Rule 85: If it exists, there is pony of it.
And right on time, too.
Rule 85: If it exists, there is pony of it.
And right on time, too.
Roger, after careful consideration, has decided to participate in that Six Songs of Me business (I did it here), and one of his selections makes me jump just a little:
What is your perfect love song?
Forever I have been a sucker for “I Only Have Eyes for You” by the Flamingoes. Always makes me a bit misty.
(Title courtesy of Brinsley Schwarz.)
I was following a news item on wsbtv.com, and this semi-nifty little map appeared in the sidebar, offering “County by County News”:
Note that Clarke County is sitting out there to the east all by its lonesome, while several closer counties — Barrow, Oconee, Walton — are apparently spurned by WSB-TV. My first thought was “Maybe they have a translator out there,” and as maybes go, this is one of the more definite examples: there is indeed a WSB translator licensed to Athens, which is in Clarke County — in fact, Athens and Clarke County were consolidated in 1990 — though the actual broadcast site is outside Winder, in Barrow County.
Then again, nothing here is quite as amusing as the shape of Fulton County, which resembles a lolcat peering around a corner.
I suspect he’s still crushed that Princess Cadance totally saved Shining Armor’s ass on their wedding day.
I have yet to happen upon any concert footage from Wild 100, the August concert on the Jersey shore in which Rebecca Black appeared, but RB did favor us with thirty seconds of video connected to the event, and for now, that’s going to have to do:
It’s billed as a “trailer,” and there’s that “COMING SOON” blurb, so I remain hopeful.
(Title swiped from a DJ I remember from forty-odd years ago.)
[T]he one I don’t get is the Gin Blossoms song [“Hey Jealousy”]. How did it get that high up there? I don’t use playlists, everything is random shuffle, and I know I’ve never repeated it, because I don’t even particularly like it. However, it is blandly inoffensive enough that I’ve probably never skipped it either when it’s been served up; it’s the acoustic equivalent of eggshell white paint on the walls.
There must be something about Gin Blossoms. I have exactly three Gin Blossoms tracks out of 6800 on the work box, and yet they seem to come up every third day or so.
Also high on her list was the Emerson, Lake & Powell epic “Touch and Go,” which to me has always sounded like Greg Lake’s attempt at recreating King Crimson’s “21st Century Schizoid Man” — on which, incidentally, he sang. Certainly Lake’s lyric style here is a direct descendant of Pete Sinfield’s there.
Note: I had originally intended to post this as a comment to Tam’s original post, but Blogger was having one of its periodic snits.
Jack Baruth waxes lyrical about the Shelby GT500, and it ain’t Turtle Wax either:
It cruises windows-up at 72 mph on the freeway, delivers twenty miles per gallon, chills the cabin, plays Sade’s “Love Deluxe” with appropriate fidelity, doesn’t cook the luggage in the mail-slot trunk, rides acceptably on bad pavement, looks spectacular, costs less than a loaded German mid-size sedan, will be sought-after in the used market as long as there’s a gallon of gasoline to be had anywhere. It reaches for the road ahead with incandescent aggression and remains stable long after the fenceposts have blurred into invisibility.
I actually passed a GT500 ragtop yesterday in the general vicinity of the I-44/I-235 clusterfark, not because I had superior speed or mad driving skillz or anything like that, but because I saw the hole open up and the Shelby didn’t take it. Then again, it might be horrifying to think about your astronomical horsepower numbers while you’re practically idling at 59 mph. I did, however, have time to note the ponycar’s tag: VROOOOM. I think it was four O’s.
Given my not-awful score on the Verbal section of the SAT, you might have thought I was a passable writer in those days. I was not. And, says Peg Tyre in The Atlantic, things have only gotten worse since then:
According to the Nation’s Report Card, in 2007, the latest year for which this data is available, only 1 percent of all 12th-graders nationwide could write a sophisticated, well-organized essay. Other research has shown that 70 to 75 percent of students in grades four through 12 write poorly. Over the past 30 years, as knowledge-based work has come to dominate the economy, American high schools have raised achievement rates in mathematics by providing more-extensive and higher-level instruction. But high schools are still graduating large numbers of students whose writing skills better equip them to work on farms or in factories than in offices; for decades, achievement rates in writing have remained low.
Fortunately for me, IBM’s various control languages aren’t particularly nuanced, and they pay the bills around here. Still, I was well into my forties before I got to the point where I wasn’t thoroughly embarrassed with my command of written English. Not that anyone is threatening to turn me into a farmhand or a factory worker, exactly, but c’est la vie.
Women who defend this book are, however unwittingly, participating in some of the most blatant misogyny I’ve ever witnessed, giving the impression that some women enjoy being debased, abused, and controlled (outside of a consensual Dom/sub relationship). This is not a book about BDSM, this is a book about one sick, abusive man and his obsession with a young, naive invertebrate. It’s a book about a girl who has absolutely no sense of self, who sacrifices any pretense of individuality in order to hold onto a man who doesn’t even show her the faintest glimmer of respect. It’s about two attention-starved individuals with the emotional maturity of toilet paper convincing themselves that their relationship is “like, the best thing ever, OMG”. It’s trite, insulting, and dangerous.
I mention in passing that despite Ms Lumsden’s enthusiastic rejection of the book — you should probably read the entire review to get a feel for that level of enthusiasm — nearly a quarter-million readers have rated it highly enough to average 3.62 stars out of a possible 5. Then again, every one of us knows someone who’s slightly less stable than a four-pack of Charmin. Over the years, alas, I’ve even voted for a few.
(Via this Cara Ellison tweet.)
Or, for that matter, Harold Pinter. We’re talking PINs, and this one was nice while it lasted:
The safest 4-digit PIN is “8068” — or at least it was, until researchers at Data Genetics told everyone this week. The researchers there went through a set of 3.4 million four-digit personal identification numbers and found “8068” came up only 25 times.
The most common PIN, unsurprisingly, is “1234.” Beyond that:
[T]here are several numbers that people seem drawn toward. For instance, PINs starting in “19” are common because people like to link their identification numbers with a significant year. In fact, all PINs that start in 19 fall into the top fifth of the dataset.
The top 20 includes all the series in which the first number is repeated throughout (such as 3333) plus 4321, 1212 and 2001. The study also found that many PINs are based on visual clues. Coming in at No. 22 is 2580 — the numbers that run down the middle of a phone or ATM keypad.
I’m waiting for something harder to guess, like, say, √2+3.
The Golden Gate Bridge is going to electronic toll collection, which, Bill Quick reminds us, will be a pain in the neck for tourists:
The GG Bridge is one of the great tourist attractions in the entire world. It connect two other monumental tourist attractions — Marin County / Wine Country and San Francisco.
Now, what is the primary characteristic of tourists? Easy — they aren’t from any of those places. And so they don’t know things like, for instance, that the pile of small bills and change on their front console, used for paying whatever tolls they happen to come across in their travels through distant, unknown climes, will be useless when they try to return to their hotel from a day trip up to Napa and Sonoma to slurp the vino.
Inevitably, since this is a California project, the question arises: “How do they do this in Texas?” This way:
Drivers without an electronic toll tag are also welcome to use the express lanes on Austin area toll roads. When a driver does not stop to pay at a toll booth, cameras above the toll lanes will photograph the license plate, and the vehicle owner will receive a monthly bill for toll charges. We call it “Pay By Mail.”
The Pay By Mail toll rates are one-third more than TxTag rates to offset the costs related to processing the license plate information. Also, a $1.15 fee is applied to each monthly bill for non-tag customers.
Segments 1 through 4 of State Highway 130, now $5.40 for TxTag holders, will rise to $6.75 around the first of the year. An out-of-state tourist will therefore pay $9 per trip, plus that $1.15 for the monthly billing. I grant that TX 130 is not as scenic as the Golden Gate, but it beats the hell out of looking at Interstate 35 for two or three hours, and the speed limit is as much as 80. (The extension toward San Antonio, not yet open, will be posted at 85 mph.)
I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the plagiarists are getting even lazier these days:
I discovered that a topic I assigned in a previous semester had been asked as a question on Yahoo! Answers.
What really upset me a bit was that the person who had asked it was someone I had thought was interested and engaged in the class, and what he had done on Y!A was essentially put out a “write my paper for me” request. Not that blatantly, but he did get other people to do the background research and spoonfeed it to him.
There are some topics — Programming & Design is one of them — where as many as half the questions are part of someone’s homework. (And many of the rest are “How can I get [application] totally free?”)
Learning stuff IS fun, right? I’m not totally messed up on this, am I? Because some days I begin to wonder.
There hasn’t been a day in the sixteen years I’ve been running this place that I haven’t learned something, even if it was only “Damn, I was totally wrong about that.”
One of the dumber things George W. Bush did — and there are plenty of items to pick from — was push for tax cuts with expiration dates, a bargaining chip that was slightly less useful than a cow chip:
There appears to be a general confusion and muddleheadedness about the way all this is discussed, so I propose that everyone remind themselves that all tax rates are always “temporary”. There’s just no such thing as a “permanent” set of tax rates. As far as I can tell Congress could revisit and alter tax rates every single year, or whenever they felt like. They could take the current tax rate percents and add 2*(rand()-.5) to each number. They could flip some coins. They could use a Ouija board. If they then passed the new set of tax rates, those would be the new tax rates. Why do people ever think of any of these numbers as “permanent”?
A “temporary” tax change, then, is a law that says “let’s make the tax rates X for the next few years, but then back to Y after that”. Needless to say, that’s a dumb law. Why ever do that? If you want the tax rates to be X just change them to X. If, in a few years, changing them back to Y seems like a good idea, sure, go ahead. But why bind yourself to it beforehand?
Beats me. Hell, the Senate doesn’t even bother with budgets anymore, not that anyone believes that they’re binding.
It’s what our State Parks do when the problem arises, as it does with some regularity. Nevertheless, the city is expecting some protest from witlings who cannot figure out that we are the sole remaining predator of deer (give or take a very ambitious bobcat — and even the non-ambitious ones are vanishingly scarce here). Lacking predators, deer will breed themselves into starvation; it’s what they do. The time to control them is before they leap through the windshield of your car, trying to get across the road to polish off someone’s flowerbed.
The specimen that took out my car back in the summer of ought-six was a decidedly rural type, but the principle is pretty much the same — with one exception:
Is it mean of me to hope local media will have a camera at the public hearing, so I can watch teary-eyed fools pleading for the poor innocent widdle baby-waby deers? Look, they’re real cute but they’re not even as clever as goats.
There may be fools in Boondocks County, but they don’t get weepy over such matters.
Or at least, don’t go out of your way to be rude to him:
Don’t say “I pay your salary.” It’s trite and offensive. Lots of people pay our salaries (such as they are, and many elected officials in this country work for free). If you’re looking for help with a problem, know that we’ll do our best, but we are constrained by laws and budget. If the guy down the street is a hoarder, it bothers us, too, but our options are limited. We don’t live in a police state and can’t just go in and clean the place out. Those laws can be maddening, but they also protect you from an overly intrusive government.
I’ve always thought that the proper response to “I pay your salary” is “So where’s my raise?”
Or, more precisely, with me. The home box is showing signs of an old Nineties phenomenon: RAM seeming to “stick,” locking up the machine in place, and refusing to budge for at least six minutes. I reseated the two DIMMs, just in case, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference. I’m beginning to wonder if Mercury is retrograde at Turnpike Cruiser levels.
Addendum: Sysadmin thinks it’s a capacitor on the motherboard.