Razor canon

Advice Goddess Amy Alkon draws a plaintive wail from a chap whose girlfriend has forsworn the blade for, um, political reasons, and explains why this is mostly bogus:

As for your girlfriend’s notion that the defurred look traces to “anti-feminist propaganda,” way back before there was Cosmo, there was Ovid, the Roman poet, advising women looking for love: “Let no rude goat find his way beneath your arms” (don’t let your underarms get stanky like a goat), “and let not your legs be rough with bristling hair.” Archeological evidence (including hair-scraping stones and an impressive set of Bronze Age tweezers) suggests that women — and often men — have been shaving, depilating, and yanking out body hair since at least 7,000 B.C. In the early 1500s, Michelangelo sculpted David (who would have been a hairy Middle Eastern dude, looking more Borat than baby’s bottom), making him look like he was too busy spending three weeks at the waxer to slay Goliath. And these days, male bodybuilders also remove their body hair, lest their admirers have to peer through the hair sweater to find the pecs and abs.

For my part, I contributed a verse of this track by The Pursuit of Happiness to the discussion.

And for the record, I have known a few women who were similarly disinclined to defoliate themselves, for whatever reason: there were times when I couldn’t tell without close inspection, and there were times when entering the room was more than sufficient. Since I wasn’t actually dating any of them, I considered it none of my beeswax.

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In the year 5041

A new poem by Sarah de Nordwall recalls a time in the distant past when, believe it or not, life was passed down to new members of the species by a strange being now entirely forgotten.

There was a word used to describe this human;

‘She’

But that couldn’t be possible, could it?

(Retweeted from the poet’s original announcement by Dawn Eden.)

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Freddie’s still dead

Last week’s QOTW speculated that Fred Phelps might have had something of a change of heart before shuffling off this mortal coil.

In possible support of this premise:

Last week, Fred Phelps’ son posted on Facebook that his father, the longtime head of the notoriously venomous Westboro Baptist Church — famous for protesting military and other high-profile funerals and events with neon “God Hates Fags” signs — was “now on the edge of death at Midland Hospice house in Topeka.” Despite Drain’s attempts to downplay the severity of Phelps’s condition, it was reported Tuesday that the 84-year-old Phelps had passed away.

Most intriguing about Nate Phelps’s Facebook post was not the news that an octogenarian’s health was failing, but that Fred Phelps Sr., who founded the hatemongering church in 1955 and turned his progeny into some of the loudest and most despised people in America, had been excommunicated last summer.

“Drain” is Steve Drain, who may have orchestrated that excommunication and installed himself in Westboro’s seat of power.

Still, this might be the single most salient thing said about the demise of Mr Phelps:

(Via Miss Cellania.)

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Meanwhile, a long way from O’Malley’s

Marie’s ready to run her first full marathon, she says, but the first order of business is to find a place to train:

I have experienced one strange obstacle to logging those long runs, the ones greater than about 10 miles: It’s needing to tackle them somewhere other than the sandy back pasture of our farm. NOT finding a solution was beginning to feel like a reason to only run the half. And that would be a big disappointment for me, because I have been determined to run my first full marathon in my fortieth year. Personal goal.

The Mr., however, has found a solution:

Handsome found a park about fifteen minutes east of the farm that seems perfect. It is public but not too crowded; it is encircled by a paved one-mile track with some incline here and there; and most days a police officer watches nearby. So the problem has been solved, at least temporarily.

This is clearly a cause for celebration, and as part of the jubilee, she’s written some new words to an old song by Rupert Holmes. Do you like piña coladas?

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A standard deduction, perhaps

A tax-preparation package has a fan:

[O]nce again this year I used the online version of TurboTax and if I was female, unmarried, forty years younger, and a science fiction character, I’d have TurboTax’s children. I heart TurboTax.

I have no idea which science-fiction character, of course. (Maybe Tam’s “Podkayne of Des Moines”?)

This ointment, however, contains a very distinct fly:

But their service is obviously designed for people of all, um, levels of sentience.

No, I won’t spoil it for you.

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The usual two chances

Which, you’ll remember, are “slim” and “none”:

Yahoo! Answers screenshot: I want Ferrari and beautiful girl. What to do?

It’s a safe bet he can’t afford the maintenance — and the car is even worse.

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Dallasitude

One does not expect a titanic defensive struggle from Thunder/Mavs, and indeed we didn’t get one; the 13-3 run with which Dallas began the fourth quarter was due less to sparkling Maverick defense than to sputtering Thunder offense. Even then, OKC was still shooting about 50 percent; the problem was, so was Dallas, and the Thunder wasn’t putting up much resistance to the Mavs’ long-ball. (Late in the first half, the Mavs put up three treys in a row in less than a minute.) And then with a minute left, it was tied at 108 following one of those patented Derek Fisher treys from the corner; Russell Westbrook just walked up to Dirk Nowitzki and took the ball away from him, setting up a Kevin Durant trey. José Calderón replied with a three of his own to reknot the game with 1.8 seconds left in regulation. Dirk’s jumper over Westbrook at the buzzer fell short, and the Ghost of Overtimes Past was seen hovering over the arena.

A dilemma: At the horn, Westbrook had logged 31 minutes. Would he come back during the overtime, in violation of his time limit? He didn’t come out for the beginning — but with Dallas up seven with two minutes left, Westbrook was indeed brought back. It didn’t matter, really; Dallas filled up the period with free throws and claimed the season series, 2-1, with a 128-119 win.

Did I mention free throws? The Mavs hit 23 of 28, including seven in the overtime period. (OKC was 15-19.) Oh, and there were those 14 Dallas steals, a 48-37 advantage on the boards, and seven Mavs in double figures, led of course by Dirk with 32 and 10 rebounds. Calderón, the squad’s three-point specialist, knocked down six of nine from outside; Dallas finished with 15 of 38. (OKC was 12-33.) Vince Carter headed the reserves with 16 in 26 minutes.

It’s to the point now where you just want to know if Durant broke 30 or not. Well, yes, he did; in fact, he had 43, on 15-27 shooting including five from deepest Plano. Westbrook, in his slightly limited time, came up with 23; once again, Fisher led the bench with 13 (and the team with +13, all the starters being minus for the night). No sign of Lamb or PJIII.

Now if the season ends up with OKC 2nd and Dallas 7th, which it well may — let’s just hope we didn’t see a preview of the first round.

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I suppose I asked for this

Yesterday I answered another question at Yahoo!, this one having to do with continuously-variable transmissions, and somewhere therein I said this:

CVTs (such as the Jatcos used by Nissan, which owns most of the company) behave differently than ordinary slushboxes, and J. Random Goober, confronted with rising engine noise and a stock-still tach, goes completely to pieces.

This morning, having been notified that I’d been awarded Best Answer, I returned to the page and discovered that Yahoo! had stuck a link under “Random Goober.” Curiosity won out, and this is what I saw:

Random Goober images

Well, um, okay. Who’s that guy in the center?

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Dunces assembled

This is probably as accurate an assessment of corporate meetings as we can find:

I personally have always considered committees as proof that human beings evolved from animals that had tails and liked to chase them. Since the shrinkage of the tail into our stunted coccyx, we were not able to engage in this behavior anymore, and had to develop a new method of doing so. Being as we were a pretty cooperative species prior to the invention of reality television, we created a system whereby we could help one another engage in an activity that was just as useless as tail-chasing: The committee meeting.

And it’s probably just a bit less suggestive than Dave Barry’s:

Meetings are an addictive, highly self-indulgent activity that corporations and other large organizations habitually engage in only because they cannot masturbate.

Bunch of coccyx suckers, the lot of them.

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Traditional medicine, alternative currency

I have occasionally linked to G. Keith Smith, MD, who runs Surgery Center of Oklahoma, one of the few medical facilities that posts its prices for all to see, mostly because I like to encourage that sort of thing.

I knew that they were basically a cash-only operation, but apparently they’re now accepting bitcoin, and Dr Smith, as always, is unapologetic about it:

What underlies my willingness to accept methods of payment other than traditional methods of payment is my concept of exchange itself. Any exchange deemed to be mutually beneficial naturally tends to occur unless the state intervenes. This natural tendency for the exchange to occur prevails as both parties in a mutually beneficial exchange see themselves better off subsequent to the exchange and desire its occurrence, otherwise, one or both parties wouldn’t want to exchange their goods or services in the first place.

As for one particular objection that could be raised:

For those who say derisively, “…you never know what the value of the bitcoin is going to be from day to day,” I wonder why they don’t think the worst about the dollar’s value, given its history? After all, some 95% of the dollar’s value has been stolen since “managed” by the central bankers, so it seems clear regarding what results from the state “regulation” of any currency.

There’s always a chance that bitcoin will go up. The dollar? Don’t hold your breath.

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Purely as an experiment

I am something of a regular on Sunday night’s #blogchat on Twitter (8 Central; your timezone may vary), and so is Patrick Phillips, who about a month ago put up a post about closing comments after X number of days (in my case, X = 90). He’s against that sort of thing:

Since I know I have readers who’ll go back to get “caught up” with posts I’ve written over the past month or two, and since I intentionally direct them to older posts when the old posts contain relevant content to the new post, I’m against closing comments on old posts.

Here’s the culmination of the discussion we had:

I expected an immediate flood of spam, though it didn’t really start rolling in until Monday morning and the actual volume was only twice as much as usual. Still, if I’d gotten one comment on an old post, I’d have figured it was worth it.

I didn’t. So last night I reinstated the 90-day cutoff.

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Your mother should know

Fast-food joints are not out of ideas yet, but some of their ideas are not so hot:

Even before the first pie is delivered, a jalapeño-heavy pizza with a Mexican slang name has produced chuckles among Spanish speakers in U.S. border states and an advertising ban by broadcasters who say the moniker could get them fined.

The new dish called “La Chingona,” which can be translated most politely as “badass” but also interpreted as a more offensive profanity, has upset some franchise owners of the Pizza Patrón chain who refuse to put it on their menus.

Were I prone to digestive ailments, even “badass” is probably farther than I’d want to go.

National and local Spanish-language radio stations have refused to air the commercials, citing concerns about bad taste and potential fines by the Federal Communications Commission.

Univision Radio, the largest U.S. Hispanic radio network, said it will not run the ads because the name of the pizza is considered a profanity and violates FCC regulations.

Then again, this little teapot-scale tempest probably makes up for a whole lot of busted ad buys.

(Via Consumerist.)

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Back to the Front Range with thee

After a 41-24 first quarter, you might be forgiven if your mind wandered elsewhere, say, to “How is it that the 76ers have lost 24 in a row and still aren’t last in the league?” (The answer, of course, is that they were 15-31 when the streak began, not what anyone would call great, but not appreciably worse, percentage-wise, than the current Lakers.) Anyway, it was 72-58 at the half, and presumably at some point during the halftime show some mischievous imp nailed a lid on each rim: third quarter was OKC 18, Denver 15. Now how do you get 41 points in the first quarter and only 18 in the third? Don’t worry about it. The Thunder regained some mojo in the fourth quarter, and dispatched the depleted (and debatably demoralized) Denverites 117-96, taking the season series 3-1.

There was one thing the Nuggets did superbly well: accumulate free throws. This was accomplished by, well, drawing a lot of fouls from the Thunder: Andre Roberson had six (again), Derek Fisher and Nick Collison five each, Caron Butler and Steven Adams four. Denver took 40 shots from the stripe. And if they’d made more than 27 of them — but let’s not go there. What’s more, all five Denver starters hit double figures, though four of them were clustered at 11 and 12. Ty Lawson had 25, including 13-16 on free throws. For a forced nine-man rotation — that’s all he had, injuries having mounted in recent weeks — you have to figure that Brian Shaw did just about everything he could.

This was a Restbrook evening, so Reggie Jackson started at the point, and ran up 16 points and a career-high 11 assists. Kevin Durant, who exited after a mere 31 minutes — nobody from OKC played more than 33 or so — departed with 27 points in hand. Sidelights: Adams, playing more than usual due to the absence of Hasheem Thabeet, had six of the Thunder’s 13 steals; Jeremy Lamb got twenty minutes and two points. (Butler, widely seen as the reason why Lamb gets so few minutes, played 29 minutes and scored 23.) And any day Collison gets a trey is all right with me.

Tomorrow night in Dallas, presumably with Westbrook back and everyone reasonably well rested. Oh, and the Sixers lost again — this time to San Antonio, which means the Spurs stay two games ahead of the Thunder in the West. Philadelphia remains a game and a half in front of the Bucks.

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Almost wasp-y

Rihanna generally looks pretty darn good in Chanel, or indeed in almost anything, but I kept looking at this and going “Girl, what is the matter with your waistline?”

Rihanna in Chanel 2014

The answer, of course, is nothing. This is something Karl Lagerfeld pulled out of his magic hat for the Fall/Winter 2014-15 collection, and it’s all optical illusion: crop top and skirt fit rather loosely, and there’s a mild control panel around the midriff, to create the illusion of wasp-waistedness without having to hit the Industrial aisle at Corsets R Us.

Not everyone finds this appealing, however: neo-neocon says it looks like a lampshade.

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Shushed

This is truly high weirdness. Alison Gold, you may remember — I’ve covered both “Chinese Food” and “ABCDEFG” — is a singer from Southern California who seems to have been the best chance so far for producer Patrice Wilson to create the same kind of buzz he did with “Friday” (yes, that “Friday”) in 2011.

The April Playboy has a half-page interview with Wilson, titled “Video Savant,” which opens with a description of Gold’s most recent video, “Shush Up”:

[It] begins with the pre-teen singer covered in gold glitter and wearing a gold lamé top and tiny shorts. She plays both a prison warden and a convict executed by electric chair before evaporating into a gold rain that falls on a dancing crowd as she shouts, “Crank it or just shush up” over a clubby house beat.

Was this “the most offensive music video of all time”? It’s been taken down from Wilson’s YouTube channel, though I found a copy on Vimeo, and it’s pretty dire. Attached to the Vimeo copy I found this:

[B]y God, it is truly the worst thing I have ever seen in my humble 20 years on this planet. Any hope I had for the redemption of whatever we’re calling the generation after gen Y was obliterated when I saw this video.

Oh, incidentally, the Playboy article notes that Wilson’s price for his prefab tune/video combo is now $6500.

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Manger contains 1 dog

“I can’t use it, but I don’t want anyone else to use it either”:

Yahoo Answers screenshot: My Domain name is expiring in 3 days, what should i do?

The scoop:

In 3 days my domain name will be expiring but i dont want to renew it as it costs too much. Any ideas what i can do with my domain name ? i dont want it to let it expire. As i cant sell it in 2days, if you have any ideas please tell me, if quick selling idea you have, then tell me. It is .me domain, but it is very good domain name (a top level)

About one out of every umpteen bazillion domains has a resale value higher than the cost of the original registration. Evidently this character thinks it’s worth more than that, but he says he can’t pony up for the renewal fee. (WordPress offers username.me domains for something like $25 a year, so I’m betting this is not some enormous sum.) Cue the world’s smallest violin.

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