I am not a lawyer

Nana Tanimura finished her pre-law coursework in the spring of 2010, but decided not to go further:

Tanimura told fans that she was pleased to have graduated, but “I want to concentrate on my music from now on.” She said she didn’t join in many activities while she was at university, “not even ‘gokon’ (matchmaking parties).”

Three years before, she’d begun recording for Japan’s Avex Group. I think my favorite Nana track is “If I’m Not the One,” recorded in 2008:

Nana Tanimura in a sailor suit

Nana Tanimura in the sink

Nana Tanimura doesn't look happy

If she doesn’t look too happy in that last shot, it may be a reflection of her dwindling music career: Avex put out a Greatest Hits compilation in 2011, and we really haven’t heard from her since, except via social media.

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It was always thus

And it will probably always remain so:

That said, rather a lot of people are hoping the intersections aren’t really that dire. And they will be disappointed, possibly even disgruntled. (In the case of people insisting on “FREE” stuff, this is a feature, not a bug.)

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Sound bite, rebitten

It’s 44 years old, more or less, but the memory of this one segue has stuck with me all the while.

Tech Hi-Fi, an electronics retailer that bought tons of radio advertising in those days, had this one spot, which I heard on then-tiny WAAF, stuck at the far end of the dial in Worcester, Massachusetts. I can’t for the life of me remember the words, but they were set to a shortened version (no more than one minute) of “When I Was a Lad” from HMS Pinafore.

They cut off the song with the last line from the chorus, and one of the greatest songs of 1878 was followed by one of the greatest songs of 1972:

To this day, if I hear “When I Was a Lad,” I’ll expect it to be followed by “I’ll Be Around.” And if more people remember Gilbert and Sullivan than Thom Bell, well, life is like that sometimes.

I am also indebted to WAAF for playing the original Move version of “Do Ya,” which charted at a meager #93 in those curious days of 1972. Jeff Lynne, who wrote it, recut it with Electric Light Orchestra in 1976, but as the man1 says, the original’s still the greatest.

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Cut ’em off at the C-pillar

Maybe even the B-pillar:

2017 SOLO by Electra Meccanica

The wee beastie apparently emerging from another dimension is SOLO by Vancouver-based Electrica Meccanica; it’s a single-seat electric runabout with a 100-mile range and three wheels. TTAC reports thereupon:

Electra Meccanica spent years working on the diminutive EV, which it says can accelerate to 62 miles per hour in about eight seconds. Charging takes three hours from a 220-volt outlet, or six hours from a 110-volt household wall socket.

The SOLO’s main purpose is to shuttle people to and from their workplace, while being easy to own and operate. With a length 19 inches shorter than a Fiat 500, parking shouldn’t be an issue. Weighing about 1,000 pounds (thanks to a composite body and aluminum drivetrain), the vehicle sports a 0.24 drag coefficient and draws power from a 16.1 kWh lithium-ion battery.

Available only in Canada for now at around twenty thousand loonies, this little darb tops out at around 80 mph. I wouldn’t want to speculate as to what it’s like in crosswinds.

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To ourselves and our progeny

This, of course, assumes that we actually have progeny:

Caring for our own flesh-and-blood offspring is both a matter of natural instinct and an entirely rational activity, once we understand the benefits of having babies, which no robotic doll can teach. You may not believe, as I do, that children are quite literally a blessing from God, yet the direct personal benefits of parenthood should be obvious to any young person who has the foresight to ask, “What will happen to me when I get old?” Do we want to be lonely, unloved and forgotten, or to be cherished, respected and cared for? This consideration alone should suffice as an incentive to have children, but beyond the purely selfish motives, having babies (and raising them with good values) also provides a benefit to society.

I will not, as a matter of principle, say anything against anyone who has already opted out of this routine. (This is at least partially a response to my own departure from that particular scene, which was more than half a lifetime ago.) Parenthood comes with lots of guidebooks, most of which are wrong to greater or lesser extent, but life itself is like that:

If you think there are “too many” people in the world, you are thinking of people too generally. Are there too many intelligent people in the world? Are there too many well-educated people, too many highly skilled people, too may hard-working people in the world? Are there too many kind people or too many honest people in the world? Most people who are literate enough to read this article probably think of themselves as above-average people, and rightly so. If you are a person of superior quality, doesn’t it make sense that you would have high-quality children? After all, a person as superior as yourself would be a very shrewd judge when it comes to selecting a spouse, so that your child would benefit from the superior qualities of both parents. And since you would instill excellent values in your children, teaching them to live according to the highest moral and ethical principles, the entire world will benefit from your decision to have a baby. Or six babies, as the case may be.

The author quoted here has, um, six children.

The poster child for “too many” people is Paul Ehrlich, who told us way back in 1968 that Malthus was right and famine would soon be upon us. History has made a fool of him, though “historians” dare not say so, lest they be cut off from a subculture that has willingly embraced folly and arrogantly attempted to inflict it on the rest of us.

As for what happens when we get old, well, I’m already there.

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So much at steak

Most store brands speak meekly: we’re probably just as good as those Other Guys, but we perform less wallet drain.

Not so meek, I suggest, is this alternative to the justly famed Heinz “57” Sauce:

Best Choice 59 Sauce

Remind me to see if they offer a 1200 Island salad dressing.

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The candy that zigs

No, wait. Every Zig was taken off for great flavor:

Brother Paul was particularly fond of Zagnut, mostly, I think, because he liked saying “Zagnut.”

Weirdly, both Zagnut and sibling Clark Bar are still in production, but today they have different owners.

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Tebow still unbowed

I remember saying when Tim Tebow tried out for the baseball scouts:

He is, of course, aware that if he’s signed, he’ll be dropped into the lower (Class A or thereabouts) end of the farm system, with no guarantees that he’ll ever make it to The Show.

Not a difficult prediction, really. And this is exactly what is happening:

Tim Tebow will report to the Mets’ Spring Training complex in Port St. Lucie, Fla., alongside dozens of teenagers, hoping to make a career in professional baseball.

Tebow is not a teenager, but he is a professional baseball player, however unlikely that may once have seemed. The Mets on Thursday signed the 29-year-old former NFL quarterback and Heisman Trophy Award winner to a Minor League contract, the first step in what Tebow hopes will lead to a Major League career.

And the odds are against him:

That process begins Sept. 18 in instructional league, which is typically used for younger players to work on their skills prior to the offseason. If all goes well, Tebow could advance to the Arizona Fall League and winter ball, and eventually to a Minor League affiliate next April. But the Mets are keeping his timeline as fluid as possible, refusing to commit to any singular path.

As they should.

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Spicy sphincter

Of course, I could just be reading this wrong:

I mean, it’s only been half a century since I was twelve.

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Machiavelli as traffic engineer

The ring of truth sounds something like this:

I heard a depressing reason for all the empty shops downtown: the “bypass” of Route 70 draws too much traffic away and people don’t stop any more. The bypass was supposed to funnel off the big trucks so (a) they didn’t cause more congestion and localized pollution and (b) so they didn’t have problems with some of the narrow streets/tight turns in the downtown area. But apparently most people don’t “destination shop” any more? Pretty much the only reason I ever went downtown was for shopping … I tended to avoid those few blocks otherwise BECAUSE of the congestion.

Traffic engineers, it’s always seemed to me, were obsessed with speed through a given area, at the expense of, well, everything else.

But then there’s this:

I’ve also heard that the reason the lights on main street aren’t synchronized — you can count on catching AT LEAST half of them on red any given trip — is that businesses have begged the city NOT to synchronize them, so people are slowed down and more likely to stop. Which feels to me a lot like Walmart’s strategy of “let’s randomly move stuff around because when people can’t find what they want, they spend more time in the store and will buy more” which just reminds me how I’m weird, because that kind of thing annoys me and I actually buy LESS than I would otherwise … I have left without completing my shopping list before because I got so tired of hunting for stuff.

My response to not being able to find what I want generally involves a Web browser.

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That empty feeling

There is, I suppose, something to be said for knowing that I won’t leave some poor woman a widow; but I don’t think I’m the one to say it.

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The Prince of Darkness has affiliates

I have long since given up trying to diagnose automotive problems other than the most obvious. The Colonel, bless him, persists:

I’ve been hunting gremlins in the electrical system of the Magnificent Honda. A loose hot wire to the backup light switch was grounding on the transmission housing which I discovered after meticulously examining and cleaning the instrument cluster whose gauges had ceased to function. A clever diversionary tactic on the part of Satan.

About the only time I can find a ground is when I’m too close to a live wire.

Then again, Lucifer does not give up:

Whether I have fixed a speed sensor problem remains to be seen and the mysteries of cruise control await further investigation.

Still, “keeping a homespun Honda going for 27 years and 420,000 miles is no small accomplishment,” and the guy with the 16-year-old Nissan with 163k on the clock agreed.

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Panned Am

Bill Quick comes up with a great title (“Fly the Friendly Sties”) for a highly appropriate denunciation:

I loathe people who, on the one hand, pound ceaselessly at the practices of the airlines, but will flock to one over all the others, no matter how rude its employees, no matter how obnoxious its amenities (hah!), no matter how much it obviously regards its customers as stuffing for their flying cattle chutes, because they are able to “save” thirty-seven cents on a round-trip fare to Chicago.

Here’s a clue, bitch-queens: They wouldn’t be competing on price if that wasn’t the most effective arena of competition.

When bragging rights are important, people will go out of their way to get them. Yahoo! Answers is full of people who will jump through innumerable hoops just to be able to claim the lowest possible expense on [you name it].

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One minute to autodestruct

Is this cool, or what?

The possibilities aren’t exactly endless, but they are impressive:

Phonetic recording allows producers of future Star Trek media to re-assemble individual syllables said by Barrett so the late actress can “say” entirely new things. Hopefully we’ll hear her in Star Trek: Discovery‘s LCARS System.

It would also be great if we could hear Barrett on our smartphone, much like Apple’s Siri voice. Custom smartphone voices are hard to get right now, but one day we might be able to download custom voices from the Apple Store. And it looks like [the] Roddenberry estate is trying to make one of those custom voices that of a Star Trek ship computer.

Um … WANT.

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Out here at the margin

Emily Dickinson anticipated this years ago:

The Loneliness One dare not sound—
And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size—

The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see—
And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny—

The Horror not to be surveyed—
But skirted in the Dark—
With Consciousness suspended—
And Being under Lock—

I fear me this—is Loneliness—
The Maker of the soul
Its Caverns and its Corridors
Illuminate—or seal—

(Suggested by Instapundit.)

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The women who upheld the standard

David Warren knew some of them:

I wrote once an essay on “The Modern Spinster” — a class to which I added women who had (by war and accident) long outlived their husbands. Born, typically, before the turn of the last century; widowed perhaps in the Great War; some had survived into the 1980s. They were impressive figures of pedagogical authority. We had, even here in the once admirable Province of Ontario, women I would rank with empress-dowagers of China. They were irreplaceable pillars of a society that I have watched disintegrate, over the decades since. Not one of them was a feminist, or could be interpreted as one by any fanciful act of the imagination. Each was instead not an ism but fully a Woman, without mistake or compromise.

There are two converging strings, which I shall try to knot together here. First, that their power can be neither appreciated nor understood, in a society that has so far degenerated that sex (not imposed grammatical “gender”) is dissolved in an androgynous slurry. Second, that there can be no such thing as an independent woman, who exchanges her position for that of a little man. For it was the function of such women not to seek “equality” with these strangely unnatural, mole-like creatures we see today — whining, whimpering, whinging and wimping off to their “safe spaces” whenever reality approaches. Rather, from a station of absolute moral superiority, that Modern Spinster would corner and intimidate; leaving them a choice between personal resuscitation, and complete psychic annihilation.

“Be a man, or get away from my nostrils,” is what e.g. a certain Edith Carson, of blessed memory, could communicate by no more than a slight inflection of her sensitive nose. She and her like were, and with God’s grace will again be (after the collapse of progressive disorder), bestowers of the White Feather. They were guarantors, not only that women will be women, with their privileges defended and intact; but too, that men will not dare to let their women down.

“Equality,” while we weren’t looking, got redefined as “interchangeability” by individuals of the female persuasion who failed to grasp the concept, reinforced by several of those “strangely unnatural, mole-like creatures” who pass themselves off as feminist in the vain hope that it will win them an occasional ejaculation. This is something else in dire need of correction.

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