Strange search-engine queries (434)

Monday morning finds me busy at work thoroughly zonked after the weekend, and it’s time once again for a trip through the logs in search of cheap blogfodder.

Fiorello LaGuardia fill a pothole quote:  It was something like “There’s no Democratic or Republican way to fill a pothole.” Here in Oklahoma City, where municipal elections are nonpartisan, there’s no way to fill a pothole, period.

Deep web rulez, imao:  Yeah? Where’d you get the link?

what happen if throttle position coming fail in ford mondeo?  Generally, if fail is coming, you stop going.

whos older derrick fisher or tim duncan:  Fisher’s older, though not by much compared to the dinosaurs who walked the earth in those days.

julio iglesias facism:  See, for example, his hit “To All the Proles I’ve Exploited Before.”

overfilling ford cd4e transmission:  Simple. Just pour in the required quantity of ATF, and then don’t stop.

common cents cheat codes:  Giving up so soon?

All work and no play may make Jim a dull boy, but no work and all play makes jim all kinds of a jackass:  You may know Jim, but most assuredly you don’t know jack.

what fails inside 4eat automatic transmission:  Internal parts only. Isn’t that convenient?

if we do not learn by heart, the heart does not feel the rhythms of poetry as echoes or variations of its own insistent beat  Similarly, if we go Googling for passages rather than write our own, the gradebook does not feel the sensation of an A, or sometimes merely a B.

mane six discovering r34:  I wouldn’t wish that on anypony.

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And some gave all

Still they come, the dreams, brief glimpses of what might have been.

The war had been going on, we knew — they hadn’t told us, since it wasn’t “critical to the mission” — for nearly seventeen (“officially,” eleven) years. For all we knew, it had eleven or even seventeen years left to run, and if you were eighteen, as I was, that was close enough to eternity to bring you up short. None of us, cringing in our marginally awake state at 0430, knew what to expect: all we knew was that some of us would be sent to the front, and not all of us would come back.

But first, there was training. Lots of it. We learned some possibly useful skills — my own company proved to be particularly ingenious in dealing with the recapture of escaped partisans, and if I did indeed throw like a girl, only seven of my sixty test grenades failed to hit the target — and we learned to hurry up and wait, to stand there awaiting orders, and to not waste time thinking when those orders were given.

And then it was all done and new orders were cut and eventually I was sent to the other side of the world, where it was probably unlikely that I would be shot at, but it didn’t make any difference in the grand scheme of things: there was a mission, and I would be doing my level best to make sure of the success of the mission, Sir.

It’s forty years later and I still think about the ones who didn’t come back. They had faces, they had names, and several of them, I am told, drew resting places as near to nowhere as can exist on this planet. I grin when I think of some of the gallows humor produced in the wake of the war:

Six Phases of a Military Operation

    1. Enthusiasm.
    2. Disillusionment.
    3. Panic.
    4. Search for the guilty.
    5. Punishment of the innocent.
    6. Praise and honor for the non participant.

And then the grin vanishes, erased by the knowledge that the humor only barely concealed the truth of the matter.

It could have been me. The luck of the draw, the whim of the Almighty, whatever, it could have just as easily gone the other way. I’m not sure which bothers me more: the fact that we lost so many, or the fear that we won’t be able to mobilize anyone if something serious should happen.

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Ibakalypse now

Earlier this weekend, as reported by the Spurs guy from the San Antonio Express-News:

Well, he didn’t say when. Number 9 was out there for the tip, and while he got shuttled in and out of the game for occasional calf maintenance, Serge had a very Serge-like line: 6-7 for 15 points, seven rebounds and four blocks in 30 minutes. Halfway through the fourth quarter with the Thunder up 17, the Spurs conceded the matter, and the reserves, eventually including (yes!) Hasheem Thabeet, mopped up, giving Oklahoma City its first win in the series, 106-97.

Brooks, who never screws with his starting lineup, screwed with his starting lineup, installing Reggie Jackson on the other wing in lieu of Thabo Sefolosha. Jackson, who got more minutes (37) than anyone, tossed up a few too many errant treys (1-6), but he turned in a solid performance otherwise, with 15 points and five assists. The KD and Russ Show was worth watching, with Westbrook knocking down 26 points and Durant 25, and 18 rebounds between them. The Thunder dominance of the boards was total: 52-36, with Steven Adams grabbing nine of them. Both Sefolosha and Nick Collison, who had been fairly well throttled by San Antonio in the first two games, drew DNP-CD, suggesting that Brooks is trying to make a point.

Certainly the Spurs got the point. Manu Ginobili was his usual seemingly unstoppable self, six of nine from beyond Boerne to lead San Antonio with 23, and Tim Duncan plucked 16 from wherever it is he keeps them, but Kawhi Leonard (10 points), Tony Parker (nine) and Danny Green (eight) were all below par, knocking the Spurs’ shooting percentage below 40. And while the Spurs still have the advantage in ball movement, it’s shrunk a bit: 22 assists and 16 turnovers versus 17 and 18.

Game 4 picks up Tuesday night in OKC. The crowd will want a repeat of what they saw tonight, and I suspect they don’t care what Scott Brooks wears.

(Title by Spencer Ackerman.)

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Try our new Boondocks app

Can you really call it “wilderness” if there’s Wi-Fi?

I know it’s a losing battle, but I’m against WiFi in the wilderness. When Parks Canada announced plans to make wireless internet available in up to 150 national parks over the next three years, I was bummed out. I’m not terribly outdoorsy — I only like camping when the sun is stupidly hot and the kybo isn’t too gross — and most days I consider social media an informative good time. But just once in a while, I’d like to be thrilled by the all-encompassing serenity of drifting over a majestic lake using only the power of my own puny biceps. The instant I upload a shot of a mother moose and her calf, I’ll be checking my e-mail, setting up meetings, and spoiling the mood.

Yes, I know: some people want to keep in touch, and just think of the possibilities for rescue! Still, forty-odd years after I learned the implications of the word “bivouac,” I’m inclined to keep the inside inside, and the outside as far outside as possible.

(Via this Susan Wright-Boucher tweet.)

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Mr. Rodger’s neighborhood

Surprisingly, the population is fairly dense, for several definitions of “dense.”

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It’s never “just a house”

Lisa bids farewell to an old friend in San Francisco:

[W]e have to hand it over to the real star of the show: my little 1892 Queen Anne Victorian. She’s the Helen Mirren of houses. She’s done a lot of living and some of it shows in wrinkles and things that sag just a little bit. But she’s got great bones, more class than ladies a quarter of her age, and a lot of attitude. This staging is just a new dress for her and she’s rocking it — as she has through the decades. Vale, little Noe Victorian. I hope whoever buys you loves you and cares for you as much as we did. But you went through some horrendous re-muddles in the 70s and you survived that to be brought back to your former beauty. You’ve been through two of the most devastating earthquakes in U.S. history and you are still standing. You’ve seen fashions change and come around and you are still stylish.

Cue the Gloria Gaynor. You will survive.

The stupid locks, of course, will be changed.

At some point, someone — most assuredly, not I — will be called upon to dispose of my little Mid-Century Modern ranch (born 1948). I can only hope that its next occupant sees to it that its spirit is preserved, although zoning will help.

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Meatcam!

Arby’s has just wrapped up its first 13-hour commercial, which is intended to remind you that the brisket in their Brisket Sandwich is actually smoked in a proper smoker for exactly that length of time. It’s not, admittedly, particularly scintillating, unless you get off on watching meat:

In the dialogue-free commercial, a brisket is placed in a smoker that has been fitted with a glass window and internal light, and it cooks on the screen in one uncut shot. Finally, the brisket is removed from the smoker and Neville Craw, Arby’s corporate executive chef (only his arms and apron-clad torso are seen), slices off some and assembles the sandwich, which includes smoked Gouda cheese, crispy fried onions and barbecue sauce.

The live-TV airing on channel 6.2 in Duluth — Guinness insisted it be carried somewhere on actual television to qualify for Longest Commercial honors — will be followed by a Webcast at www.13hourbrisket.com on Wednesday, starting 8 am Central.

How this compares in excitement level to, say, the Yule-log broadcasts at Christmas, remains to be seen.

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Truckulence intensifies

Collin Raye, who had a fair number of country hits in the 1990s, suspects that the genre is now essentially played out:

[A]s someone who grew up loving and being forever affected by the true greats of country music, I simply have to offer up this plea to the Nashville country music industry to reclaim the identity and poetic greatness that once was our format. The well-written poetic word of the country song has disappeared.

There appears to be not even the slightest attempt to “say” anything other than to repeat the tired, overused mantra of redneck party boy in his truck, partying in said truck, hoping to get lucky in the cab of said truck, and his greatest possible achievement in life is to continue to be physically and emotionally attached to the aforementioned truck as all things in life should and must take place in his, you guessed it … truck.

I could throw some dime-store psychology in here, to the effect that since nobody can afford to buy a house anymore, a guy’s single largest purchase is his truck, and therefore that which is truck-related is uppermost in his mind. This is, of course, easily refuted by the fact that no one sang about partying and/or hoping to get lucky in a tract house, back in the days when even I could afford one.

Of course, the operative word in “party boy” is “boy.” The Friar, however, imputes comparable guilt to the girls as well:

[T]he ladies have their own share of guilt, with nearly every female singer or female-led act now supplying their albums with at least one sluts-in-boots track a la 2004’s “Redneck Woman” from Gretchen Wilson. And the boots better be paired with a spectacular set of gams shown off in cutoffs.

For the obligatory counterexample, I offer you Rosanne Cash’s freshly squeezed The River & The Thread, which includes a track titled “When the Master Calls the Roll.” Cash turned 59 today, which may explain why this example came to mind so quickly. If you stay past the final chord, you’ll learn this: Cash wrote this song with her current husband, John Leventhal, and with her previous husband, Rodney Crowell. Neither of those guys is much on bro-in-a-truck stuff.

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From the Boo Fricking Hoo files

If anyone here thought I might be just this side of pathetic, what with my occasional bursts of frustration regarding my perennially empty dance card — well, I am George Farking Clooney next to this guy.

Background:

A drive-by shooter went on a rampage near a Santa Barbara university campus that left seven people dead, including the attacker, and seven others wounded, authorities said Saturday.

The gunman got into two gun battles with deputies Friday night in the beachside community of Isla Vista before crashing his black BMW into a parked car, Santa Barbara County Sheriff Bill Brown said.

Deputies found him dead with a gunshot wound to the head, but it wasn’t immediately clear whether he was killed by gunfire or if he committed suicide, he said… Although the suspect’s name has not officially been released, CBSLA reports that his name is Elliot Rodger, son of film director Peter Rodger, as was confirmed to them by the family of the alleged suspect.

And, well, you just heard from Elliot Rodger, alone in his BMW, musing about how horrible it is that women just aren’t attracted to a murderous, self-obsessed loner — and then, later, plotting his revenge.

In that second video, he describes himself as “the true Alpha Male.” Trust me on this: the true Alpha Male spends no time brooding over virginity, especially his own.

See also this dork going berserk in a Pennsylvania health club. Um, guys? There is nothing that says you’re entitled to a woman’s attention. Nothing. The girls I know (caution: small sample) consider that attitude to be an automatic disqualifier unless you have something else going for you. For now, you’re just a column in the newspaper, unless Guinness decides to hand out a World Record award for Balls, Bluest. I suspect, though, that they don’t award these things posthumously.

Update: Further thoughts here.

Update: Deleted video link, since the video has been pulled from YouTube.

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Meanwhile at the beach

Somebody told me Molly Sims was 40, and I reacted as though someone had told me that Bud Light had won an international beer taste test: it’s possible, I suppose, but you can’t make me believe it.

A nice Miami Beach shot from December:

Molly Sims at Miami Beach December 2013

And a nifty swimsuit by Shoshanna.

Oh, and she’ll be 41 tomorrow. I need a beer.

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The Saab story continues

Perhaps at last it is time for you to stop all of your Saabing:

China’s National Electric Vehicle Sweden (NEVS) has temporarily halted output of its Saab car due to a shortage of funds, it said on Tuesday.

NEVS, which last year resumed low-volume production of the car after it bought the bankrupt iconic Swedish marque, said it currently did not have enough cash to pay outstanding debt.

The plant in Trollhättan will be closed for approximately four weeks. NEVS blames Qingbo Investment Company, a financial operation owned by the city of Qingdao; Qingbo, which took a 22-percent stake in NEVS last year, apparently hasn’t met its financial commitment yet. On the other hand, NEVS, which was producing six cars a day, hasn’t delivered 200 cars ordered by Qingdao.

(Via Daily Kanban.)

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It all comes out in the wash

Laundry: a problem that needs solving? Not to Nancy Friedman:

I confess I’m mystified by the obsession with laundry as a problem to be solved. Of all the necessary household chores, I find laundry to be the most satisfying — the newer machines are wonderfully efficient, and you end up with a clean, fragrant product!

Even some of the older machines — mine date to 2003 — aren’t so bad. But nothing will make you appreciate your laundry room quite like several years of having to bundle up your stuff and shlep it down the street.

I draw the line there, however:

I enjoy ironing, too, but in this as in so many other areas I am evidently an outlier.

Yet it must be conceded that not everyone’s idea of “permanent press” either constitutes a press or endures permanently.

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The cupboard is bare-ish

Generally, one expects some sort of video from Rebecca Black on Friday. What we got was this:

Autocorrect messed up “TIME,” I assume, though it could simply be that she’s a giant sleepy blob of doom.

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That’s one crummy thermostat

You know, if we’re going to take this climate-change stuff seriously, the first thing we have to do is determine the optimum temperature of the planet. (I vote for 23°C, or as the Americans persist in calling it, 74°; this is precisely the temperature I maintain in my house, so I admit to exactly as much bias as that takes.)

Unfortunately, the planet refuses to cooperate:

There was global warming. Then global cooling. Then warming. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

It seems to me this melting and warming has been going on long, long, before we started the Industrial Revolution, eons before Duke Energy and ConEd fired up their first coal burning power plants, hundreds of centuries before Monsanto screwed with the DNA of a kernel of corn, way before we started raping Mother Nature like a Nigerian schoolgirl sex slave.

It’s almost like the planet didn’t care about us, or something.

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Look, Ma, no nothing

I have always suspected that rather a lot of our drivers are snoozing at the wheel, especially during rush hour, and we don’t even have any self-driving cars to speak of. California, of course, does; and, being California, it has developed rules for the little automated boxen:

Under new regulations, drivers (or riders as the case may be) will need to be official testers on a manufacturer’s payroll and go through a special training program to get a yearlong permit. They’ll also have to remain attentive behind the wheel — so no napping on the way to work yet — and notify the DMV if they’re in an accident or have to override the car’s manual controls for any reason. When it comes to cars, it’s not a free-for-all. Manufacturers will need to apply for a permit for each individual vehicle, and cars are required to have at least five million dollars worth of liability insurance.

None of this sounds particularly unreasonable, but if these things are going to flood the market eventually, the DMV will almost certainly have to cut the drivers (will we, or they, still call them “drivers”?) some slack.

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Meanwhile in Shropshire

I saw a turtle, but I didn’t see it leaving:

Tortoise theft leaves owner shell-shocked

(From Pleated-Jeans via Miss Cellania.)

Addendum: Why, yes, this is World Turtle Day.

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