Strange search-engine queries (333)

A thousand or more searchers land on this site every single week, which means that there’s a good chance there will be enough weird stuff to fill up this Monday-morning roundup. There is, of course, only one way to find out, and we shall do exactly that.

what brand of pantyhose does ann coulter wear?  I have no idea. I assume she selects for run resistance, unless Romney is running.

divorce changes people:  Sometimes more than marriage did.

download like a pirate:  I have it saved as a keyboard macro: Ctrl-Arrr.

i have no business breeding:  Oddly, people who don’t think that are more likely to have no business breeding.

why does nobody sell vanishing cream:  It’s apparently hard to find on the shelf.

what does double secret probation mean:  It means we can’t tell you, even if you ask twice.

is over 500 dollars too expensive for a tranny service, coolant flush, rotate tires, change air filter, inspection sticker at a dealership:  No. Now how come you didn’t have them change the oil?

why don’t vicky from fairly odd parents wear a bra:  It’s against the by-laws of Babysitters Raging Against Twerps (B.R.A.T.).

air conditioner victoria secret bras:  The effect is pretty much what you’d expect, even on Vicky from Fairly Oddparents.

down under shoes:  Ewww. Scrape that stuff off before you come in the house.

naming a baby shillelagh?  Works for me. Don’t be surprised, though, if she beats you up when she’s grown.

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Mass confusion

Scott Brooks might have yelled “Doesn’t anybody know how to play this game?” Actually, he might not have, since he’d already been T’d up once already tonight. But the Thunder’s execution tonight was, to be charitable, inconsistent, and while they managed to creep out to a ten-point lead briefly in the third quarter, things unraveled quickly after that, culminating with a four-minute dry spell midway through the fourth. But this being a Thunder game, there’s always a rally, and OKC put together a 6-0 run (in 45 seconds!) to pull within one with a minute and a half left. That was all, though: the Heat knocked down five of six free throws, versus nothing through the net for the Thunder, and Miami goes up 2-1 in the series with a 91-85 win.

Speaking of free throws, isn’t it about time Oklahoma City actually started making a few? They were below par from the stripe in the first two games, but 15 of 24? That’s nine points they gave away. Add to that being outrebounded 45-38, and a wretched 4-22 from beyond the arc, and it’s a wonder they lost by only six.

The Heat, meanwhile, were taking care of business. They weren’t shooting all that well — 38 percent, five less than the Thunder — but they collected on the fast break (19-12) and cashed in at the foul line (31-35). LeBron James, Mr. Methodical tonight, wound up with 29 points and 14 rebounds; Dwyane Wade picked up 25 more, and Chris Bosh, starting again, logged a double-double of his own, with 10 points and 11 boards.

To some extent, the Thunder did what they could. Kevin Durant, in foul trouble much of the evening, still managed to drop in 25 points; Russell Westbrook checked in with 19, and Kendrick Perkins turned in a Boshlike 10 points and 12 boards. But James Harden’s shooting hand was cold, and Miami expat Daequan Cook, brought in for a couple of possessions, landed a single brick. It was not pretty.

The battle resumes Tuesday in the City of Vice. Methinks the Heat smell blood.

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Just wear what you’re told

Cadenza suspects the marketroids who sell “plus-size” clothing for women of thinking along these lines:

“Well, I guess we need models and such for our clothes. Hrm. We *could* pick models 5’11” or taller. At least that way nobody can bitch that we are using models who are less than a size 10. Because, you know, even though the average female is 5’4″, we wouldn’t want our models to represent our clothes the way they would fit the average customer. Yeah. I think that we should stick to models who are technically bigger than a size 10, but whose bodies look nothing like the average person buying our clothes. Because we don’t want our models to make anyone feel good. Mostly we just want them to function like every other model. To make women feel like they *neeeeeed* our clothes to be pretty. Oh, and if we can’t find any women much taller than average, let’s find women with really exaggerated proportions. And if, on the off chance they bitch anyway, we’ll just say it is the modeling industry’s fault.”

As a Person of Size in my own right (and in a different gender), I suppose I should be grateful that vendors will attempt to sell me the same sort of stuff worn by my thinner brethren — at 1.9 times the price, of course.

Warning: Not all of Cadenza’s posts are safe for work.

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We manly men

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Wright he was

MGM Records’ hotly-hyped Bosstown Sound promotion yielded up lots of recordings, from sorta soft-rock to just over the edge of psychedelia, but not a whole lot of sales: perhaps the biggest hit of the lot was “Can’t Find the Time to Tell You” by Orpheus, which on its second chart run managed to make it to #80 in Billboard. Still, if you could get around group names like Phluph and Chamæleon Church and Ultimate Spinach, you’d find some interesting ear candy, including this ’68 track by Beacon Street Union:

BSU made three albums before breaking up, and lead singer John Lincoln Wright decided to go in another direction entirely:

I remember seeing Wright and some grouping of his Sour Mash Boys one evening at a bar in Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1973 (I think), a night when I was drinking too much Harp and working diligently to avoid being seen by the resident caricaturist. (The bunch with whom I was running had tried to talk me into actual Guinness, though I drew the line at ingesting anything that brackish-looking.) The sound, of course, was nothing like BSU, but Wright could sing up a storm, and we had a few words after the show. I’m reasonably certain he wouldn’t have recalled me, though.

Wright died last December at sixty-four, still a fixture in the New England country-music scene but far from a household word anywhere else. Peter Kinder posted this reminiscence:

The last time I saw Lincoln — as he was known, just “Lincoln” — play was at a dance in some North Cambridge hall. It must have been the late 90s.

He was drinking too much. But when he went on… The man could sing and that band could play and harmonize. What that deep, rich voice could do with lyrics meant for this listener the hall’s dreary half-light and aging and aged dancers disappeared into story and sound.

We didn’t have dancers that night in Cambridge, but otherwise, it’s the same story I could have told a quarter-century before. Says one-time Sour Mash Boy Glenn Shambroom: “John never got beyond being a regional act, because he wasn’t going to stop writing songs about New England and wasn’t going to be a cracker.” It might even be true; he never decamped for Nashville or Austin or any of the other cogs in the star-making machinery, country version.

I got thinking about BSU and Wright, in case you’re wondering, because of a message-board thread about a new CD release of some medium-level psychedelia from those days. Someone brought up an Ultimate Spinach epic, I cited a source for it, which happened to be a Bosstown Sound anthology containing the above BSU track, and, as the phrase goes, one thing led to another.

Random last-minute addendum: The drummer and occasional keyboardist for Chamæleon Church was Chevy Chase (and you weren’t).

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Smaller block

The small-block Chevrolet V8, introduced for the 1955 model year, was an immediate hit. It did what GM wanted it to do — give Chevy an image as something more than just one of the low-priced three — but I’m pretty sure the General never anticipated it would still be around in 2012, a hundred million engines later. That mill was so successful over the years that eventually we started thinking of it as the first small-block V8, which would surprise your local Studebaker fan, who knows better.

That 232-cubic-inch engine (3.38 x 3.25) was first dropped into the 1951 Commander, the last of two years of “bullet-nose” Studes. Its power output was what we would consider modest — 120 horsepower — but that was 0.52 pony per cube, a figure you’d need the Chrysler Hemi (0.54), also introduced for 1951, to beat. And Studebaker didn’t stint on the details: this mill had a forged steel crankshaft, gear-driven cam, and mechanical lifters with self-locking adjusting screws. (Anyone who’s ever had to mess with shims will appreciate the latter.)

The ’55 Chevy V8, with more displacement yet less weight, started at 162 hp from 265 cubic inches, though a 283 version was also offered, which, when suitably hotted up, could deliver 283 hp. Studebaker had to respond. In ’55 they had bored out the 232 to 259, which in the top-of-the-line President Speedster was good for 185. Not enough for the Horsepower Wars, so for ’56 they stroked the engine to 289 (now a tad undersquare at 3.56 x 3.63). Two hundred ten out of the box, 225 with some tuning, 275 with the McCulloch supercharger offered in ’57 and ’58.

With the arrival of Studebaker’s one and only sports car, the ’63 Avanti, came the R-series engines, still 289, but starting at 240 hp in base (R1) form, supercharged (R2) to 290, and tweaked further (R3) to 335. A few R4 and R5 engines were built for competition, but supposedly were not installed in any cars sold to civilians. (An experimental R5, displacing 304 cubic inches and sporting twin blowers and fuel injection, reportedly made it to 575 hp.)

But Studebaker by then was not long for this world, and when they fled South Bend for Canada for the 1965 model year, they left their engines behind. If you wanted a ’65 or ’66 Ontario-built Stude with a V8, you could get one — but it would be, perhaps ironically, a small-block Chevy under that clean, uncluttered nose.

(With thanks to Bill Jackameit and Bob’s All quoted horsepower figures are SAE gross; net figures, more strictly comparable to contemporary net numbers, would be less.)

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Sean Gleeson, always up to something new, has now given us something old: the Latin prayers from the Catholic tradition, plus English translations, plus massively-configurable options. For instance, you can suppress ligatures and accent marks by simple checkboxes, in case you’re flustered by, say, “Dómine Deus, Rex cæléstis” from the Gloria. As always with a Gleeson production, the design is stirring, but the content is more so.

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Veni, vidi, Vicodin

This pitch landed in the spam trap last night:

Discount Hydrocodone 10/325, 60 p. – $199
NEW !!! Hydrocodone 10/500 mg (WATSON 540) – 60 pills $249, Hydrocodone 10/500 mg (WATSON 540) – 90 pills $339. Buy NOW!

Now any combo with under 15 mg of the opioid glides onto Schedule III, flying under the Feds’ Schedule II radar, presumably a Good Thing for prescriptions filled without a prescription. Still, this seems awfully spendy: last time I bought any of this stuff — admittedly, only 5/500, which is generally all I need, as my dentist understands by now — I shelled out just under 15 cents a tab, so low, even in aggregate, that the insurance doesn’t even notice it. Then again, I fall short of the level of addiction typical of the poor shlub who actually responds to such ads.

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First you must have Faith

Oh, wait. Tim McGraw has Faith. Doesn’t mean we can’t take a look now and then, though. On stage at the CMA Music Festival last week, here’s Faith Hill making some perhaps joyful noise:

Faith Hill at 2012 CMA Music Festival

I don’t know what she’s singing, but I’ll bet it’s not Taylor Swift’s song “Tim McGraw.”

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Dressing up to par

The 112th U.S. Open is taking place in San Francisco, and Lisa thinks she probably didn’t have to worry so much about What To Wear:

There were people in jeans, wearing crocs and even dressed in full on Larry the Cable Guy regalia. Not to say I looked out of place in my skort, collared golf shirt, tasteful cotton cardigan, spectator pumps and pearls. I’m just saying the Grumpy Old Rich White Men that I thought would be working so hard to enforce Eisenhower-era dress codes seemed to be asleep at the switch. Or maybe, their desire to have a sell-out event — which they did — and a massive buying spree in the merchandise tents — overrode their normal standards.

I can imagine no circumstances in which she’d look out of place, so I’m attributing this to a light case of Fear of the Unknown, coupled with her admission that she doesn’t know jack about golf. Besides, I seriously heart spectator pumps, Jazz Age throwbacks that they are. And it’s not like golfers themselves are exactly garbed in carefully-coordinated Garanimals.

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With the new HaltGrinder app

Day before yesterday, two other sites I run had bogged down to slower than a crawl, while this one, which gets roughly 100 times the traffic of the other two combined, was whizzing along as usual. I assumed this was a cache issue, inasmuch as this site is cached and the others aren’t, so I duly installed a cache plugin, and, while I was at it, moved up to WordPress 3.4. The gain in speed was microscopic, and after sweating it for entirely too long, I turned in a trouble ticket to the host.

The response was quick, and somewhat unexpected. The nature of WordPress is somewhat bifurcated: you have your Web server, but most of what it’s serving is coming from a separate database machine. I had guessed that communication between the two boxes had been severed, or at least impaired, and when a couple of tracert runs timed out, I was sure of it. Well, no: the requests weren’t getting to the database because procwatch was killing them. It goes like this:

The problem is not necessarily with either of the domains you listed, but with any domain or combination of domains hosted under [user name]. If domain-A is using 99% of the allotted memory and domain-B uses the other 1%, it will be domain-B’s scripts that get killed, even though domain-A is the one using all the memory. (For this reason, it may be sufficient to simply split up some of your domains among multiple users.)

See “100 times the traffic,” supra. And, of course, being lazy, I’d set them up over the years under the same user name, failing to anticipate that for convenience in administration they might eventually put them all on the same shared server. (I don’t have the traffic to justify anything more than that.)

So new users were created, and behavior returned to normal in a matter of minutes. And I’ve installed a little gizmo that calls out the memory usage at any given moment, along the bottom of the admin screen. (Which, of course, uses some memory, but TANSTAAFL applies, as it always must.)

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When mere tickets aren’t enough

From The City of New York vs. Homer Simpson (1997): “Dear motorist, your vehicle is illegally parked in the borough of Manhattan. If you do not remedy this malparkage within 72 hours, your car will be thrown into the East River at your expense.”

With all due respect to New York’s Finest, they’ve got nothing on the Brits:

Nima Hosseini Razi, a tourist hoping to enjoy some sightseeing in London, was having some car trouble. His vehicle had broken down near Parliament Square, not far from the House of Commons and Westminster Abbey, so he parked it — illegally — and decided to go for a walk while he waiting for help to arrive. He even left a note that told authorities the car was broken and for them to please not issue him a ticket.

However, when Mr. Razi returned to his vehicle, he found that it had been totally destroyed. Apparently, anti-terror police don’t take lightly to locked cars that are abandoned near government facilities and landmarks.

And yes, he did get a ticket.

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Down on Friday

Last Friday, you might recall, I mumbled something about Rebecca Black’s apparent abandonment of her weekly “Ask Rebecca” video series. This Friday, it’s back; she explained that she’d been “super, super busy.” Which is probably true, since apparently she’s back in the studio, which implies a new recording on the way. Certainly I’m not about to claim any credit for her return.

And maybe she’s tired:

why is it that we can be so exhausted during the day, but then have the energy of a thousand suns we try to fall asleep?

I’ve been trying to figure that one out myself.

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I just don’t know what went right

But apparently Tallahassee, after a two-month wait, has finally smiled on someone’s, um, pony car:

Florida license plate reading DERPY

Well, at least we know it’s not a mail truck.

(Via EqD. Yes, it does look a little shaky.)

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Looking around

Horizontal stripes, as we all know, make us look, um, more horizontal than vertical, right? Maybe not:

A square composed of horizontal lines appears taller and narrower than an identical square made up of vertical lines. Reporting this illusion, Hermann von Helmholtz noted that such illusions, in which filled space seems to be larger than unfilled space, were common in everyday life, adding the observation that ladies’ frocks with horizontal stripes make the figure look taller. As this assertion runs counter to modern popular belief, we have investigated whether vertical or horizontal stripes on clothing should make the wearer appear taller or fatter. We find that a rectangle of vertical stripes needs to be extended by 7.1% vertically to match the height of a square of horizontal stripes and that a rectangle of horizontal stripes must be made 4.5% wider than a square of vertical stripes to match its perceived width.

(Full text of the abstract here.)

However, Lynn takes issue with this conclusion:

First of all, very few of us are shaped anything like the lovely little figure used in this research. Then there’s the psychological factor. Maybe stripes really don’t make a difference but if we look at a, shall we say, rather wide person wearing stripes and we think the stripes make her look fatter does it really matter whether or not we can prove scientifically that they do or do not make her look fatter? Also, the color, contrast, and width of the stripes probably make a difference.

Fashion is all about optical illusion, and eyes are easily fooled. (My eyes are really easily fooled.) I’ve never questioned the conventional wisdom in this matter. Perhaps I should.

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Birdies affected

An earthquake of magnitude 2.5 — trivial, right? — struck shortly after 3 pm yesterday. The epicenter apparently was below the 15th hole of the Oklahoma City Golf and Country Club (par 3, maximum 148 yards).

For those keeping score, the palatial estate at Surlywood is about a mile and a half away. I didn’t feel a thing, but then I wasn’t there when it happened.

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