Can’t afford Nunavut

Nunavut is a Canadian territory north of all the provinces and south of — well, the North Pole. It’s perhaps not a place you’d want to become a locavore, since not a heck of a lot grows there; the standard argument is that it costs a lot to ship food that far, and therefore prices will be high, although twenty-eight loonies for a single head of cabbage seems to dance past “high” on the way to “absurd.” In fact:

According to one comment on the Facebook group, it’s often more cost-effective to fly to Edmonton, Alberta, do your shopping there, and fly home. (That alone is a pretty good indication that shipping costs are not exclusively to blame.)

Wonder how much they allow for carry-on baggage?

Anyway, the ill-fed are now fed up:

People in the area have begun protesting outside stores and have started a petition on Change.org asking the Canadian government to enact “concrete, effective change that will address poverty and food insecurity in our communities.”

As you might expect, the population numbers are fairly stable: the birth rate is high, but so is the rate of outmigration.

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Twice the Bing, none of the Bada

In this week’s Rule 5 Sunday roundup, trusty compiler Wombat-socho noted, perhaps tongue-in-cheek, that yours truly “finds the names nobody else looks for!” Which is, of course, true to a certain extent: you may have noticed that I posted about Anoushka Shankar on Natalie Portman’s birthday.

With that in mind, we give you Chinese actress Fan Bingbing, 30, hawking hosiery:

Fan Bingbing for Shirou

About her I knew essentially nothing, until I stumbled upon a quarter-page in this month’s Vanity Fair, which told me this:

When Fan was a little girl, her mother owned a boutique, and she grew up devouring fashion magazines. “I fell in love with dressing myself up,” she says.

Fan Bingbing’s first inspiration was Greta Garbo, but today her aesthetic is a seamless fusion of Dita Von Teese’s high-gloss pimp doll and Lady Gaga’s demented artiste. Yet her look is wholly her own, that of a kooky sophisticate whose favorite designer remains Alexander McQueen.

There was no way I was going to read that and not hit the search button.

Incidentally, this picture was swiped from Asian Celebrity. (And Kristen Stewart is on the cover of that issue of V. F., but surely someone will serve up some K. Stew for next weekend.)

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Don’t get cocky, kids

The Heat were supposed to walk away with the first one. The Thunder had zero experience in the Finals, and LeBron James has been playing on a supernatural level of late. King James, you may be sure, lived up to his billing — he finished with 30 points, nine rebounds — and Oklahoma City slogged through the mud through the first two quarters and most of the third.

And then. If there’s any two-word phrase that characterizes OKC’s playoff run, it’s “And then”: somehow, when time grows short, the Thunder manage to stand tall. Down seven at the half, they were up one after three, and every minute or so after that, they stretched that lead one more point. With 29 seconds left, LeBron quietly retreated to the bench; Mike Miller got a bucket in his place, but it didn’t matter anymore. Oklahoma City 105, Miami 94, and the Finals are off to a roaring start.

If you were wondering if anyone other than Miami’s Big Three could score, be assured that they could: Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh combined for 29 points, and Shane Battier (who started at the four instead of Bosh) and Mario Chalmers added 29 more. The Heat shot decently, at 46 percent, knocking down eight of 21 long balls — Battier had four of them, seemingly on demand — and missed only four free throws all night. And Udonis Haslem had more rebounds than anybody, reeling in 11.

What does it take to beat that? Thirty-six points from Kevin Durant, 27 from Russell Westbrook (a double-double with 11 assists), 52 percent shooting, +8 on the boards — the ever-tenacious Nick Collison had ten rebounds — and Thabo Sefolosha putting the suffocation moves on LeBron in the fourth quarter, holding King James to six points.

This wasn’t a night for blocking shots: the Thunder swatted away only three, the Heat just one. Nor was it a night for turnovers: both teams threw it away ten times. It was, however, a night for drawing a line in the sand, and there’s a lot of sand downtown, half the roads being torn up these days. It will be Thursday before we see if Miami will step over it.

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And reasonably so

The Chicagoist story on the local version of the World Naked Bike Ride is titled “Profiles in Chafing,” which implies that someone on staff is aware of the, um, physical conditions.

Although the URL suggests that the title on first publication was actually “Profiles in Sweaty Flesh,” which presumably also works.

(Either way, consider this Not Safe For Most Places.)

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Driving off with the goal posts

Or at least they’ve been moved a whole heck of a lot in a decade and a third:

Currently, the {Mercedes-Benz] C300 4Matic is powered by a sluggish 3.0-liter V6, only putting out 228 horsepower and 221 pound-feet of torque. That, combined with a 3,737-pound curb weight, is why the current model takes 7.1 seconds to get to 60 miles per hour and only returns fuel economy ratings of 18 miles per gallon in the city and 25 mpg highway.

And then I look out in my garage, where I see a 3.0-liter V6 putting out 227 horsepower and 217 pound-feet of torque. It was the most powerful machine in its class back in the day, and now apparently it’s down there among the “sluggish.” (Current EPA rating is 17/25.) It might be able to do 0-60 in 7.1, though. And yes, I’ve griped about this before.

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Julius would not be pleased

If you were thinking that orange was such a happy color — which, of course, it is — you have to allow for the possibility that not everyone has a high tolerance for it:

Went to a wedding reception last night where orange was a prominent color. The bride’s older sister was wearing a bright orange skirt, the bride’s father was wearing a bright orange tie, my wife was wearing a flowered blouse thing with several orange flowers, and the tables were decorated with large sheets of paper, the topmost of which was orange. I credit my noticing all this orangeness to Dustbury’s continued posting of pictures of people wearing orange stuff, and what do I see when I open his blog this morning?

Scootaloo in a non-mellow moodWhat he saw was this. And well, yeah, there’s a lot of orange stuff here. I am always willing to do, redo, and eventually overdo a premise, much to the apparent dismay of little Scootaloo here. (Yes, a My Little Pony reference; see previous sentence.)

Speaking of Scootaloo, McDonald’s in Germany held a contest a few months back, asking customers to create and name a new sandwich. The winning entry was in fact named for this young pegasus filly; amusingly, it’s a chicken sandwich.

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Order now for next season

Because they’re custom-made and can’t possibly be done in time for the Finals:

Oklahoma City Thunder heels

Here’s the pitch:

Utterly captivating, Limited Edition, authentic HERSTAR™ Custom Crystal Pumps representing the Oklahoma City Thunder. Encrusted, dazzling, and intensely mesmerizing with every step, these elite pumps command a presence of their own. Fully hand strassed in luxurious, hand selected Middle Eastern crystals, then offset by a sky-high 6″ heel and 3″ internal platform; these glittering heels glisten on the court and off. They are simply magical to behold. Step into these shimmering, sparkling pumps and be ready to light up the games.

There’s an upgrade to real Swarovski crystals available, at a much higher price. If you can live with the more mundane crystals, these will cost you $295. And yes, the NBA is actually licensing these.

(Plucked, of course, from the tweetstream.)

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Block bleach

The Thomas B. Fordham Institute’s executive VP Michael J. Petrilli, a booster of neighborhood gentrification — it has a salubrious effect on neighborhood schools, he argues — went looking for the ZIP codes showing the greatest indication of same, using as a rough criterion the increase in non-Hispanic white population. Ninth on his list was 73104 in Oklahoma City, which went from 11 percent white to 39 percent between 2000 and 2010.

This is not surprising to anyone familiar with the area, which sits just east of downtown: there has been substantial residential development north and east of Bricktown, and much of it has been pricey. City-Data.com, which tracks real estate and income numbers, reports that a median-priced home sold in 73104 in the last quarter of 2006 would have gone for about $50,000; five years later it was $390,000. None of this has yet to spill over into 73117, the next ZIP code to the east, but give it time.

Thirteenth on the list is Charleston, South Carolina 29492, which strikes me as something of an outlier. The post office was assigned to the area known as Wando, north of Mount Pleasant but part of Berkeley County. Part of its delivery area was the largely undeveloped Daniel Island, sitting in the Cooper River, which didn’t take off until Interstate 526 (the Mark Clark Expressway) was built across the area and the Daniel Island Company acquired basically the entire island, both in the middle 1990s. The high school I attended, in downtown Charleston for its first eighty-odd years, relocated to Daniel Island in 1998. I visited the school and the area in 2001, and while the developed areas looked fabulous, you didn’t have far to go to reach the boonies. The population has more than doubled since then, though.

Number 5 on the list, Austin, Texas 78702, east of Interstate 35 north of Lady Bird Lake, probably got its numbers by dint of the fact that it’s too expensive to live west of Interstate 35 north of Lady Bird Lake.

And interestingly, of the top 25, four of them are in Brooklyn, New York: 11205, 06, 37 and 38.

(Via the Atlantic Cities section.)

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The pose, struck, strikes back

The Stepsister SchemeJim C. Hines has written several fantasy novels, including a four-book “Princess Series,” based on the premise that “happily ever after” is both unnecessarily dismissive and ultimately untrue. As is de rigueur in genres of this sort, the cover art will include a female character posed in an improbable position. Jim was okay with that, until he got the idea of trying to duplicate positions like that himself. Empathy for the characters, doncha know.

His conclusion:

My sense is that most of these covers are supposed to convey strong, sexy heroines, but these are not poses that suggest strength. You can’t fight from these stances. I could barely even walk.

Which just goes to show you — something, I suppose.

(This was brought up during the 26th annual MisCon, in a panel on urban fantasy.)

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Such a deal, they SHOUT

A question that deserves some pondering:

[W]hy do scammers always print their names in ALL CAPS? Whether they claim to be Nigerian oil ministers or Chinese missionary real-estate moguls like MR QIAN HUA PAN & YAI CHOW WONG PAN (that’s a direct cut-and-paste from the email), you can always tell a scammer by his all-caps name.

The only exception to this seems to be the Brazilian spam, of which I get an abundance, perhaps due to having a dormant account at Orkut, which has relocated its headquarters from California to Belo Horizonte because, well, that’s where the users are.

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The lure of the well-turned ankle

About three years ago, Gerard Van der Leun, a man with unquestioned taste and discretion, posted an advertisement from the old “Gentlemen prefer Hanes” series. I responded with one from my own stash, perhaps hoping to stir up some competition, but none was forthcoming.

Now here I sit with dozens of scans of this sort, and no place to put them. So I may as well post some of them here. This one dates to 1954, a time when apparently Tex Avery was still a household word:

Advertisement for Ballet Hosiery from October 1954

The fellow in the corner really needs to learn some discretion, wouldn’t you say?

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Strange search-engine queries (332)

This is the weekly exercise that involves a quick run through the week’s logs, and then a slower, more exacting pass in which possible jokes are derived from available search strings. It’s a complicated system, but after several years, it’s doing fine.

how to find the transmission cable on a 2001 626:  It’s across from the muffler bearings. (Rule 1 of DIY auto repair: before you go looking for a part, make sure the part actually exists.)

random weather statistic:  This past winter, it was impossible to find snow shovels for sale in Anchorage, Alaska.

how will hail damage effect ford escape availability:  They’ll ship them all to Anchorage in the winter, and nobody will notice.

canada should annex:  Vermont. The climate’s about the same as in southern Québec, and Bernie Sanders would probably be happier.

sweetgum trees grow like weeds:  Except that most weeds don’t leave little spiky balls for you to step on.

what is that thing on a boot:  It’s a spur. Drop by San Antonio sometime to see one.

fortunately, the oklahoma city did not get blake griffin:  Yeah, that’s what they said in San Antonio.

slimmer dinosaurs:  The Bloombergosaurus, of course, claimed full credit.

sexy young girls you have on your list an older sexy young schoolgirls you have all of them a while lot annie little school girl of 11 years old and 10 years old and that order sexy young girls:  With all that typing, when do you find time to wank? (It’s pretty obvious that those are the only two things you ever do.)

brian wilson hearing the voice of phil spector:  Well, you know, it’s better than hearing the voice of Charles Manson.

invisible art by warhol and yoko, where else has it been shown?  Everywhere, but no one ever noticed it.

how are my little pony friendship is magic names stripper names?  Somehow I can’t imagine Twilight Sparkle taking it all off in Valley Brook.

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Beneath the streets of Toronto

This story is called “Die Another Day,” and justifiably so:

A woman, crouched down, is at the very edge of the platform. Her toes are over the edge and she has her head buried in her hands. I’m afraid that calling out to her will startle her and she might fall, so I stand just beyond armslength away and desperately hope that she’ll look up at some point before I hear the sound of a train. She glances to the side just long enough that I’m able to make eye contact with her. I ask if she’s okay. She doesn’t respond, just shakes her head. “If you’re not feeling well, it’s dangerous to be that close to the edge,” I say. She shakes her head again. Her face is red — so red — like she’s burning up. I ask if she’s sick; she says she has a fever. When I offer her an Advil, she looks right at me and says “It’s not that kind of fever.”

I just know in my heart, immediately, that she has AIDS. I glance up at the clock. Due to the flood the trains are running less frequently and there isn’t one due for 4 minutes. I ask her “Is it okay if I touch you? Can I help you move back?” “No,” she says. I crouch down beside her, although not as close to the edge and still just beyond armslength away as I can’t gauge her mental state. “Why are you here?” I ask. She says it doesn’t matter. She has a fever all the time and it doesn’t matter. Over and over again, it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter. I tell her that’s not true. That’s not true at all. “It matters to me. You matter to me.” She looks a bit spaced out and I’m scared she’s going to fall forward. I want to take her hand but I know that if that spaced-out look is her experiencing psychosis, I could be putting myself in danger of being pulled onto the tracks if she jumps. I look at the clock — 3 minutes.

In the late 1980s, when I was wrestling with the question of whether it wouldn’t be easier just to Get It Over With rather than continue to drag on in a state of severe emotional damage, I said that over and over again: “It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.” Seeing it again here serves as a double shock to the system, reminding me of where I once was, and of the fact that others are finding it just as tough going through those same suburbs of Hell.

Disclosure: The author and I go back about fifteen years, to when she was a budding musician and I was a babbling idiot on Usenet.

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Dirty birds

Well, maybe not so much. But in 1915, when Dr George Levick wrote up his findings on the sexual habits of the Adélie penguins (Pygoscelis adeliae) on Cape Adare in Antarctica, he couldn’t help but filter those findings through the mores of the time:

He was so shocked by what he saw he even wrote in Greek to disguise the information. ‘There seems to be no crime too low for these penguins,’ he wrote.

Levick described ‘little knots of hooligans’, penguins that hung around the outskirts of the colony, terrorising any chicks that went astray. He wrote, ‘The crimes which they commit are such as to find no place in this book, but it is interesting indeed to note that, when nature intends them to find employment, these birds, like men, degenerate in idleness.’

He observed and commented on the frequency of Adélie penguin sexual activity, autoerotic behaviour, the behaviour of young unpaired males and females including necrophilia, sexual coercion, the sexual and physical abuse of chicks, non-procreative sex and homosexual behaviour.

Or, as it’s called in 2012, “Saturday night.” Except maybe for the necrophilia, and eventually we found out that technically that’s really not what it was: they’re not actually into dead chicks, but apparently they don’t check for life signs before approaching. Bird motivations and human motivations don’t necessarily coincide.

Dr Levick’s report was not published with other studies from the ill-fated Terra Nova expedition, though more generic observations made it to his book Antarctic Penguins: a study of their social habits (New York: McBride Nast & Co., 1914). The report has now been published in the journal Polar Record at Cambridge, and it will cost you to read it.

(Via this syaffolee tweet.)

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No longer the hot topic

Tatyana has decided that she’s had it up to here with political discussions:

Only 6 months ago I was totally in the game, reading at least 10 political blogs and getting into online (and sometimes off-) debates on the hot topics.

But that was then. Now:

Maybe it is exactly my — at some time — close familiarity with people supposedly on the same side of political divide that disillusioned me, but my general attitude now run something like “plague on both your houses”.

It occurs to me that if the alleged leaders of those houses thought they could retain their power and perks, they’d gladly, even gleefully, welcome that plague.

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Eight digits and counting

Robert Stacy McCain and his faithful sidekick Smitty have now recorded ten million hits, a circumstance which calls for some recognition. And they got them the old-fashioned way, too: they busted their [insert euphemism here] to get the word out.

What? Envious? Me? Not in the least. I have neither the time nor the inclination to work that hard. However, I note semi-ruefully that McCain once had a post that garnered 438 comments, which exceeds any thread here by a factor of ten. Then again, if I wanted to read feedback all day and into the night, I’d try to wangle a job at Equestria Daily.

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