Calling Mr Darwin

I’ve said before that striving for inconspicuousness is highly useful when driving at extralegal, and especially extra-extralegal, speeds.

In other words, don’t do this:

Investigators are trying to track down a driver who filmed himself speeding along Highway 15 in the town of Mirabel [Québec] at speeds of 190 kilometers per hour — about the equivalent of 118 miles per hour in the United States.

The brazen driver cackles and laughs while swerving through law-abiding traffic and passing along the shoulder several times. Police in the area say they have noticed an uptick in drivers filming their own illegal maneuvers and posting the videos online.

There are, most assuredly, more efficient ways to wind up dead, but this is a pretty good one in its own right.

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Quote of the week

Use the Independence Day holiday as a jumping-off point for political snark? That’s not Tam’s way:

Since I spend the other 364 days a year feeling doomed and teeing off on the sack of bastards that cling leech-like to the body politic and making 2012 American suburbia sound like 1972 Karl-Marx-Stadt in the DDR only with more cable channels, I took one day off to feel like an American: I rolled around in a pile of 30-round magazines like Scrooge McDuck and did some snapping-in with an AR-15; I mooned a picture of the queen of England; I read whatever the hell I wanted to, even a few pages in a book printed by the CPUSA wondering if they could beat the Army in a guerrilla war; I sang “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”; I ate a delicious beef filet about the size of my head, fresh off the grill, with a ‘tater to match.

I went to bed feeling pretty darn ‘Murrican, let me tell you.

About the only thing she didn’t do was unleash a crapload of Chinese-made incendiary devices, though the McCains were there, or at least somewhere, to take up the slack.

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Getting live if you want it

We mentioned last week that Rebecca Black was at Vidcon, signing autographs and such, and somewhere along the way she recorded her weekly Ask Rebecca video, in which someone asked about her set list at her Wildwood concert. In case you were wondering:

“For sure, I’ll be doing ‘Sing It,’ ‘Friday’ and ‘My Moment,’ and then there will probably be a couple of new songs that I’ll be doing that you guys haven’t heard yet.”

No “Person of Interest”? Shucky-darn.

Were I closer to the Jersey shore, I’d give some thought to attending this little semi-extravaganza, but then, were I closer to the Jersey shore, I’d have gone to BronyCon last weekend.

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We got Thabeet

The Thunder front office’s most recent act of Prestidigitation perplexes me somewhat. Hasheem Thabeet, whose major distinction, apart from being seven-foot-three, is being the highest draft pick (#2) ever sent to the D-League, has found his way onto the Oklahoma City roster. Clark Matthews at The Lost Ogle has opined that Sam Presti has “gambled on … big men with weak motors hoping his team can give them a tune up.”

Royce Young of Daily Thunder analyzes the situation:

Thabeet isn’t being added to play major minutes. He’s essentially moving into the Honorary Cole Aldrich Role of capping off blowouts with an obligatory dunk. But at the same time a low risk, potentially high reward talent to have on the bench.

Which means that Aldrich is now, by default, the #2 center behind Kendrick Perkins, Thabeet sliding into the #3 slot, though Scott Brooks’ enthusiasm for small-ball may limit minutes for both those guys.

My own thinking runs like this: Brooks just signed his new deal, which gets him a major raise, a long-term gig, and a whole lot more pressure. At some point during the negotiation, Brooks, while cracking a smile, may have pointed out that he is, after all, a man of infinite patience. Hasheem Thabeet may be Sam Presti’s way of testing that patience.

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Diagnosis: CDO

Lucy Mangan, writing for Stylist, describes the origin of her obsessive-compulsive disorder:

My OCD came on when I was six and accidentally drank some weedkiller. My mother rushed me to the sink and my dad made me swallow salt water so that I was sick. It was dramatic and frightening but better, of course, than dying. From then on, I became obsessed with germs. Germs that wanted to do me a deep, personal and quite possibly fatal wrong. They were everywhere, but especially in crowds, on things in shops and on carpets. I refused to go barefoot anywhere, even at home. I edged round shops with my arms pressed fiercely against my sides, like a miniature hyperventilating guardsman. Any strange speck or mark in or on anything — especially food — could be toxic and was spurned by my ever-alert infant self.

Soon I began something which I now know is common in OCD sufferers, “catastrophising” — that is, instantly envisaging the worst possible outcome to any given situation, no matter how innocuous.

I do that latter myself. Rather a lot of it, in fact. I couldn’t tell you how it started, though.

A commenter under the name “Carbon” says “Good story,” then adds: “But it would be better if the first letter of each paragraph were in alphabetical order.” Yes indeedy.

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But it looked so good on the lot

We call it “sold as-is,” the Brits call it “sold as seen,” but the result is pretty much the same either way:

Car bought sold as seen, 30 mins later, breaks down. Where do i stand?

By the side of the road, with the bonnet raised. (Do not stand in the road: you will present a safety hazard, to yourself and to others.)

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It is a measure of — well, something, surely — that the next variation on the theme of Sleeping Beauty will be an origin story for the presumably ever-villainous Maleficent, currently in production and scheduled for release in early 2014. (Any structural similarity to Gregory Maguire’s Wicked stories is, of course, entirely coincidental.)

Nancy, chronicler of baby names, asks, reasonably enough: “Do you think we’ll see baby girls named Maleficent when the movie comes out?”

I have my doubts. The name doesn’t lack for mellifluousness, but there’s going to be someone out in the Teeming Milieu who’s going to pronounce it “MALE-fiss-unt,” and that would kill it right there.

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Born on the fifth of July

It’s the 75th anniversary of Spam, which is well worth noting but which means nothing in the context of Rule 5, so here’s a picture of Brazilian model Gianne Albertoni, who’s 31 today:

Gianne Albertoni

In February, Albertoni lost her gig as co-host of the Brazilian magazine show Hoje em Dia, though she will continue to contribute occasional pieces to the program. She’s also a busy little Tweeter. I have no idea what she thinks of Spam.

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Check the goring on that ox

Dish Network is offering a new DVR called the Hopper, which offers the time-shifted viewer of primetime shows the option of automatically skipping commercials. It is possible, I suppose, that some small number of users might toggle off that option because they want to see the ads, but there’s probably not enough of them to mollify the three broadcast networks who have filed suit against Dish for having the temerity to mock their sacred business model.

And speaking of obsolete dinosaurs trying desperately to retain a foothold in a new biosphere:

At a … hearing on video distribution held by the Communications and Technology Subcommittee of the Energy and Commerce Committee, [Rep. John] Dingell [D-MI] complained that the service will allow potential voters to skip past important commercial messages.

“I’ve got an election coming up, like all my colleagues,” Dingell said, during his questioning of Dish Network Chairman Charlie Ergen. “We all put political ads on the local stations to reach our constituents. The Hopper potentially limits the ability of every member of this subcommittee to reach constituents to help them make up their minds on Election Day.”

Don’t worry, Johnny. Chief Justice Roberts will find some way to characterize it as a tax.

(Via Coyote Blog.)

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Someone should have noticed this

While working on that Other Site, I discovered that my chosen theme, the one that I thought was most appropriate for what I was doing, had left a function out of the otherwise overstuffed stylesheet: it would utterly ignore italics, whether invoked with the old I tag or the newer EM tag.

I don’t know what they were thinking. I added the appropriate lines to the stylesheet, but I’ll tell you, it was the darnedest thing seeing those letters simply refuse to slant.

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Bring back the flying dragon

Trini owns a ’12 Subaru Impreza, which is to say “not a WRX.” Not that she’d have a problem with Rex, or his big brother STi, but to a certain extent she subscribes to my belief that when attempting to get from Point A to Point B as rapidly as possible, inconspicuousness is a useful commodity. (Zero to sixty is one thing; 85 to Tulsa is quite another.) The tricky part of the buy, apparently, was finding a Prez with a stick shift in a sea of CVTs: Trini is dedicated to that third pedal.

Last time we were talking cars, she allowed that Subaru’s new BRZ, a rear-drive sports coupe, engineered by Sube but considered the successor to Toyota’s legendary FT-86, was on her radar, though not on her roommate’s. (Roomie drives a WRX and would just as soon wait for Sube to bolt a turbo onto the little flat four.) I had kind words for it too, though I suspected it was short on the cargo space needed for a full-on World Tour. But what may have been most notable about the conversation is that neither one of us gave more than the shortest possible shrift to the version sold by Toyota, the almost-identical Scion FR-S.

I have no personal experience with Scion; Trini’s roomie owned one of the original xB refrigerator cartons, though the need for speed eventually outweighed the desire to haul plywood, hence the presence of Rex. It’s not a brand I think about, perhaps because it was so obviously pulled out of Toyota’s fundament in a desperate attempt to lure buyers who hadn’t yet been sent AARP promotional material. So I’m inclined to agree with Car and Driver‘s Aaron Robinson on this point:

Toyota Celica dragon badgeIt should have been called the Toyota Celica. That name carries a legacy. That name means something. That name is ripe for overhaul and recommissioning, and the FT-86 would have done it blazingly for the kind of buyer attracted to the car, which more often than not is the kind of buyer who puts stock in badge identity. Instead, Toyota was so blinded by quarterly sales reports that it didn’t see opportunity in its own history.

And hey, if they get around to bolting on that turbo, they could even exhume the Supra name. (On second thought, maybe not. We know Subaru can build a flat six; let’s see if they can get one to fit.)

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An ill wind

I woke up about a quarter past one this morning to the sound of the worst oboe player on the planet: feeble blats and bleats and bloops that for some reason sounded like they were coming from the depths of my pillow. I roused myself and slammed the pillow against the wall, on the dubious basis that if something had crawled into the pillowcase and was advising me of its presence, well, it damned sure wasn’t going to escape.

Nothing there, so I reset the pillow arrangement and returned to a sleeping position. The sub-P.D.Q. Bach noises resumed. It took me about ten minutes to figure out that some combination of glottal position, snot distribution, and airway orientation was causing me to emit these ghastly sounds, which were of course duly amplified by ears in close proximity thereto. It took me another ten minutes to find a position in which I couldn’t hear them, and then I didn’t stir again until nearly 6 am.

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While your telephone goes unsanitized

“We gotta Do Something!” is the cry of 99 and 44/100ths percent of contemporary — I almost spelled that “contemptorary,” which is probably just as accurate — politicians, and of course, there’s a reason for that:

Where prior successful societies might have sent these people off to be officers in faraway wars, or to go convert savages to the faith, or to captain ships on long explorations, or to slay heathens in the Holy Land, or to the Moon, or something else meaningful and heroic, now we concentrate them into oak-paneled city councils and Roman-columned state houses with literally nothing heroic for them to do all day when they get there. Nothing, other than to try to enrich themselves as much as possible so they will feel good in comparison to the other would-be heroes around them who also have nothing heroic to do. So what do we expect? Of course some of them will run all over the place in search of plastic bags to slay, Mr. Pibb cups to shrink, lemonade stands to angrily overturn in the name of the one true Gov’t.

Then again, those were successful societies, the sort that are no longer allowed. Not only can you not slay heathens, but you must exalt them as a matter of diversity; and you dare not go on long explorations, because someone might get hurt. And so the worst and the wussiest, having long since ousted the best and the brightest (who had better things to do anyway), continue to accumulate in government offices from Seattle to Savannah.

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A polder way to travel

Tim Newman has ridden the train through the Netherlands, and he approves:

The Dutch railway system is run more along the lines of a metro than a national rail network. You don’t really need to see what time trains arrive, you just turn up and get on the next one. And almost every other train goes to or through Amsterdam. Of course, the Dutch have a lot of things in their favour to assist with this: a very small country, only a handful of cities, one national train company, no pesky tunnels restricting train heights, nice straight lines across nice flat land, etc. But even so, the Dutch made sure they didn’t fuck it all up as most countries would have done. For sure, the Brits would have conspired to ensure getting from Amsterdam to Eindhoven would have taken three trains, the first being undersized, the second leaving from somewhere near The Hague and costing a fortune unless you booked two months in advance, and the third running via Antwerp and taking as long as the flight into Holland.

Amtrak riders (both of them) are even now writing their Congressmen.

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Drawing attention

Back into the Vintage Hosiery drawer, where we find this circa-1952 illustration by the late René Gruau:

Illustration by Gruau for bas Scandale

Gruau, who died in 2004 at 95, was one of the last, if not the last, of the old-school fashion illustrators: the major magazines had long since gone to photographs rather than drawings — as though fashion had something to do with realism, fercryingoutloud. Here’s a Gruau illustration for Christian Dior, who hired him in 1947:

Illustration by Gruau for Christian Dior

Then again, I always was a sucker for dancers.

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As if I didn’t have enough to do

I registered yet another domain last night, my sixth. (Three, this one included, are sort of active, one is barely active, one is parked, and one is sublet to someone else.) Obviously I need to shift to the 26-hour Bajoran day, or something.

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