This here Web site is old enough to vote, though it’s not old enough to drink. Whether this makes any difference or not, I’m not entirely sure.
But you know somebody had to have bitten on this:
(Swiped from American Digest.)
If you drive an electric vehicle, you may have had flashes of range anxiety: “Do I have enough juice left to get home?” It may not have occurred to you that drivers with gas-powered vehicles sometimes suffer from that same syndrome:
I have really bad Quarter Tank Paranoia. If I am driving a vehicle and the gas gauge shows even a hair below a quarter of a tank of gas I cannot CANNOT, you understand continue without seeking out the nearest gas station and filling up. Never mind that I know at that point that it can go another 100 miles or even more; it’s down to a quarter tank so I must buy gas immediately.
My own QTP is not quite so bad, though the moment the horrid orange Low Fuel light goes on, I go into conniptions. It’s happened twice on the World Tours, once in the Bronx, once in west Texas. And I honestly don’t know how much range I have left once it appears. On that Texas run, it had been on for nearly 35 miles when I got to the farthest-east gas station in El Paso, and the tank was refilled with a hair over 14 gallons. Supposedly this tank holds 18.5 gallons (70 liters), so I presumably had at least four gallons of premium left, which would carry me, at the very least, 75 more miles. I was unwilling to trust the signaling mechanism enough to test that presumption.
Lesley Gore’s last album, Ever Since, came out in 2005 on Blake Morgan’s Engine Company label. (I reviewed it here.) He’d known her for some time: when they first met, he was eleven years old. And she had much to teach him:
More than anything, she taught me … or rather she showed me what being a professional musician really looked like. She showed what taking a Red Eye flight back from somewhere felt like. No matter where she was coming from, she’d refer to as the Land of Cleve as in Cleveland even if that’s not where she was returning from.
It was being on the road. She showed me what went on there. What happened backstage at a big show as much as what it looked like at a little one. All of it. The routine. The work that went into it. Not just flashy parts, but the sweat and grime, the not-so-pretty parts of the job; the full range of what this life entailed. I love her for that. I love that she did it. The lesson was invaluable.
She had much to teach us all, I suspect.
Oklahoman scribe Brianna Bailey this week is walking the entire length of Western Avenue within city limits, which runs from about NW 199th to SW 179th. This is an epic walk, about twenty-seven miles, and you can scarcely blame the paper for scheduling a stunt like this, since it gives her, and her employer, an opportunity to interact with a staggering number of small communities along the way, and besides the Tulsa World did something like this last year.
A single example of said interaction:
— Brianna Bailey (@briOKC) April 7, 2015
I need hardly point out that Bailey is the one in the walking shoes.
The #walkonwestern hashtag will be running all week. After two days, she’d gotten to NW 41st, near where VZD’s used to be, losing me a side bet. (I figured she’d knock off around the Chesapeake campus, a mile and a half to the north.) It’s not been an easy trip, with temperatures about ten degrees above normal and wind, if not howling, certainly growling a bit. Besides, the dearth of sidewalks in the exurbs meant occasional stretches of wet dirt. Mud. Red mud, of course.
Rather a lot of would-be jesters have been making this joke for some time now, but it took the deadly serious British Broadcasting Corporation to make it stand up:
This is the first time the machine has been restarted since 2013, the sort of situation which you hope is not immediately followed by “That’s what she said.”
There are only three inevitabilities in life, says Scott Brooks: death, taxes, and the Spurs winning 50 games. That latter has certainly been true for the last 16 seasons, and San Antonio had already won 51 when they arrived at the Peake tonight to trash what was left of Oklahoma City’s playoff hopes. Which is not to say that the black-suited blackguards didn’t have any help from the boys in home white, and all you have to see to prove that is the first-quarter score: San Antonio 29, Oklahoma City 10. Ten. The Thunder managed 31 points in the second, but still lost ground, and after 16 in the third well, let’s just say it was over long before that. The final was Spurs 113, Thunder 88, the worst thrashing administered to OKC since, well, the last time they played the Spurs, in late March.
Andre Roberson returned to the lineup, though not to his usual starting position. He came up with five points, halfway between the two starting forwards, Enes Kanter (9) and Kyle Singler (1). The starting guards, Dion Waiters and Russell Westbrook, managed 10 and 17; the mostly forgotten Jeremy Lamb and Perry Jones collected 11 and 10 respectively, mostly in the fourth quarter. The Thunder, after shooting at a decidedly untorried sub-40-percent clip for most of the game, finished with 41; but 5-19 from downtown is not good, and 15-28 from the foul line is a couple of steps into the Horrible range.
Meanwhile, San Antonio strolled through this one with relative ease, what with Kawhi Leonard matching his career high (26 points) and the team shooting a spiffy 53 percent. The Spurs made only nine free throws, but then they took only 13. Tony Parker (two points) did not return after halftime, having gotten some sort of owie; however, Boris Diaw and Manu Ginobili happily took up the slack. (Diaw played the most minutes of any Spur, at 26; he scored only six, but he was +26 for the night.) If there’s a saving grace in any of this, it’s that the Spurs are already on the plane, heading for Houston, where the Rockets would like to give them a bit of red glare.
While all this happened, or failed to happen, the New Orleans Pelicans moved into the eighth and final playoff slot, half a game ahead of the Thunder, by dint of having beaten the Golden State Warriors 103-100. (And the Birds own the tiebreaker over OKC, should it come to that.) With four games to go, I think the operative word is “tired.”
Czech singer Iveta Bartošová was born on 8 April 1966, and I think we’ll begin with the song (from 1998) this time:
Three times she won the Zlatý slavík “Golden Nightingale” music poll, though arguably it was more for her stage presence than for her musical chops:
I would say that to a large extent, Iveta was so successful because she was an extraordinarily beautiful ordinary girl who could sing. It doesn’t mean that she had some serious flaws as a musician; but I would say, she was no genius, either. People like me still loved her songs (which was arguably due to the composers) and the way she performed them (it’s about her).
And she did photograph well, regardless of her age:
About the turn of the century, Bartošová somehow became fair game for the tabloids, which are as annoying in Central Europe as they are here. Coping with them became increasingly difficult for her, though apparently it didn’t affect her performance:
Around 2010, she had a concert at the (main) Republic Square here in Pilsen. I came there and saw an Iveta that was incredibly full of energy and was making fun of the younger boys, dancers etc. on the stage, who were not. Her singing was still OK. What I saw was completely incompatible with the image of a zombie that has been served by the tabloid press virtually on a daily basis (I wasn’t searching for these articles but I was still drowning in them). She was in a much better shape than a typical successful teenage and post-teenage singer who surpasses 40 years of age.
Still she despaired, and in April 2014 she threw herself under a train on the outskirts of Prague. Said her husband: “Blame it on the media hyenas.” Which I shall.
First there was this:
RE: Account Number ACX85766463
This is to remind you of a payment from SpeedPay on 04/06/15.
>> Claim Your Money Here << Details regarding the transaction appear below: Payment Date: 04.06.15 Payment Amount: $3353.25 Fee Amount: $49.00 Card Number: *************** >> Claim Your Money Here << You haven't been charged anything.. Someone has just sent you money!
Um, no. Under “Claim Your Money Here” are standard-level (I presume) evil links.
Which wouldn’t have perturbed me, except that while that particular item was scoring just a hair too low to be caught in the mail filter, this one was trapped below:
I wanna pay you to do simple stuff online.
==> Click Here to GO
You can make hundreds per day with nothing more than your HOME PC or MOBILE phone!
Contact me here please:
==> Click Here to GO
This is a PRIVATE message so please hurry as I’ll have no choice but to take it down soon…
==> Click Here to GO
The standard-level (I presume) evil links in that once, under (of course) “Click Here to GO,” are exactly the same as in the first spam, except for the very last character: these were obviously sent in sequence. Same alleged sender, too: “Mark Miller” (members -at- mylaptopblueprint.org). “Mark,” you old sonuvagun, you fail. Big time.
There’s always a good reason not to watch Saturday Night Live, but hey, it’s Carly Rae Jepsen, with a song that isn’t an earworm, so maybe:
This is actually pretty close to the single, which is now out from the usual vendors (and tucked safely into my iTunes install), and which ends nearly as abruptly.
Jepsen’s cowriter on “All That” is Dev “Blood Orange” Hynes.
One thing my daughter does well is costuming, as evidenced here by her two youngsters (there’s a third, but he’s practically 16 and doesn’t do this sort of thing anymore):
She sent me an alternate take of this shot over the phone Sunday, which I didn’t even notice until Much, Much Later. I sent her an apology, along with a note to the effect that “Some days I am totally devoid of clues.”
Said she in reply: “So that’s where I get it.”
I couldn’t bring myself to mention the other event of the weekend: her mother’s first tattoo, at the age of 60.
Such a dilemma:
I’d definitely trade off that student: they’ll never be worth more than they are right now.
Two guys from Norway Ulf Langsrud and Dag Hellem make up the band known as Muteness, which reached out in my general direction yesterday on Twitter, presumably in the hopes of getting a mention. I figured the least I could do was punch up some of their tracks, and ultimately, the one I liked the best was “Inside the Outside,” which is compulsively danceable, especially if you don’t try to listen too hard to the words.
Newly learned from this experience: the iTunes Store in Norway charges 9 kr per track (about $1.05).
This may explain why CNN spends so much time trying, and failing, to track lost aircraft:
(Via Matt Drachenberg.)
Even the parties to the deal are at odds over what is in the deal. They only agree that the deal is an agreement to strike a deal at some point in the future. The Americans take this to mean “soon,” while the Iranians have no understanding of the concept. Persia, in one form or another, has been around for five thousand years. “Soon” is measured in decades.
That has not stopped the 24×7 clown show that is the American media from having a food fight over the deal to make a deal. The Progressives are hailing the deal as the greatest achievement of man since the wheel. Conservative Inc. is condemning the deal and calling Obama Chamberlain. They have a Nazi fetish, comparing every Muslim with a bad attitude to Hitler. I watched a bit of Fox yesterday and it was clear that none of them knew more than my cat about this deal, but they were certain they were right.
However, at least one projected outcome is practically guaranteed:
The fact that every energy firm on earth is lining up to make a deal with the mullahs says the sanctions are sure to be lifted, no matter what Iran does or does not do. Western governments are the tools of their rich people and their business interests. Western business loves groveling to despots. It is their natural state.
That I don’t doubt in the least: business has, or at least has persuaded itself that it has, needs sufficiently urgent that just waiting around for government to address them would be tragic, or at least less profitable.
Boy, do I know about this:
I’m sprawled across my lumpy dorm room bed, writing the words you see on this very page as iTunes shuffles through my vast music library when, in all its infinite digital wisdom, iTunes follows Ed Sheeran’s beautifully tender “Firefly” with … the Doors’ raucous “Roadhouse Blues?” What gives, shuffle function?!? This is like an ice-bucket challenge for my ears. My mind turns from fluffy pillows and candles to red lights and sticky barroom floors. I mean, I love Jim Morrison, but not as a companion to my pal Ed.
Let it roll, baby, roll.
I admit, some of my own jarring juxtapositions are my own fault. Normally I screen out all the stuff tagged as “Holiday” during normal parts of the year and start letting them filter in around mid-November; this year I forgot to reset the playlist criteria after New Year’s, and suddenly there’s “We Three Kings” sung by Toby Keith, yet in the middle of a Sixties-garage medley.