matthearn.com

From theoatmeal.com, I give you: Four reasons to carry a shovel at all times. An excerpt:

Not surprising, I guess. I do love me some tweetin’.

Created by The Oatmeal

Matthew Yglesias discusses the problem of quiet hybrid engines sneaking up on pedestrians and cyclists.

But apparently there’s some concern that hybrids are dangerously quiet and could strike people unawares… Thinking about it, it’s definitely true that as a cyclist I wouldn’t be thrilled about the idea of lots of cars silently sneaking up past me from behind.

I don’t know that it’s as big a problem as you might think. My wife’s Honda Accord isn’t a hybrid; in fact, it’s got a big horse-y V6 in it. But it’s so well muffled, like most modern cars, that unless the fan is blowing (it often isn’t on cool days) you don’t hear it unless you’re right next to it. Most of the time when you hear a moving car, you aren’t hearing the engine at all, unless the driver’s a douche and has noisy mufflers; you’re hearing tire and wind noise. You can verify this the next time you’re on the interstate at 65mph or so; inside the car, do you hear the engine? Maybe a little. But I bet you hear a lot of the tires and wind. If your car is well insulated, you might not hear much of them, but if that’s so I bet you don’t hear the engine at all, unless you routinely drive in 2nd gear.

You probably don’t rely on the sound of other cars when you’re in your own car; why would you rely on it when cycling?

Take a look, if you have a mo’, at this gallery of pictures of New Gibellina, Sicily. The original Gibellina was destroyed by an earthquake in 1968, and then the new town was built a few miles away. Wikipedia:

The new city was designed by many of the most prominent artists and architects in Italy, but done in a piecemeal fashion so that the parts of the new city bear little relation to one another or to the indigenous architecture of Sicily.

As a result, it has become nearly a ghost town.

Keith Olbermann is disgusted, and for good reason, frankly.

…[I]n the Bronx 70 years ago today, Lou Gehrig composed himself in such a manner, with a strength that eclipsed even what he showed on the ballfields of the ’20s and ’30s, that he could give one final measure of himself with such honesty, with such courage, with such a simple and direct connection to the human condition, that it is quoted, somewhere, every day.

But first, let’s take you out to San Diego where Manny Ramirez is just back from a 50-game suspension. For cheating. For cutting corners. For breaking rules. For lying. For deception…

Ramirez, of course, homered today in his first at bat. And some people cheered. As if he were just back from an injury, or a death in the family. As if he were a hero. As if he were an honest man. As if he were somehow worthy of sharing the meaningfulness of this day with Lou Gehrig.

Credit to Fox’s Tim McCarver – who has never gotten enough of it for this one quality he has shown, often at such great risk to his own security and even employment – for his honesty in pointing out the inappropriateness of the reaction to Ramirez’s return. He is not making a comeback. He is out on parole and it will be years – if ever – before many of us will believe he did not do something illegal, improper, or immoral, this morning.

As the increasingly unreadable Instapundit would say, read the whole thing. You can also read this response, but the author’s mostly just being a snarky dick. You could also read Keith’s reply to the response, but why bother?

I think Sarah Palin took this straight out of Tex Winter‘s playbook. Tommy Craggs on Gov. Palin’s Full Court Press:

I loved him most
when he came home from work,
his fingers still curled from fitting pipe,
his denim shirt ringed with sweat
and smelling of salt, the drying weeds
of the ocean. I would go to him where he sat
on the edge of the bed, his forehead
anointed with grease, his cracked hands
jammed between his thighs, and unlace
the steel-toed boots, stroke his ankles,
his calves, the pads and bones of his feet.
Then I’d open his clothes and take
the whole day inside me-the ship’s
gray sides, the miles of copper pipe,
the voice of the first man clanging
off the hull’s silver ribs, spark of lead
kissing metal, the clamp, the winch,
the white fire of the torch, the whistle
and the long drive home.

-Dorianne Laux

Dear Moen company in specific, and plumbing enterprises in general:

You know what would be nice? If you could be consistent with your connections. Or, barring that, you could clearly label your stuff so that poor schlubs like me don’t discover, as I did last night, that the expensive new kitchen faucet I bought doesn’t fricking fit.

Our kitchen faucet has been falling apart for months; it, like the one replacing it, has a built-in sprayer, a function I like very much, but something funny popped loose such that only the spray mode works now. It’s fine for washing dishes, but kinda sucky for, say, filling a water bottle. So, I decided to replace it. Went to , bought the aforementioned faucet, brought it home.

I lucked out in that we have a split sink, and the faucet sits right on the divider of the basin, so it was reachable from underneath, which meant I didn’t have to go and buy a basin wrench. After much cursing and dripping of hot water into my left eye, I managed to get the old faucet off, and tossed it aside with much élan.

I unpacked the new one, and discovered that the instructions are entirely in picture form, which I guess is great if you can’t read, but doesn’t do much to answer basic questions, such as for example why the faucet had 1/2″ threaded male connectors, when the old one had 3/8″ threaded female.

The new one doesn’t fit. It’s not just a matter of being the wrong size; as I posted on Facebook, both the faucet and the supply connections are male, and neither is willing to go gay for the other and make the whole thing work. (As one wag pointed out, I have to find a couple of lesbians to get in the middle of them, although in my limited experience, the only time two lesbians get in the middle of two men is when they’re breaking up an argument at a softball game.)

Lowe’s supposedly has flexible connectors to solve the problem, but

1. They vary widely in price, from $4 apiece to $30. No idea what I’m going to have to buy.


2. Most of the pictures on the Lowe’s website don’t match the product. Does this look like a 3/8″ C x 1/2″ FIP x 20″ stainless steel faucet connector to you?
   
   Don’t the ends look like…the same size? And does it appear to be 20″ long?

Since I can’t take the supply connections out of the wall to screw them into a connector and see, I’ve brought the old faucet to just sort of hold next to it and compare, and the new one to actually screw on and verify. If it doesn’t work, I’m going to assault someone, since I’ve already thrown parts of the old faucet in the garbage, and I have no idea where the receipt is for the $180 faucet I purchased.

So if you hear about a Lowe’s in northern Delaware burning to the ground, um…I actually will have had nothing to do with that.

Hey! You! Stop what you’re doing, and start reading Freak Angels! I’ve linked you to the beginning, because otherwise you’ll be even more confused than you would normally be.

I bet your July 4th wasn’t as awesome as mine. Yeah? Oh yeah? Oh, you traversed the Grand Canyon on horseback, ingested more than the recommended dose of peyote, and woke up next to Anne Hathaway? Okay, you win.

Our weekend started Thursday night with a quick dinner and cake at my parents’ house, and then a lot of packing, finally getting to bed at something like 1am. We were up shortly before 7 to continue packing, rousting the offspring, and getting on the road to Strasburg, PA (home of the world famous Strasburg Railroad, which we did not see) for a lengthy family reunion of sorts at my aunt and uncle’s farm there. Upon arrival, I immediately threw my new golf clubs in my dad’s car and set out to Lancaster Host Resort for a “quick” 18 that lasted 4.5 hours. My slice and push are abysmal as ever, but I will say this: the putter is spectacular. I kept swishing 8- to 12-foot putts like I knew what I was doing, although I had a hard time getting the speed of anything longer, and as you might expect my golf game requires a great deal of long putts.

After the game we settled in for the evening at the farm, where Charles chased cows and sheep and I drank staggering amounts of beer. There was also a chicken-grilling competition; I remember eating it, but do not remember tasting it.

Saturday we loaded up and went to a nearby elementary school where I discovered the following important fact: if you are overweight and wear athletic shorts that are too snug and display every delicious contour of your ample posterior, the rest of the players will be distracted and you can go 4 for 5. If you also position yourself at a spot in the outfield where few balls get to you, you don’t have to be a defensive liability. When most of the players are over 50 or under 15, you’re not gonna have to spear a lot of line drives in center field.

My team won in dramatic fashion; down by three runs with one out in the bottom of the 7th, my uncle Marty hit an inside-the-park grand slam. After two days of lengthy athletic efforts, even two days later, I can barely walk. Muscles hurt that I guarantee did not even exist before this weekend.

In the afternoon, we ate some more food and enjoyed a beer-tasting contest, after which I fell asleep in an easy chair and completely missed the fireworks.

Sunday morning started at 5:30am, when Josephine decided she wanted to be up and around; Sarah had put the kids to bed the night before while I sawed wood, so it fell to me to entertain the child. Charles came down around 7, but we let Sarah sleep in until 8am because she needed the rest; this later turned out to be a Mistake of the first order.

We planned to go to my mom’s family’s ancestral church, Grace Lutheran, where we would all sing in the choir and play in a small brass ensemble and in general take over the musical duties of the church for the day. When I woke Sarah at 8, and told her we needed to leave for the church by 9am, she said “There’s no way that’s happening.” It had not occurred to me that she would have to get herself ready, a half-hour effort, but also feed Josephine and get her and Charles ready. It was agreed that I would ride to the church with Charles in my parents’ car, thereby making it possible for Sarah to be out the door by 10.

Went to church, had a good rehearsal, Charles behaved himself, and then around 10 I got two texts from Sarah.

You aren’t going to believe this but the car won’t start!

Help!

I called, and she said the car was making noises that indicated to me that the battery was fried, which isn’t wholly unexpected since the car’s almost 4 years old. We agreed that she’d just stay at the farm, and we’d hustle back from church and get the car jumped so we could actually drive home.

The service was very nice. I sang my big solo, which is always intoxicating to do from a balcony at the back of the church because it’s extremely enjoyable to see people’s heads whip around with looks on their faces that say “Holy crap, that guy’s loud!” Satisfying.

After the service I grabbed Charles from the nursery and we hustled on back. Grumps parked his car next to the Honda and, while he got out his jumper cables, I decided to see exactly what noise the car made when the ignition was turned. In my case it hesitated, and then started. I thought Sarah would light something on fire, but she took the news in stride; I think she had been drinking for most of the morning.

After that we drove home, spent some time at the pool, and passed out like meth addicts after a home-cooked meal.