Cheap chicks

Earlier this week, on the subject of fried chicken:

[A]ll else being equal, I’d just as soon grab an eight-piece bag from one of the local supermarkets, which will serve just as well (and just as many) for well under ten bucks.

Last such bag I got was $8.49. Under the counter, though, were whole birds that had gone through the rotisserie, for a mere $5. Surely it doesn’t cost that much to piece them out.

Of course, I missed the most obvious explanation:

[M]uch like hunters who strive to use every part of the animal, grocery stores attempt to sell every modicum of fresh food they stock. Produce past its prime is chopped up for the salad bar; meat that’s overdue for sale is cooked up and sold hot. Some mega-grocers like Costco have dedicated rotisserie chicken programs, but employees report that standard supermarkets routinely pop unsold chickens from the butcher into the ol’ rotisserie oven.

Not that I’m complaining. And neither is Will Truman:

We’ve become big fans. I bring home one more than half of the time I go to Walmart, in part because theirs are better than the other place I shop at. It provides for at least a couple of meals, just you can tear it up and put it in other things to add a little more meat.

And “tear it up” is literal: the stuff practically falls off the bone.

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Invasive species

Dennis the Tech Guy leaves a note at The Other McCain:

If you experienced any intermittent issues with the site over the last 30 or so minutes, I apologize. I was busy drop-kicking 56,000 spam user accounts so stacy and team can stop moderating garbage and get back to writing about stuff we’re all way more interested in.

This reminds me of the time when Stacy was getting thousands upon thousands of bogus Twitter followers, an obvious effort to incapacitate his account and deflect his attention. I would not be surprised to discover that the same malingerers are behind this scheme.

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Top-down vaporware

Way back in 2006, there was chatter to the effect that MG, having been acquired by the Chinese, were looking for a US assembly plant, and they were looking very hard at southern Oklahoma.

Nothing came of that scheme, under which MG TF (no, not this TF) coupes would be built in the States, and roadsters in China. But you can’t keep an ex-British carmaker down forever:

Edmunds reports exploratory design work for a sports car under the MG name has been placed on the 2014 schedule book in SAIC’s Shanghai design studio, with one of the possibly proposals being a roadster such as those in the brand’s history, as well as the spiritual successor found in the Mazda MX-5 Miata. The starting point for whatever is drawn up is the 2012 MG Icon concept.

In the meantime, MG Motor is looking to design and produce a wider mainstream collection, with design and engineering split between Shanghai and Birmingham, England. Eventually, this could lead to a return to the U.S. market, which is considered a long-term goal for the brand and its owner.

One could argue, I suppose, that the existence of the MX-5 makes any new MG roadster irrelevant, but hey, the Brits could use the jobs.

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With a Texas record at steak

I might have been able to pull this off when I was younger. I certainly can’t today.

Meal consists of: Shrimp Cocktail, Baked Potato, Salad, with Roll, Butter, and of course the 72 oz. Steak

Entire meal must be completed in one hour. If any of the meal is not consumed (swallowed) … YOU LOSE!

A Nebraska woman laughs at this puny threat:

Molly Schuyler, weighing in at 120 pounds, ate not one but two 72 oz. steaks at Amarillo’s Big Texan Steak Ranch.

Most who attempt the challenge cannot finish one steak but in less than 20 minutes Molly put away two 72 oz. steaks.

And if you want to watch this spectacle:

This is someone I’d be afraid to ask out, if only for the potential threat to my wallet.

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Something resembling even

Gregg Popovich, we may assume, was not a happy man tonight. Just before the first half ended, he drew a technical; halfway through the third quarter, with the Spurs down twenty, he pulled his starters and turned the bench loose. If the Thunder read this as a white flag, they were sadly mistaken: over the next couple of minutes, OKC ran their lead to 27, but San Antonio cut that to 13 before the quarter was over, and attempts by the Thunder to leave the Spurs in the dust were at best marginally successful. Pop didn’t bring back any starters until halfway through the fourth. Was this a strategic move, or just an effort to “glare at some starters on the bench for a moment”? Pop isn’t talking. The Spurs pulled within twelve several times, but never got any closer: the Thunder won it 105-92, and it’s a 2-2 series.

Reggie Jackson, again starting at the two, sprained his ankle after three and a half minutes and was seen only sporadically the rest of the night. Russell Westbrook took up the slack. In fact, Westbrook took up just about everything, playing 45 minutes, scoring 40 points (12-24, 14-14 at the stripe), serving up 10 assists and executing five steals. And where he wasn’t, Kevin Durant usually was; KD knocked down 31 points in 41 minutes and collected five boards. (OKC had a narrow rebounding edge, 42-41; Kendrick Perkins snagged ten of ‘em.) The reserves didn’t score much, but they kept up the defensive pressure, and that was probably enough.

With the starting Spurs on the pine, Boris Diaw ended up with 30 minutes and 14 points, tied with Tony Parker for team-high, plus ten rebounds. Kawhi Leonard, assigned to hit the midrange jumpers and keep Durant at bay, wound up with 10 points (3-9) and Westbrook more or less constantly on his tail, freeing up KD. Tim Duncan finished with nine. But it may not be so much what the Spurs didn’t do but what the Thunder didn’t do: OKC turned the ball over a mere seven times, versus 22 assists. (SA had 17 dimes and 13 turnovers.) And Pop, as noted, was not happy.

Game 5 is Thursday night in Alamoland. It will be loud and boisterous. And loud.

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A very large number indeed

Infinity by Against the CurrentThe reason I know of this band is because I pay way more attention than average — the average for people aged 60-up, anyway — to current pop and indie stuff, and one of the regular readers, having long noted this tendency of mine, pointed me towards girl singer Chrissy Costanza, who fronted a band out of Poughkeepsie, New York called Against the Current, which at the time included a relative of his. Costanza proved to be a worthy (and prolific!) Twitter read, and when they announced an EP to be released today, I hung out beside the iTunes Store with Amex in hand.

It was a wise move. The five tracks of Infinity have a freshness to them, the sort that manages to elude most of the stuff on the radio, and Costanza has enough of a voice to eschew most of the usual processing. “Infinity,” the single, and “Another You (Another Way)” are the stronger tracks, but there’s not a dud in the bunch. In American Bandstand parlance, I’d give it an 88: it’s got plenty of beat, it’s highly danceable, and the songs aren’t instantly forgettable. I have no idea how many of you listen to this kind of thing, but if you do, I’m happy to recommend it. (If you’d like a preview, there’s a lyric video of “Infinity” that’s gotten over 200,000 views this month.)

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Budding geniuses, every one

About a week and a half ago, I tossed up a link to a study which purported to claim that most Americans think themselves smarter than the norm. The norm being what it is, or what it seems to be, well, I keep wondering: how could they not? Razorbacker comes up with an explanation of how this might actually work:

I suspect this: the average American looks about himself (oh, alright, or herself) and sees so damned much touted as actual fact that he knows from personal experience to be a damnable lie, and he knows it to be a lie but one that is now unable to be mentioned in polite society. He looks at this and says, “There is either a fucking liar or a damned fool, and anyone but a dumbass knows it. Nobody else sees it, though. I must be smarter than the average bear.”

Once upon a time, I thought that everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but facts belong to all. Now I understand that facts are not hard-and-fast, but shift like a river sand bar, moving this way and that, growing and shrinking, never the same from one day to the next.

Today, facts that don’t serve the desired narrative are not considered to be “facts” at all, which by no coincidence makes life much easier for those who desire power and are willing to say any damned thing that might prop up their position. Actual, verifiable truth is an obstacle at best. Fortunately for them, an appallingly large percentage of the population is willing to believe any damned thing.

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Pretty fly for a White girl

Priscilla White became Cilla Black purely by accident. A featured vocalist with several Liverpool bands, she’d managed to work herself up to a mention in Mersey Beat, about which founder/publisher Bill Harry recalls:

I remember going down to the State Ballroom one evening when I was putting the first issue together and asking Cilla if she had the fashion column she promised me. She was with her mate Pat Davies and Cass & the Cassanovers were on stage. When I got back to the office I began working on the copy of the first issue and then began to type out a story on Cilla. When it came down to putting down her surname, my mind went blank. I knew it was a colour, but forgot which one. I took out the piece of paper with Cilla’s fashion column in it, but she hadn’t signed it. The column was all about colours in fashion and went from white to black. Looking at it, I decided on the black. I was wrong. Her name was Cilla White! After Mersey Beat was published, Cilla came into the office and told me I’d got her surname wrong — but she liked it so much she decided to call herself Cilla Black from now on!

Her career managed by Brian Epstein, her records produced by George Martin — for Parlophone, natch — Cilla became a major star in Britain and a television fixture.

Cilla Black on British television

Lots of middle-Sixties pop stars were on the wane by the end of the decade, but not Cilla. Her 1969 album Surround Yourself with Cilla was ostensibly so titled because it was never issued in mono:

Surround Yourself With Cilla

Or you might listen to the final track:

Her last UK chart item was a 1993 duet with Dusty Springfield titled “Heart and Soul” — not the Tin Pan Alley standard — which, like all her records, went largely unheard in the States, except for this one:

“You’re My World” crept onto Billboard at #26; the follow-up, “It’s For You,” a Lennon/McCartney (of course) number, died at #79.

Cilla Black is 71 today, and still all over British television. Meanwhile, her 1960s self abides: ITV is shooting a three-part TV series about her rise to fame, which will star acclaimed actor Sheridan Smith.

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When auctions were merely awkward

Jack Baruth recalls the early days of eBay:

If I didn’t get in on the ground floor to eBay, I was close; I’ve been a member since Feb 15, 1999, about two years after it became practical to buy anything on the site and well before it became part of the American vocabulary. In the first few years, I sold a bunch of vintage BMX parts and bought a variety of old Atari computers. It’s fair to say that I am deeply ambivalent about eBay: it’s raised the price of old books into the stratosphere while simultaneously adding a $250 transaction fee to most vintage guitar sales. On the other hand, it’s enabled me to find and purchase items that I’d have never found otherwise. You have to take the good with the bad; yes, you can now actually find a brand-new Atari 1200XL, but it will cost you.

Transaction history having been truncated in recent years, I’ve had to comb through my email archive to determine my first item, which was acquired in June 1999: a collection of various Debbie Gibson ephemera. (I had then been a Debfan for about eleven years; I remain one to this day.) I’ve never actually sold anything. I have won, however, enough actual auctions to have earned myself 161 solid-whatever-color-it-is feedback points, without a single negative.

I admit that I did my part in forcing up the price of old books in those days. But a combination of boredom and penury weaned me off the site; I think I’ve returned twice this year, and one of those visits was to change my password. (Mine was, I think, even lamer than Jack’s.)

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Zoned out

“Dolce far niente,” said the Italians: sweet to be doing nothing. That is, when it isn’t actually killing you:

There is such a thing as too much free time. When after forty-five years of wage labor you’re suddenly freed of external demands on your attention and energy, it’s easy to lapse into immobile torpor. It might be the #1 cause of death in retirees.

Fortunately, there still exist internal demands on my attention and energy, and while they’re not likely to be quite so demanding or to be compensated in the least, I have more than sufficient motivation not to plop myself on the sofa for days at a time.

(Technically, my sofa, which is wide enough to seat three if they’re really good friends, is considered a loveseat, built for two. You may write your own joke here.)

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Save your lectures, pal

Being one of those people who persists in keeping the mail client set to No Graphics Ever, I’m used to getting great heaping wads of text prefaced by “You must use an HTML-capable mail client to view this message correctly.” Were it not for the fact that it would do no good, I would happily crank up the autoresponder: “I have no intention of viewing this message, correctly or otherwise. Now FOAD.”

Something called “OnlineDatingInternetCorkboard” apparently didn’t pay their boilerplate license this time around, because what they sent me is this:

Not Able Too understand the advertisement below due to no images showing Better redirect here.

As you may have already figured, we’re not gonna take it. And as Tommy once said, “You know where to put the cork.”

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We pathetic hicks

How you gonna keep ‘em down on the farm — oh, wait, they’ve already figured out that the farm is exactly where they want to be:

I’ve sat through far too many discussions where people who are far less traveled than I have made judgment calls on rural people. I have traveled all around this country and all around the world because I liked to go, because I liked to see and do new things, and because I loved the confrontation of new. And yet, I always loved coming back home to the farm.

Not out of fear. Not out of ignorance. But because I loved it, what it meant, what it stood for, and the people you find living in the rural community there.

And their definition of “rural,” I suggest, is risible: I live in a city of six hundred thousand, with six hundred thousand more in the ‘burbs, and people still ask me if I have running water Out There.

For whatever reason, folks who haven’t traveled much outside of an urban setting still see the fact that they live in a contained geographical area with a lot of different people as giving them a more valid opinion. Don’t confuse having lots of ethnic restaurants in a five-block radius as the same experience of going to a country and seeing much more than the food and politics of a people group.

See also, um, yours truly, 2006:

For my part, I’m quite unapologetic about who I am and where I’m from, and I’m sorry if you can’t deal with it. While it is indeed true that there is no single place in the Sooner State from which you can swing a dead cat and hit restaurants of twenty-seven different ethnicities, and that there is no surplus of waifish Goth girls with art-history degrees, not everyone — not even everyone of college age — aspires to live inside a Bertolucci film.

And I’m a transplant, fergoshsakes. Any roots I have in this place started at most one generation above.

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Belt and suspenders

Teresa Peschel explains that it takes more than just a fence:

Why do you need a fence and a hedge? Fences and hedges work together. The fence acts as a placeholder while the hedge grows up around it. The fence tells people where the property line is. The fence corrals kids and dogs. When the hedge grows up, the fence still blocks access through any holes and makes it that much harder to push through the shrubbery.

Hence the title. I have neither kids nor dogs living here at the moment, but this makes a whole lot of sense, though I have enough trees out back to cover approximately 80 percent of the fence.

While local zoning won’t allow me this sort of thing, the best option is one of the cheapest:

Why aluminum chain link? I will state upfront that it is utilitarian in appearance. It is also not expensive considering that it will last forever and is pretty much maintenance-free. Wooden fences have to be regularly restained or repainted, and rotted posts and sections replaced. Plastic fencing looks very nice: at first! However, it eventually gets brittle and breaks. Unlike wood, it can’t be repaired. Broken sections must be replaced and plastic will break. Wrought-iron is beautiful, must be repainted occasionally and is stunningly expensive. Even better and even more expensive is a 6-foot masonry wall topped with broken glass. Even if we could have afforded this, the township would never have gone for it.

I have a few fence panels that need to be replaced, especially since they’re not among the areas covered adequately by trees. (Three of them were knocked flat by springtime winds.) I admit to having contemplated stone all around the house, though the cost was daunting and I probably wouldn’t have been sensible enough to opt for the broken glass.

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A colonel of truth?

What the world needs now is — love, sweet love? No? How about an index of places that serve fried chicken?

Because there’s a lot of variation in fried chicken — bone-in or otherwise, skin on or otherwise, battered or dusted or crumbed, flavored or just chicken-flavored, and the classic question of pan-fried or deep-fried. So just knowing if a restaurant is, in general, good or not, doesn’t tell you much about the chicken. A very fine restaurant that sells peppery battered chicken is not my chicken place, though it might be someone else’s.

Of the major chains, I remain partial to Popeye’s, though, all else being equal, I’d just as soon grab an eight-piece bag from one of the local supermarkets, which will serve just as well (and just as many) for well under ten bucks.

Still, what we need is information like this:

How could you know, if you’re not told, that the crust on the skinless “put a bird on it” chicken at The Original in Portland has some weird magical ingredient that makes it taste rather as if it isn’t skinless?

Now that, I’d like to see. And taste.

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Strange search-engine queries (434)

Monday morning finds me busy at work thoroughly zonked after the weekend, and it’s time once again for a trip through the logs in search of cheap blogfodder.

Fiorello LaGuardia fill a pothole quote:  It was something like “There’s no Democratic or Republican way to fill a pothole.” Here in Oklahoma City, where municipal elections are nonpartisan, there’s no way to fill a pothole, period.

Deep web rulez, imao:  Yeah? Where’d you get the link?

what happen if throttle position coming fail in ford mondeo?  Generally, if fail is coming, you stop going.

whos older derrick fisher or tim duncan:  Fisher’s older, though not by much compared to the dinosaurs who walked the earth in those days.

julio iglesias facism:  See, for example, his hit “To All the Proles I’ve Exploited Before.”

overfilling ford cd4e transmission:  Simple. Just pour in the required quantity of ATF, and then don’t stop.

common cents cheat codes:  Giving up so soon?

All work and no play may make Jim a dull boy, but no work and all play makes jim all kinds of a jackass:  You may know Jim, but most assuredly you don’t know jack.

what fails inside 4eat automatic transmission:  Internal parts only. Isn’t that convenient?

if we do not learn by heart, the heart does not feel the rhythms of poetry as echoes or variations of its own insistent beat  Similarly, if we go Googling for passages rather than write our own, the gradebook does not feel the sensation of an A, or sometimes merely a B.

mane six discovering r34:  I wouldn’t wish that on anypony.

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And some gave all

Still they come, the dreams, brief glimpses of what might have been.

The war had been going on, we knew — they hadn’t told us, since it wasn’t “critical to the mission” — for nearly seventeen (“officially,” eleven) years. For all we knew, it had eleven or even seventeen years left to run, and if you were eighteen, as I was, that was close enough to eternity to bring you up short. None of us, cringing in our marginally awake state at 0430, knew what to expect: all we knew was that some of us would be sent to the front, and not all of us would come back.

But first, there was training. Lots of it. We learned some possibly useful skills — my own company proved to be particularly ingenious in dealing with the recapture of escaped partisans, and if I did indeed throw like a girl, only seven of my sixty test grenades failed to hit the target — and we learned to hurry up and wait, to stand there awaiting orders, and to not waste time thinking when those orders were given.

And then it was all done and new orders were cut and eventually I was sent to the other side of the world, where it was probably unlikely that I would be shot at, but it didn’t make any difference in the grand scheme of things: there was a mission, and I would be doing my level best to make sure of the success of the mission, Sir.

It’s forty years later and I still think about the ones who didn’t come back. They had faces, they had names, and several of them, I am told, drew resting places as near to nowhere as can exist on this planet. I grin when I think of some of the gallows humor produced in the wake of the war:

Six Phases of a Military Operation

    1. Enthusiasm.
    2. Disillusionment.
    3. Panic.
    4. Search for the guilty.
    5. Punishment of the innocent.
    6. Praise and honor for the non participant.

And then the grin vanishes, erased by the knowledge that the humor only barely concealed the truth of the matter.

It could have been me. The luck of the draw, the whim of the Almighty, whatever, it could have just as easily gone the other way. I’m not sure which bothers me more: the fact that we lost so many, or the fear that we won’t be able to mobilize anyone if something serious should happen.

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