Now here’s an interesting list: “7 Urban Freeways To Tear Down Today — And What Tomorrow Might Look Like If We Do.”

One of them I know too well:

The capital of the Sooner state isn’t getting rid of I-40, but it is doing away with the elevated section — which has cut through downtown since 1965. The new highway will be much less intrusive, situated below street level in an old rail right of way, while a much smaller surface street will trace the path of the old I-40.

Thereby ruining that old rail right-of-way for future use, but I’ve griped about that before.

The best part of OKC’s plan, however, has nothing to do with transportation. Rather, the municipal government will use the highway teardown as the basis for a full-scale urban renewal, adding new parks and denser development in a 1,375-acre zone between downtown and the Oklahoma River.

Makes you wonder how we survived in this town before ’65, when they put that stretch of road on stilts.

Interestingly, I’ve actually driven on two of the other six — in Cleveland and Baltimore — though plans for their removal aren’t anywhere nearly as far along as in Oklahoma City. Don’t pay too much attention to the photos, though: the “before” set seems poorly chosen, and the “after” set, of necessity, is purely speculative.

(Spotted by Blair Humphreys.)

Are you allowed to eat a mermaid?

No, we’re not asking Tom Hanks. This is serious business:

Apparently, the Koran or some of its promoters discussed mermaids at some point, therefore they are presumed to exist. The question is then a reasonable one: if you throw a net over the side of your dhow, and haul in a mermaid along with a nice catch of ordinary fish, is she halaal? Can you chop her up, sell her at the market, or take her home to the family for dinner?

There is a fatwa on the subject of eating mermaids that cites many scholarly Islamic sources.

I trust this revelation will put an end to the sniping at those Western philosophers who seek to determine the number of angels who can dance on the head of a pin — which question, incidentally, has already been answered.

(Via Amy Alkon.)

A dork goes berserk in a Pennsylvania health club:

Friends mourned for three women fatally shot during their exercise class at a Pittsburgh-area gym by a man whose online diary revealed he felt ignored by women and had an “exit plan” to avenge his rage.

George Sodini went to a sprawling L.A. Fitness Club on Tuesday night, turned out the lights on the “Latin impact” dance-aerobics class for women, and opened fire with three guns, spraying dozens of bullets before committing suicide.

Idjit. Didn’t someone tell him you shoot yourself first, and then you spray the bullets?

Huh? What? Oh. Sorry. Let us continue:

His 4,610-word Web diary appeared to be a nine-month chronology of his plans to end his misery with a shocking act of carnage at his gym. He couldn’t understand why women ignored him, despite his best efforts to look nice. He wrote that he hadn’t had a girlfriend since 1984, hadn’t slept with a woman in 19 years.

“Women just don’t like me. There are 30 million desirable women in the US (my estimate) and I cannot find one. Not one of them finds me attractive,” the 48-year-old computer programmer lamented.

Do the math. He slept with someone in 1990. If not with a girlfriend, then with whom?

I don’t have a whole lot of sympathy for this lout, despite having spilled way more than 4,610 words on the same sort of whiny poor-me material, if only because not once has it ever occurred to me to shoot anyone as payback.

Donna’s analysis:

I am going to take a stab here… I think women didn’t like him because he was creepy and seemed like a psychopathic killer. JUST A GUESS!!!

Usage question: We’re talking about the motives of a gunman. Is “take a stab” correct?

Oh, and we’re out of that blue stuff in the gallon jug, too:

… [W]e asked the following questions: “When I drive through Pennsylvania in June my windshield gets quite dirty with all these bugs. Yet do I know what they are? How many beetles versus butterflies? Is there a difference between day and night? Is there a difference between Pennsylvania and Connecticut?” So we scraped the windshield, isolated genomic DNA, and subjected it to 454 FLX sequencing. We then uploaded the data into Galaxy and attempted answering these questions. In the end Pennsylvania turned out to be different from Connecticut.

Which displays a level of intellectual curiosity presumably superior to mine: when I made similar trips through the northeastern US, I was asking only “Where did all these effing bugs come from?”

(Seen here, suggested by Syaffolee.)

If we’re going to have user agreements — and let’s face it, we are — they ought to be this comprehensible:

I understand that the power of an Admin User is mighty and if wielded incorrectly it can cause major damage to my Private Server. I also understand that if I damage my own server through incorrect use of my Admin User power DreamHost’s Happy Tech Support Team may be unable to assist me in repairing the damage, and that I may be forced to reset my Private Server back to its DreamHost-approved configuration via the Reset My Server function of the DreamHost Web Panel.

With great power comes great responsibility, yadda, yadda, &c.

Nate goes looking for state-appropriate postcards for some friends, and finally gives up in disgust:

So everywhere I go I keep looking for nice postcards of Oklahoma, and without fail they’re always some terrible cowboy bullshit with buffalo or actual cattle or — worst — a shot of the prairies that make them look so unappealing and boring that no one would ever, ever want to come here. So I’ve decided to design my own, have it printed with VistaPrint, and send it to them myself. Because you know what? I have spent the past several years honing my photography skills — such as they are — on these prairies, and I know for a fact that they’re beautiful and gorgeous, and that they have a lot more going on than stupid-ass windmills and cows.

(“Such as they are”? I would kill, or at least maim, to have a third of his talent behind the camera.)

You have to figure, publishers of postcards are going for maximum pattern recognition: it’s probably unthinkable, if not actually illegal, to do a St. Louis postcard without a shot of the Gateway Arch. (What would you do for Oklahoma City? The Memorial? The milk bottle on Classen? Pops?) Come to think of it, first time I landed in New Jersey, some of the locals looked at me as though I should be carrying a bottle of hooch and a shootin’ iron. (And Joisey wouldn’t honor an Oklahoma CCW permit anyway, now that I think about it.)

Diego Rodriguez caught some small amount of flak for his list of the ten most glamorous post-WWII automobiles, partly for leaving off the E-Type Jag, and partly for including, of all things, the second-generation Toyota Prius.

I’d defend the Prius on this count. In 2004, when that version hit American streets, “hybrid” was still a word you associated with Gregor Mendel, and Toyota’s little humpback, bristling with high tech, was a lot less Corolla-esque than its predecessor; if you remembered carburetors and ignition points and such, the Prius was a little bit scary, and I contend that one irreducible attribute of glamour is the ability to instill fear.

Which justifies the inclusion of the Mercedes-Benz 600, for many years routinely featured in motion pictures where a large, sinister-looking limousine was called for. Fewer than 3000 were built between 1964 and 1981, and most of them, I suspect, were built to order. Daimler-Benz, seeing that its 3.0-liter inline-six was inadequate to the task, ordered up a monstrous (for them, and for the time, anyway) 6.3-liter V8, good for a conservative 250 hp and enough torque — 369 lb-ft — to pull a couple of tanks.

Then again, if you want scary, imagine this: in 1968, the Benz boffins dropped that same hulking V8 into the one-ton-lighter S-class bodyshell, creating the 300SEL 6.3, which apart from a tiny (and removable!) “6.3″ badge was indistinguishable from its brandmates until someone hit the gas. Which means, I suppose, that it wasn’t all that glamorous, unless you were lucky enough to be inside at the time.

The National Republican Congressional Committee has apparently painted a target for 2010 on Dan Boren, from Oklahoma’s Second District, the only Democrat in the Sooner State’s entire delegation.

My first thought was They’re dreaming, and Mike McCarville seems to agree:

The 2nd elected liberal Democrat Mike Synar in years past, elected conservative Republican Tom Coburn more recently, and has given overwhelming support to the conservative Boren, who now sits on a campaign warchest of more than $1.2 million. His likely GOP opponents will be lucky to raise a fifth of that sum combined and while the NRCC lists Boren as a target, it may not be inclined to pour money into trying to defeat him if polls show continued strength on his part.

It’s not because the district was redrawn to bring in more conservatives, either; Synar was first elected in 1978 and survived both 1980 and 1990 Census redistrictings. And it wasn’t the GOP that finally beat him, either; it was a primary opponent with serious out-of-state financing.

And it’s not like Boren votes with the Republicans all that much, either:

Boren has cast some votes that will cause him discomfort, he’ll spend time explaining his 81 percent support of Obama’s agenda (including “Cash For Clunkers”) and he’ll be needled repeatedly by both local and national Republicans. But unless something dramatic occurs or a name Republican with money to burn gets into the race, make Boren a 10-to-1 favorite to be easily reelected.

For the moment, name Republicans seem to be more interested in the governorship, since Brad Henry runs up against term limits in 2010.

Twitter’s been unreachable for the last 45 minutes or so. I expect full-scale rioting in the next fifteen minutes.

(Except, of course, from Dawn Summers, who is too cool for that sort of thing.)

“On the Waterfront” screenwriter dies at 95. He coulda had class. He coulda been a cadaver.

(Linked to this. Farewell, Budd Schulberg.)

This is one of several maladies affecting GM product planners, says Peter M. De Lorenzo:

Some of their key new entries are just too damn heavy, example No. 1 being the new Cadillac SRX, which weighs more than 4500 pounds. And that’s in a more compact overall package with no V-8.

Not that this problem is any way confined to GM:

Mercedes-Benz, Audi, BMW and to a slightly lesser extent Porsche are all guilty of egregious weight gain, and it’s screwing everything up. It’s real simple, folks. The manufacturers are putting — and we’re far too accepting of them doing it too — too much stuff in our cars. All this techno-wonder crap is just that — crap.

Then again, much of that crap is something other than techno-wonder stuff. A 2000 Nissan Maxima weighed in at a semi-svelte 3186 lb; by the time it was glitzed up enough to wear an Infiniti badge, it was up to 3342. Seat heaters don’t weigh so much, and I figure the rear sunshade counts for four or five pounds max: most of the difference, I suspect, is the filler material they use for sound-deadening. The 2009 Maxima, however, comes in at 3557 lb. (All figures from ConsumerGuide Automotive for consistency; other sources quote slightly different numbers.)

And the Maxima isn’t exactly tiny, which makes De Lorenzo’s plaint even more apropos:

Let’s get this straight, 4,000 pounds is not okay or acceptable for an “average” vehicle. It’s flat-out unacceptable in my book. Weight is the enemy of all good things when it comes to actually enjoying driving, unless, of course, you stopped enjoying driving. In that case we just can’t help you. Too much weight negatively affects handling, responsiveness, “feel,” fuel economy, braking, performance, basically everything when it comes to the enjoyment of our vehicles. So don’t tell me that 4,000+ pounds is “acceptable” for an SRX or any other allegedly “more compact” crossover. Because it isn’t. Period.

I feel slightly better now about my low-grade vehicular lust for Infiniti’s EX35, which even with AWD gear presses down on the earth with a presumably-acceptable 3975 lb.

Some of us, apparently, are easily distracted:

I often dress in a cleavage displaying manner, for two reasons: 1) I have a great rack and 2) I look like an apple on sticks if I do not define my bustline. I do not mind when men (AND WOMEN!) look at my cleavage; like great art I WANT it to be admired. However, like great art, there is also a look but don’t touch policy.

I admit to being somewhat torn on this matter. I’m certainly not about to touch; but I tend to avoid even looking, though not as assiduously as I avoid looking like I’m looking. (Gaucheness, unlike virtue, is not its own punishment.)

Are we supposed to hide our sexuality and display it only for those we are going to have sex with? Also, why can’t you look at my boobs AND listen to me talk? I enjoy sending and receiving sexual energy from other people, even those I am not intimate with. If this bothers you, just move along. But don’t dare think that you are smarter than me because cleavage distracts you. Because if you think my tits are big, you should see my brain :)

Now that belongs on a T-shirt. I’d have to read it at a distance, of course.

Something is rotten in the state of Indiana, reports Roberta X:

I discovered my (new) home lender, the guys who picked up Countrywide (who’d bought the note from my original lender), reviewed my real estate taxes (which are just plain nuts in Indiana of late and did go up — should drop next year, once my various exemptions finally kick in) and decided, oopsie, they didn’t really think they had enough in escrow and cranked up their reserve to the maximum amount permitted by law; so they have jacked up my house payments nearly 130% and to keep them from going up 150%, I’m gonna have to front ‘em something over $2K by 1 September.

This is my punishment for gettin’ a nice, conservative fixed-rate loan. Gee, thanks.

If I’ve read this correctly, it’s actually worse than it sounds, since Indiana bills twice a year, but one year in arrears, so Weasel & Co., which presumably has to pay big this fall, will continue to collect big toward a smaller tax bill for much of next year.

I suspect, though, they’d have done the same had our heroine somehow been duped into one of those wicked ARM schemes.

Funny, when my employer asked everyone to pleeeeze forgo a raise this year, times being tough and everything, we all went along; but ask government or a homelender the corresponding question and they’ve suddenly gone deaf. Umm, d000ds, don’t you think you have bled the middle-class turnip just about dry?

They’re in cahoots. Ask Chris Dodd, beneficiary of this sort of cahootery.

(Seen here.)

News Item: The Tulsa 2020 Committee on Tuesday presented the City Council with the idea of the city making a bid to host the 2020 summer Olympic games.

Top Ten things that will happen before Tulsa hosts the Olympics:

10. A phone booth in Grand Island, Nebraska becomes an independent nation
9. Walmart trades the remains of General Motors to the Chinese for two pallets of paper towels
8. NBA expands to Shanghai, Guam, Tel Aviv, and Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan
7. Monument to Ted Kennedy opens at the New England Aquarium
6. The last Twitter tweet is sent; it’s a retweet
5. Chuck Norris dies, gives St. Peter roundhouse kick, returns to earth aged 22
4. Congress, fearing the wrath of voters, cuts the top marginal income-tax rate back to 50 percent
3. Bill O’Reilly embarks on his new career as a monk
2. Facebook announces its first nuclear test
1. Sally Kern and Jim Inhofe lead the OKC Pride Parade

Don’t expect all of these things to happen at once.

Received overnight — precisely eight hours apart, for some reason — the following drug (or, from the sound of them, drug-induced) offerings:

During viagra saturnalian handiwork, if you adorn come of feather-headed or sickened, or suffer with wretchedness, numbness, or tingling in your strongbox, arms, neck, or jaw, barricade and reprove your doctor lucid away. You could be having a of disturb side influence of sildenafil.

A warning worthy of the FDA on a bad day. Me, I tend to distend risible at these things:

During viagra suggestive trade, if you distend risible or misled to far-out’s subscribe to, or endure distress, numbness, or tingling in your caddy, arms, neck, or jaw, stopping up and personage your doctor right-minded away. You could be having a heinous side cut of sildenafil.

O, that the purveyors of this dreck could be cut to the side. Heinously.

Smart’s lone model is the fortwo, which can be had with a fixed roof or a drop-top. Either way, it seats two. For a while, they built a larger car with four seating positions, named, with disarming simplicity, the forfour: it was produced fortwo years and then discontinued for lack of sales.

Still, smart hasn’t given up on the idea of a slightly-bigger model: parent Mercedes-Benz has apparently filed for a patent for a three-seater version, which would inevitably be called the forthree. It’s a one-plus-two: the driver’s seat is up front, the passengers share the back half of the car.

If you covet this little darb but you’ve found the fortwo a bit confining, you should hope that smart gets around to building this thing forthwith.

We tip the ol’ blog chapeau — not to be confused with the Chapeau Blog Awards — to Gael Fashingbauer Cooper at Pop Culture Junk Mail on her tenth blogiversary; I’ve been reading her for pretty much that entire decade and cribbing links during most of it. (Seriously. My very first link to PCJM was in 2001.) I hope to be republishing this post with minor emendations ten years from now.

John Salmon is approaching one of the following:

Gafferdom.
Decrepitude.
Fossildom.
Geezerland.

Having gone into Coot Overload myself several years ago, I know this turf a bit too well.

Then again, my first impulse is to dance on it. The day after I turned 50 was the day I took possession of the palatial estate at Surlywood; the last five years, while they’ve had their excruciating moments, were a hell of lot less painful than the five years immediately before. (I was arguably better off financially back then, but my mental state was agitated and then some, and frankly, I feel a whole lot better being smug and complacent.) “You must not forget to live while you are trying to save your life.”

Best advice I can give, with 56 creeping up on me, is this: If you need to ask if your time is up, it isn’t.

And, if available in your area, take advantage of Cash for Codgers.

Marko, like me (but in no wise in an imitation of me), does a Monday-morning weird-search roundup, and he had this seriously choice (bordering on prime) item this week:

conservation of mass and werewolves
Werewolf fiction that respects the law of conservation of mass works around the rule that the mass in a closed system remains constant. For werewolves, that would mean that a 120-pound person would be a 120-pound wolf — no transforming into some hulking 600-pound monster. Werecritter stories that respect the law of conservation instead of just waving the “It’s Magic!” wand tend to center around critters that are roughly similar in mass to adult humans: wolves, jaguars, leopards, cougars/mountain lions, and so on. No werebears or weretigers, since a 600-pound weretiger or 1,200-pound weregrizzly would be incredibly obese in human form.

Closest I’ve ever come to this premise was back in the fall of ’06, as follows:

A few eons ago, Sheri S. Tepper wrote of Mavin Manyshaped, one of a clan of shapeshifters, who, once her powers develop, flees from the family compound, lest she be abused like the other women in the clan. Mavin takes her younger brother with her; to speed the process along, she assumes the shape of a horse.

So far, this is a fairly routine fantasy concept, but Tepper is never routine. If you think about it — obviously she did — the Mavin/horse is going to have to eat, and eat a lot, during a long journey like this, and once she returns to human form, well, what’s going to happen to all that bulk she was carrying as an equine?

Yep. Don’t go there if you can help it.