Good God, that’s a lot of blather

I mean, really:

50,000 tweets

I snagged that screenshot Sunday evening; I have no idea which of the several dozen tweets I disgorged that day was actually the 50,000th. Maybe the whole idea is not to care.

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Too silly; didn’t click

Grammar Girl has decided that the semicolon that bisects “tl;dr” is in fact ironic:

Semicolons appear in long, complex sentences — they’re a hallmark of writing that would likely earn the tl;dr label. I can’t think of another acronym or initialism that includes a semicolon (or any other punctuation mark), so whoever included the first semicolon in tl;dr was bucking abbreviation conventions. He or she took an abbreviation meant to endorse brevity and made it longer and more complex by adding a semicolon.

And furthermore:

Some people have speculated that programmers put the semicolon there because some programming languages end lines with semicolons. Others have pointed out that using the semicolon is grammatically correct because if you were to write tl;dr as a sentence, it is two clauses that could be properly joined by a semicolon. But, if you view the semicolon as a symbol of long, perhaps pedantic writing, it would be funny to include the semicolon in the barb you’re directing at writers of such works—ironic because it’s the opposite of what you would expect in an abbreviation.

Although “too long; didn’t read” seems to lack something, complete sentence-wise.

Still, it’s true, you don’t see punctuation in most such constructions, except for the exclamation point — see, for instance, OMGWTFBBQ!!1!

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Tossing and turning

“I couldn’t sleep at all last night,” says the song. I, of course, know it too well.

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Because cradles were designed to be robbed

“Nabo-who?” asked a puzzled Twilight Sparkle:

“Vladimir Nabokov. Human writer from the last century. Best known for a smug little tale of foalcon.” He coughed on that last word. “Bastard was probably in love with her, too.”

“Underage filly?”

“Let’s just say she wasn’t on her way to earning her cutie mark, and leave it at that.”

That may have been the whole point for that bastard Humbert, who’d managed to convince himself — and maybe the girl — that there was something sweet and natural about their perverse relationship. It certainly fits with this guy’s worldview:

Ken Plummer is emeritus professor of sociology at Essex University, where he has an office and teaches courses, the most recent scheduled for last month. “The isolation, secrecy, guilt and anguish of many paedophiles,” he wrote in [1981's] Perspectives on Paedophilia, “are not intrinsic to the phenomen[on] but are derived from the extreme social repression placed on minorities …”

“Help, help, I’m being repressed!”

“Paedophiles are told they are the seducers and rapists of children; they know their experiences are often loving and tender ones. They are told that children are pure and innocent, devoid of sexuality; they know both from their own experiences of childhood and from the children they meet that this is not the case.”

“Hey, they’re already despoiled. Fair game, you know what I mean?”

Actually, I think I do. And I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t like what I think about it.

This is not, I hasten to add, a matter of universal agreement among the general run of tweedy academic pervs:

After a fierce battle in the American Psychiatric Association (APA), which produces it, a proposal to include hebephilia as a disorder in the new edition of the [DSM] has been defeated. The proposal arose because puberty in children has started ever earlier in recent decades and as a result, it was argued, the current definition of paedophilia — pre-pubertal sexual attraction — missed out too many young people.

Ray Blanchard, professor of psychiatry at the University of Toronto, who led the APA’s working group on the subject, said that unless some other way was found of encompassing hebephilia in the new manual, that was “tantamount to stating that the APA’s official position is that the sexual preference for early pubertal children is normal.”

Axes were duly presented for grinding:

Prof Blanchard was in turn criticised by a speaker at the Cambridge conference, Patrick Singy, of Union College, New York, who said hebephilia would be abused as a diagnosis to detain sex offenders as “mentally ill” under US “sexually violent predator” laws even after they had completed their sentences.

Because whatever else a kiddie-diddler might be, well, he certainly can’t be sick.

But perhaps the most controversial presentation of all was by Philip Tromovitch, a professor at Doshisha University in Japan, who stated in a presentation on the “prevalence of paedophilia” that the “majority of men are probably paedophiles and hebephiles” and that “paedophilic interest is normal and natural in human males.”

Come the revolution, the first ones with their backs up against the wall will be the idiots who claim that majority support legitimizes everything.

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We compel your click

I spotted this ad on Fimfiction Saturday night. This isn’t exactly a replica of the site’s new-direct-message indicator, but I’m thinking it’s close enough to lure in the unwary:

Ad for MailViewer

And Saturday night being what Saturday night usually is, unwariness was probably rampant.

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Strange search-engine queries (440)

If you’re groggy after the long weekend, well, trust me, you are not alone in your suffering. Fortunately, the Web surfers don’t take the days off, so I still have something to post on Monday morning.

ce inseamna o/d off:  I’ve only known one woman whose inseam seemed to be in overdrive.

mrs butterworth rule:  “Don’t lick the top of the bottle” will do for starters.

1996:  A year in which no one has partied like it’s.

We at the Internal Revenue Service would like to inform you that: you have qualified for 2014′s subsidy benefit. scam light houses:  In fact, scam all the houses. Everyone wants a subsidy.

who is don alverzo:  If there’s ever a steampunk version of Sábado Gigante, he’s the host.

Duratec and ATX Rebuild Pages/CD4E FAQ.html:  You know, when Ford announced this particular transmission as “light-duty,” that should have been a clue.

www.pakistan colig garl pechar in burqa:  That’s a switch. Usually we get requests for them out of burqa.

zappos female models:  I dunno. Does Zappos sell burqas?

lou reed shawn colvin:  The very antithesis of a Perfect Day.

why does the engine fuse blow up on a 1994 mazda 626:  They generally don’t do that, so we shall assume that it’s Your Fault.

erotic stories of boy using invisibility potion on his mother:  I think you just pinned the Creepy Meter.

fixing mazda remove hold mode flashlight:  Um, it’s gonna take a lot more than a flashlight to fix this.

851 vents:  Pay attention. You’re about six months behind the times.

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Right in the ectoplasmic reticulum

Neil Kramer has temporarily turned the Citizen of the Month blog to the cause of flash fiction, shorter-than-short stories, in this case taking place in the city of New York, a place once said to have eight million stories.

Number twenty-two begins with a mind-bender:

If you want proof of the existence of ghosts, just look at logic. A person is more complex than a brick, but a building can last for thousands of years. This means that a human being, based on his innate superiority, must exist longer than a brick. And since we all know that death occurs for people, the only reasonable explanation is that the “person” or “entity” continues to live on as a ghost — at least for longer than the lifespan of a brick.

This may be the most salient thing said of bricks in fiction since Douglas Adams: “The ships hung in the sky in much the same way that bricks don’t.”

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Meanwhile among the Haligonians

What most of us Down Here know about Nova Scotia boils down to some vain guy flying his Learjet up thataway to see a solar eclipse. Obviously we’re not getting the whole story, so it’s time to dispatch a trusted emissary:

I must agree with all the locals that I’ve, that we’ve talked to, that Halifax IS CANADA’S BEST KEPT SECRET. In a week, we’ve explored the coastline, crept the forests, the very quaint city herself, Halifax.

I don’t know where to begin, to describe the reception that we’ve enjoyed so much while here: Warm, friendly locals, the staff here at Heritage Hideaway Inn, the (cheap) prices on everything, the ease in getting around … Leticia and I fly home next Saturday morning early, and there will be a part of me that doesn’t want to leave. I have felt relaxed from minute One here. These folks are the essence of “laid back”. It’s like they won’t be happy unless you, the guest is happy, too.

Then again, “most of us” obviously does not mean “all of us.” A local woman was once heard to say: “If I weren’t happily married and tied down with all kinds of material debts, I would run off to Nova Scotia with him.” More amazingly, by “him” she meant me.

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An ounce of wisdom

Spotted over at Topless in Tupelo:

there are two types of countries in the world:
1) ones that use the metric system.
2) ones that have been to the moon.

Several conclusions are available, but I know which one I like.

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The essence of sixty

British writer/critic AA Gill points out that contrary to popular sloganeering, sixty is not the new anything:

A contemporary of mine, after a number of marriages, found a girlfriend less than half his age of a transcendent pneumatic beauty who hung on his every word — and dumped her after a couple of months. Why, I asked — she was perfect! “Too many things we didn’t have in common,” he said sadly. Like what? “Well, the Eighties.”

There’s rue for you. And here’s some for me:

Last year, for the first time, a young girl, French, offered me her seat on a crowded bus. I was surprised at how deeply I resented her. Health looms over the elderly like a threatening monsoon. No ache is innocuous. No lump or discoloured, sagging patch of body is ignorable except our toenails, which become the most sordidly repellent things in all nature. We covertly examine ourselves and our effluvia for the premonition of the dark humour that will carry us away. There is no such thing as a routine checkup. They are all life-or-death appointments.

Doctors start all their sentences with “It’s only … ” But we’re not fooled. This generation is also the one that lingers longest over its departure. Death came to our grandparents with a clutched chest and a searing pain. For us it’s a slow, humiliating series of it’s onlys. What we worry about is dementia, a condition that did not exist in the popular lexicon when I was a child. Mind you, we also thought cancer was as shaming as divorce. Now Alzheimer’s is our abiding fear, the thing we can’t forget.

I have often wondered if I am “prolific,” as they say, as the inevitable consequence of a desire to maximize my output before the time comes when I cannot put out anything.

(Via Kathy Shaidle.)

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The lines are drawn

Sometimes you cherish the easy questions. “Do Americans have the right to free parking?” Well, no: nobody, I suggest, properly has a right to anything that anyone else has to pay for.

Still, there are those who remain unpersuaded by this argument:

In Los Angeles, activists have been organizing for months under the banner of The Los Angeles Parking Freedom Initiative. They argue that the city takes advantage of its citizens to ameliorate its budget problems. The Los Angeles Times reports that an average L.A. parking ticket costs $68, and that money secured from parking fines has grown from about $110 million in 2003 to almost $161 million this year. Activists are now seeking to cap non-public safety related parking fines at $23.

Activists in Keene, New Hampshire, are fighting for more than just a decreased financial penalty; they want parking fines eliminated altogether. Although there is free parking in Keene after 5 p.m. Monday-Saturday, and all day on Sunday [pdf], libertarian activists involved in the Free Keene campaign are not satisfied. To demonstrate their discontent, they are feeding expired meters before tickets can be issued, and have allegedly prevented the city from issuing more than 4,000 parking tickets since 2009. They also have taken to harassing parking enforcement officers.

What the hell kind of “libertarian” thinks parking at a meter they do not own is a “right”?

A Washington Post (!) reporter actually seems to understand some of this:

The ostensible policy goal of parking tickets isn’t really to generate municipal revenue — it’s to manage the supply of a public asset. If parking is plentiful and cheap, people will use tons of it. If the cost of violating parking regulations is low on top of that, the city has even less leverage over how curb space should be used for the public good. Maybe a cheap parking spot feels good for the individual parker, but a city overrun by parking — where there’s little incentive to invest in alternative transportation, among other things — probably doesn’t feel like somewhere you’d want to live.

Of course, once you’ve seen some Family Truckster on stilts making six passes through the lot at Lowe’s looking for a space within 50 feet of the building, you begin to despair. Or at least I do.

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Whatever the market will bear

Behold: 160 trillion Zimbabwean dollars, in a set of three bills:

10, 50 and 100 trillion dollar Zimbabwean notes

This is being promoted as an Educational Product: a merchant is selling sets of three bills, exactly like this, through Amazon for $22.99 with (why not?) free shipping. This is actually a great deal more than face value at their 2008 issuance. In mid-November, the Zimbabwean inflation rate was calculated at 79,600,000,000 percent — per month.

On the reasonable basis that yes, it could happen here, a brief summary of how it happened there:

In 2007, the government declared inflation illegal. Anyone who raised the prices for goods and services was subject to arrest.

This is well within the mental capacity of the US Congress.

In January 2009, acting Finance Minister Patrick Chinamasa lifted the restriction to use only Zimbabwean dollars. This too acknowledged what many were already doing. Citizens were allowed to use the US dollar, the euro, and the South African rand. However, teachers and civil servants were still being paid in Zimbabwean dollars. Even though their salaries were in the trillions per month, this amounted to around US$1, or half the daily bus fare. The government also used a restriction on bank withdrawals to try to limit the amount of money that was in circulation. It limited cash withdrawals to $Z500,000, which was around US$0.25.

And finally:

In 2009, the government abandoned printing Zimbabwean dollars at all. This implicitly solved the chronic problem of lack of confidence in the Zimbabwean dollar, and compelled people to use the foreign currency of their choice. As of 2014, Zimbabwe still uses a combination of foreign currencies, mostly US dollars, and the economy is still in a slump.

This was, I must point out, only the second worst hyperinflation in history; the Hungarians replaced the pengő on 1 August 1946 with the forint, which was deemed to be worth 4 x 1029 pengő, and you could get an actual US buck for 11.44 forints. (After 68 years, said actual US buck is now worth about 225 forints.)

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Up from wherever

Tony Woodlief on the Littlest Immigrants:

I don’t think they love their children any less than I love my own, which tells me something about what their lives must be like, to send their babies away. Their children stream northward in droves — as many as 60,000 this year — and we don’t want them. We don’t want their skin lesions and their hungry bellies, we don’t want their parents and aunts and uncles likely to follow, we don’t want them taking our jobs and clogging our classrooms and driving without insurance on our roads. We have no place for them in our country and certainly not in our hearts.

And yet:

What if, instead of greeting the federal agents with protest signs, we greeted them with petitions? Give us these children. We will feed them, we will clothe them, we will give them shelter. We will teach them and we will pray over them. Their parents, God help them, sent them away, and now here we stand to make good on the faith or hope or desperation in which those mothers and fathers sent them forth. Give us these children, and we will find a way. We will show mercy, because while we can scarcely agree between ourselves on anything else, we agree that the kingdom of heaven includes a hand stretched out in love.

It’s utterly impractical, I know. But how have we done so far, Christians, with practicality? For Christ’s sake, let’s not be known for our practicality.

Yeah, I know, I know: we’re being played for chumps by our wicked (no other word applies) government. Think in terms of a Higher Authority.

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I have no idea if she’s brassy

When Robert Stacy McCain invented Rule 5 back in 2009, part of his rationale was this:

All politics all the time gets boring after a while. Observant readers will notice that the headlines at Hot Air often feature silly celebrity tabloid stuff and News Of The Weird. Even a stone political junkie cannot subsist on a 24/7 diet of politics. The occasional joke, the occasional hot babe, the occasional joke about a hot babe — it’s a safety valve to make sure we don’t become humorless right-wing clones of those Democratic Underground moonbats.

I’ve never been all politics all the time, but five years later, I can usually count on about 100 extra visitors from whatever hot-babe pictures I can come up with, which is a decent bump if you’re averaging a couple thousand a week. Besides, I do try to challenge myself to come up with something interesting to say, the Zooeypaloozas aside.

None of which really explains how I stumbled across Turkish actress Tuba Büyüküstün, whom I simply had to write about because (1) she’s gorgeous and (2) it’s her birthday and (3) “Tuba” is actually her middle name and (4) did you see all those umlauts?

From the Turkish edition of Elle, December 2012:

Tuba Büyüküstün in Elle Turkey 12/12

Tuba Büyüküstün in Elle Turkey 12/12

Also from Elle, a year earlier, she accepts a Style Award. She’s obviously pregnant in the video; she gave birth to twin girls in January 2012. (She’s married to Turkish actor Onur Saylak.)

Oh, her actual first name is Hatice, and she’s thirty-two today. And yes, this is the second time I’ve reported on a Turkish actress this week. Like I said, I retain a certain fondness for the place.

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Orkut out

Google has decreed that Orkut, a ten-year-old social network created by one of its staffers, must die:

Ten years ago, Orkut was Google’s first foray into social networking. Built as a “20 percent” project, Orkut communities started conversations, and forged connections, that had never existed before. Orkut helped shape life online before people really knew what “social networking” was.

Over the past decade, YouTube, Blogger and Google+ have taken off, with communities springing up in every corner of the world. Because the growth of these communities has outpaced Orkut’s growth, we’ve decided to bid Orkut farewell (or, tchau). We’ll be focusing our energy and resources on making these other social platforms as amazing as possible for everyone who uses them.

Orkut is in fact a week and a half older than Facebook.

It’s “tchau,” of course, because nearly half of Orkut’s users were Brazilian; in 2008, in recognition of this fact, Google moved management of Orkut to its Brazilian outpost in Belo Horizonte. I suspect that this is why about 15 percent of the spam I get is in Portuguese.

Incidentally, Orkut was named after its founder: Orkut Büyükkökten, a Google software engineer and product manager, who came up with the idea during his 20% time, another Google concept on its deathbed.

Orkut is no longer accepting new memberships, and the service will be closed at the end of September, though Google says the community archives will be preserved online.

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Would you like to swing on a star?

Well, you know, that kind of depends on exactly what we’re swinging on:

It might seem like some sort of troll, but “Putin Is A Dickhead” is now an officially registered star after a group of Ukrainian astronomers got together with some pro-Ukraine activists to cement Putin’s status in the cosmos.

Depending on who’s doing the translation, “Putin-Huilo” might conceivably mean the Russian strongman is something other than a “dickhead” — but certainly nothing nicer-sounding.

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