Well, ****

Just watch your mouth when you’re in Arlington, Virginia, okay?

Uttering some of the more expressive words in the English language will cost you up to $250 if you say them in Arlington, now that county officials have upped their fines on public uses of profanity. The Arlington County Board just approved a measure increasing penalties for public intoxication and blue language from $100 to $250.

Odd that those two offenses should be paired — or maybe not:

Even if Arlington is sacrificing its reputation as an urbanist’s dream community, its leaders have not given up their mission to clean up its residents’ sometimes-naughty antics. The code change adopted during Saturday’s board meeting came after the Arlington Police Department reported making 664 arrests for public inebriation and foul-mouthed talk in 2014.

About 230,000 people live in Arlington’s 26 square miles, and it’s not like they can’t go somewhere else to cuss:

While the District [of Columbia] bans abusive language designed to provoke a physical response from another individual, it does not prohibit casual profanity. Maryland also offers safe harbor to the salty-tongued, except for Rockville, where the city charter reads, “person may not profanely curse and swear or use obscene language upon or near any street, sidewalk or highway within the hearing of persons passing by, upon or along such street, sidewalk or highway.”

Still, for the sake of traffic, let’s hope the [redacted] don’t all go at once.

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That legendary New York toughness

I do understand what this fellow is saying:

And he’s not kidding, either. Look at this:

NWS screen print for NYC 6/16/15

Then again:

NWS screen print for OKC 6/16/15

Don’t even try to breathe this, sir.

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Rhymes with “duckie”

Nancy Friedman introduces us to the Yuccie:

Yuccie: A Young Urban Creative, as defined and described by David Infante, “a 26-year-old writer who lives in a gentrifying neighborhood in Brooklyn,” in an article for Mashable published on June 10. Infante calls yuccies “a slice of Generation Y, borne [sic] of suburban comfort, indoctrinated with the transcendent power of education, and infected by the conviction that not only do we deserve to pursue our dreams; we should profit from them.”

There’s just this one problem:

“I am the yuccie,” Infante writes. “And it sounds sort of, well, yucky.”

Perhaps not everyone’s education has been equally transcendent.

“Yuppie,” the antecedent to “yuccie,” was occasionally truncated to “yup.” Let’s hope this doesn’t happen to “yuccie.”

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Full circle, by degrees

Warren Meyer recalls the Texas of his youth:

I grew up in the Deep South (in Houston — for outsiders, Texas acts like the South when one is east of I-35 and then is more like the West).

This explains Dallas/Fort Worth — I-35 splits into two separate highways in the Metroplex — almost perfectly.

Though my immediate family was fairly open-minded, I was surround by a scolding Southern Baptist culture that seemed deeply offended by everything — dancing, drugs, drinking, youth behavior — you name it. I remember visiting aunts and uncles and cousins who were in a perpetual state of being offended. And it carried over into the whole political culture of the place — it seemed there was always some debate about book or textbook passage that needed to be banned to save the delicate eyes and impressionable brains of the children.

So Meyer was happy to escape to the Ivy League. But now, the tables have turned:

[C]ollege students today now sound exactly like my Southern Baptist aunt. They are humorless and scolding and offended by virtually everything. Many of the same pieces of literature those good Texas Baptists were trying to censor from school curricula in my day because they conflicted with religious doctrine are now being censored by good campus Progressives because they might be triggering. What a bizarre turn of events.

At least Texans, a few Austinites aside, know a trigger when they see one: it’s right there on the weapon.

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What a re-Leaf it is

A spent battery pack from a Nissan Leaf isn’t dead: while it may not have enough juice left to move a ton and a half of electric car, it’s still a viable storage device, which explains this scheme:

Instead of building fresh batteries for commercial stationary applications, Nissan will instead reuse lithium-ion batteries from the LEAF with partner Green Charge Networks.

The first application “will be installed at a Nissan facility this summer, where multiple Nissan LEAF batteries will be configured to offset peak electricity demand,” said Nissan.

Your air conditioner is already smiling, right?

“A lithium-ion battery from a Nissan LEAF still holds a great deal of value as energy storage, even after it is removed from the vehicle, so Nissan expects to be able to reuse a majority of LEAF battery packs in non-automotive applications,” said Brad Smith, director of Nissan’s 4R Energy business.

Which is better than pitching them into whatever other post-automotive hell exists.

The battery pack, new, is good for 24 kWh; Nissan considers it usable for automotive purposes if 75 percent is available. So recently-culled battery packs should be just below 18 kWh or so, which is a fair amount of juice.

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Inflation gone undetected

About 2006, the woman who’d been doing my hair for the past several years took off for points unknown, and inasmuch as it was a ten-mile-plus drive to the shop where she was working — for a while she’d had her own shop — I started looking for a new shop, and eventually found myself going to a unisex shop on the northwest side. By no coincidence, this was the same shop Trini was using. The tab was $14; I handed the guy a twenty and said “Swap you one of these for a one.”

Eventually, reasoning that the price had surely gone up, I simply handed him a twenty and let it go at that. And this worked just fine until this past weekend, when I popped open the billfold and said, “You know, I have no idea what this actually costs anymore.”

“Eighteen dollars,” he said.

I reached for another bill, but he bade me close up the wallet. “You’re fine,” he said. “See you in a few weeks.”

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The main disdain falls plainly on the mane

So this was a thing:

And this was the context which goes with that thing.

I decided to go in a different direction:

You’ll note that at no time did I have to explain it, of course.

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From the very depths

After several years of wry but (mostly) cheerful breakup songs from tall blondes, I suppose it was time I went as far in the other direction as is humanly possible:

For lack of a better description, this is grief personified. And towards the end, she does what she must: she puts herself as far away from the source as possible.

If I’ve ever done this to you, can you ever forgive me? (The answer, of course, is No.)

(Via Sheila O’Malley.)

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Not ready for fringe time

Bill Quick has been dealing with the pre-release versions of Windows 10, and if you ask him, they aren’t ready for mass distribution yet:

Currently, on the [MS Surface Pro 3], I’ve got a “hardware update” that constantly installs itself “successfully,” then forgets that it has done so, and reinstalls itself, requiring a reboot each time. This is a bug known for more than three weeks, but it remains unfixed.

Several Metro Apps (apps designed for Windows tablets in the same way that iOS apps are designed to run on Apple tablets) either don’t run at all, or open in broken condition — including the People app, which is home base for contacts, and linkage to various address books, and messages from Twitter, FB, and so on.

The current build, released several weeks ago, wouldn’t install on SP3 at all until they fixed a bug it took them two more weeks to exterminate.

And the list goes on and on. Quick remains undaunted, though:

I’m able to use both machines as production machines, and I’ve been doing so. And I do really like Windows 10 overall, especially the Continuum feature, and the consistency across all platforms from phones to desktop machines.

But is it going to be ready for release to people who want an OS that “just works?”

Not a hope in hell, is what I think.

It’s not like Microsoft has never, ever missed a ship date. If it takes longer than six weeks more to swat the known bugs, then it takes longer. The world will go on turning.

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Little Jimmy Brown

It had to be, of course:

Fifty-six years after “The Three Bells,” Jim Ed Brown passed away. He was 81.

Sisters Bonnie and Maxine — Jim was the middle child — are still living but have long since retired. The Browns are being inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame this fall, but Hall officers visited Jim Ed in the hospital earlier this month to let him know and to present him with a medallion.

This was Jim Ed’s last single, recorded in 2013:

Produced by Bobby Bare, himself a Hall of Fame member.

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Strange search-engine queries (489)

If you’re just joining us — which is not entirely impossible, since we’ve had a smidgen of traffic growth of late — this weekly feature is intended to illustrate a range of search strings received at this site, from weird to really weird.

what kind of sexualized:  I dunno. What’ve ya got?

mia has lived in new york city all her life. she has noticed that people from upper manhattan walk really fast:  They’re afraid they’ll miss the train.

a young woman who formerly had a fairly high sex drive:  Look, I said I was sorry. What more do you want?

adam wrote a check for $38 to pay his monthly gas bill:  Must have been summer.

whats third base with a guy:  Having the gas bill paid.

jane says her cousin is “big boned” instead of saying she’s overweight:   Never mind that. What does Jane say about Rachel Dolezal?

white dora the explorer:  Doesn’t sell as well as more vibrant varieties.

last supper beer:  Peter insisted on Rolling Rock for some reason.

wrong turn 3:  The first one was interesting, the second one a little more focused; but in this third outing director Alan Smithee is clearly off his game.

sophia is in the fifth grade and lives in one of the most impoverished areas in the state. she has a history of academic failure:  But she will rise above these obstacles and take her place among the legions of mid-level bureaucrats who take two hours for lunch.

11 year old bra:  It still fits!

real women don’t date arsenal fans:  We’re sorry. This is the United States of America. We pay no attention to that soccer stuff.

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Lost count

Monica Lewis was thirty when she did this number for an indifferent MGM musical in 1952. There are three things you ought to know about her:

  • For a couple of years she was married to record producer Bob Thiele, who at the time was running the Signature Records label.
  • She was the voice of the animated Chiquita Banana, who warned you not to put bananas in the fridge. (I never have.)
  • She did advertising for Burlington, a major hosiery manufacturer, and justifiably so.

Monica Lewis shows some gam

And you may not need to know this: Monica Lewis, who died Friday at her home in Woodland Hills, California, was my oldest Twitter follower. She was 93.

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Outta there

The Lion of the Blogosphere predicts doom for his former employer:

There is absolutely no one there who can adequately replace what I was doing, and this is a combination of the fact that I’ve been there for eight years and know more about the expected behavior of the website front-end I worked on than anyone else in the company, plus the fact that the business unit I worked in (which is not IT, although I started there in IT) is really bad at hiring smart people.

Of course the company is not going to go out of business without me. They are a monopoly, and a website that gradually becomes crappier over time is not going to change that. After a time, they will probably bring in an expensive consulting firm and spend two or three million dollars to fix the problems created by my absence.

Wait, what? No. Of course not. The only Web site front-ends I work on are those I own.

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Beyond the window of acceptability

Somewhere there must exist a correspondence course which local officials must pass in order to get certified as — well, hell, when things like this happen you figure they’re all certifiable anyway:

A police officer in Overton, Texas, told two elementary-aged sisters that they couldn’t sell lemonade without a permit. The police chief is very clear: The police officer did not shut down the girls’ lemonade stand, which they were using to make money to buy passes to a splash park for themselves and their dad for Father’s Day. The officer only told them that they couldn’t sell the lemonade unless they got what the city of Overton calls a “peddlers’ permit.”

Which invites several questions, mostly along these lines:

My question to the Overton law enforcement representative who acquainted the girls with the wonders of the modern regulatory state is to describe exactly what circumstances he envisioned that would make this move look good in the eyes of everyone who learned about it. Seriously, dude. What alternative world did you dream up in which a police department that makes little kids get permits to sell lemonade comes out on top? Were the kids named Lecter? Were they chanting Latin in reverse and laughing maniacally as they hand-squeezed the lemons and promised customers, “You’re next, human scum!” Did they intone, “Winter is coming!” and chop the head from a Sean Bean doll?

And once you learned they were raising money to buy passes to a splash park for a trip with their dad for Father’s Day? Their father who’s an oil field worker and who’s away from home for a few weeks at a time? What happened to the part of your brain that should have told you, “STOP DIGGING! BUY A GLASS AND GET IN YOUR SQUAD CAR AND ZOOM OFF!”

That part, you have to assume, has long since been pushed to the sidelines — assuming it was ever on the playing field to begin with.

And it can’t be public-health considerations, because Overton doesn’t have any problem with giving the stuff away.

Oh, well. The two girls learned a valuable lesson here: government is just another word for people who want to do things to you.

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Misperception

At times, mine eyes, and maybe other organs as well, doth deceive me, and I have to assume it’s my own damn fault.

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While reservoirs go bare

One of the weirder outcroppings of the California drought:

The owners of a Bay Area nudist resort have been charged with stealing water during the state’s historic drought.

Seventy-seven-year old Glyn Stout and his wife 53-year-old Lori Kay Stout, co-owners of Lupin Lodge, were charged Friday with felony conspiracy to commit trespassing for the purpose of injuring a property right. Officials say they repeatedly diverted water from a section of a local creek that they did not own, according to a statement from the Santa Clara County District Attorney’s office.

The creek apparently is under the jurisdiction of the Midpeninsula Regional Open Space District.

The resort’s owners have said they are entitled to use the waterfall, which they need to keep their water tank full in case of a fire and to top off their pool for both skinny-dipping and as a backup water source for a fire.

There are also a number of misdemeanor charges pending against the Stouts and two of their employees.

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