Fourteen and unmad

That was me in 1967, when Donovan unleashed “Mellow Yellow.” Apart from the fact that the record can’t be had (legally, anyway) in stereo, its main distinction has to do with bananas:

Somehow, either in the lyrics or just scuttlebutt, word got around that you were supposed to bake the skins. So I did.

The results were, shall we say, less than enthralling:

So I baked it and then I scraped some of the baked part off and then I ate it. Awful, really awful. And waited for the buzz to begin. And waited and waited. And waited some more. And I was a senior in college at the time. And really dumb.

Of course, if I had a dollar for everything dumb ever done by college seniors, I could probably endow a couple of universities. Still, one of the defining characteristics of Homo sapiens is that individual members of the species sometimes aren’t too damn sapient.

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Disorder confirmation

You know, if I’d actually ordered this, I think I’d have known about it:

Phishing scam disguised as an Amazon.com confirmation

The bad bit of character encoding (in “We’ll”) gives it away, even if you don’t look at the three links, all of which go to the same bit.ly URL that I have no reason to trust. Besides, Amazon doesn’t collect tax for this state — see “use tax” — and if they did, it wouldn’t be a mere 6.75 percent. (Actually, the state rate is 4.5, but city and county taxes exist, and where I live, it’s a total of 8.375, though none of that is assessed by the county.)

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Several words you can say on the Internet

I have to think the late George Carlin would have been delighted to see the arrival of Strong Language, a blog written by word experts about the seven words Carlin contended (in 1972, anyway) could never, ever be said on television, and many, many more.

One recent entry is by Nancy Friedman, on the second word in Carlin’s list:

Piss is a pretty old word in English: late 13th century, from similar words in French and Latin, according to the OED; it’s generally assumed to be onomatopoetic. For centuries it was regarded as informal but not especially naughty; in Holy Sh*t: A Brief History of Swearing (2013), Melissa Mohr notes that the King James Version of the Old Testament includes “him that pisseth against the wall” (1 Kings 14:10) and “the men … may eat their own dung, and drink their own piss” (2 Kings 18:27). (My Masoretic text, from the Jewish Publication Society of America, primly substitutes “water” for “piss” in the latter passage.)

And while you’ve been able to say “piss” on television for many years now, at least in the United Kingdom — British comics from Python on down have long told fellow troupe members, or hecklers, to piss off — it’s seldom that you see the word in an ad in The New Yorker. Friedman has, and she has a scan of it in that article.

Before you ask: yes, the site has an overview of the entire canonical Carlin list. Given its subject matter, you’d have to figure this was mandatory at some point.

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Yet so far from Walley World

This is actually Clark/Westfield. Like anyone’s going to remember that now.

And yes, it would work better, or at least look better, if it had been Photoshopped, but you wouldn’t be able to see it from the Garden State Parkway.

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Thirty days of juke

A suitable introduction:

It’s like those “#1 on your birthday” sites, except this gives you only ten songs for the whole month. But you can hear all ten of them by pushing the appropriate buttons. The list runs out at December 1989, and if the World Wide Web were in existence in 1989, this page would look like it was that old; but don’t let that stop you.

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Doesn’t look so slight to me

Then again, once it’s happened, the probability is 100 percent, right?

Screenshot from Oklahoma Mesonet

This was the Mesonet report at OKC West, taken at State Fair Park. And the water total won’t be forthcoming until the snow — 2-3 inches, more or less — actually melts into their little tin cup.

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Not to be confused with Ten Years After

Roger sent this along, and I couldn’t possibly resist putting it up here: an analysis of decade-specific words in song titles listed in Billboard.

Some of these may seem obvious: if you hear a song with “twist” or some variation thereof in the title, it’s almost certainly from the 1960s. I ran a search on the database on my desktop, and between 1960 and 1988, there were 54 chart items containing “twist” — but 46 of them were before 1965. More startling: “you” doesn’t place in the top five of any decade until the 1990s, and “love” is a factor only in the 1980s, a gentle rebuke to those who think we’ve had enough of silly love songs.

And if we’re going to play pronouns, in the 90s “you” lives cheek by jowl with “u,” and “u” persists into the new century while “you” drops below threshold, though “ya” makes a top-five appearance. After 2010, all those variations on “you” are gone — but “we” is preeminent. Sociologists ought to have a field day with that one.

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Quote of the week

The conclusion of a heartfelt piece by Brandon Finnigan at AOSHQ:

We live our lives, and make more lives, and mourn those lost, and celebrate our milestones, the milestones of others, and fuck up, and fix ourselves, and fuck up further, and triumph, and fail, and repeat all of this until our heart taps out. That is the shared experience of billions. We are well aware of the workings and complexities of the universe we live in, and for some it depresses: we get maybe ten decades of life in a multidimensional spacetime that will last trillions of years.

But those among us who see it that way get things all wrong. Sure, there is an incalculable amount of stuff in our universe (or multiverse if you subscribe to that eleven-dimension reality). Yes, there are probably trillions of life forms in this one. But the few bits of stuff lucky enough to be alive, and further, self-aware, like the bits within ourselves, have an incredible moment. The life we live itself is fantastically beautiful, especially since it isn’t guaranteed, it has no certainty, and rises and falls in the blink of a cosmic eye. Whether by chance or by divine hand, that we are even here, with the conscious ability to do and see and explore and try and hope while we are, is extremely precious. Why waste it in an introverted darkness? Why wallow? Life is promised to none of us. Live it.

This is here more for my reference than for yours.

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Devoid of buzz

Most of this game, it seemed, consisted of watching the Thunder retrieving a Hornet miss: Charlotte’s two heavy hitters, Al Jefferson and Kemba Walker, were held to 10 points between them. (Walker had 6.) Then again, all you really need to know is this: both Lance Thomas and Grant Jerrett played. In fact, no starter for either side played in the fourth quarter until Perry Jones was reinserted with three minutes left, perhaps to give him some simulated crunch-time experience. The Hornets, who’d won four straight coming into this game, looked pretty much stunned by halftime, at which point they trailed 59-40. The final was an almost-embarrassing 98-75.

There was some Charlotte offense: reserve point guard Brian Roberts knocked down 17 points in less than 20 minutes, and Marvin Williams added 11. (Cody Zeller and Michael Kidd-Gilchrist were the top-scoring starters, at, um, nine each.) The Buglets shot a dismal 29 percent, 21 percent from outside, and while they did pull off eight steals, they lost the rebounding battle 57-52. And if 52 sounds like a lot of rebounds for the losing team, well, the fourth-quarter version of the Thunder obligingly missed a lot of shots, dropping OKC to under 41 percent. (Jerrett put up five treys, none of them actually going through the net.)

Russell Westbrook, who sat with three minutes left in the third, still racked up 29 points. Serge Ibaka put together another double-double: 13 points, 14 rebounds, along with four blocks. (The Hornets had two blocks total.) Anthony Morrow led the OKC bench with 11. And a 44-24 advantage in points in the paint never hurts.

So it’s back to Not Quite .500, by which we mean 15-16. Next opponent, however, will presumably be a little tougher: the Mavericks, in Dallas on Sunday.

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Standing in the draft

It is seldom a swell idea to antagonize visitors, though some folks can shrug it off [link NSFW]:

A few nudists I have spoken to tell me they answer their doors naked, and they have given pretty good reasons for doing it, and that I should too.

I just don’t have the nerve to do it though. I’d probably just collapse laughing if I did.

I’d like to hear some of those reasons, because I can’t think of any just now. This is not to say I’ve never done it before, but there are good reasons not to. Said I, about a year ago:

Actually, this is not an issue for me: I keep a robe by the door, just in case. (There were these two Jehovah’s Witnesses that one time, but that was years ago.) As a general rule, I am disinclined to outrage the neighbors. That said, it must also be said that there used to be a woman around the corner who in two years saw me dressed exactly once: there has always been a small number of people who have given notice, one way or another, that they won’t be perturbed at the sight. The operative word, though, is “small”: I don’t think there’s ever been more than four or five names on the list, and most people just call first so I’ll have time to feign decency.

And there’s perhaps another issue. I have developed a decent, so to speak, relationship with a pizza joint, based on (1) never ordering at inopportune moments and (2) being generous with tips. As a result, I tend to get my pizza somewhat faster than predicted at the time of ordering. I would hate to jeopardize this sweet deal by flashing the delivery person.

Now if sister Joni (1962-2003) were still around, I’d have to ask her about those reasons; she seemed to have no qualms about answering the door in whatever state she happened to be in. (She was on my list, and if she had had one, I was certainly on hers.)

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Importuning the Googlebot

Sent to the help desk in just this side of despair:

Why is help chat unavailable? How do I turn off the blinking (that’s a euphemism) touchpad? How do I correct spelling errors? Nevermind, a mouse will fix that. Why isn’t touchpad in the dictionary? But that is all incidental to main issue. Why aren’t local files automatically uploaded to the net? And did you really download all of my documents from the net to my Chromebook? By the way I plugged the charger into an adapter and plugged that into the wall and I was rewarded with a big fat spark. I suspect the charger is toast, but I am loath to try it in case something worse happens. BA is a big city, but I am afraid finding a replacement charger is liable to take all my available time and cash. P.S. I was going to say chromebook isn’t in the dictionary, but it was only the lower case ‘C’ that was clamoring for attention. And why do I think adaptor should be spelled with an ‘O’?

BA, incidentally, denotes Buenos Aires, not Broken Arrow.

The result:

Update: A Google-bot called me back immediately after I sent my message, only to tell me that my wait time would be 30 minutes. Are you kidding me? I am going to hang on hold for half an hour waiting to talk to someone about something simple? Well, thanks but no. I will figure this out on my own.

This is the new standard for customer service: get on it right away, and then cough up the answer at about the time you probably would have gotten to it anyway.

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She still gotta be

Des’ree’s “You Gotta Be” was one of my favorite songs of 1994, and after it popped up in the shuffle, I played it a second time, and started wondering whatever happened to her: she definitely had the songwriting chops, and she was certifiably photogenic, so where the heck is she?

Des'ree

The answer, apparently, is “In Canada, without a recording contract”; Sony dropped her after her 2003 album Dream Soldier failed to make any waves.

Dream Soldier by Des'ree

One single was issued from Dream Soldier: “It’s Okay,” which barely charted in Britain and never made any headway in the States. It deserved better:

Most of her catalogue is on YouTube from, um, unofficial sources, though she did upload a video of her appearance at cd:uk, which was live in the same way American Bandstand was live. I’m guessing this was taped in 1999, after Ford used “You Gotta Be” in a commercial for the Focus, prompting Sony to reissue the single:

Despite dumping Des’ree, Sony subsequently issued an album called Endangered Species: The Best of Des’ree, which includes some alternate versions from the vault and a selection of live tracks.

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Premium inversion

In the fall of 2008, I said something to this effect about my insurance bill:

For the car, that is; I’ve already gotten the notice for the house. (The car, incidentally, costs more, probably because it’s easier to steal.)

After the last few years of, um, rate adjustments, it now costs nearly twice as much to insure the house as it does the car.

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18 holes and quit digging

Some people must simply hate the idea that Barack Obama plays golf:

More people than I can count have taken to social media in the aftermath of the shooting to complain that once the president condemned the shooting, he went back to his vacation schedule, and specifically, that he had the temerity to play golf during that vacation.

This reaction is ridiculous beyond belief, spectacularly juvenile, and should stop at some point before the Chicago Cubs win the World Series. Here is why:

First of all, if the world stopped for an American president every time a police officer is killed, the world would stop an awful lot and the president’s job would become nothing short of impossible to do. I do not write this to diminish the deaths of police officers; whenever a police officer loses his of her life at the hands of some hoodlum, the proper response should be outrage, not resignation. But after the shooting occurs, what is the president supposed to do? Call a meeting of the National Security Council? Go to DEFCON 2? Ask Congress for a declaration of war? What?

And it’s not like he takes that many vacation days, either.

Still, I’m not betting on the Cubs in ’15 or ’16, and in ’17 it won’t matter.

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Holiday brawl

How evenly were these teams depleted? Kevin Durant is still out for the Thunder; San Antonio was missing Kawhi Leonard and Boris Diaw, and in the fourth quarter Gregg Popovich pulled Tim Duncan, perhaps thinking of tomorrow night’s game at New Orleans. (Duncan eventually wheedled his way back in.) Weirdly, Pop pulled all his starters except Danny Green with 1:26 left with the Spurs down six. I’m guessing psy-war, because seven seconds later, most of them were back, the reserves having scored two points. There were few large leads all afternoon; the Thunder were up by three at the half, but it took a 38-point fourth quarter to dispatch the Spurs, 114-106.

As always, the Spurs came from all directions: Pop deployed 11 players, nine of them scored, and seven of them scored in double figures: four of the starters, plus Matt Bonner (a team-high 17), Manu Ginobili (11, plus 13 assists) and Cory Joseph (14). Time management was definitely a factor: only Bonner and Marco Belinelli played more than 30 minutes. But this is your Telltale Statistic for the day: Tim Duncan, highest-scoring starter for the Spurs with 15 points, finished with a -34.

Once again, Russell Westbrook did that dazzle thing, collecting 34 points and serving up 11 dimes. Steven Adams tied his season high with 16 points and grabbed a career-high 15 rebounds. Serge Ibaka had only the one block, but he was good for 21 points and nine boards. Inexplicably, Perry Jones was scoring big-time: 5-7 for 14 points. In fact, this was not really a day for missed shots on either side: both teams shot 42-81, 52 percent. The Thunder, surprisingly, were better on treys (9-15 vs 7-23); however, OKC was terrible at the foul line (21-38 vs 15-21).

And let’s face it, it’s always fun to beat the Spurs. The Thunder will come home for a Friday game with the Hornets before heading down to Dallas for a Sunday clash with the Mavs.

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Kicks far from pumped up

Robert Stacy McCain, still amused by feminists, tossed out this line:

[S]tand-up comedians have endlessly mined the female obsession with shoes. I’m convinced that every woman, no matter her socioeconomic status or cultural background, secretly yearns to be Imelda Marcos. Even the wealthiest man is probably content with owning two or three pairs of shoes (dress shoes in black and brown for business, plus a pair of sneakers for the weekend) while his female office assistant owns a closet full of shoes in every color and style imaginable.

I left him a comment to the effect that I had, in fact, seven pairs of shoes. The breakdown, should you be curious: sneakers (2), walking shoes (2), sport sandals (1), black wing-tips (1), slides (1). In those cases where I have two pairs of a type, one is newer and the other is awaiting demotion to yard duty or lower.

In fact, I’ve been at between six and eight pairs for at least a decade. I note with no small amount of amusement that so far as I know, Trini has never owned more than five.

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