Infiltration alert

I am regularly regaled with supermarket stories — I’ve told a few myself over the years — but this one is new to me:

I wheel the little cart up to the only checkout with a human in it. I recognize her of course; she works evenings. I’m still expecting things to go as usual at this point, because I haven’t figured it out yet. I’m the only one who hasn’t figured it out. Why is she just standing there? Staring down with a frown?

We are both still and silent for a moment.

“Oh no,” she says.

I’m still wondering why she isn’t checking out groceries. And then she drops a truth bomb that will reverberate in my brain ’till the end of my days:

“This is not our cart.”

This must be a Really Big Deal indeed, though it occurs to me that people wander through stores with canvas bags of unknown provenance every day, and so far as I know, not a word is said about it.

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It ain’t necessarily Byrd Avenue

The goldfinch, the very species that’s sat on the front page for the last eleven years, is usually a placid sort of bird: it will vigorously defend a nest under construction, but it’s otherwise not particularly aggressive. Unless, of course, I’m totally wrong about Carduelis tristis:

[T]wo mornings in a row have found a tiny goldfinch perched haphazardly on the screen of my office window pecking away at the fine mesh. Are there tiny bugs infesting the screen? Is there lint mixed with the dirt on the panes? Is he attacking his reflection? I don’t know. Dr. Doolittle did not deign to teach me to talk with the goldfinch. I do know the cute little bastard has torn holes in my screen.

I always wondered if the woodpeckers two blocks over were plotting a coup.

(Title swiped from Spanky and Our Gang.)

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Creeping dimensions

Now what could I do with a 3D printer? Fabricate a new radiator support for the car? Add a couple of weapons to the arsenal?

Or maybe just make myself dizzy:

Also available in Derpy:

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Crafty remarks

She keeps saying this word, and I think it means exactly what she says it means:

[W]hen I say “craft,” I am thinking of the long tradition of skilled people who make stuff by hand, especially stuff that is useful — potters and knitters and weavers and cabinet makers. But when I say “craft” I think lots of people hear “novelty loo-roll covers” and get turned off.

That definition may be informed, or perhaps deformed, by Arts and Crafts classes in grade schools several decades ago, in which the objective, so far as I could tell, was to produce something that looked vaguely like the picture in the book.

And, as the young folks say, THIS:

I don’t know if it’s possible to “reclaim” the term “craft” or to come up with something new. But there needs to be a term for something that’s not really art in the sense that it’s something you might use every day (most art, I think of as being too fragile or precious to use) but that is beautiful and well made.

Furthermore, these days, apart from fragility and preciousness, rather a lot of art seems to be transgressive for the sake of transgression, and critics, aware on which side their bread is buttered, are often not inclined to note that the Emperor lost his last garment — a faux-leather belt festooned with 57 pointy studs, once for each state — several blocks ago.

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Tired eyes

Visualize whirled rubber:

205/55R16: sidewall height 112.75 mm, circumference 1985.17 mm, ride height radius 315.95 mm.

215/55R16: sidewall height 118.25 mm, circumference 2019.73 mm, ride height radius 321.45 mm.

(Dimensions courtesy of McGrefer UK.)

If you can distinguish the two at a glance, you have better sight than I do, Gunga Din.

Yesterday I was making the Long Trip (a bit over 10 miles) home, and noticed that Gwendolyn was favoring her right side just a little: nothing heinous, but nothing to be encouraged either. First stop was the Oklahoma Gazette office, to snag a copy of the alt-ish weekly, and as I returned to the car, I saw: whatever the heck that was, it was a long way from 33 psi.

Okay, fine. I’ve got just enough time, and probably just enough inflation, to make it to the tire shop. Let them worry about it. (Probably just random storm debris, of which we have an abundance of late.) The shop duly looked over the offending tire, and pronounced it fixable, maybe — but these things are five years old, and they won’t last much longer.

Still in “okay, fine” mode, I bade them replace the lot. Which they did, although they ran a bit past closing time. Handling seemed a little squirrely, but I attributed that to unfamiliarity with the new rubber.

But then I got home, and the shadow on the garage wall looked, well, wrong. Just a little too short. I fetched a light and inspected the sidewall. Yep: they’d put on 205s instead of 215s.

So the tail end of this afternoon was devoted to swapping them out yet again. (I’d run up just under 30 miles on the 205s.) No harm, no foul, but still plenty weird.

As for the tires themselves, they’re Cooper CS4s, which have the dual distinction of (1) being made in the States and (2) being offered by no automaker anywhere as OEMs. Compared to the old Dunlops, they’re one speed rating lower — H instead of V, though since the actual OEM specification is for H, this presented no issue — and a bit more relaxed on crummy pavement, of which we also have an abundance of late. I didn’t need a $700 hole in the pocketbook just now, but there’s no point in prolonging the inevitable.

Sort of aside: We are told that the treadwear ratings don’t necessarily imply anything, other than that a 200-rated tire will last twice as long as a 100. The OEM Bridgestones on my old Mazda, which bore a 500 rating, crapped out at 50,600 miles. The Dunlops being replaced were rated at 460; they made it to just over 43,000. I reserve the right to draw whatever conclusions I want from this. (CS4: 560.)

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Love minus zero, plus something

Somewhere down the fanfiction road, I’m tempted to talk Twilight Sparkle into dividing by zero, just to see what happens. In the meantime, Mark Alger, no slouch of a storyteller himself, is playing with the concept, starting, sensibly enough, with Dolly telling him you can’t do that:

Well, properly speaking, you can, but the answer is out of the normal bounds of our concepts of numbers. And, of course, computers lose it when you try to make them calculate it. But, really, it makes logical sense. Zero zeroths is a whole zero, right? I mean, it’s nothing, but it’s ONE nothing. A slippery concept, I’ll admit, but not as weird as n dimensions.

And this also requires admitting that dividing zero by itself to get one is a special case. And what if that means that 0/0=1 is also 0/0=∞? Talk about your special cases. And what does that imply about the question raised in the linked article as to whether infinity actually exists in the real world, or is just a mental construct? See how that blows your dress up.

The reason we have mental constructs in the first place, I suspect, is as placeholders for things we actually haven’t found yet. (Think “Higgs boson”; it explains much, even in its “well, we think we saw one” status.) If you push me, I’d say that infinite anything probably violates at least one law of physics — and that a hundred years from now, those laws will have probably been updated somewhat.

That said, there are transfinite numbers, which I understand barely if at all, and hyperreal numbers, which are at least easy to explain:

The hyperreals, or nonstandard reals, *R, are an extension of the real numbers R that contains numbers greater than anything of the form

1 + 1 + … + 1.

Such a number is infinite, and its reciprocal is infinitesimal.

I never expect to see a number that is truly infinite, though its reciprocal I see every month on my bank statement: it’s the interest rate they pay me.

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Put away that sprinkler

In case they didn’t make it clear the first time, the city has sent out a brochure linking back to their water-consumption site — and it’s a neat trick, putting a link in a brochure, n’est-ce pas? — saying straight out that watering restrictions are never, ever going away.

What they’re not saying, at least for now, is the actual aggregate lake level, which is presumably over 50 percent or we’d be in Stage 2 (two days a week instead of three or four). Canton Lake, tapped during the dry winter, is not much over 20 percent, though the local reservoirs are, um, flush for the moment, what with rains out the wazoo of late.

Oh, and I went to to see if there was any supplemental information to be had. There wasn’t, but there was this tornado-related announcement that struck me as a trifle, um, insensitive: “Call 297-1030 if your home was destroyed.” (This is the newly-minted Storm Debris Line, and rather a lot of folks have rather more storm debris than they’d like.) At least it’s not on the radio.

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Smaller Government Motors

Fifty million shares of General Motors go on the block today, thirty million from the Treasury, twenty million from the UAW Retiree Medical Benefits Trust, in the hopes that the General’s return to the Standard & Poor’s 500 index (also today) will hype the price a bit.

Of the $49 billion taxpayers put up to bail out GM, almost $32 billion has been recovered; assuming a price in the low-to-mid-30s, the Treasury offering should bring in a billion more. Officially, Treasury plans to exit GM entirely by next April; it’s not likely they’ll break even, but the company may well be helped by losing the stigma of being “Government Motors” — at least in the States. Canada and the province of Ontario, which hold about 9 percent of GM stock, aren’t selling at this time.

Treasury, I have to figure, isn’t particularly thrilled by the fact that much of GM’s market momentum is being propelled by the arrival of new trucks, but I also figure that fiduciary responsibility trumps green posturing elsewhere in Washington. And if it doesn’t, well, it should.

(Via The Truth About Cars.)

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Living large-ish

Brylane Home, whose parent company once upon a time was associated with Lane Bryant but is no longer, now has a catalog called “plus+size living,” which opens with several pages of the same flimsy-looking patio furniture everyone else sells, but with higher weight capacities: the semi-traditional outdoor rocking chair made of funny-colored resin is expanded to 19½ inches wide, wider than some of the seats in Kansas City’s Sprint Center, and holds, they say, up to 600 lb.

Just for laughs, I decided to see if they had a bathroom scale. They have a couple. One maxes out at 550 lb, the other at 400.

Some of the kitchen stuff, like the double deep fryer, drew mirth. Then there’s the electric mandoline, which grates or juliennes or just slices; it’s the first such I’ve ever seen, irrespective of size considerations.

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Drive toward Google

T-Mobile is killing off its MobileLife Album at the end of this month, so people who have used that online photo storage facility will have to find some other place to play. Now obviously I’m not hurting for storage space — I can get a terabyte from Flickr — but T-Mo has offered to set me up with Google Drive, about which I know nothing except that it’s a cloud-based service. (I experimented briefly with cloud storage, decided it was too cumbersome, but figured maybe it was just the implementation.)

So this is a tech bleg: if you’re using Google Drive, I’d like to know what you think of it, and whether it has any worthwhile advantages to offset its parent’s Skynettish tendencies.

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Heartier parties

I admit to having never really been a Scene Kid, inasmuch as when there became things recognizable as a Scene, I was no longer a kid. However, I do try to pay attention to cultural phenomena, and with that in mind, I direct you to this historical artifact featuring local DJ Ed Crunk:

The current social media and flow of fashion and ideas come from the new aged generation that just breached adulthood. We are the unrecognized leaders of ideas and movements that create what we know as “the scene”. Now think about it, 20 years ago, the 80’s just ended and 90’s taking music to a completely new idea. I wish I could go back to this time. Spending most of my days worry free doing whatever I felt like as long as it didn’t bother anyone else. Which is where the drugs took their part in the creation of the sound we have today. Metal and Hardcore on the rise going harder than ever before. For the scene it was a peak and it seems we are climbing back to that peak.

I didn’t see the Nineties as being particularly worry-free, but then I was fat and fortyish and worried about everything imaginable. But that 20-year timetable makes sense: it’s about a generation wide, about the distance from your first cry in the delivery room to the first time no one questions your fake ID. (By no coincidence, Ed’s been DJing here for just about 20 years.)

After the jump, Ed at work.

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The wide, wide whirled

The National Weather Service ruled yesterday that the El Reno tornado on the last day of May, the one that briefly was headed toward me before turning away and then fizzling out, qualified for EF5 status with winds briefly clocked by mobile radar at 296 mph. Or more.

Further, the width of the thing maxed out at 2.6 miles, which is considered the national record for such things, although mobile radar (again!) suggested the width of the storm that took out half of Mulhall on 3 May 1999 (there’s that date again) might have been as much as 4.3 miles. At this point, can you even call it a funnel?

As for the controversy over whether it was appropriate for a local TV Weather God to suggest trying to flee the storm, I’m going with “In times of dire emergency, lots of things are said, some of them stupid.” I may say some of them myself. But I’m not about to go outside in that stuff. Mere hail — which did a mere ten grand worth of damage to my roof three years ago — will bring traffic to its knees as people look for something they can hide under. And this was several thousand times OMGWTFBBQ worse than mere hail. I knew traffic wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was I. Your mileage may vary.

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Circular firing squad

There are several reasons why a Democratic candidate might lose an election, ranging from failure to secure the correct endorsements to insufficient bribery. However, there’s only one way for a Republican candidate to lose. Robert Stacy McCain reports from the sideline:

This never changes — the Articulate Elite point the finger of blame at the yammering mob of right-wingers as scapegoats for the defeat, while the yammering mob claim they were betrayed by fainthearts and establishment insiders who rigged the game to nominate a weak-kneed RINO who proves that there’s Not a Dime’s Worth of Difference, etc., etc., ad infinitum.

A lot of this is really just the Dougherty Doctrine: “At the end of the day, the arguments all seem to boil down to something similar: If it were more like me, the Republican Party would be better off. It’s failing because it’s like you.”

Bottom line: The Democrats have enforcers who can actually enforce. The GOP? If they had an actual machine, it would spend most of the time in the repair shop.

As for the proverbial Dime, it takes at least a quarter to impress the likes of me.

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Not in Constantinople

When someone says “telenovela,” I start thinking in terms of the TV dramas popular in Latin America, sort of like soap operas but with an actual fixed conclusion. I don’t remember seeing any such in Turkey, but they apparently do exist: Yaprak Dökümü (The Fall of Leaves), the saga of a family newly arrived in Istanbul, ran for 174 episodes.

Fahriye Evcen, born on this date in 1986 in North Rhine-Westphalia, not the first place I think of when contemplating Turkish actresses, played the next-to-youngest daughter, Necla, who swipes a boyfriend from Leyla, a couple of years her senior, and winds up in a classic downward spiral after they split.

Fahriye Evcen in Marie Claire

The series ended in 2010, and Evcen has since done film work. The above photo comes from a December feature in Marie Claire. Who knew that Marie Claire had a Turkish edition? Probably the same person who knew that there were telenovelas in Turkey.

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Thou shalt take heed

Something perhaps lost in translation over the millennia (well, two of them, anyway):

[J]ust about any time I teach from the Scriptures I have to point out a place where the English Bible says “you,” but the original Hebrew or Greek indicates you plural rather than you singular. This means the original author was addressing to a group of people, but a modern English reader can’t detect this because in common English we use “you” for both singular (“you are awesome”) and plural (“you are a team”). This often leads modern readers to think “you” refers to him or her as an individual, when in fact it refers to the community of faith.

Here in Texas (and in the Southern US more generally), I tell my audience that we have a perfect equivalent to the original Greek/Hebrew second person plural: “y’all” the contraction of “you all.”

In some particularly Suthun climes, it’s even more subtle than that: there is Singular (“you”), Specific Plural (“y’all”), More Generalized Plural (“all y’all”). This inevitably baffles New Yorkers and such, who are used to constructions like “youse.” However, with a little practice, anypony can get used to a new set of pronouns.

(Via Finestkind Clinic and fish market.)

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Curtains drawn

A harrowing, yet sort of happy, tale of being thirteen and confronted with “Someone Saved My Life Tonight”:

I didn’t even know what despair was at that age. It was just a feeling I had no words for, a weighing down of my soul that kept me from being truly happy. And here was Elton, so obviously unhappy with things in his life. Was he fleeing from the thing that made him unhappy or was he fleeing from his unhappiness in general? I dug deep into the words, trying to decipher them. The thought of him walking head on into the deep end of the river filled me with dread yet at the same time I thought about how freeing that would be, to just slip into the water and let it take me.

It’s facile to say that there’s no existential dread like teenage existential dread. Which doesn’t make it any less true.

And really, who was expecting something like this so soon after “The Bitch Is Back” or “Philadelphia Freedom”? Yeah, there was “I Think I’m Going To Kill Myself” way back on Honky Château, but we all knew this was just temporary discomfort; at worst, he had a busted wing and a hornet sting.

Still, the river would not be claiming her:

I knew I’d never have the guts to kill myself. But I also knew my first time thinking about it would not be my last. And there was some small comfort in the fact that this musician I idolized shared what felt like a sacred moment with me; that moment when you think maybe enough is enough. I thought about how many other people in the world have felt like ending it all and how many actually did it. It was a sobering thought and I pushed myself into thinking that it could get better, it would get better. After all, Elton John walked away from that river and freed himself from his unhappiness. If he could do it, so could I.

From a point closer to the end than to the beginning, let me assure you: this isn’t a sentiment you have to be an adolescent to appreciate.

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