Number One was punched in manually, and the others duly followed:
If anyone cares, this (un)set was followed immediately by Neil Sedaka’s original “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do.”
(Total tracks available: 6,492.)
So there’s a book coming out called 100 Cult Films, and while some of the selections are at least somewhat arguable, hey, it’s an easy way to gin up a meme, right? I have boldfaced those I’ve actually seen:
I admit to having once rented Café Flesh and then not actually watching it.
CSO: She gave a quiz in one of her Earth Sciences classes, and for one of the questions, one student wrote: “I don’t know the answer, but here’s a bunny.”
FWP: And drew a sketch of a bunny?
This of course harks back to the classic Bunny Meme:
This surprises me less than you think:
A real hard worker you are, yup. If there’s one thing you hate, it’s being inactive or coming across as lazy. You’ll put in more effort than anyone else, even if it may be against your better judgment or even if delegating your work is a smarter option. It’s not surprising to see you working all day long, even if it’s to help friends out. However, friendship is still important to you, so you will always, always stick to your commitments and keep your promises.
You’re a tell-it-like-it-is pony, not holding your tongue and telling whoever whatever’s on your mind or what your true thoughts are. Thankfully, you can still pick your words carefully and still keep some sensitivity towards what you say. But, others may find you irritable in appearance if you’re not getting your way or you feel against something.
You are also most likely to be athletic and into staying fit, knowing that if you’re not, you won’t be able to keep up with your work. Fashion and looking good aren’t on the top of your priorities, to say the least. You also tend to be very protective of your friends, standing up for them against anyone who is causing them problems, and usually succeeding in warding off any foes. You’d gladly lose a limb if it meant saving a friend’s life.
Well, I’m not particularly athletic, though I suspect I could make some fruit fall from the tree if I kicked it hard enough. F=ma, y’all.
(I blame this on
Go to your browser’s address bar and start typing en.wikipedia and report the five top results.
Deucedly clever, that. Here are mine, as of the time of typing this:
Explanations available on request, not that I expect any and assuming I can think of any.
Cue McCartney and stand back:
I question this conclusion; at the very least, I should have scored lower than an actual Russian.
- What was your first car? Model, year, color, condition?
- What adventures did you have in it, good or bad?
- What happened to it, what’s the end of the story?
“Susannah” was a 1966 Chevy II, just barely up from bottom of the line and therefore deemed worthy of the Nova badge. It was, I was told, destined for the scrapyard, but for one minor detail: turn the key, and it actually started. Making it drivable, however, looked like it was going to require, at the very least, replacement of the caved-in front right corner. The budget didn’t allow for such. Plan B: hammering on the back side of the fender until the wheel would actually turn. This worked, sort of, for a while.
The powertrain, however, was in pretty good shape: 230 straight six and Powerglide. After tooling around in the family VW Microbus, which required endless stick work, I was ready for the machine to do all the work, even with only half as many speeds. And I managed not to kill it for nearly ten thousand miles. (The rebuild ran about $170. I don’t even want to think about what it costs to fix one of today’s hypercomplex slushboxes.)
Apart from blowing up the transmission, and an unfortunate experience with an aftermarket stereo that caused a temporary failure of the wipers, only two horrible things happened to this car. One of them was a consequence of cheaping out on the front-end repair; one day, I noticed that the camber on the right front wheel had increased to something like 30 percent. Inspection revealed a rather large gap between two metal bits that were supposed to be connected. (A welder took care of this.) The other was a rude rear-end intrusion on a rainy day, which dented the decklid enough to render the lock theoretical at best. The car that hit me, having barely slowed down during the impact, quickly sped off into the storm.
In early 1978, I got married, and the young lady in question decided that it would be in everyone’s best interest if I got rid of this heap. We bought another Nova a 1976 with the 305 V8 and I passed the ’66 on to younger sister, who said she was going to take it to a demolition derby. I have no idea whether she actually did that or not, but at the time, it made perfect sense. Incidentally, the ’76 became the family hauler, and I took over her old car, a ’75 Toyota Celica. I was still driving it in 1995, eight years after the divorce.
Our favorite Dutiful Xer tagged me for a meme, and I haven’t done one in a while, so why the heck not? We reserve the right to stretch any definition to fit the available material (and to play hell with pronoun agreement), of course.
My Most Beautiful Post: You are —->here [2 January 2005].
[T]he past never goes away. We have a path, a timeline, from which we do not deviate, but so does everything else. What we see as the present is simply the intersection of all those timelines: our own, those of our friends and families, the homes in which we live, the forests that were supplanted by the cities that now contain most of those homes.
My Most Popular Post: No doubt you’ve noticed this yourself [11 May 2009]. (Instalanched to the tune of 13,000-plus that day.)
My Most Controversial Post: A penalty box for two [9 June 2009]. (38 comments!)
This suggests that we’re not going to find much more fuel economy in future vehicles, unless the Obamanauts find a reliable source of liquid unicorn scat or something, and that in a world with its priorities in order, Henry Waxman would be forced to give up his limo for the back seat of a ’75 Civic.
My Most Helpful Post: However implausible it may seem [29 November 2010].
So I slid the battery out of its slot and into a Ziploc bag, and set it in the freezer for fourteen hours. I gave it three hours to warm back up, shoved it back into the machine, and plugged it in; the trusty orange Charging light came on. When the orange light turned to green, I disconnected the power cord and booted up the machine. After four minutes, I checked the power meter: 97 percent.
A Post I Didn’t Think Got the Attention It Deserved: Domo arigato, mystery motto [23 September 2011]. (Not only did it call for the simplest possible responses, the title was one of my best. Or worst.)
The Post I’m Most Proud Of: At the very edge of civilization [13 July 2004].
I don’t believe for a moment that having a population of ten per square mile, as North Dakota does, is some sort of tragedy. (Oklahoma has around fifty; factor out the two largest metro areas and the figure drops into the twenties, with Lawton, about the same size as Fargo, as the largest remaining city.) Maybe it’s inevitable that a place called the Peace Garden State is going to be rather sparsely populated. But I figure that the people who live here are ingenious enough to keep themselves afloat; after all, they manage to get by without voter registration just fine, and this is the sort of independent streak that usually means a finely-tuned survival instinct.
A Post Whose Success Surprised Me: Semi-nice try [20 August 2011]. (A simple reprint of a piece of comment spam, it got 13 comments in less than five and a half hours.)
Feel free to swipe the concept if you’re so inclined.
I love them. I know some people think they’re stupid, or certain ones are overdone, or whatever. But I think I love them for a very specific reason related to my sense of humor. I am that kind of person who will carry a joke a little too far, who will be laughing over a repetition of it even after other people have found it, well, repetitious. (For example: I still find Rickrolls pretty funny, though I think the “cool people” probably are going “2007 called; they want their meme back.”)
“X called; they want their Y back” is, of course, a popular snowclone.
It’s always seemed to me is that the appeal of these things is at least partially attributable to their amazing ability to annoy the hell out of the Y SO SRS? types who clutter up our days. And those who have endured my shtick for the last decade and a half know that the beatings will continue until the equines are resurrected.
I think also I find incongruities — things that shouldn’t go together, but that someone thinks to put together — extremely funny.
Now that one I couldn’t resist.
Let’s see if I can make any sense of this batch of questions, all of which begin “What would you do if…”:
1. The couple right upstairs was always very loud and unrestrained in their frequent lovemaking sessions.
I moved. But actually, I was more annoyed by subwoofers than by seduction.
2. You’ve got a little boy. He shows you his butterfly collection. Plus the killing jar.
That’s how I know it’s my kid.
3. You were the only one on your block who never had a fingerbox.
Somehow I doubt that.
4. You got a windfall of $100,000.
I’d spend most of it on debt reduction, and then schedule a World Tour.
5. The police had a warrant and confiscated your computer.
I’d change all my passwords immediately.
6. At a bar, a person of the same sex you swear you never met before knows everything about you.
“Oh, wow, a regular reader!”
7. On your way to the art gallery you see yourself walking the other way with a wrapped painting under your arm.
I’d wonder if I’d gotten that $100k windfall in item #4.
8. You had it wrong all along.
Wouldn’t be the first time, believe me.
9. The search engine tells you exactly the best brand name product to use for that problem but when you search for the brand name product no search engine you use can find it.
Not to worry. It’s on eBay somewhere.
10. Kenneth actually told you the frequency.
And I tell him, “I believe that qualifies as TMI.”
(Purloined from Incurable Insomniac.)
I hate to respond to a perfectly good blog meme with a “Not Applicable,” but truth will out: I don’t actually read anything while seated on the throne.
The reason for this is twofold:
Besides, as noted before, I don’t multitask very well.
I love … little baby ducks,
Old pickup trucks,
Slow movin’ trains,
It goes on from there. Nothing complicated, nothing particularly out of the ordinary and nothing you couldn’t relate to yourself. And it probably has nothing to do with the fact that Dick Stanley is asking some of us for seven things we love.
For my purposes here, I’m defining “things” in such a way as to exclude persons: off go my children, my grandchildren, and Whoever’s In Charge Up There. Which leaves the following:
I depart from Hall orthodoxy in one particular: as a matter of fact, I’m not so crazy about beer. How this happened, I’ll never know.
Following the lead of Xrlq, who did this with his B list, here’s a list of the artists in the C section of my CD tree. (This does not include classical stuff, which is filed by composer, and which would be tricky, what with all the compilations and such.)
* Includes one set with Stan Kenton.
Incidentally, said tree looks like this, except mine has the cherrywood finish.
We all thank Marko for asking, but I’m not in a position to list the five most embarrassing albums on my iPod, for the following reasons:
I don’t find any of those particularly embarrassing. Then again, this comes from someone who owns four Enya albums.
Aside: I did an experiment last week during the commute: two days with Enya on the stereo (Watermark and Shepherd Moons), followed by two days with Nine Inch Nails (both discs of Ghosts I-IV). If my driving was at all affected by what was playing, I didn’t notice.
(Suggested by Mark Alger, who has even more Enya than I do. Then again, I still have all those
Debbie Deborah Gibson albums.)
[W]e’ve often wondered what it would be like to be one of them. A Nina Totenberg or a Renita Jablonski. A David Kestenbaum or a Lakshmi Singh. Even (on our most ambitious days) a Cherry Glaser or a Sylvia Poggioli.
So finally, after years of Fresh Air sign-off ambitions, we came up with a system for creating our own NPR Names. Here’s how it works: You take your middle initial and insert it somewhere into your first name. Then you add on the smallest foreign town you’ve ever visited.
(Via Nicolle Guanabo’s husband.)
Well, not really. But play along with Francis W. Porretto here:
1. Michael Anthony (if you’re too young to remember the old TV show The Millionaire, look it up) has come to your home and offered to buy you the car of your choice, no matter what that car might be or cost. But there are conditions:
- It has to be in current production;
- You have to foot all running and maintenance expenses;
- It will be the only car you’ll get to drive or use in any way for the next ten years, no matter what happens, where you might need to go, or why.
What would your choice be?
2. Defend that choice, with specific reference to your circumstances and remember that you’re not allowed the use of any other car, including that of your spouse if you have one.
3. Now describe a set of circumstances you could plausibly face in which, no matter how carefully you chose your new car, you’d rather have some other car for those conditions.
Under present-day circumstances, I think I’d opt for Infiniti’s small crossover, the EX35. Justifications:
The EX is not a particularly good off-road vehicle, though, so were I to move way out into the sticks, I’d be better served by something with more rock-hopping capability.
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.
Go into your archives and post the first sentence from the first post you made each month last year.
Okay, will do. Let’s see what sort of crumby stuff I’ve been casting on the waters:
January: “Worst titles of 2007” contains no full sentence until the very end: “Some marginally-acceptable turns of phrase are recounted here.”
February: “The City Sentinel broadsheet is adopting a time-honored method of hyping sales: they’re cutting the price.”
March: “Space is precious in Japan, which has five times the population of Texas in about half the area.” [On unusual farming techniques.]
April: “In a lifetime of klutziness, I’ve broken lots of light bulbs, even a socket or two, usually with no ill effects other than finding that one last shard of glass three weeks later.”
May: “During a one-hour period yesterday, someone’s botnet planted about 100 bogus TrackBacks here, connected to a whole link farm full of Yahoo! 360 blogs which were probably created by a botnet.”
June: “Patterico recommends Michael J. O’Gara for Office No. 94 of the Los Angeles Superior Court.”
July: “You don’t give a damn about us, but we’re your biggest customer.” [By “you,” I mean “television.”]
August: “In my opinion, the 45 rpm record is the greatest invention in the history of popular culture because it meant that for the first time in history, anyone especially kids could buy art real art with just the change in their pockets.” [This was a blockquote from elsewhere.]
September: “I started doing this about three years ago, and it proved to be relatively popular among the readership, by which is meant that not one of them has commanded me to cut it out or face the Wrath of [insert name of presumably wrathful entity].”
October: “This odd-looking contraption is nothing more than a strap for your cell phone or other electronic gizmo, made up to look like a blood drip, available in your blood type unless you have some wacky antigen that maybe five or six people on earth share.”
November: “Yes, it’s time for another DST rant: not mine, though.”
December: “If you were wondering ‘When’s the next time we get to look at some more weird search strings?’ the answer is ‘Right about now.'”
And it’s probably as well that I do this myself from my position at the very Heart of Obscurity, for no biographer would get within three meters of this unfocused detritus.
As seen here:
Just list all the jobs you’ve had in your life, in order. Don’t bust your brain: no durations or details are necessary, and feel free to omit anything that you feel might tend to incriminate you. I’m just curious. And when you’re done, tag another five bloggers you’re curious about.
Nice to know that blogdom, at least, still pays heed to the Fifth Amendment.
That said, I’ve done all of the following:
I need hardly point out that I was better at some of these than at others. And the order is not always precisely chronological: for one thing, I had two stints at “newspaper carrier,” roughly nine years apart.
My belated Christmas/on-time Boxing Day present: I’m not gonna tag you.
Courtesy of the DADA Server:
Your secret name is Stubbed Toe.
The animal which symbolizes you is Beer Thirty.
The color of your soul is Round.
The celebrity you most resemble is Nutmeg.
Your special pain or illness is Hans.
Your most important time of day is platypus.
The shape of your life is twighlight.
And the flavor which identifies you most is hitler.
Possibly even “hitlest.”
On a related subject: how many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb? [Answer: The bicycle’s broken.]
(Suggested by Scribal Terror.)
Some of these seem a lot more mundane than others, which leads me to believe that the person who originally conceived this list was writing up his own list of things in the hope of finding people who had had similar experiences at all levels.
I find it surprising that I’ve done roughly a third of them and not surprising that most people seem to have done more than that.