Restraints to prevent the deceased from rotation about his now-horizontal axis, had he learned that his funeral bill was going to be rendered in Comic Sans: priceless.
The bane of your existence, should you choose an electric vehicle, is waiting for the wee beastie to charge up already fercrissake. It’s almost enough to get you to take the bus.
And if you’re in Tallahassee, some time next year you’ll get the opportunity to take an electric bus. These big boxes have even less range than your car — about thirty miles — but they have one thing you don’t:
Proterra’s system allows a battery electric bus to pull into a transit center terminal or on-route stop and automatically connect to an overhead system that links the bus to a high capacity charger without driver involvement. The bus is then rapidly charged in 5-10 minutes while passengers load and unload. The charging station technology includes advanced wireless controls that facilitate the docking process and eliminate any intervention from the driver. The driver merely pulls into the transit terminal as they normally would, the wireless controls identify that this is the right type of bus and automatically guides and connects the bus with the charging station.
Says Proterra, you get 92 percent of full charge in six minutes. From the looks of things, the charging unit is guided into place by a couple of roof rails. Simple enough. This probably wouldn’t work for cars without some complicated height adjustment, but then again, the car wash seems to be able to figure out automotive width just fine.
Just when I start to think that my approved-by-Andy-Warhol fifteen minutes of fame have expired, they tell me that I’ve been mentioned in a book.
And by “they,” I mean Adam Gurri, who sent this into the stream yesterday:
Having blithered my way through eighteen thousand or so snippets of tweet text so far, I couldn’t possibly identify anything I said which might be of interest to Mr Jarvis, whose book Public Parts: How Sharing in the Digital Age Improves the Way We Work and Live (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2011) was published a couple weeks ago. Mr Gurri, however, could:
It’s referenced on page three, albeit just by the Twitter ID — but then, anyone who looks up that Twitter ID is going to find me. (As regular readers know, I have vanishingly few secrets.)
Zooey Deschanel flies with “The Wayward Wind”:
(Snipped from HelloGiggles, in which ZD is a partner.)
The passing of Steve Jobs has inspired Stuart Brown and the WordPress gang to assemble a Retro Mac theme, which I have installed on the backup site because — well, why the heck not? (I briefly entertained the idea of dropping it here, but decided against it out of, um, brand-management considerations. Yeah. That’ll work.)
Once upon a time, readers of FHM selected Gillian Anderson as the Sexiest Woman in the World. And that time, you’ll want to know, was 1996. How does she look today? (By “today,” I mean “earlier this week on a British talk show.”)
I’d say, certainly better than FHM, which wound up withdrawing from American newsstands in 2006. And besides, when’s the last time I showed you anything this orange?
Actually, if it were up to me, I’d ban debates entirely. Too much is at stake to hang a primary nomination on a mis-statement or an unimpressive makeup job.
Or, for that matter, an uninformed, possibly even hostile, moderator.
A lot of candidates complain about not getting their message out. It doesn’t seem to occur to them that these 90-second driblets don’t constitute much of a message. Right now, about the only value I see to the debates is the marked increase in snark I notice in my tweetstream.
Dropped into the Akismet queue yesterday:
You must master the artwork and technology of traffic for your website. Is the web site without site visitors is like having an ice cream store within the desert, located one hundred km from the nearest highway. It has the most efficient ice cream on this planet, but when anyone enters your retailer, you are going to be defeated.
About three hours later, from the same IP:
Personally, I will positioned the squeeze on my web site and use it to get an inventory that I will marketplace many times.
I hate it when my squeeze is unpositioned.
I think Rebecca Black has well established that her current fame is more important than whatever else should happen in the future. But that begs the question, will her fame actually last? And in 20 years, when she looks back on her teenage fame, how will she feel? Her teenage brain has chosen fame over pride, which is understandable for someone in their youth. However, I doubt that she will feel the same, in five, ten, twenty, or even fifty years. Like many one-hit wonders before her, people will forget and she will have a minimal level of fame.
Will we still need her, will we still feed her, when she’s sixty-four? Hard to say. However, rather a lot of one-hit wonders have managed to sustain lengthy careers under the radar. Bruce Channel, who gave us the iconic “Hey! Baby,” used to quip at his live performances: “And now, I’d like to do a medley of my hit.” He’s still singing it.
There is, of course, the obligatory Future Projection:
Just imagine what archaeologists would think in three hundred years if they uncovered a video from the 21st Century, and instead of some incredibly talented artist like Yo-Yo Ma, they found a video of Rebecca Black instead?
But who the hell knows? In 2311, “music” may consist of the amplified resonance obtained by cutting bosons in two with nanochainsaws. They may not know Yo-Yo Ma from yo’ mama.
“As it turned out, Lou Gehrig died of Lou Gehrig’s disease. What are the chances of that?”
This one-liner has been kicking around in the back of my head for several decades now. I seem to remember hearing it in George Carlin’s voice. Then again, “Weird Al” Yankovic has warned against misattribution of this sort, so I’m not going to declare it a Carlinism.
And I wouldn’t bring it up here except for Lynn’s piece about Nellie Melba:
She was highly regarded in her day and now she’s only remembered as the name of a dessert, and hardly anyone knows why it’s named that. But, on the other hand, there are worse ways that one’s name can go down in history. As the name of a deadly disease, is the first thing that comes to mind.
John Montagu, fourth earl of Sandwich, was not available for comment; I suspect he may have been out to lunch.
And besides, there’s at least the possibility that Lou Gehrig might actually have died of something else, though there’s really no way to know for sure.
Oklahoma City wants a new police HQ/municipal court — no surprise there, the old one is way past its prime — and one proposed scheme to pay for it is to jack up the court costs for speeding tickets:
Speeding tickets have a lower court cost associated with them than other moving violations, and the cost hasn’t risen in eight years… The bump by $11 would bring in an extra $500,000 a year and save the city interest payments that would be associated with some of the other payment options.
Not that I have a problem with this, particularly, inasmuch as the amount they’ve made from my (lack of) moving violations in the past three decades is right at $0, but half a million dollars from an eleven-buck bump? Is it possible that the city hands out 45,000 speeding tickets a year?
Flaming Lips frontman Wayne Coyne is always quotable, and this bit from the Gazette is more so than average:
“Wayne, I think we’re gonna die,’” [Darren] King told Wayne Coyne, the Lips’ ever-optimistic front man, who assured him, “Oh, no, no, no. We’ll just get paralyzed.”
Darren King is drummer for Mutemath, who obviously did not perish in that Tulsa storm, and who will be appearing Friday at the Conservatory. And by now they’re probably sick of “Typical,” but they’ll play it anyway.
By now, we’re used to seeing what a computer looks like when it reboots. (Some of us are, um, more than used to it.) We are not, however, used to seeing it in the middle of the arena in Incredible Hulk-O-Vision:
(Swiped from Dan Steinberg’s D.C. Sports Bog, a WaPo joint.)
Last month, some melonfarming Cornhusker tried to pull a fast one, using a number that properly belonged in my wallet. The bank caught it quickly enough, and killed off the compromised card, though I didn’t find it out until the weekend. (What can I say? My work schedule for the last several years has been fundamentally incompatible with bankers’ hours.) At the time, I noted that I had an automatic payment due that weekend, which would fail. A call to the merchant the following Monday took care of that.
In fact, so far everyone has handled this with dispatch, except for T-Mobile, which had just gotten paid the preceding Thursday. The next week, I signed into their Web site and made the appropriate changes, which were acknowledged by a text message.
This month’s bill is due Monday the 10th. Yesterday, which was the 5th, the Big T derped out four texts, including two within a span of 45 seconds, complaining that they could not get their money, dammit. (Normally they collect on the 8th.) I was sufficiently miffed to waltz my way into an actual T-Mobile store and cancel the autopay forthwith. (“Fifthwith, even,” as Snagglepuss might say.) I noted with grim satisfaction that their air conditioning had failed: evidently the impending arrival of the Death Star has taken its toll on the physical plant.
There are three annual payments to deal with. One of them is bound to fail: SiteMeter, because it always does. Fortunately, David’s used to my whining by now. The surfer dudes who host this Web site haven’t tried to collect any money from me of late — last month, my balance was a startling $0.01 — but I’m not worried about them. That leaves one more, and one more potential story. We shall see. Exit, stage left.
Deborah Harkness recommended this in a tweet, and I liked it enough to pass it on.
Vienna Teng, thirty-three, graduated from Stanford and worked as a software engineer for Cisco before deciding to move into music full-time; this is from her album Waking Hour. (Words can be had from her Web site.) I think this one’s a keeper.
Update: For some reason, this one has decided to autostart. I’ve killed the embed. You can watch it here.
Further update: I’ve gone back to the old-style embed code. Let’s see if it behaves any better.
The very first thing that occurred to me upon hearing that Steve Jobs was gone was this: “If Aldous Huxley had waited eight or nine decades, he could have set Brave New World in the year 632 A.S.: After Steve.”
“Surely you’re not comparing Steve Jobs to Henry Ford,” I hear you say. [Insert Leslie Nielsen witticism here.] I am doing exactly that. If Ford put cars on America’s roads, Jobs put buds on America’s ears. And you can’t get much more Fordish than this: you can get any color of earbuds you want, as long as it’s white.
Or I could point out that the Ford Motor Company is Detroit’s #2 automaker, and that Mac OS, whatever version it’s in right this minute, outsells every other desktop/laptop operating system but one.
But I keep coming back to that phrase “insanely great.” The particular genius of Steve Jobs, I think, is that he knew if something was great enough, you could afford to go a little insane. In a world full of risk avoiders and me-too products and Epsilon-Minus Semi-Moron product planners, Apple under Steve Jobs wasn’t afraid to say “Bring ‘em on.” We can only hope that Apple after Steve Jobs will do the same.