The take-charge woman

Libby Gelman-Waxner, inventor of contemporary feminism — she says so in “Hooked on Heroines” in Entertainment Weekly‘s double Fall Movie issue — definitely is an advocate for female strength:

In Sheryl [Sandberg]’s book, she tells women to stop being so wishy-washy, and to demand leadership equality. I agree, and I once told my dear friend Stacy Schiff to march right into her boss’ office and say, “I may not be the best marketing analyst on the planet, but I’m still a whole bunch better than all of those drippy guys who work here.” I also suggested that whenever Stacy met a handsome, successful single man, she should tell him, “Look, buster, you’re obviously going to be threatened by the fact that I’m smarter and more capable than you, so unless you enjoy feeling emotionally castrated, get lost.” If a man is visibly aroused by this, he’s a keeper.

I admit to being amused, if not aroused, by this. Then again, I’ve been a Libby fan since — well, it’s been a long time:

Let’s face it, Jesus would have been the best husband of all time. He was gorgeous, he was incredibly compassionate, and he was a carpenter, so none of your cabinets would ever stick.

For sure.

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A minor miracle

I trust this requires no explanation:

Never could get the hang of this piece on the piano.

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Tales from the Conversion Bureau

A survey of non-pony fans — I am assured that there are such — yielded these interesting conclusions:

1) Exposing people to episodes of MLP does NOT automatically turn them into Bronies or fans of MLP

2) People who MAY develop into fans DISPLAY a distinct set of characteristics that correspond to a curious, open and less traditional approach to life

To contribute a single data point: two weekends ago, I exposed someone — Future Daughter-in-Law — to an episode. (Specifically: “Call of the Cutie.”) I also pointed out where on Netflix the other 64 episodes could be found (in the obvious place), and noted that I’d actually written some fanfic.

Results: Not clear at this time, though somehow she read the entirety of The Sparkle Chronicles. Based on point 2, however, I am hopeful, if only because I’ve seen her bookshelves, and they rival mine for sheer variety.

(Almost a title explanation.)

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The next Twinkie report

Yesterday’s trip to the supermarket yielded up no actual Hostess Twinkies, though there was a whole shelf of Donettes to be had.

Next to the vacancy where the Twinkies are supposed to live, there was something new: Sara Lee Golden Crème Cakes, billed as “Baked · fresh · to go!” And indeed, they’re delivered in a flat box that suggests actual baked goods, though the absence of a lift-off top spoils that illusion. The product itself is pretty good; they get the mouthfeel right, the aftertaste is correct, and the texture is a trifle airier — let’s call it spongier — than the competition.

The only disadvantage, if you ask me, is the suggested retail price, tucked away on the box edge: $3.99 for a box of eight. (Crest was asking 2/$5.)

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Girly in the morning

We’re a long way from getting past automotive sexism, it appears: I got my wife an Infiniti G37 because she really liked it and still loves it. I ride it in sometimes not a lot but from what I tell its just a car. The acceleration is better in it is better than my brothers crap Acura TL and feels and sounds better than an Acura. But I saw this new Infiniti I liked called the JX. It's big, sits high of the ground, and has some good looks to it. I'm about tired of my pilot and it has some problems I'm not in the mood for so I think it's time to replace it. Is this a good, reliable car and are Infiniti's for guys as well?

If you ask me, this guy should:

  1. Buy the biggest, baddest, pickup truck with as many option packages as he possibly can;
  2. Drive it into the farging sea.

It’s the only way to clean up the gene pool.

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A different whiz

Received in the spam trap today:

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Were I to meet the perfect rocket scientist while socialized, I might well be firm. Or maybe not.

Note: These characters will look funny in any encoding other than UTF-8. And originally, there were links under them, which I of course deleted.

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Urban 2.0

The politicians have had their shot at the cities. Now it’s the coders’ turn:

The phenomenon of the software khans starting to deploy their vast oceans of capital into remaking the American public square is just beginning to grow. [Zappos’ Tony] Hsieh in Vegas, Quicken’s Dan Gilbert in Detroit, and others are beginning to take advantage of the devastation that the Blue State model has wreaked on America’s cities (and, not incidentally, at the same time lowering property acquisition costs dramatically) in order to build new visions of urban organization and structure.

The Millennials who will live and work in these new places are famously cooperative, collaborative, and group-think oriented. These new urban approaches will cater to those tendencies.

Here in the Big Breezy, where urban decay is (mostly) pushed off to the side, we’re not seeing exactly this sort of renaissance — after a couple of successful rounds of MAPS, the third is somehow provoking fractiousness — but we have those Millennials in place, so we may get similar results, if there are indeed any results to be had. And besides:

[T]his is the sort of change I would expect to see as the bankruptcy of the American political model becomes more apparent, and the wreckage created by it becomes more widespread.

And frankly I would much rather see this coming from the gazillionaires of tech than from the hapless, pathetic dinosaurs of Washington, D.C.

Silicon Valley is famously blue; replacing the old-think, Democratic Party version of blue with the high-tech New (Somewhat) Blue almost has to be an improvement.

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At some point before closing

How many of you have gone through this?

ME: I like this house. I think I will buy it.

MORTGAGE LENDER: The house needs work before we’ll give you money.

ME, to sellers: The house needs work so that I can get money and not burn up in an electrical fire and stuff.

SELLERS: We know. We’ll fix some stuff.

ME: Great! I will make a list of the scariest stuff for you to fix.

SELLERS, post list: We changed our mind. We’re not fixing that stuff, so suck it.

ME: Dang.

“Dang,” perhaps, may be a placeholder for another word of comparable length.

Oh, when I bought the palatial estate at Surlywood, the princely sum of $500 was set aside for Necessary Work. About half of it was spent.

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We’ve been malled

Lynn visits the Mall of America, and finds it somewhat meh:

It has a total of four levels but the top floor is all movie theaters, so three levels of mall. Each of those three levels is as big as four average size shopping malls and there is an amusement park in the center of it all. However, otherwise it is like any other mall: 90 percent of the stores are full of nothing but ugly clothes and everything is over-priced.

Malls used to have a lot of interesting and fun stores. My mom and I used to love to spend a whole day at a mall but it seems like malls have changed. They have been taken over by The Gap and Abercrombie and Fitch and the like. I suppose those are the only kinds of stores that can afford to locate in a mall.

Last time (okay, the only time) I was up there was ten summers ago. Said I:

As enclosed retail compounds go, it’s pretty impressive, and not just because it’s huge; it’s downright intimidating at first glance. We spent little, walked a lot.

By “we,” I mean me and my two children, who did convincing impressions of ten-year-olds during the road trip, despite being 25 and 22. And I will long regret introducing them to Room Service at the Embassy Suites.

(Title from Larry Groce; this was a follow-up single to “Junk Food Junkie.”)

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Discontent providers

The vast quantity of (relatively) low-priced downloadable music available these days is truly a boon to civilization.

Except, of course, when it sucks.

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Quote of the week

There are somewhere around five million words on this site, and I suspect somewhere around a quarter of a million were expended on the tedious task of bewailing my Permanent Singleness. Then again, I am sufficiently self-aware to know why I’m in this state — should I need to identify the culprit, I need only pop open my wallet and look at my driver’s license — which perhaps makes me at least slightly better off than these characters described by Robert Stacy McCain:

[S]ome guys never quite figure this out, because they have never really evaluated themselves or women objectively. These guys psychologically separate women into two categories:

  1. Super-attractive women they really want to hump;
  2. Normal women they might actually have a chance with.

Unrealistic expectations — and particularly the Barbie-doll fixation — inevitably produce disappointment, and guys who fall into that pattern tend to end up pathetically alone.

Before proceeding to our example of this phenomenon, let me explain something basic: By the time you are 25 or so, you have probably already dated the best-looking person you’ll ever date. True, there are late bloomers, people who were high-school losers who get their act together by the time they graduate college and suddenly discover that they are more attractive than they were as teenagers, but this late-bloomer effect is very unlikely to occur after age 25. So by the time a guy is in his mid-20s, if he has never dated an 8+, he’s a damned fool to keep dreaming that Cinderella/Barbie/Playboy model will stumble into his life.

Ain’t gonna happen, Jack. Get over it. Life is not fair.

You really should read the whole thing, which includes a grade-A (or at least Type A) object lesson. I note for record that my own selection criteria are at least as implausible; the difference, of course, is that I know it.

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Teal, dear

I have no plans at this time to see Elysium, on the reasonable basis that if I want to see a screaming dystopia, I need only read the papers. (“This is today. This is now,” said writer/director Neill Blomkamp.)

Still, Jodie Foster, now a hair past fifty and clearly not giving a damn about it, plays the SecDef who has to stop Matt Damon, and really, who among us hasn’t wanted to stop Matt Damon? (Sarah Silverman aside, anyway.) At the premiere, Foster looked fab:

Jodie Foster at the Elysium premiere

Said Jessica of the Fug Girls: “This isn’t the most MIND-BLOWING outfit that ever happened. But she sure looks great in it.” Yea, verily.

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Play something slow

The new Mazda6 has generally wowed the critics, who seem to enjoy its driving dynamics and its not-entirely-bizarre appearance. However, there’s apparently a drawback in the center stack:

The media interface is incredibly slow. I n c r e d i b l y s l o w. So slow that at first I assumed the head unit had frozen so I plugged, unplugged, plugged, unplugged to no avail. Then I gave up and listened to the radio. (Gasp!) A full 4 minutes later, the system switched to the iDevice and started to play my tunes. (Yes, I tested it with USB sticks and it did the same thing). If you think this is a momentary aberration, think again. The system has to fully index your entire USB/Android/iDevice music library before it starts playing. It does this whenever you unplug/plug or when you stop/start the car. Every. Single. Time. The larger your library, the longer it takes. Users on the Mazda forum reported a 10+ minute delay when playing larger devices while I averaged just over three minutes. Want tunes on a short journey? I hope you enjoy AM Gold.

Reminds me of my Sansa ClipZip, of which I once said:

[G]iven any really ginormous number of files, it chokes on the database refresh, which it never quite finishes. Meanwhile, your battery plummets.

I found a solution for the Sansa. Let’s hope Mazda finds one of their own before I have to start looking for new wheels.

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Vault tolerant

For the love of God, Montresor whatever your name is:

In what sounds like the very worst case of “Get off my lawn!” syndrome, police say the owner of a Boston-area storage facility was so ticked off at a Verizon worker who had parked on his grass, he locked him [in] an underground vault. And if we know anything about sealed underground chambers, it’s that they usually don’t have a lot of air. You know, for breathing.

Cops say the worker was on the premises to do some work in this mysterious sounding chamber, but the 71-year-old suspect didn’t appreciate his Verizon van parked on the grass nearby, reports CBS Boston.

Officials claim he not only slammed the door behind the worker, but placed large rocks on it and removed the ladder necessary to get out of the vault, ostensibly to keep him in there.

I dunno. To me, this seems to be the very antithesis of “Get off my lawn,” if the guy is put in a position where he can’t very well get.

Still, this speaks well for Verizon wireless coverage: the worker, trapped in his concrete-and-steel cage somewhere beneath the surface of the earth, was able to get a 911 call through.

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An exhaust manifold of your own

If you’ve lived here for any length of time exceeding a year, you’re aware that Oklahoma summers are hot, except in years like 2011 and 2012, in which the sheer inadequacy of the word “hot” proved to be every bit as painful as the scorching of the top of your head within 45 seconds of opening the door. (Note to Muslims: This is the way you sell the head scarf.) Complicate said heat with something seemingly just as hot along a different vector, and, well, you get this:

Every time I’ve ever eaten at a food truck, it’s been a typical Oklahoma burning hot day. This makes a lot of sense, because events like concerts, festivals, and anything that draws a large crowd of people outdoors occurs well, during the Oklahoma burning hot summer. It wasn’t until I, dripping with sweat, bit into a damn ahi tuna taco dressed with wasabi-mayo, handed to me by a thickly bearded man, surrounded by griddles and deep fryers, enclosed in a 4 ft x 8 ft vehicle, realized that there could be a problem.

Things have clearly changed from the days of the Roach Coach, the truck that occasionally visited us hungry soldiers on post; not only were the facilities far more hygienic than our disparaging name (alternative: “Maggot Wagon”) might imply, most of the foodlike products thence dispensed were approximately 23.5 percent preservatives and therefore would not undergo unseemly decomposition until actually digested.

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This pencil is barely #3

When I was a mere foal, we carried our precious school supplies in sturdy cigar boxes, and woe betide he who messed with somepony else’s box. Half a century later, things seem to have been inverted:

Some of my friends who have kids now say some schools collect the supplies, put them in a common box, and then distribute them. (There’s an interesting lesson in there, and perhaps not the one the school intends). So a sort of Tragedy of the Commons thing happens — there’s a race to buy the cheapest stuff, because who knows if your kid will get back what they brought in, so why spend the extra money? So everyone winds up with sort of crummy supplies … scissors that break, off-brand crayons…

On the other hand, given the apparent mission of contemporary primary education, this might be exactly the lesson the school intends.

And it probably doesn’t matter if the scissors break, because they won’t cut through deep mist, let alone actual construction paper.

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