I must admit here that it never once occurred to me to give my local Wi-Fi network a funny name. I suppose it wouldn’t be that difficult — log into the router and give it the appropriate instruction — but since I generally don’t have anybody leeching off of it, I really don’t have much of a reason to crank up the guilt.
While Emily of course questions the timing of this new Newt Gingrich revelation, there’s a greater mystery to be solved:
The real question here, though, is how a man who looks to be made of Legos kept (or keeps, for all we know) managing to convince women to have sex with him. I know power is supposed to be sexy, but let’s face it, power is not sexy enough to make up for Newt Gingrich. Nothing is. Not even the mental image of Daniel Craig shirtless on a pile of chocolate cake. The man has jowls. By all account, he has Princess Leia chained up in a metal bikini behind his desk. He probably has remnants of last night’s dinner trapped in his neck folds. Ladies, why?
Compare to, say, Matthew Jerome’s observation last spring:
Right now, in a Republican primary, Newt has all the sex appeal of a school bus fire.
Gingrich is a mere ten years older than I am, which gives me either hope or nausea. Not that there’s much difference between the two, really.
To my amazement, there’s not a Downfall parody of this — yet:
Annotated extracts of Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf will be republished in Germany next week for the first time since the Nazi dictator’s fall in 1945, the British publisher of the text says.
Peter McGee says “a brochure of 12 to 15 pages” will be published on January 26 “in which extracts from Mein Kampf will be printed on one side and commentary from a well-known historian on the other”.
Germany banned Mein Kampf after World War II; the rights to the book were assigned to the state of Bavaria after Hitler’s death. Presumably to the horror of content providers, it’s not too hard to find online.
I have been, I admit, not particularly anxious to see Mitt Romney’s tax return, except perhaps to compare its thickness to, say, that of a James Michener novel. Bill Quick, however, finds this sort of thinking unacceptable, and says so in no uncertain terms:
If Mitt wants to keep his finances or anything else private, then he needs to remain a private citizen. But the moment he comes to me and asks me to vote for him, he forfeits his rights to privacy.
The notion that politicians should have the same rights to privacy as those who are not seeking to rule us is one of the main contributors to the corrupt-to-the-bone state of American politics and governance today. People who “aren’t interested” in the past, the nature, the character, and records, and the deeds of those who are asking us to vote for them simply aren’t thinking very clearly.
It’s a case — hell, it’s a whole shipping container — of denial: if every closet door were opened and every skeleton dragged into the light, we’d quickly discover that the names we’ve been putting on our ballots belong to, as Cormac McCarthy once said, “thieves, derelicts, miscreants, pariahs, poltroons, spalpeens, curmudgeons, clot-polls, murderers, gamblers, bawds, whores, trulls, brigands, topers, tosspots, sots and archsots, lobcocks, smell-smocks, runagates, rakes and other assorted and felonious debauchees.”
And then, of course, we would weep, not so much for our sad state of governance, but for ourselves and our pitiful efforts at oversight.
No, not those guys. I mean the Washington Wizards, who simply outhustled the Thunder tonight en route to a 105-102 win that nobody except Kevin Durant imagined. (Durant, always the realist, pointed out before the game that however woeful the Wiz might be, “we’re 2-2 against them.”) And now 2-3.
How did this happen? The Wiz went after every ball that went by, outrebounding OKC 52-43, including 19 off the offensive glass: Washington earned 59 second-chance points. John Wall worked his tail off, scoring 25; Nick Young got 22 of his 24 in the second half, and the on-again-off-again Andray Blatche was definitely on, picking up 12 points and picking off 10 boards.
The Durant-Westbrook Axis of Scoring was busy most of the night — 69 points between them — but they didn’t get much help from elsewhere, nor did the long ball fall. (Only four of 19 treys all night; Nick Young had five all by himself.) Worse (worse?), the Thunder stumbled their way to 21 turnovers, and you can’t do that against West Sheepskin Middle School, let alone an actual NBA team, even one that was 1-12 coming in.
Hubris? Maybe. Scott Brooks is probably wondering why he can’t look up “Nemesis” on Wikipedia right now. And if the Wizards can beat the Thunder, what’s going to happen against the somewhat less horrible New Jersey Nets
Friday Saturday night? The fly on the wall at the next practice will be getting an earful, you may be sure.
Nineteen offensive rebounds to go with 21 Thunder turnovers. You give Edmond North’s middle school team that many extra looks at the basket and you play with fire.
Jennifer, in her not-so-secret identity as Stiletto Girl, explains why Prada should send her their 2012 shoe collection “inspired by American classic cars”:
I like cars. I can drive a standard in 4 inch stilettos… I took a home defense shotgun class in 3 inch heels.
Pretty persuasive. But what about the shoes? Here’s one of them:
The ’59 Caddy tailfin notwithstanding, that’s kind of a cute shoe. Then again, being Prada, it probably costs as much as a transmission rebuild.
And how many women do you know who can work all three pedals in four-inch heels? (My own answer: “Not enough.”)
(Original photo via AutoGuide.com.)
The entirety of a spam comment, left at another site I run:
Electric toothbrushes vibrate at a very high speed.
Next time someone tells me truth is its own defense, I’ll just show them this.
I’ve been kvetching about the Malfunction Indicator Light — sometimes called the “Check Engine Light” — for quite some time now. In fact, I once devoted an entire Vent to the accursed thing:
[T]he warning system is designed to give the motorist as little information as possible: you get a light on the dash, with two levels of severity — either it’s blinking or it’s not — and nothing more. The idea, of course, is that you’ll take the vehicle to a Qualified Service Technician, who will then plug in the appropriate black box, decipher what’s stored in the car’s computer, and make the judgment call. After all, mere drivers can’t be expected to know how these things work.
And as a shade-tree mechanic, I’m somewhere on the poor-to-fair continuum. I admit it. But I always resent the sort of thinking that says that people need to be protected from information. What would it cost to get a five-character readout on the dash that shows the actual code involved? Six, seven dollars? It’s a thirty-thousand-dollar car, fercrissake. At least I’d have some idea whether I’m facing a $100 repair or a $1000 repair, a matter of great interest when I don’t have $1000 to spare, which I don’t.
Jalopnik’s Jason Torchinsky attacks from the same angle, though much more forcefully:
You’d have to guess, either ignoring it and hoping it’s nothing, or taking it to a shop and hoping you’ll be able to pay for whatever the repair turns out to be, a repair performed by a for-profit enterprise based on information you as an owner have never seen. Making valuable information about a person’s own property inaccessible only enables uninformed judgment and the possibility of fraud.
Says Torchinsky, if they can mandate stuff like tire-pressure sensors, they can damned well mandate something like this:
[W]e need a federal mandate that bans the generic “check engine” light in new cars and instead requires, on dash, OBD-II codes and a basic description. The only rational reasons it hasn’t happened yet range from a best-case scenario of simple manufacturer desire to build as cheaply as possible, to an actual deliberate campaign of forced ignorance in order to keep dealer network profit streams. Neither of those reasons — or any in between them — are valid or acceptable.
There’s also a petition, though I really don’t expect anything to come of it, Congress being obsessed for the moment with their new Copyright Police Kit. Any hell that doesn’t immediately swallow up Lamar Smith (R-Disney) isn’t worthy of the name.
Last time we had a Zooeypalooza it was my birthday. Today it’s her birthday. (She’s mumbly-hum years old.)
Click ye, and thou shalt embiggen.
I think I’m going to have to reroute my grocery-shopping trips so I don’t pass any other place I might spend money, what with my high susceptibility to incidents like this:
I needed a shower curtain liner, we were passing Lowe’s. I told hubby it wasn’t a financially sound idea to stop and go in and perhaps we should just hit the 99c store instead.
You can imagine what happened after that.
(And you don’t want to think about how much I paid for the last liner I bought.)
Will Truman peels off $325 to register his car, which sounds to me like a stiff sum for a second-year tag. Herewith his explanation:
It turns out that the state is engaging in affluence-discrimination. A form of progressive taxation under the idea that if you can afford a newish car (less than five years old) you must be fishin’ loaded. My inner conservative is outraged as this is yet another way our increased income is being chipped away at. My inner liberal points out that my paying $225 to the state ($100 is local) allows someone barely getting by on a clunker to pay $30 (and less on the county, though I can’t find the exact number). Intellectually, the liberal wins. The conservative hasn’t calmed down yet.
These are numbers worthy of Oklahoma circa 1999, though Soonerland has since (somewhat) mended its ways: yearly registration for years 1 through 4 runs a mere $91 today, dropping as low as $21 for a 17th-year renewal. On the other hand, you still have to hand over the excise tax at purchase, which remains at 3.25 percent, though it’s certainly better than having to pay the sales-tax rate, which is 4.5 percent and up, and up.
[I]t was scary to see just how close SOPA — or its sister bill, the Protect IP Act — were to being passed by Congress, but it is reassuring to see just how fervent, organized, and motivated the opposition was to this kind of legislation.
Let’s not celebrate too soon. I wouldn’t put it past these schmucks to deem it passed, just so they can continue to cash those checks.
You could look at the Celtics’ record through eleven games — 4-7 — and bet accordingly, assuming you’re a betting man. I’m not. I am, however, a firm believer in intangibles, and few teams work the X factor as efficiently as Boston at home. Did the Irishmen look lethargic in the first half? Not a problem: they’ll come alive in the second. Down seven, then ten, they fought back to a tie, and were down only three with 2:20 left. And then the Thunder tossed up one, two, three, four consecutive treys, two by Thabo Sefolosha, two by Russell Westbrook, and goodnight, Boston, 97-88.
The bitter pill for the Garden crowd — apart, of course, from seeing Kendrick Perkins in blue — was that those OKC characters had missed 12 of 15 previous attempts from distance, and suddenly four in a row? Things didn’t seem to add up. The Celtics, by any definition of the term, owned the boards (48-40); Kevin Garnett had 12 of them, Jermaine O’Neal 11. Reserve swingman Mickael Pietrus (14 points) had the hot hand in the final frame, and, well, Paul Pierce (24 points) was busy being Paul Pierce all night.
Still, OKC is working that whole Hard to Kill thing as well as anyone this season. With the bench largely bottled up — James Harden was held to five points — the starters gutted it out. Kevin Durant checked in with 28 points, Westbrook with 26, and what’s this? Thabo with 19?
Last season the Thunder went 22-8 against teams from the East. There won’t be thirty non-conference games this year, but 2-0 is a pretty decent start. And the semi-hapless Wizards come up next.