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Through the looking glass, and what Patrick found there
Welcome to Cooperpatrick.com.
I wrote that sentence five seconds ago because it was kind of funny and ridiculous to contemplate. In the moment since, my browser fell on the actual, somehow existing, all-too-real Cooperpatrick.com. An all-too-real newborn named Cooper Patrick had the address.
Why did I think of that address today? What led me to think someone in the world might one day have such a name? How surprised was I to find that day had not only arrived but also came with photo galleries?
Data, my friends. Mind-boggling data set me to blogging today. And just as I was joking to forget, and the punchline hit me in the face and the gut and the place in my soul where my name lives.
You see, Social Security yesterday released its annual review of the country's most popular baby names. There were few changes to the top 10 lists in 2007, and the wires covered the news only briefly.
Looking deeper into the data, I was disappointed but not surprised to see Patrick had fallen several more spots. The name had been tumbling on the boy name list for decades. Last year's data saw Patrick fall to #116, its worst baby-name showing since 1930.
Then I looked for Cooper. The search was a whim.
The results knocked me over. Cooper had somehow risen 18 spots in 2007 to become name #95. Among the first names, Cooper was now 21 spots ahead of Patrick. For the first time in recorded American history, my last name was a more popular first name than my own first name. The world had turned my name inside out.
I made a chart to help with the realization.
A few weeks ago, I'd saved the New York Times story about people with the same name finding each other online. I thought I might recap my close encounters with Patrick Cooper the stylist to the stars, Patrick Cooper the author, Patrick Cooper the British child, Patrick Cooper who used to have this URL, and Pat Cooper the comedian.
How soon we became old news.
A Jabberwock had struck. Cooper Patrick was the new Patrick Cooper.
I wrote that sentence five seconds ago because it was kind of funny and ridiculous to contemplate. In the moment since, my browser fell on the actual, somehow existing, all-too-real Cooperpatrick.com. An all-too-real newborn named Cooper Patrick had the address.
Why did I think of that address today? What led me to think someone in the world might one day have such a name? How surprised was I to find that day had not only arrived but also came with photo galleries?
Data, my friends. Mind-boggling data set me to blogging today. And just as I was joking to forget, and the punchline hit me in the face and the gut and the place in my soul where my name lives.
You see, Social Security yesterday released its annual review of the country's most popular baby names. There were few changes to the top 10 lists in 2007, and the wires covered the news only briefly.
Looking deeper into the data, I was disappointed but not surprised to see Patrick had fallen several more spots. The name had been tumbling on the boy name list for decades. Last year's data saw Patrick fall to #116, its worst baby-name showing since 1930.
Then I looked for Cooper. The search was a whim.
The results knocked me over. Cooper had somehow risen 18 spots in 2007 to become name #95. Among the first names, Cooper was now 21 spots ahead of Patrick. For the first time in recorded American history, my last name was a more popular first name than my own first name. The world had turned my name inside out.
I made a chart to help with the realization.
A few weeks ago, I'd saved the New York Times story about people with the same name finding each other online. I thought I might recap my close encounters with Patrick Cooper the stylist to the stars, Patrick Cooper the author, Patrick Cooper the British child, Patrick Cooper who used to have this URL, and Pat Cooper the comedian.
How soon we became old news.
A Jabberwock had struck. Cooper Patrick was the new Patrick Cooper.
Disaster on the field, nice night at the ballpark
The last time I witnessed someone hit a home run on the first pitch of a ballgame was high school. I last saw a grand slam in person in high school as well. And the last time I saw Mike O'Connor look as young as he looked tonight was -- I think -- a Gonzaga at Mount St. Joe's doubleheader in 1996. The final damage tonight was 11-0, Marlins.
We cheered for Mike as always, but it was an ugly night. That first-pitch homer clearly got in his head. As the Post noted (in reporter Chico Harlan's unfortunate first game on the beat), the start was Mike's first since late 2006. Only down that run when he got the inning's third out, he trudged off the field with his head down and may have been the last player to make it into the dugout. He had control problems as the game went on, dumping a bunch in the dirt. When Manny finally gave the hook, Mike was standing behind the mound. He couldn't have looked more overwhelmed.
The rest of the Nats didn't play much better. We managed three hits and continued to look defensively lackluster. As has happened at every game I've seen so far, several outfield hits appeared more playable than we played them. In other news, the Nats ejected -- or almost ejected, hard to tell from the other side of the field -- a fan who threw back a home run ball. Later, in the top-of-the-dugout karaoke contest, a kid who tried to sing Gwen Stefani as Johnny Cash lost to a girl whose microphone didn't work.
But what made everything better? Great seats. My dad picked up four in the lower bowl, the best seats we've ever had for the Nats, and Rob came down from New York for Mother's Day weekend. Despite the odds, the least in her favor since the Cooper-infamous '93 Memorial Stadium incident, my mom was not hit by a foul ball. The seats made 11-0 more amusing than painful, and we had a good time in the gallows. The weekend weather turned around to be some of the best we've had at the stadium this year.
A note for fans going to weekend games in the next month: The gameday Metro conditions were some of the best I've had. As WMATA warned everyone about new delays for track work, no one paid much attention to the "shuttle trains" option running between L'Enfant and the Navy Yard. But they were as smooth as regular service, running every few minutes. If you were coming from Virginia, there was no impact. If you were a Red Line person, you had an extra transfer but no more issues.
A nice bonus was ending up in the Metro's testing car for the dark-rubber flooring. (See more about the test floors.) The surface was solid, attractive and even more non-slip than I expected. I'd have to try the car a few more times, but this ride felt like the end of Metro carpet to me. The relative emptiness of the car and the surprise of the shuttle train working out so well may have helped.
Update, the next morning: The ball-tossing fan was indeed ejected (see the comments). Among other early reaction, the BallparkGuys forum split on the incident, and Nationals Pride was not pleased.
The last time I witnessed someone hit a home run on the first pitch of a ballgame was high school. I last saw a grand slam in person in high school as well. And the last time I saw Mike O'Connor look as young as he looked tonight was -- I think -- a Gonzaga at Mount St. Joe's doubleheader in 1996. The final damage tonight was 11-0, Marlins.We cheered for Mike as always, but it was an ugly night. That first-pitch homer clearly got in his head. As the Post noted (in reporter Chico Harlan's unfortunate first game on the beat), the start was Mike's first since late 2006. Only down that run when he got the inning's third out, he trudged off the field with his head down and may have been the last player to make it into the dugout. He had control problems as the game went on, dumping a bunch in the dirt. When Manny finally gave the hook, Mike was standing behind the mound. He couldn't have looked more overwhelmed.
The rest of the Nats didn't play much better. We managed three hits and continued to look defensively lackluster. As has happened at every game I've seen so far, several outfield hits appeared more playable than we played them. In other news, the Nats ejected -- or almost ejected, hard to tell from the other side of the field -- a fan who threw back a home run ball. Later, in the top-of-the-dugout karaoke contest, a kid who tried to sing Gwen Stefani as Johnny Cash lost to a girl whose microphone didn't work.
But what made everything better? Great seats. My dad picked up four in the lower bowl, the best seats we've ever had for the Nats, and Rob came down from New York for Mother's Day weekend. Despite the odds, the least in her favor since the Cooper-infamous '93 Memorial Stadium incident, my mom was not hit by a foul ball. The seats made 11-0 more amusing than painful, and we had a good time in the gallows. The weekend weather turned around to be some of the best we've had at the stadium this year.
A note for fans going to weekend games in the next month: The gameday Metro conditions were some of the best I've had. As WMATA warned everyone about new delays for track work, no one paid much attention to the "shuttle trains" option running between L'Enfant and the Navy Yard. But they were as smooth as regular service, running every few minutes. If you were coming from Virginia, there was no impact. If you were a Red Line person, you had an extra transfer but no more issues. A nice bonus was ending up in the Metro's testing car for the dark-rubber flooring. (See more about the test floors.) The surface was solid, attractive and even more non-slip than I expected. I'd have to try the car a few more times, but this ride felt like the end of Metro carpet to me. The relative emptiness of the car and the surprise of the shuttle train working out so well may have helped.
Update, the next morning: The ball-tossing fan was indeed ejected (see the comments). Among other early reaction, the BallparkGuys forum split on the incident, and Nationals Pride was not pleased.
The return of the Hawaii movie
You become a state, and everybody wants to film there. Elvis most of all! He wants to guide tourists or fly a helicopter or scuba dive around your islands, and he wants to unite your diverse peoples in spontaneous song. It's impressive.
Time passes with lesser effect. Elvis dies (probably), and the writing goes south. The Bradys visit for a week. So do the Tanners and the Winslows. Location shots come to lack a certain glamour and budget quality. If Disneyland hadn't developed a grime and subsequent ove-renewal, both of which were no good for filming ... you respect Canada, in a way.
So, we greatly thank Jason Segel and his Forgetting Sarah Marshall for bringing back the Hawaii movie and perhaps, making the greatest Hawaii movie ever. The water, the sun, the sand, the food, the surfing, the drinks, the clothes, the fat funny guys, the fat angry guys, the skinny funny guys, the rivals, the others, the trips, the clash, the coalescence, and the girls. Mila Kunis, hello.
Shakes off Neil Goldman feeling.
I'm not saying the movie is the greatest movie ever. I'm saying it may be the greatest Hawaii movie ever. Consider an unofficial list. Blue Crush, a good watch. Punch Drunk Love, liked it a lot, not a real Hawaii movie. Joe Verus the Volcano, same thing. 10, more of Bolero thing. Blue Hawaii offers some competition. From Here to Eternity ... let's say Sarah Marshall is the greatest Hawaii movie comedy ever.
Which brings me to Branscombe Richmond. If you see one movie the day after seeing Sarah Marshall, do not see 1977's The Chicken Chronicles. I beg you. The movie is awful. The movie is a simultaneous failure as a period piece, teen sex romp, stoner flick, coming-of-story, California nostalgia and fast-food comedy. How bad is it? The film has Steve Gutenberg's first lead role, and amid the cast and script, he's the standout. You can see the movie creating Gutenberg's career through contrast alone.
Which brings me back to Branscombe Richmond. When you watch The Chicken Chronicles, Branscombe plays Steve's Hawaiian best friend. And you want to google him because he looks like Fred Armisen. When you do google him, you find out he looks nothing like Armisen in any other role. But you learn the movie was Branscombe's first "also starring" credit. You learn he went on to star in Renegade and become a busy actor and stuntman, with a bunch of Hawaii roles included.
His latest role? He's the angry bartender in Sarah Marshall. There's no great connection here, especially for those who didn't see The Chicken Chronicles the following day. But it shows Jason Segel following a bit of a plan. If you're going to revive a genre, you better bring everybody.
Again, we await the Muppets.
Time passes with lesser effect. Elvis dies (probably), and the writing goes south. The Bradys visit for a week. So do the Tanners and the Winslows. Location shots come to lack a certain glamour and budget quality. If Disneyland hadn't developed a grime and subsequent ove-renewal, both of which were no good for filming ... you respect Canada, in a way.
So, we greatly thank Jason Segel and his Forgetting Sarah Marshall for bringing back the Hawaii movie and perhaps, making the greatest Hawaii movie ever. The water, the sun, the sand, the food, the surfing, the drinks, the clothes, the fat funny guys, the fat angry guys, the skinny funny guys, the rivals, the others, the trips, the clash, the coalescence, and the girls. Mila Kunis, hello.
Shakes off Neil Goldman feeling.
I'm not saying the movie is the greatest movie ever. I'm saying it may be the greatest Hawaii movie ever. Consider an unofficial list. Blue Crush, a good watch. Punch Drunk Love, liked it a lot, not a real Hawaii movie. Joe Verus the Volcano, same thing. 10, more of Bolero thing. Blue Hawaii offers some competition. From Here to Eternity ... let's say Sarah Marshall is the greatest Hawaii movie comedy ever.
Which brings me to Branscombe Richmond. If you see one movie the day after seeing Sarah Marshall, do not see 1977's The Chicken Chronicles. I beg you. The movie is awful. The movie is a simultaneous failure as a period piece, teen sex romp, stoner flick, coming-of-story, California nostalgia and fast-food comedy. How bad is it? The film has Steve Gutenberg's first lead role, and amid the cast and script, he's the standout. You can see the movie creating Gutenberg's career through contrast alone.
Which brings me back to Branscombe Richmond. When you watch The Chicken Chronicles, Branscombe plays Steve's Hawaiian best friend. And you want to google him because he looks like Fred Armisen. When you do google him, you find out he looks nothing like Armisen in any other role. But you learn the movie was Branscombe's first "also starring" credit. You learn he went on to star in Renegade and become a busy actor and stuntman, with a bunch of Hawaii roles included.
His latest role? He's the angry bartender in Sarah Marshall. There's no great connection here, especially for those who didn't see The Chicken Chronicles the following day. But it shows Jason Segel following a bit of a plan. If you're going to revive a genre, you better bring everybody.
Again, we await the Muppets.
Bizarro Jeremy Clarkson and Muppets
Following British Dan Neil's trip to the United States, American Dan Neil takes a narrative trip to the continent in his lede this week.
Meanwhile, Dan writes in the Times Magazine this week about love. Meanwhile, the other Times publishes the winner of its collegiate Modern Love essay contest. I like the winner but don't love it, so I'm waiting to see the runners-up. Meanwhile, Jason Segel wants to cast Charles Grodin -- one of the all-time great Muppet interactors, in my opinion -- in his new Muppet movie. Meanwhile, British Dan Neil uses this lede this week to defend SUV driving.
Clarkson gets to the SUV eventually.
I come from a long line of Europeans -- illiterate, mud-eating Europeans from the Outer Hebrides, to be exact, whose idea of a good time was to go down to the firth and watch the plague victims wash out to sea. Even so, I've always had an affinity for the Continent. Between New Orleans and Amsterdam, I prefer Amsterdam. I'll take Rousseau over Jefferson, Beck's over Budweiser, Formula One over NASCAR, and Heidi Klum over my knee.
And, as many able correspondents to this column have pointed out, I seem to prefer European cars. I suppose that's fair. Everybody has his or her own tastes. I simply prefer superior cars with epic racing and engineering pedigrees, while others prefer Toyotas.
Meanwhile, Dan writes in the Times Magazine this week about love. Meanwhile, the other Times publishes the winner of its collegiate Modern Love essay contest. I like the winner but don't love it, so I'm waiting to see the runners-up. Meanwhile, Jason Segel wants to cast Charles Grodin -- one of the all-time great Muppet interactors, in my opinion -- in his new Muppet movie. Meanwhile, British Dan Neil uses this lede this week to defend SUV driving.
All black men are thieves. All Jews would sell their mothers for a pound. All Muslims are suicide bombers and everyone in Ireland is as thick as a slab of cheese. Yes. Right. And everyone with a Chelsea tractor is a stick-thin blonde whose head is so full of useless social engagements that she can't actually be bothered to steer round other cars, street furniture or bus shelters.
It ain't necessarily so. All sorts of people buy 4x4s for all sorts of reasons. And contrary to what the global warmists would have us believe, only some are stick-thin blonde women who won't actually stop until the underside of their car is so jammed up with run-over pedestrians the wheels won't go round any more.
The wave of hatred, then, that engulfs the off-roader is nothing more than ill informed prejudice. And what makes my blood boil is that things are getting worse....
Clarkson gets to the SUV eventually.
At least they're not playing games with candy
After I wrote here in March about studies playing disappointing economic games with chocolate, Amit wrote me to give more context. I promptly lost his e-mail in the mix. Recovering it recently, I found his comment in much need of posting. It aided my argument that not giving people all the chocolate or candy or ice cream they wanted was poor science.
The Wikipedia page for revealed preference has a nice explanation as well. If you, like Amit, enjoy economics or, like me, enjoy observation-based problem solving (more fun than it sounds), revealed preference is for you. Who cares what people say they do or say they are willing to do? The things people actually do are the things that matter.
Newsroom note I: We sure still struggle here. With process issues, we stick too close to the surface because we're afraid going deeper will take too long. We end up making decisions that ignore the underlying issues and cost us more in the long run. With outside reaction issues, we tend to ignore the actual outside reactions, guessing instead because going outside, again, takes too long. We end up in the same place as we do internally and hurt the other half of our workings.
Newsroom note II: It was great to end up spending two days last month with people from IDEO. They're innovation experts who don't do focus groups. They find people deeply connecting to their area of research and do deep-dives into their lives. "Human factors," they call it. Storytelling, brainstorming and prototyping cycle from there. From the beginning and end of the process, you keep your identity, integrity and ideas. Good for any industry, but great for competitive news and information. Backed up a bunch of things I'd tried before and gave a ton of ideas to move ahead.
Back to candy.
Amit also points me toward a Yale paper. The study isn't about chocolate consumption, but it still involves giving chocolate away. It's my kind of paper.
"We examine whether ambiguity aversion correlates with costume choice amongst children at Halloween," the study's cover notes. "We conducted an ambiguity aversion experiment with children on Halloween during trick-or-treating and correlated this with their choice of costumes. We find that children wearing the most commonly chosen costumes are more likely to avoid a gamble with ambiguous odds."
Not only do the authors rag on their department head refusing them the use of his porch, but Amit highlights this line: "Fourth, while recent work (Todd and Wolpin (2002)) has narrowed a gap between structural economists and experimentalists, structural economist residents of the neighborhood were suspicious of the experimental activities on the porch and were more likely to persuade their children to avoid the home."
those studies are done by marketing depts. can't trust that. that's why economists only studied actual purchasing behavior. (we call this revealed preference.)
The Wikipedia page for revealed preference has a nice explanation as well. If you, like Amit, enjoy economics or, like me, enjoy observation-based problem solving (more fun than it sounds), revealed preference is for you. Who cares what people say they do or say they are willing to do? The things people actually do are the things that matter.
Newsroom note I: We sure still struggle here. With process issues, we stick too close to the surface because we're afraid going deeper will take too long. We end up making decisions that ignore the underlying issues and cost us more in the long run. With outside reaction issues, we tend to ignore the actual outside reactions, guessing instead because going outside, again, takes too long. We end up in the same place as we do internally and hurt the other half of our workings.
Newsroom note II: It was great to end up spending two days last month with people from IDEO. They're innovation experts who don't do focus groups. They find people deeply connecting to their area of research and do deep-dives into their lives. "Human factors," they call it. Storytelling, brainstorming and prototyping cycle from there. From the beginning and end of the process, you keep your identity, integrity and ideas. Good for any industry, but great for competitive news and information. Backed up a bunch of things I'd tried before and gave a ton of ideas to move ahead.
Back to candy.
Amit also points me toward a Yale paper. The study isn't about chocolate consumption, but it still involves giving chocolate away. It's my kind of paper.
"We examine whether ambiguity aversion correlates with costume choice amongst children at Halloween," the study's cover notes. "We conducted an ambiguity aversion experiment with children on Halloween during trick-or-treating and correlated this with their choice of costumes. We find that children wearing the most commonly chosen costumes are more likely to avoid a gamble with ambiguous odds."
Not only do the authors rag on their department head refusing them the use of his porch, but Amit highlights this line: "Fourth, while recent work (Todd and Wolpin (2002)) has narrowed a gap between structural economists and experimentalists, structural economist residents of the neighborhood were suspicious of the experimental activities on the porch and were more likely to persuade their children to avoid the home."
The DeShawn-Lebron feud, not over for my subconscious?
Strange dream. The Wizards take the series from the Cavaliers. Much trash-talking on Lebron in the last minute leads the superstar to lose his composure, somehow getting the ball on the blocks while a teammate lines up for a free-throw. Lebron slings the ball into the chairs behind the basket and hits a chair or person.
Lebron goes into the chairs. The Wizards go after Lebron. There's yelling and pushing. People start picking up chairs over their heads like mallets. Other people are down on the ground throwing up. Half the crowd watches and half walk calmly to the doors. The melee dies down. The teams enter the locker rooms. Everyone knows the NBA's going to come down hard. Are the Wizards going to have any unsuspended players for the next series?
I walk to the door, and Wilbon stands in the door of the runway to the Wizards locker room. He's looking grim and chomping on a cigar and talking to the powers that be. Outside are two colleagues who say they left early. One was stuck talking to a grade-school classmate in line waiting for popcorn on the way out, they tell me. Still in the dream, I remember an earlier part of it. Colleagues and grade-school classmates all over the place, randomly, in whatever was going on. That surprise registers as I wake up and remember the Wizards lost the series two days ago.
Crazy dream. Sad. But not as sad as how much harder it is to find local Pro'Verb's LeBron diss on the Web than Jay-Z's on DeShawn. You ask, why care about this sideshow? Well ... when the sideshow is what brings you back for more and more of the main event, the sideshow's a good one.
Dan Steinberg's Sports Bog turns up on the good side and explains the coverage well: "Tell me that if some local rapper came to the defense of a moderately talented and extremely nutso local shooting guard in his running feud involving a teenage one-hit wonder, a rap mogul and one of the three greatest basketball players in the world, you really wouldn't be tempted to turn that into a mildly interesting post."
To assist in the parity, here's the Pro'Verb mp3 (backup link).
Lebron goes into the chairs. The Wizards go after Lebron. There's yelling and pushing. People start picking up chairs over their heads like mallets. Other people are down on the ground throwing up. Half the crowd watches and half walk calmly to the doors. The melee dies down. The teams enter the locker rooms. Everyone knows the NBA's going to come down hard. Are the Wizards going to have any unsuspended players for the next series?
I walk to the door, and Wilbon stands in the door of the runway to the Wizards locker room. He's looking grim and chomping on a cigar and talking to the powers that be. Outside are two colleagues who say they left early. One was stuck talking to a grade-school classmate in line waiting for popcorn on the way out, they tell me. Still in the dream, I remember an earlier part of it. Colleagues and grade-school classmates all over the place, randomly, in whatever was going on. That surprise registers as I wake up and remember the Wizards lost the series two days ago.
Crazy dream. Sad. But not as sad as how much harder it is to find local Pro'Verb's LeBron diss on the Web than Jay-Z's on DeShawn. You ask, why care about this sideshow? Well ... when the sideshow is what brings you back for more and more of the main event, the sideshow's a good one.
Dan Steinberg's Sports Bog turns up on the good side and explains the coverage well: "Tell me that if some local rapper came to the defense of a moderately talented and extremely nutso local shooting guard in his running feud involving a teenage one-hit wonder, a rap mogul and one of the three greatest basketball players in the world, you really wouldn't be tempted to turn that into a mildly interesting post."
To assist in the parity, here's the Pro'Verb mp3 (backup link).
Dear thousands of people, that wasn't me
Amid the sending volumes, the e-mail highlight/lowlights of the week was a spammer putting my address in the "To" line of thousands of messages. How did I know? I got the bouncebacks. About a thousand "Undelivered mail returned to sender" messages ended up in my inbox and spam-catchers. First there was a giant volume, and now the last have begun to straggle in.
Time for a SPF record. The process couldn't have been easier this morning, using the SPF Setup Wizard to create the record and WebSitePulse to test it. Taking my address off the Web seemed like a possibility as well, but I wasn't quite there yet.
Update, 15 minutes later: In the time elapsed here, leaving that address on the site turned out to be helpful.
Time for a SPF record. The process couldn't have been easier this morning, using the SPF Setup Wizard to create the record and WebSitePulse to test it. Taking my address off the Web seemed like a possibility as well, but I wasn't quite there yet.
Update, 15 minutes later: In the time elapsed here, leaving that address on the site turned out to be helpful.
How one nears e-mail bankruptcy
You can near it by letting the debts pile up. Most people seem to pursue that route. Or you can exhaust your accountant. I've been wondering for a while and finally did a rough count at work today. In 2003, in four and a half months on the job, I sent 2,000 e-mails. In 2004, I sent 8,850. In 2005, 6,200. In 2006, 5,800. In 2007, 8,100. Through the first four months of this year, the total sits at 4,050.
Musical ice cream store story?
"The patented Beamz was invented by accomplished Hollywood musician Jerry Riopelle, who as a kid made up games at a local ice cream store based on its light-activated door announcer. Years later, it became his inspiration for trying to trigger music on a PC using lasers."
What's the rest of the story? A colleage writes the preceding in a story focusing on the product, but the Web doesn't turn up any more detail on that ice cream store. I like lasers, but I love ice cream stores.
Would a chime sound when the door opened? Was there more than a chime? Was there a song? Was there a song about ice cream? I ... wanted ice cream.
What's the rest of the story? A colleage writes the preceding in a story focusing on the product, but the Web doesn't turn up any more detail on that ice cream store. I like lasers, but I love ice cream stores.
Would a chime sound when the door opened? Was there more than a chime? Was there a song? Was there a song about ice cream? I ... wanted ice cream.
Two nice wins for Mike
I can never remember my buddy Mussina's place in the rotation, so I click into Yankees gamers every few days to have a shot at catching him.
As a fan of Tyler Kepner's, I enjoyed this lede last week.
That win moved Moose past Bob Gibson on the all-time wins list, and yesterday's victory -- giving up two runs in five innings, needing the bullpen's help but getting by enough -- put him in a tie with Carl Hubbell and the 19th century's Al Spalding at 253. A blog called Strategic Failure has done a nice job at tracking the wins this year. Last night's roundup was on the money, "When you are trying to stave off the deleterious impact of advancing age and declining skills, you need wins like the one Mike Mussina earned tonight."
Hank Steinbrenner was probably right when he said he wanted Mike to pitch like Jamie Moyer, who's evolved his pitching in the ways Strategic Failure mentions amid its posts. But I sure liked Mike's response. "I don't have a lefty glove."
As a fan of Tyler Kepner's, I enjoyed this lede last week.
Mike Mussina was 22 when he made his major league debut here in 1991. He learned right away a lesson that would define his career: sometimes, a pitcher can do only so much.
Mussina was brilliant that day, firing 124 pitches. One of them went for a homer, by Frank Thomas. It was the only run of the game. Mussina had pitched well and almost won, the first of many "almost" moments over the next 17 seasons.
Mussina has almost won a championship, almost won a Cy Young award, almost pitched a perfect game, almost won 20 games. But he has never done any of those things, and now that he is 39, the knee-jerk reflex is to pronounce him finished when he pitches poorly.
Yet Mussina showed on Wednesday that he has not pitched this long by accident. He silenced the Chicago White Sox for seven innings and led the Yankees to a 6-4 victory, the 252nd of his career, one more than the Hall of Famer Bob Gibson.
That win moved Moose past Bob Gibson on the all-time wins list, and yesterday's victory -- giving up two runs in five innings, needing the bullpen's help but getting by enough -- put him in a tie with Carl Hubbell and the 19th century's Al Spalding at 253. A blog called Strategic Failure has done a nice job at tracking the wins this year. Last night's roundup was on the money, "When you are trying to stave off the deleterious impact of advancing age and declining skills, you need wins like the one Mike Mussina earned tonight."
Hank Steinbrenner was probably right when he said he wanted Mike to pitch like Jamie Moyer, who's evolved his pitching in the ways Strategic Failure mentions amid its posts. But I sure liked Mike's response. "I don't have a lefty glove."
Paired without comment, except for, you know, the pairing
The Washington Post asks, can a monkey be a better matchmaker than its own Date Lab staffers? (Yes, apparently.) Gawker asks, is a 31-year-old journalist possibly the best choice to be the next managing editor of the Wall Street Journal? (Answer TBD, maybe.)
Danny Federici
If you're on stage in an 18,000-seat arena, I imagine it's hard to know where to look. The noise, the lights, the sea of faces staring back.
So, what Danny seemed to do -- more so than the rest of the E Street Band, to my mind -- was look down front. He could make eye contact with you down there, and you could let him know you were cheering for him. He'd nod and smile, and you had a sense of that's why he played like he did every night.
He wasn't the bandleader and wasn't one of the stars of the band. But he was the guy who helped put them all together and, for years, took the music to the Boardwalk and to more sorrowful places. Whether anyone would hear as much in a wall of sound was probably a nightly open question. But the music -- the search to complete that sound and its perception -- demanded attempt.
On the Web, the Danny Federici Melanoma Fund has begun collecting donations. The memorial video, Danny's last performance with the band and Springsteen's eulogy for him are also now live on the official site. The last performance is a good one, with Springsteen using the original words from Sandy instead of ones used most of the last few decades. In the original, it's a waitress who's lost her desire for you. In the usual version, it's the angels who've done so. Both make you think it's time to move on, not in a bad way.
With the eulogy, Bruce doesn't let us down on the speechifyin.
At work, readers left some great memories in the comments, and a Life editor was kind enough to let me choose the songs to sample. Jeff had e-mailed me about the death earlier in the day and given me some time to think about choices. I felt lucky to have seen the full band in its last week together in November.
I don't think the band will ever be the same again, now that it's mortal. The possibility is out there, but so, so much seems to be required. The "Is Bruce Springsteen obsessed with redemption?" line comes to mind, and the question seems applicable to everyone on stage. The recent tours have fit that mode. Bruce's eulogy for Danny ends with a twist on the theme, and a eulogy is no comment on the future. Somewhere out there, the waitress and the angels are skeptical but provocative.
So, what Danny seemed to do -- more so than the rest of the E Street Band, to my mind -- was look down front. He could make eye contact with you down there, and you could let him know you were cheering for him. He'd nod and smile, and you had a sense of that's why he played like he did every night.
He wasn't the bandleader and wasn't one of the stars of the band. But he was the guy who helped put them all together and, for years, took the music to the Boardwalk and to more sorrowful places. Whether anyone would hear as much in a wall of sound was probably a nightly open question. But the music -- the search to complete that sound and its perception -- demanded attempt.
On the Web, the Danny Federici Melanoma Fund has begun collecting donations. The memorial video, Danny's last performance with the band and Springsteen's eulogy for him are also now live on the official site. The last performance is a good one, with Springsteen using the original words from Sandy instead of ones used most of the last few decades. In the original, it's a waitress who's lost her desire for you. In the usual version, it's the angels who've done so. Both make you think it's time to move on, not in a bad way.
With the eulogy, Bruce doesn't let us down on the speechifyin.
There was the time Danny quit the band during a rough period at Max's Kansas City, explaining to me that he was leaving to fix televisions. I asked him to think about that and come back later.
Or Danny, in the band rental car, bouncing off several parked cars after a night of entertainment, smashing out the windshield with his head but saved from severe injury by the huge hard cowboy hat he bought in Texas on our last Western swing.
Or Danny, leaving a large marijuana plant on the front seat of his car in a tow away zone. The car was promptly towed. He said, "Bruce, I'm going to go down and report that it was stolen." I said, "I'm not sure that's a good idea."
Down he went and straight into the slammer without passing go.
Or Danny, the only member of the E Street Band to be physically thrown out of the Stone Pony. Considering all the money we made them, that wasn't easy to do.
Or Danny receiving and surviving a "cautionary assault" from an enraged but restrained "Big Man" Clarence Clemons while they were living together and Danny finally drove the "Big Man" over the big top.
Or Danny assisting me in removing my foot from his stereo speaker after being the only band member ever to drive me into a violent rage.
At work, readers left some great memories in the comments, and a Life editor was kind enough to let me choose the songs to sample. Jeff had e-mailed me about the death earlier in the day and given me some time to think about choices. I felt lucky to have seen the full band in its last week together in November.
I don't think the band will ever be the same again, now that it's mortal. The possibility is out there, but so, so much seems to be required. The "Is Bruce Springsteen obsessed with redemption?" line comes to mind, and the question seems applicable to everyone on stage. The recent tours have fit that mode. Bruce's eulogy for Danny ends with a twist on the theme, and a eulogy is no comment on the future. Somewhere out there, the waitress and the angels are skeptical but provocative.
Goodbye to Montreal, hello to RFK, goodbye to RFK, hello ...
This post has been lost in draft mode for a while. More opening day pics are around somewhere and awaiting uploading. Got back to the park today with Jess and a visiting Rob, ran into Hilary outside, sat in our new seats for the first and had a good time despite the first chill in a while. Finally made it to the front of the lines at Gifford's, and the expected taste, portions and service were all in great effect. Hot chocolate went down fast.
This post has been lost in draft mode for a while. More opening day pics are around somewhere and awaiting uploading. Got back to the park today with Jess and a visiting Rob, ran into Hilary outside, sat in our new seats for the first and had a good time despite the first chill in a while. Finally made it to the front of the lines at Gifford's, and the expected taste, portions and service were all in great effect. Hot chocolate went down fast.
The creative aerodynamism of umbrellas in commerce
Susan Orlean had a wonderful story in The New Yorker over the winter about umbrellas. An inventor and artist was redesigning the umbrella as we knew it and starting from scientific-based scratch. He was attempting to take his idea from patent to product, and a happy ending -- aside from the happiness of creativity -- wasn't assured.
So, I enjoyed flipping through the latest UncommonGoods catalog to find a creative, redesigned, aerodynamic umbrella. Success! But the details seemed less than familiar. And then I remembered the umbrella's competitors. And went back to the story.
The umbrella in the catalog was the Senz. Where was the Sou'wester, Windwalker or Stormwalker? The inventor's site linked to the patent. The developing company had nothing umbrella-related on its site.
I realized only two months had passed since the story. But how could one learn of a plausibly magical umbrella, see a picture of another plausibly magical umbrella, and not want these magical umbrellas to be one and the same?
So, I enjoyed flipping through the latest UncommonGoods catalog to find a creative, redesigned, aerodynamic umbrella. Success! But the details seemed less than familiar. And then I remembered the umbrella's competitors. And went back to the story.
... The meeting was supposed to include an unveiling of the first manufactured prototype of the umbrella, but the prototype, which had been made in Shangyu, had been waylaid en route from China by U.S. Customs, and wouldn't arrive in Massachusetts for a few more days. There were plenty of other umbrella issues to discuss, but, as we sat down, Hollinger excitedly announced that he had another invention he wanted to talk about -- one of the products he'd written into "The Ruby and the Prism." "It's a complete redesign of a camping tent," he said. "It will be double-walled, and it'll have a layer of low-pressure gas or air between the two walls, so it'll always be warm. It could even be filled with argon, and you'd create a vacuum so that the temperature would remain constant."
Farrar had been writing the meeting agenda on a whiteboard. He turned to Booz. They exchanged a tiny look, and then Farrar said to Hollinger, "We'd be very interested."
"It will definitely work," Hollinger said.
"It could even have an application as refugee housing," Booz added.
They talked about the tent for a moment, and agreed that Hollinger would show them his material once he had filed his patent application. Then they discussed the umbrella and talked about two possible competitors: the new Senz, an asymmetrical umbrella designed by Dutch university students that was just being marketed in the United States by Totes; and the Fanbrella, which folded into a flat tube.
"Speaking of which, where are we with names for our umbrella?" Booz asked. Hollinger showed them a list of names he had considered -- Sou'wester, Windwalker, Stormwalker.
The umbrella in the catalog was the Senz. Where was the Sou'wester, Windwalker or Stormwalker? The inventor's site linked to the patent. The developing company had nothing umbrella-related on its site.
I realized only two months had passed since the story. But how could one learn of a plausibly magical umbrella, see a picture of another plausibly magical umbrella, and not want these magical umbrellas to be one and the same?
Getting off the listserv en Espanol
We've all seen it happen in English. One person decides to leave the listserv, doesn't know how to do so and e-mail the list to find out. The avalanche follows. The Medill alum listserv does this every month.
I have the pleasure this week of seeing it Spanish. Getting off the listserv, a disaster no matter the language! A listserv at work is subscribed to a gay nightlife events list, possible based in Madrid. We get the e-mails and delete them. But other recipients have now realized the list takes replies.
A colleague translate the first few e-mails for me. "I've asked thousands of times ... What do I have to do?" Karla says. "I've requested the same," Federico says." I want to be removed from this list. What can I do?" Ricardo gets political: "I've also asked these people to take me off the list, but it seems like they're some sort of illiterates. I ask myself, this is the way they demand tolerance?"
Thanking my colleague, I turn to Google Translate for the rest of the work. My colleague notes Google Translate is not the best translator. I tell him I don't want all the words. I just want the feeling. The world comes together! Assume all untranslated words are profanities.
We wish all of them luck. It's a long way out.
I have the pleasure this week of seeing it Spanish. Getting off the listserv, a disaster no matter the language! A listserv at work is subscribed to a gay nightlife events list, possible based in Madrid. We get the e-mails and delete them. But other recipients have now realized the list takes replies.
A colleague translate the first few e-mails for me. "I've asked thousands of times ... What do I have to do?" Karla says. "I've requested the same," Federico says." I want to be removed from this list. What can I do?" Ricardo gets political: "I've also asked these people to take me off the list, but it seems like they're some sort of illiterates. I ask myself, this is the way they demand tolerance?"
Thanking my colleague, I turn to Google Translate for the rest of the work. My colleague notes Google Translate is not the best translator. I tell him I don't want all the words. I just want the feeling. The world comes together! Assume all untranslated words are profanities.
Si a mi tambien me borran de esta cadena, la verdad no me interesan sus temas y evitense la molestia de copiarme.
If I too am removed from this chain, the truth does not interest me their issues and evitense the trouble to copy.
bloquealo wee, a mi tambien me estan llegando estas chingaderas de los pinches maricones, es mas facil que bloqueen en su lista de remitentes a que manden sus pinches cadenas de mensajes
bloquealo wee, tambien me to my reference purposes of reaching these chingadera petty maricones, it's easier than in its list of blocked senders to send their messages petty chains
Federico, Karla y a todos los demas que han contestado a esto. Si no querÂan que les llegaran estos correos no se hubieran suscrito a la lista de distribucion. Y es tan facil como cancelar la suscripcion por un envio que ademas es automatizado. Ahora, si no les molesta quisiera que me dejaran de llegar correos con quejas de gente que ni conozco a mi correo personal.
Federico, Karla and all others who have replied to this. If they did not want to reach these emails were not subscribed to the mailing list. And it's as easy as unsubscribe in a shipment also is automated. Now, if I would not resent that I no longer get mails with complaints from people who neither know my personal mail.
We wish all of them luck. It's a long way out.
It's hard to embrace a local strategy for the LAT ...
... when they keep finding writing foreign and national pieces like this one, "On his weekends, Chinese Samaritan saves lives." Local makes sense for so many papers today, but the Times appears to have this beautiful story-finding thing in place.
Just to get ahead of the Tribune slicing, I think it'd be interesting to imagine the related desks as something separate and then run models against them. Seems like that kind of root look would stand a better chance at surfacing a good model and audience. If we're all going to compete with each other (the whole world, that is), we all have to find our strengths -- and why we're strong.
Just to get ahead of the Tribune slicing, I think it'd be interesting to imagine the related desks as something separate and then run models against them. Seems like that kind of root look would stand a better chance at surfacing a good model and audience. If we're all going to compete with each other (the whole world, that is), we all have to find our strengths -- and why we're strong.
Growling, grumbling at the Modern Love essay contest
The submission period is over, yet the Times continues to advertise you. You link me to the column's index, and I'm a sucker for the index. Too much time taken. Personal highlights from skimming:
-May 27, 2007: In the Dressing Room, Relationships Laid Bare
-Feb. 25, 2007: The Hunter-Gatherer, Parking Division
-Dec. 17, 2006: Live Without Me. I'll Understand.
-Sept. 10, 2006: When the Thunder Rolls in, My Lie Rolls Out
-July 23, 2006: The Semicolon Was Our Blinking Caution Light
-Nov. 14, 2004: Traveling the Too-Much-Information Highway
-May 27, 2007: In the Dressing Room, Relationships Laid Bare
-Feb. 25, 2007: The Hunter-Gatherer, Parking Division
-Dec. 17, 2006: Live Without Me. I'll Understand.
-Sept. 10, 2006: When the Thunder Rolls in, My Lie Rolls Out
-July 23, 2006: The Semicolon Was Our Blinking Caution Light
-Nov. 14, 2004: Traveling the Too-Much-Information Highway
Bizarro Dan Neil and Muppets
So, NBC fired Dan Neil from his job on the under-contract-but-yet-to-tape Top Gear. The show is an imports, famous in Britain for holding no bars, but there's some developing weirdness on the American side.
In addition to the's show Neil departure, The Truth About Cars post breaking the news now appears to have a different ending from its initial publication. The initial text as quoted by commenters and other blogs reads: "Neil also reveals that NBC and the BBC are aware that aping the original Top Gear's no-holds-barred reviewing style could piss off the media company's automotive advertisers -- and devised a solution. "They're writing around the problem, by not doing car reviews unless they really love the car.' " But the post now ends: "The clock is ticking on finding Neil's replacement. Anyone heard anything?"
Weird. But I do give the blog credit for a Forgetful Jones reference and picture. The pic and bio come in enlarged form on Forgetful's page in the Muppet Wiki. The wiki points to the late Richard Hunt as the Henson cohort behind the strings, and you're welcome to lose 10 minutes clicking through his character list.
Some are still ultra-familiar, and others are now distant and wonderful to remember: Sully the unspeaking construction worker, Gladys the Cow the friend of Prince Charming, Don Music with the bust on the piano, Scooter, Beaker, Statler, Janice ("Look, mother, it's my life, okay, so if I want to live on a beach and walk around naked..."), Sweetums, and Fraggle Rock's Junior Gorg. Okay, so maybe you lose 20 minutes. Jason Segel, our hopes lie with you.
Returning to topic, this week Neil reviews the 2009 Nissan GT-R.
So true. Meanwhile, the San Francisco Chronicle reminds us the original Top Gear features British Dan Neil -- "Long live misunderstood visionary Jeremy Clarkson! Hail to originality in all of its unglossy glory! Hurray for the ability to make fun of terrible cars without risking an advertising boycott!" -- so we must check in.
In somewhat bizarro fashion, we find Clarkson referencing Top Gear's relationship with America and driving Corvettes in Southern California.
The questions are obvious. Have Dan Neil and British Dan Neil ever met? Do they get along? Are they friends? Bizarro. Jerry, George, Kramer... this is Kevin, Gene... and Feldman.
Debate ensues in the review's comments over whether the United States is as abnormal as Clarkson claims. One comment in particular, I can't tell if it's authentic or British humor.
I'm hoping British humor.
In addition to the's show Neil departure, The Truth About Cars post breaking the news now appears to have a different ending from its initial publication. The initial text as quoted by commenters and other blogs reads: "Neil also reveals that NBC and the BBC are aware that aping the original Top Gear's no-holds-barred reviewing style could piss off the media company's automotive advertisers -- and devised a solution. "They're writing around the problem, by not doing car reviews unless they really love the car.' " But the post now ends: "The clock is ticking on finding Neil's replacement. Anyone heard anything?"
Weird. But I do give the blog credit for a Forgetful Jones reference and picture. The pic and bio come in enlarged form on Forgetful's page in the Muppet Wiki. The wiki points to the late Richard Hunt as the Henson cohort behind the strings, and you're welcome to lose 10 minutes clicking through his character list.
Some are still ultra-familiar, and others are now distant and wonderful to remember: Sully the unspeaking construction worker, Gladys the Cow the friend of Prince Charming, Don Music with the bust on the piano, Scooter, Beaker, Statler, Janice ("Look, mother, it's my life, okay, so if I want to live on a beach and walk around naked..."), Sweetums, and Fraggle Rock's Junior Gorg. Okay, so maybe you lose 20 minutes. Jason Segel, our hopes lie with you.
Returning to topic, this week Neil reviews the 2009 Nissan GT-R.
I know what you want from me. You think I'm just your little word slut, that I'm here just to arouse you with steamy descriptions of the new and instantly legendary Nissan GT-R. You want me to parade around in frilly verbiage, like: "The acceleration of the twin-turbo, all-wheel-drive, 480-hp GT-R is much like a 50-yard field goal in the NFL, wherein your butt is the football." Sigh. I feel so used.
So true. Meanwhile, the San Francisco Chronicle reminds us the original Top Gear features British Dan Neil -- "Long live misunderstood visionary Jeremy Clarkson! Hail to originality in all of its unglossy glory! Hurray for the ability to make fun of terrible cars without risking an advertising boycott!" -- so we must check in.
In somewhat bizarro fashion, we find Clarkson referencing Top Gear's relationship with America and driving Corvettes in Southern California.
We must have their computers, their jeans and their eating habits, yet there are more Made-in-Britain labels on the moons of Jupiter than there are in South Dakota. To the average American, "abroad" is Canada or Mexico. Any further than that and you need Nasa. Over there, a Brit is simply someone to shoot by mistake. So it's certain that Hank J Dieselburger isn't going to be buying a jar of Bovril any time soon.
Nor will he be watching a British-made car show. Top Gear is screened all over the world, from remote Himalayan villages to the bullet-ridden boulevards of Lebanon. It is a genuine, bona fide export success. But in the US it is watched only by half a handful of expats who diligently follow BBC America, and a few torrentists on the interweb.
This is partly because, when it comes to motoring, the English language makes more sense in Albania than it does in Alabama. Almost every word in the Americans' automotive lexicon is different from ours, so when we talk about motorways, pavements, bonnets, boots, roofs, bumper bars, petrol, coupes, saloons, people carriers, cubic centimetres and corners, they have no idea what we're on about.
The questions are obvious. Have Dan Neil and British Dan Neil ever met? Do they get along? Are they friends? Bizarro. Jerry, George, Kramer... this is Kevin, Gene... and Feldman.
Debate ensues in the review's comments over whether the United States is as abnormal as Clarkson claims. One comment in particular, I can't tell if it's authentic or British humor.
Great articel, I must say I have seen you're show. I understood it all, not ALL americans are the dumb creatures you por-tray them to be. PLlase consider are feelings some-time.
All the best
Brad Bass
brad bass, houston, Texas
I'm hoping British humor.
Watch a Baghdad cab ride, coming eventually to theaters
Read the piece and then watch. Try to stop watching in the middle, I dare you. The cab here is trying to catch up with an official convoy, and a Sunday Times photographer and his correspondent wife are in the back seat. The video says Hollywood, only you feel like you've seen Hollywood do this scene before and less well.
Reality trumps this time. When Hollywood wants to catch up, maybe years from now after the war movie market rebounds, they can start with this video.
We are back in the car, with two wheels on the central reservation [median strip] and the boss, an aide to the politician, threatening to shoot any driver too slow to pull over. I have decided that if I am going to die in a crash then at least I am going to record it on video. I look at Hala -- her nails are embedded in the imitation leather of the driver's headrest.
Then, just as I think things can't get any worse, they do. Out of the cracked windscreen I spot a roadblock ahead. It is not just roadside bombs and the threat of random attack that make driving in Iraq perilous. You must also contend with the numerous checkpoints that line most main thoroughfares. These may be manned by the Iraqi police or army, a ragtag collection of militia or US marines. In many ways the checkpoints are most dangerous for westerners: the minute the car stops you are vulnerable, but if you don't stop you run the risk of the soldiers opening fire on your car. It is the ultimate Catch22.
Reality trumps this time. When Hollywood wants to catch up, maybe years from now after the war movie market rebounds, they can start with this video.
Best of Best of D.C.
Or at least the two parts of the City Paper guide that tickle* me the most. "Best Argument for Making GPS Standard in all Automobiles: Northern Virginia" is one quality item. "Quick: Explain the difference between West Glebe Road, South Glebe Road, and all the other sorts of Glebe Roads out there. Where do they start and end?" Rest is here.
Meanwhile, the "Best Place to Have Your Mom Buy You Slacks" is Westfield Shoppingtown Montgomery, aka Montgomery Mall. The reasons are here, and they're all true. There's a connection here that says something, not sure what: I buy my own slacks now, but my parents have given me a GPS. NoVa streets, beyond human help? Maybe. Or maybe it's just me. There's evidence.
*I wanted to use a verb other than tickle. Couldn't find one.
Meanwhile, the "Best Place to Have Your Mom Buy You Slacks" is Westfield Shoppingtown Montgomery, aka Montgomery Mall. The reasons are here, and they're all true. There's a connection here that says something, not sure what: I buy my own slacks now, but my parents have given me a GPS. NoVa streets, beyond human help? Maybe. Or maybe it's just me. There's evidence.
*I wanted to use a verb other than tickle. Couldn't find one.
Design influence: Greetings from Asbury Park NJ.
© Patrick Cooper 2007