Homa Dashtaki was eager to demonstrate that her yogurt was safe and healthful, but complying with California regulations turned out to be not so easy. In fact, authorities told her that she would face possible prosecution unless she established a “Grade A dairy facility” employing processes more commonly found in factories. A highlight: she’d have to install a pasteurizer even though she made her yogurt from milk that was already pasteurized. What’s more, California law makes it illegal to pasteurize milk twice, so there went any hope of continuing her straightforward way of obtaining milk, namely bringing it home from a fancy grocery store.
Your Grade A dairy facilities, in California or otherwise, don’t have a problem with this, of course; this way they can keep out the riff-raff and maintain their market share for their “bland, corporate wares.”
Gwendolyn has one of those set-and-forget automatic climate-control schemes: I tend to park it somewhere in the middle 70s and then not think about it.
Yesterday I thought about it. For the second day in a row, it was pushing 100 outside, and the little computerized gizmo did what it always does under such circumstances: crank the fan up to four out of four and hope for the best. It occurred to me, somewhere near the point where I turn off Treadmill and hop onto the Interstate, that this might be suboptimal in a psychological sense: if I think that the system is really laboring, I might imagine that it’s not working as well as it could be.
So I hit the fan-speed button on the minus side, going for three out of four. The dreaded word MANUAL appeared on screen: this child of HAL wasn’t going to give up without a fight, or at least an argument. But it seemed a heck of a lot cooler with 3 dB of fan noise taken out of the environment, which suggests that while I may not know squat about automotive technology, I know how to push my own buttons.
“wrapped in bacon and dumped into a tank full of hungry sharks”;
“loaded aboard an Air Force C-130 and air-dropped over Afghanistan without a parachute”;
“lashed to a tree in the Alaskan wilderness as wolf-bait”;
“dumped naked into an alligator-infested swamp in the backwoods of Louisiana”.
Of this quartet, only #2 presents the possibility of not being eaten, unless Alaska is breeding vegan wolves these days.
Males beyond a certain age — based on my experience, I’d say six and a half years — are often given to such horrific musings. Jamie Kitman, in the July Automobile, describes one such scheme, as concocted by the magazine’s founder, the late David E. Davis Jr.:
After David’s death, a Facebook acquaintance wrote about Davis’s recent unkind comments about his one-time protégé, made on a weekly automotive webcast, in which he fantasized about a FedEx plane whose cargo doors accidentally open to drop a grand piano on a farm in central Michigan, leaving only a grease spot where our own — hell, his own — Jean Jennings once stood.
There’s talk of dark matter — again like it’s something exotic, but the universe is enormous and very poorly lit. I think if there’s such a thing as “dark matter” it closely resembles the stuff you empty out of your vacuum cleaner. Personally though, I don’t think dark matter, or dark energy either, is necessary to explain what’s going on.
I just emptied out the vacuum cleaner, and if the universe is filled with that kind of stuff, truly we are all doomed.
Here’s what I think is afoot here: a scale of physical law that we haven’t detected yet. Just as quantum behavior doesn’t scale up to our level, there’s another level of behavior that doesn’t scale down.
Which actually seems fairly plausible: if something is big enough, the laws of physics as we know them may not apply. Certainly Goldman Sachs would approve.
But I’m telling you right now: the first time I see quantum phenomena in the dust receptacle, I am out of here, Jack.
Louis Wayne Cuff, a 33-year-old Menominee man, was arraigned in 95th District Court in Menominee last week for food stamp trafficking, a felony. Cuff’s arrest resulted from a monthlong joint investigation by the state Department of Human Services’ Office of Inspector General and the Menominee County Sheriff’s Department.
Cuff, who allegedly used a Bridge Card to buy the stuff and then sold it for 50 cents on the dollar, faces up to five years in prison and a $10,000 fine. He is free on a $5,000 bond. His preliminary hearing is scheduled for June 15.
They probably don’t have diet gruel in Wisconsin prisons, either.
Meek was one of the first producers to grasp and fully exploit the possibilities of the modern recording studio. His innovative techniques — physically separating instruments, treating instruments and voices with echo and reverb, processing the sound through his fabled home-made electronic devices, the combining of separately-recorded performances and segments into a painstakingly constructed composite recording — comprised a major breakthrough in sound production. Up to that time, the standard technique for pop, jazz and classical recordings alike was to record all the performers in one studio, playing together in real time, a legacy of the days before magnetic tape, when performances were literally cut live, directly onto disc.
And Meek did all this in a three-floor apartment in Islington, before any of your present-day big-name producers, before the Beatles, before even Phil Spector.
What these two tracks have in common is major compression and weird-sounding instrumental bits: Meek was fond of the clavioline, a proto-synthesizer thing invented after World War II. He puts it to good use here on a later Tornados track, “The Ice Cream Man”:
YouTuber “patrickphan2,” I suspect, hadn’t even been born yet when Meek died in 1967, but he came up with a very Meeklike sound for this track: an instrumental bed intended for people who want to make parodies of Rebecca Black’s “Friday.” Joe would have approved, I think.
What no one knows so far is how much real demand there will be for Chevy’s plugmobile once the floodgates are opened. Worst-case scenario is something like what happened with the US version of the smart fortwo: everybody who wanted one got one early, and then sales tanked. About the only thing we can be sure of is that Glenn Beck won’t buy one.
John Hawkins continues to compile these 20 Hottest Conservative Women lists, and while I am not one to turn up my nose at pulchritude generally, there’s one problem built into all such photographic compilations: even if the judges are taking other factors into account, the presentation is so purely visual that the reader, by default, tends to assume that contender #A is better-looking than contender #(A+9).
Neo-neocon, tongue in cheek, noted that she didn’t make the cut, and asks: “[I]s the entire enterprise a heinously ageist and discriminatory plot?” Nothing so complicated as all that. This is standard male sports-bar stuff, on par with “Would the Celtics have sucked so bad in the playoffs if they hadn’t traded Kendrick Perkins?” Since Boston did trade Perk, there’s obviously no way of knowing for sure.
And we don’t know what criteria the judges were using. I suspect Sarah Palin, #9, lost a couple of points for being too close to 50 and for sounding like Hubert Humphrey on helium, but it’s not like they’re going to disclose the methodology or anything. If you gave me the choice of any of them for a dinner date — let’s not presume beyond that — I’m going with Ann Coulter, #17, because I believe the table conversation, once begun, will never flag, and because there’s not a chance in hell she’ll show up in a peasant skirt. Your mileage, of course, may vary.
The N.C. Highway Patrol said Thursday that it will be difficult to investigate an allegation that state Sen. Don East, R-Surry, was driving 145 mph on U.S. 52 during a joyride with state Sen. Stan Bingham, R-Davidson.
Troopers typically must see a driver speeding, and a state law gives legislators immunity from prosecution based on anything they say in the General Assembly, a spokesman said.
Bingham said Monday on the Senate floor that East had taken him on the joyride in East’s muscle car, a Dodge Charger SRT8, according to a report by the News & Observer of Raleigh.
Early in my tweeting days, there was a guy who started chatting with me. The conversation moved to DM (direct message, supposedly private) and then to exchanged cell phone numbers and calls. Before I knew it, there at 9:00am one morning came the triple-chime announcing picture mail. I clicked to open and there was naked genitalia winking at me. In unsolicited and ungroomed high definition. Hold up, playa. I don’t know your middle name, your street address or your city of birth yet but I now know more about you than some men I’ve dated! No. Sir.