As I just posted on Twitter, I want to befriend people who make Rube Goldberg machines. My quality of life would go up just knowing them.

Watch and enjoy. (Can't say I'm a fan of this expansive, framed embed of The New York Times, but I'll admit I did just click on the story link. It's good as well, explaining how a young man gets into this line of work.)

Updated January 14:  Thinking about Rube Goldberg again today got me looking for his obituaries in scanned Google News archives. In my search (God bless participating papers), I found a Milwaukee Journal editorial from Wednesday, December 9, 1970. Closing paragraphs:

In his 80s, Goldberg turned to sculpturing. Just two weeks ago, the Smithsonian Institution opened an exhibit of his work. And not long before his death Monday at 87, Goldberg described his invention for getting rid of long winded speakers.

A quarter (A) sings a sad song and a man nearby (B) breaks down and cries into a flower pot (C). Flower (D), wetted by his tears, grows and tickles the feet (E) of a man sitting on top of a children’s slide (F). He slides down and bumps into a Civil War bugler (G) at the bottom of the slide and wakes him up. Bugler blows reveille into the face of an innocent bystander (H) who catches cold and sneezes into the propeller (I) which starts a bell-like machine (J), raising an American flagging, popping off guns, emitting smoke and, finally, extending a broom (K) which sweeps the overlong speaker off the platform.

Rube Goldberg, we’ll miss you.

Also, I learned from 1915 to 1933 Goldberg wrote a comic strip called "Boob McNutt." Characters included "Lala Palooza" and "Mike & Ike."

Mourning the other day the continued existence of the L.A. wedding section, I went to look at its org opposite, my beloved LAT obituaries section, but couldn't find any crafting I especially liked. Sadness.

Checking back today, I love this one.

Ice Capades star Donna Atwood had spent almost half her life on the road when she left professional figure-skating behind at 31 to raise her three young children in a custom-built Beverly Hills home complete with a piano that folded into the wall.

She was so famous that Times headlines from the era used only her first name. "Donna to Retire in 1956 for Home Life," said one atop an article that portrayed her as longing to "trade it all in for 'home, sweet home.' "

Same with the man who built Knott's Berry Farm attractions.

But what makes me think of obituaries today? Via The Morning News feed, the Economist obituary for its obituaries editor, Keith Colquhoun.

When he took over the Obituaries in 1995, just after their launch, he kept the Asian flag flying. He also set an extraordinary standard for clear, dry, witty writing. The openings of his Obituaries were a particular delight. “One of Walter Lini’s minor pleasures was to get the better of the French.” “The achievement of Karl Kehrle, a Benedictine monk, was to breed a very decent British bee.” Or this:

Hunting around for something not too brutal to say about Tiny Rowland now that he is dead, those who knew him have remarked on his charm. The English language is helpful with the evasive word.

Beautiful! I had no idea. May use my LivingSocial Amazon deal to buy his Economist Book of Obituaries. The Internet giveth and the Internet…

In the Guardian, Colquhoun's wife writes a brief obituary, managing in four paragraphs to fit "He then became obituaries editor, where he used his talents to turn each life into an elegant short story, drawing on his knowledge of politics, history and current affairs, combined with a peerless ability to put the boot in, when needed" and in the previous graf, "He also had an unwanted place in a 1970s scandal, when his first wife, Maureen, then Labour MP for Northampton North, went off in a blaze of publicity with a woman."

The industry obituary is always interesting to me. Going beyond the general interest in what kind of work the person did, the industry obit explores how the person worked, how the work differed from that of colleagues and how those colleagues built or grew from the legacy.

When this kind of obit is done right, the voices are more intriguing as well. The industry reporter is closer to the deceased and the sources. If the reporter is past the usual parachuting and can push beyond the platitudes, the personal becomes real and valuable. Despite formality, two friends are talking about a third friend, essentially. Color arrives.

So, the most engaging obit I've read this month comes from porn.

When your first college newspaper editor graduates, goes into adult production and works his way up in the field, your Facebook becomes more surprising. "People You May Know" pictures include people who look like porn stars. Upon clicking through or Google, they are indeed porn stars. Your news feed intersperses stories about 2010 political concerns with 2010 porn concerns. Your former editor gets married, and you can't help but guess in his wedding photos who's porn and who's family. (This is unexpectedly difficult. Compared to regular life, everyone in anyone's wedding photos looks slightly more like both.)

In my Facebook feed this month came the death of porn actor-turned-director John Leslie. Former NU editor Adam, now working at the same company as Leslie, didn't post the Associated Press obit ("John Leslie, an award-winning adult film actor and director…") or the nearby Marin Independent Journal coverage ("John Leslie Nuzzo, an award-winning pornographic film actor and director…"). Instead, Adam posted an obit from Xbiz, an adult industry digital pub. The story runs more than 40 paragraphs and 1,500 words. The link is not safe for work unless you work in a newsroom or university — nothing ridiculously graphic in the page but still. If you work in a newsroom or university, here you go.

I knew nothing of the people mentioned in the piece; and until reading this and other obits, I knew nothing of John Leslie. But a passage near the end struck me as a reminder of the unique charms of industry obits — imperfect as the people who inhabit the field, foreign to all outsiders (all insiders elsewhere), stumbling, but interpersonal in a way general obituaries rarely capture, whether the field is porn, plumbing or news.

Prince Yahshua, the 2010 Urban X Performer of the Year, was distraught Monday when he heard Leslie had passed, saying that Leslie was his idol.

"I just worked for him. He just invited me, right after [the Adult Entertainment Expo], he said 'I want you to come out to my area in Northern California and spend a week with me at my house, you can get to know my wife.' Everybody knows John Leslie was like my porn father. To say that I idolized this dude was a [expletive] understatement," Yahshua said, fighting back tears.

"Oh my God. I don’t think nobody in porn loved this dude the way I did. It’s crazy because when I was 12 years old I went into my mother and father’s home — and that’s when they had the reel-to-reel movies — the first movie I had ever seen in my life was the guy that became my [expletive] mentor, which was [expletive] John Leslie."

Yahshua continued, "I had the honor of meeting John exactly three years ago [at AEE]. He actually had seen some of my work, and he had the nerve… This man had the nerve to tell me that he was a fan of mine. Wow…

"This man that had me humbled like I was a five-year-old child, for him to say, 'Hey I’m a fan of yours. I would love to use you in this movie.' You know how when people say they’re scared to death they almost piss themselves? I almost pissed on myself. I’m actually in front of a living legend…"

Yahshua, who recently came back to performing after suffering a torn urethra in August, said when he shot for Leslie two weeks ago that after the scene that they sat talking on the set for "two to three hours longer catching up."

"Because he was so happy to work with me again after my accident," Yahshua remarked.

A year or so before, Anderson had had a dream in which he attended a poker party with a large, goofy moose. "I brought along this stupid moose who was doing card tricks. I woke up feeling embarrassed — I thought, you've been working too hard." Anderson told the San Francisco Chronicle, "There's something majestic about a moose. They're macho, but they have a comic aspect, with that schnozzola of theirs. There are few creatures so begging to be caricatured." At the time in Berkeley there was a car dealer named Clarence Bullwinkel (Anderson recalls, "He ran a Ford agency on College and Claremont Avenues in Oakland"). Jay and Alex agreed that Bullwinkel was a funny name, and after respelling it the moose had his moniker.

–Keith Scott's The Moose that Roared, on my proud bookshelf.

Both Rob and Kellen, also big fans of Moose and Squirrel, mailed me Anderson's obits this week. Reading through the appreciations and rereading the book's account of Anderson's role in the creation, what you assemble is a picture of a storytelling innovator. He meshed the concepts of an active, fourth-wall-breaking narrator and of parodic characters, using meta humor to carry cartoons beyond a struggling industry's art and tech struggles. The hooks first, then looking good.

Time appreciation. NYT obituary. Mr. Anderson, this fan thanks you.

Among recent obituaries, what about Teddy Pendergrass? Traditional obit writing always seems to fall down with great musicians, and the Pendergrass passing is no exception. The ledes have trouble summing up a sound. The story bodies have trouble charting all the albums and songs. Overall meaning gets lost. So, you have to pick and choose.

NPR's lede is best: "Teddy Pendergrass cheated death at least once."

Further in, the Post has a highlight but only by quoting a NYT Pareles concert review. "Compared with current rhythm-and-blues Romeos, Mr. Pendergrass was a soft-focus seducer, never calling for anything more explicit than sharing a shower. But when he moaned or insisted, 'Let me do what I want to do,' everyone knew what he meant."

Then you pause to create your own obit, and listen to the sultry Turn Off the Lights, ridiculous but supremely confident, on YouTube.

Elsewhere still, you run across Dan Gottlieb's Philly Inquirer memories.

Pendergrass came to Gottlieb, a therapist and Inky columnist, after the infamous car accident that left him quadriplegic. What Pendergrass knew was that Gottlieb had also been paralyzed in a car wreck, a few years earlier. What he didn't know was Gottlieb was having the same dark feelings about life. The therapy became a partnership of sorts.

You could then end up anywhere online, but I end up at Entertainment Weekly, moved, watching the Pendergass 1985 comeback at Live Aid.

We start our review in the Chicago Tribune with an obituary lede.

Jan C. Gabriel died Sunday.

Or as he might say, "Sunday! Sunday!! SUNDAY!!"

The voice of the once ubiquitous radio commercials for "Smoking U.S. 30" drag strip, Mr. Gabriel was also the longtime announcer at the old Santa Fe Speedway and the producer of "Super Chargers," a nationally syndicated motor sports television show.

In The New York Times, via Jess, another lede. Usually I don't exempt newspaper stories at this length. But the lede here is extended in high fashion, and I have no doubt you'll click through after reading.

Joe Rollino once lifted 475 pounds. He used neither his arms nor his legs but, reportedly, his teeth. With just one finger he raised up 635 pounds; with his back he moved 3,200. He bit down on quarters to bend them with his thumb.

People called him the Great Joe Rollino, the Mighty Joe Rollino and even the World's Strongest Man, and what did it matter if at least one of those people was Mr. Rollino himself.

On Monday morning, Mr. Rollino went for a walk in his Brooklyn neighborhood, a daily routine. It was part of the Great Joe Rollino's greatest feat, a display of physical dexterity and stamina so subtle that it revealed itself only if you happened to ask him his date of birth: March 19, 1905. He was 104 years old and counting.

A few minutes before 7 a.m., as Mr. Rollino was crossing Bay Ridge Parkway at 13th Avenue, a 1999 Ford Windstar minivan struck him. The police said he suffered fractures to his pelvis, chest, ribs and face, as well as head trauma. Unconscious, he was taken to Lutheran Medical Center, where he later died.

New York is a city of extraordinary lives and events, and here, indisputably, was one of them — one of the city's strongest and oldest, struck down on a Monday morning by a minivan in Brooklyn.

One more lede from the Times, in the obit of a life-saving man, Mel Cuba: "The winds were whipping toward shore that summer day more than seven decades ago when 105 orphans from the Pride of Judea Home on Dumont Avenue in Brooklyn stepped off buses for what was supposed to be a gleeful romp at the beach in Rockaway, Queens."

A good week for NYT obits. You know the Los Angeles Times is my obit paper of choice (if one can have such a thing), but consider the edge grafs in the week's NYT obit for Donald Goerke, creator of SpaghettiOs.

Lede: "Donald Goerke, a Campbell Soup Company executive whose nonlinear approach to pasta resulted in SpaghettiOs, died Sunday at his home in Delran, N.J. He was 83."

Final graf: "Shapes considered and rejected by Mr. Goerke's team included baseballs, cowboys, spacemen and stars."

I didn't know Rachel Wetzsteon, but I read her obituary in yesterday's New York Times and wondered some. "Rachel Wetzsteon, a prominent poet whose work was known for its mordant wit, formal elegance and cleareyed examination of the solitary yet defiant lives of single women, was found dead on Monday at her home in Manhattan. She was 42. Ms. Wetzsteon, who died apparently late on Dec. 24 or early on the 25th, committed suicide, said her mother, Sonja Wetzsteon. She had been severely depressed in recent months, partly over the breakup of a three-year romance, her mother said." The poem in her obit is good, but most moving for me now is "Love and Work" from The New Yorker.

"When I think of you I find the nearest lamp and turn it on."

If you don't have a registration, the poem is here as well.

"Lester D. Shubin, 84, a Justice Department researcher who turned a DuPont fabric intended for tires into the first truly effective bulletproof vests, saving the lives of more than 3,000 law enforcement officers, died after a heart attack at his Fairfax County home."

The Washington Post, via my parents' mention at Thanksgiving. Shubin was also among the troops that liberated Dachau, an early proponent of bomb-sniffing dogs and survived by his wife of 50 years. Cool life.

Also up there for me: Bob Twigg, 62, the USA TODAY reporter who won $9 million in the lottery. I'd somehow never heard his story around the office before. From the Post obit: "In January 1996, working a Sunday morning shift in the USA Today newsroom, he looked at a newswire story about the winning lottery numbers, 3-15-17-28-33-37."

The next day, a lawyer-friend verified the ticket with the state lottery office. Mr. Twigg begged off a news conference, wanting to break the news in his own paper.

Mr. Twigg wrote that he had been struggling with family medical bills, even though his company health insurance paid 80 percent of its cost. In addition to his journalism job, he had taken a part-time job at a hardware store and drove an eight-year-old Pontiac with 187,000 miles on the odometer that had just failed a state inspection. He had dropped out of the office Super Bowl pool because he had already lost $31.50 during the playoffs and didn't think he had the luck to pick the winner.

Can't find his story online anywhere, will keep looking.

Update: Found it in our internal archive. Will see if someone can pub it somewhere. Romenesko could like it. For now, an excerpt:

On the way home, I was over-the-edge careful. I barely reached 50 on the 55-mph highways. With the ticket tucked in my shirt pocket, I spent more than an hour driving the 38 miles from my office to home. And my wife, B.J., wasn't there.

I still had not told a soul. I felt ready to burst.

B.J. arrived about 30 minutes after I got home. When I told her we won, she shrieked and acted just like one of those people on the Publishers Clearing House commercials.

My declaration of this a week or two ago greatly amused friend Dave. Now, as the NYT boasts of the 1,200 obits staffers keep in the can, I must make my point for the LAT. What the LAT seems to care about all the time — and what the NYT seems to only care about sometimes — is the relatable human element. In LAT obituaries, a detail may not be a great achievement or milestone in a person's noteworthy life. A detail may just show how a noteworthy life modestly included a person.

On Rose Friedman, wife/collaborator: "Until Milton Friedman's death in 2006 at 94, the two were rarely apart; they frequently held hands at academic conferences and in airports. She often had a more fiery public presence than the gentle style of her husband. Milton Friedman often said his wife was the only person who won arguments with him."

On Ed Reimers, whose cupped hands stood for Allstate: "After a hurricane, flood or other national disaster, 'he'd fly in, and they'd do their commercials,' [his daughter] said. 'I have pictures of him in a trench coat setting up and interviewing people, with the whole place sort of demolished around him.' "

On Karla Kushkin, children's author and illustrator: "At 4, she dictated her first poem, about a hydrangea bush outside their country house, to her mother.  ¶  Her father owned a small advertising agency."

On Riccardo Cassin, the Italian mountaineer: "Cassin left home at age 17 to work the bellows at a blacksmith forge in Lecco, a small Italian valley village nestled near the southeastern neck of Lake Como. His first passion had been boxing, but on the weekends, Cassin accompanied his ragtag group of friends that called themselves the 'Ragni Di Lecco,' or spiders of Lecco, on climbing trips to the smaller local 7,000-foot summits."

On Carlene Hutchins, master violin maker: "She insisted that the secret to their superior sound was not in the wood; not, as some experts speculated, in the bacteria that ate away at the wood, making it more permeable; not in the powdery pumice from Mount Vesuvius that Stradivari may or may not have used to thicken his varnish; and most certainly not in some mystical genius that only he and the other old Cremona masters possessed."

On Eleutherius Winance, an abbey founder: "A few years after arriving in Valyermo, Winance began to cultivate a garden using found or donated plants, including roses, herbs, cactuses, poplars and giant sequoias. He laid out the carpet of grass by hand, beginning with one square of sod from the abbey's pastures."

I write this half for love of obituaries and half for love of orangutans.

We need a rule. When the AP uses the word "some" in the lede, you deserve a better obit. Like: "John Quade, who played the heavy in some Clint Eastwood movies and was the sheriff in the television mini-series Roots, died on Aug. 9 at his home in the Southern California desert town of Rosamond," AP writes. NYT runs the obit at six grafs.

A.V. Club, meanwhile, gives two more reasons for a better obit. This line: "His most famous roles, naturally, were as 'heavies' in westerns like High Plains Drifter and The Outlaw Josey Wales, and he squared off against Clint Eastwood again as motorcycle gang leader 'Cholla' in the famed trucker-orangutan love stories Every Which Way But Loose and Any Which Way You Can." And this line: "As he more or less retired from his acting career in the 1990s, Quade became an increasingly outspoken opponent of the U.S. government and a figurehead of the anti-New World Order movement, giving frequent lectures on the Constitution and, common law, and what he saw as the dangers of being forced to register for drivers' licenses and Social Security cards."

Is everyone going to get behind that cause? Including his call for the repeal of the 14th Amendment? Heck no. But should his politics plus orangutan movies make for a complex life and interesting obituary? Yes. The LAT, the country's best obit paper, lets me down this time.