Category: Blog Post

  • We Interrupt This Program

    We have not had a chance to read Jon Gertner’s entire article from yesterday’s Times Magazine on the Nielsens, Arbitrons, and other media-measuring devices—but we’ve enjoyed what we’ve read so far. It comports with some of the bones we’ve been gnawing on around here in recent days.

    In two very important ways, these sorts of industrial devices for measuring how people use media can never really be adequate—and for one very big reason. First, even the “People Meter” described by Gertner, now in use by Arbitron in some markets, merely measures a person’s exposure to certain media—it cannot make any qualitative measurement of that person’s reaction to her exposure other than simple duration. You keep watching or listening, presumably you are not irritated enough to change the channel. But you may not be ~able~ to. In other words, if I am in a bar trying to have a conversation with a friend while Brit Hume natters self-righteously in the background, my PPM may tell Headquarters that I watched Fox News Channel for an hour, whereas I spent most of that hour highly irritated by the twelve overhead televisions and their constant lap dance distracting me from a meaningful conversation.

    Second, it cannot meaningfully measure what a person’s reaction is to the ~advertising~ she is exposed to in the course of her media day. Thus the advertiser and the media that sold that advertising are inextricably linked—maybe more closely than ever before. Here in the wretched world of print, we are frequently considered the “lowest rung” in the ad world, because we are doing front-line work, trying to educate small business owners about what advertising is and does. Most intelligent people who are potential buyers of advertising want to know what kind of return they will get on their investment—if they sell widgets, they’d like to believe that advertising will increase their widget sales, and presumably they will, if everything falls into place as it should. But there is frequently not as direct a relationship as advertisers would like to see. The only answer seems to be a certain kind of co-branding reasoning: You buy ads with us, you tie your fortunes to us. As the water rises, both of our boats rise with it.

    There is an important shadow-dance going on which we’ve described before. In an attention economy, you charge your advertisers for raw exposure, but the more they want to know and the more you can tell them about ~how well~ their ad may (or may not) be working, the more nervous everyone gets. Their are billions and billions of dollars at stake in the media and advertising business, all tied up in ~passive~ consumption of media, with the advertising piggybacking along for the ride. If we suddenly converted to an on-demand attention economy (like, say, the public radio model; in print, it would mean inverting the modern circulation model and charging real money for subscriptions, rather than giving away a lot of deeply discounted inert gas), lots of people would lose lots of money. The only way to prop up a passive-measurement industry is to spend more money, not less.

    Even the next-generation technology called “Apollo” has its limitations. This cutting edge measuring device is supposed to close the circuit entirely—first measure the media and advertisments a person is passively exposed to, and then measure her active buying habits. But one can certainly hear both the advertisining and the media industries holding their breath. What happens when we find out that there is actually a complicated, unpredictable agent—a living, breathing person with her own history, self-image, brand loyalties, bad hair days—standing between an advertisment and a purchase?

    There is still only a small, frail man behind that curtain—but what a curtain it is!

  • The former poet laureate Billy Collins

    Marginalia
    by Billy Collins

    Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
    skirmishes against the author
    raging along the borders of every page
    in tiny black script.
    If I could just get my hands on you,
    Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O’Brien,
    they seem to say,
    I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.

    Other comments are more offhand, dismissive –
    “Nonsense.” “Please!” “HA!!” –
    that kind of thing.
    I remember once looking up from my reading,
    my thumb as a bookmark,
    trying to imagine what the person must look like
    why wrote “Don’t be a ninny”
    alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.

    Students are more modest
    needing to leave only their splayed footprints
    along the shore of the page.
    One scrawls “Metaphor” next to a stanza of Eliot’s.
    Another notes the presence of “Irony”
    fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.

    Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
    Hands cupped around their mouths.
    “Absolutely,” they shout
    to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
    “Yes.” “Bull’s-eye.” My man!”
    Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
    rain down along the sidelines.

    And if you have manage to graduate from college
    without ever having written “Man vs. Nature”
    in a margin, perhaps now
    is the time to take one step forward.

    We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
    and reached for a pen if only to show
    we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
    we pressed a thought into the wayside,
    planted an impression along the verge.

    Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
    jotted along the borders of the Gospels
    brief asides about the pains of copying,
    a bird signing near their window,
    or the sunlight that illuminated their page-
    anonymous men catching a ride into the future
    on a vessel more lasting than themselves.

    And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
    they say, until you have read him
    enwreathed with Blake’s furious scribbling.

    Yet the one I think of most often,
    the one that dangles from me like a locket,
    was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
    I borrowed from the local library
    one slow, hot summer.
    I was just beginning high school then,
    reading books on a davenport in my parents’ living room,
    and I cannot tell you
    how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
    how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
    when I found on one page

    A few greasy looking smears
    and next to them, written in soft pencil-
    by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
    whom I would never meet-
    “Pardon the egg salad stains, but I’m in love.”

    Who hasn’t picked up another’s book, or even your own from college, and wondered “Why the hell did I write that?” or “Was I really so lame as to to have to make a note ‘Man vs. Nature’?” I have, and I did…although I was pretty sure I didn’t have to make a note to myself that A Modest Proposal was ironic.

    Thank you to my friend Elizabeth for suggesting this one. It’s good.

  • Catullus again (51)

    Catullus 51
    translated by James Michie

    To me he seems godlike, in my eyes even
    More than Divine (if that’s not sacriligious),
    The man who sits beside you all day gazing,
    Hearing all day

    Your musical laughter. Dazed by love, he loses
    The use of all his senses. Oh, the moment,
    I see you, Lesbia, my voice, throat-strangled,
    Withers away.

    My tongue lies paralysed, subtle sensations
    Of fire snake through my limbs, my ears are deafened
    By thier own noise, and, as for eyes, dense darkness
    Blindfolds them both.

    Sloth is your enemy, your disease, Catullus;
    You revel in it, crave it, and adore it.
    By what else were great kings and flourishing cities
    Ruined but sloth?

    Ille mi par esse deo videtur,
    ille, si fas est, superare divos,
    qui sedens adversus identidem te
    spectat et audit
    dulce ridentem, misero quod omnis
    eripit sensus mihi: nam simul te,
    Lesbia, aspexi, nihil est super mi
    vocis in ore,
    lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus
    flamma demanat, sonitu suopte
    tintinant aures, gemina et teguntur
    lumina nocte.
    Otium, Catulle, tibi molestum est:
    otio exsultas nimiumque gestis:
    otium et reges prius et beatas
    perdidit urbes.

    This one suggested by our wine critic and noted linguist Oliver Nicholson. After this, we promise no more Latin. Ok, maybe one more on April 30 which will be a fitting commentary on the reason we love poetry.

  • The First Great Mysteries Of Science

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    There are plenty of things you whippersnappers take for granted that were nothing but dreams and mysteries to those of us who were responsible for digging up so many of the early answers. We had to get to the bottom of all manner of monkey business, and to say that we had limited resources at our command would be the sort of understatement that was pretty much our stock in trade in those days. We didn’t dare to overstate.

    Some of our discoveries were pure products of curiosity or confusion, but there were also speculations and necessary innovations that were literally life-and-death matters. We had people dropping like flies who’d barely learned to walk yet, and had to learn to feed and clothe ourselves in a hurry.

    Those were dark, cold, brutal days. The Dark Ages were a period of positive enlightenment in comparison. We had no idea how our bodies worked or what our business was on this unforgiving planet. God? God? We weren’t nearly that crafty yet. You could say we were savages, and you wouldn’t be missing the mark by much.

    The nose and the mysteries of its purpose and productions was one challenge, a relatively minor piece of the puzzle, granted, but important all the same. The responsibility for this undertaking of discovery fell to me by virtue of my natural scientific inclinations, although we certainly weren’t yet equipped to think of it in quite that way. Everything I say in this regard is thus hindsight, and a literal case of ‘relatively speaking.’

    Truth was, I didn’t know my ass from a hole in the ground, but compared to most of the others I was an advanced specimen. When I first got started on my researches I didn’t –or we didn’t– even have any sort of basic understanding of the sense of smell, and we certainly didn’t connect it in any way with the nose. For all we then knew, what we now think of as odors may well have been perceived through our mouths or eyes, or even our skin.

    I spent years on these labors. I probed and mulled and hypothesized. I like to think I made some progress. I was, I’ll admit, entirely flummoxed by congestion. We didn’t have microscopes, of course; we didn’t even have the most rudimentary sort of magnifying devices. I smeared more snot on rocks than I care to remember, and sat in the dirt studying it, moving it around with a stick and trying to make sense of the damn mess. Was it, I wondered, some sort of delivery or storage mechanism for odors? Or perhaps, I hypothesized early on, it was dead matter being sloughed by the brain and evacuated through the nostrils (by this time we’d dabbled a bit in forensics, and had cracked open more than a few skulls and studied their contents).

    I never reached any satisfactory conclusions, I’m afraid, but I’m proud to say that when I officially retired they appointed five men –a damned committee– to carry on my researches, and that pack of learned baboons never got anywhere either.

  • Let us live and let us love

    I can’t think of a better poem than Catullus 5 for a warm spring day. I recited this at a friend’s wedding once and the bride swooned.

    Let us live, my darling, and let us love
    And let us regard the disapproving looks of the old men
    As we would a penny in the gutter.

    The sun rises and falls every day.
    But for us, brief light will set one evening,
    And we will sleep forever.

    So, give me a thousand kisses, and then a hundred;
    Then another thousand, then a hundred following close on,
    Then even a third thousand. Then a hundred.

    And when we have kissed so many thousands of times
    We will be so confused that we won’t know how much we’ve loved,
    nor will anyone else know exactly how much
    to glower at us with envy.

    For the purists, here’s the Latin.

    Viuamus mea Lesbia. atque amemus.
    rumoresque senum seueriorum
    omnes unius aestimemus assis.
    soles occidere et redire possunt.
    nobis cum semel occidit breuis lux
    nox est perpetua una dormienda.
    da mi basia mille. deinde centum.
    dein mille altera. dein secunda centum.
    deinde usque altera mille. deinde centum.
    dein cum milia multa fecerimus
    conturbabimus illa ne sciamus
    aut ne quis malus inuidere possit
    cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.

    More from Catullus tomorrow.

  • An Inquiry

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    Where is it you find yourself?

    Right here.

    Might I ask you to be more specific?

    On the floor, surrounded by records, books, and baseball things.

    Baseball things?

    Yes, books, mitts, that sort of thing.

    You say ‘surrounded’ –are there in fact a great many of these things?

    Yes, a great many indeed.

    Do you find it somehow comforting to be among these things
    ?

    Sometimes, yes, I suppose I do. Other times, I don’t know, it makes me feel done for.

    How so?

    Well, this is really the one place where everything from my life sort of comes together –past, present, future– and yet it also strikes me as pure folly. All of this stuff is like a monument to my ridiculous, wasted life, and when I’m gone it’s just going to be a giant headache for somebody else. It will all end up being carted away, sold off, dispersed, or simply thrown out. I know the history of every item in this room —my history, I should say, but before they came into my possession so many of these things had a history with someone else, maybe a whole bunch of someone elses, and I spend a great deal of time trying to imagine and reconstruct that history. Nobody’s going to care about any of that when I’m dead. They’ll just talk about all the crazy junk I left behind.

    I’m sure to some extent that will be the fate of all of us.

    Yes, but I often fear that will be the sole extent of my legacy.

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  • Uncle Jumbo's Playground

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    I’ve agreed to this nonsense with the utmost reluctance, and if you studied the conditions of our arrangement that Zellar outlined below I think you’ll agree that I drive a hard bargain. Even so, I can’t pronounce myself satisfied. If I live to be fifty it’s not likely you’ll hear me pronounce myself satisfied.

    There are some things I should get off my chest right off the bat. First of all, I don’t love baseball. I tolerate it and I couldn’t live without it, but it’s been an abusive, dysfunctional relationship right from the start. It’s an impossible game that’ll break your mind and crush your spirit, and it will pick you up only to knock you back down on your ass.

    I also don’t buy into a single scrap of the nonsense that fools get paid to spout about the sport. There are no aesthetics to the game, and the only reason I’m familiar with that word in the first place is because for years I’ve had it shoved down my throat in connection with baseball by scrawny little blowhards like George Will and Bob Costas.

    I don’t have anything at all against the Metrodome –well, other than that it occasionally fills up with people whose company I find more than unpleasant, and I suppose also the fact that a couple years ago some overzealous security geezer confiscated a can of Vienna sausages from me on opening day. But whatever it is that people call atmosphere or amenities mean less than nothing to me. You can go right ahead and take the wrecking ball to Fenway Park and Wrigley Field for all I care. Every kid who ever played baseball should understand that it makes absolutely no difference where you play the game –you can play it in a dirt lot or a parking lot or a gymnasium. The challenges and frustrations are essentially the same.

    I’ll tell you what baseball really is. It’s not, as Zellar alleged below, play, and it’s not work. It’s not even properly a game, although I’ll use that word for lack of a better one, and because in the darker psychological sense of “playing games” or “mind games” it makes a certain sense.

    What baseball is, though, is nothing but concentration, a series of moments of intense concentration –concentration frustrated and concentration rewarded, in a ratio that is cruelly one-sided. That’s as true for the people who merely appreciate the game as it is for those who play it. Every single thing that happens on a baseball field is an incident of extreme concentration or a lapse thereof. That’s all baseball is, and anyone who says otherwise is a pie-in-the-sky idiot.

    I also have almost no interest in statistics. Anyone who cares enough about baseball to be interested in statistics should be plenty qualified to judge the merits of a ballplayer, and to distinguish between the horseshit, the mediocre, the merely good, and the truly great. I don’t need some pencil-necked, number-crunching geek to tell me that Johan Santana is a better pitcher than Mike Morgan, or Mike Mussina for that matter.

    The other clear problem with stats is that they don’t deal with the harsh realities of the game, and consequently with its terrible beauty. Baseball is a day-by-day, at-bat-by-at-bat game, and on any given one of those 162 days, and in any one of those at-bats, Nick Fucking Punto can be a better player than Joe Mauer, and Terry Mulholland can be a more valuable pitcher than Santana. If I pay my hard-earned money to see Albert Pujols play and he goes 0-5 and strands six runners and the Cardinals lose 7-2, well, sorry, but that day Pujols is a horseshit player. Projections and suppositions and probability mean less than nothing within the context of a single game. I’ve been kicked in the nuts by so-called superstars too many times and had too many miserable days salvaged by footnotes to doubt the sound logic of this assertion.

    Baseball is all about ‘what have you done for me lately?’ And, actually, not just lately, but today. I don’t care who you are or what your numbers look like, if you can’t get the runner in from third with less than two outs you can kiss my fat ass.

    Just in case I’m alarming you, or somehow giving the wrong impression, I should make it clear that for all the misery it’s caused me and will continue to cause me, baseball is still the only so-called sport that’s worth a dick or a dime. Virtually every other major sport –football, basketball, hockey, soccer, and tennis– is essentially a version of ping pong or foosball played by people in ridiculous outfits. Tennis may be the only sport where the female combatants look more physically imposing and menacing than the men.

    And the only thing I despise more than golf or automobile racing is the Olympics. They did, as I have often pointed out, once serve at least some purpose, back in the days when McDonald’s would give you a Big Mac if, say, some anonymous jackass won a gold medal in the high hurdles. But as I’ve also frequently said, if I had to go to bed every night dreaming of a gold medal in the triple jump I’d put my head in the oven faster than you can say Nestor Chylak.

    I also take exception to the notion that baseball is some kind of rite of generations, all that horseshit about fathers playing catch with sons, blah blah blah. My old man was a saint who busted his nuts his entire life, but he once famously told me he’d rather have Liberace’s name tattooed on his ass than sit through a game of baseball. I didn’t blame him, and I also never held it against him that he never saw me play ball. I’m not even sure the guy ever had a baseball mitt on his hand.

    So, look, we have all this straight, right? I hate the game, but it’s seriously the only anchor I have, and it’s too late to climb off the black bus now. I’ll be there tonight in my usual seat in left field, hunched over my scorecard and, barring security interference, munching on my customary bag of peanuts and tin of Vienna sausages. I’ll be the big guy in the top row wearing an old Mike Cubbage jersey.

    Leave me the hell alone.

  • So Busy We Can't See Straight, But Lookit:

    As far as tempests in teacups go, this is pretty good—and we’ll just assume that the tea party is now permanently adjourned. We’d link to them to show you just how idiotic and desperate they have become (Last post: “Could We Have Some Facts, Please?”—no shit) but we’ve pledged never to do that again.

    See, these people still don’t understand just how odious it was to have an allegedly conservative government arrogantly insinuate itself between husband and wife (“this judiciary is out of control!” Um… wrong branch, fella)—seeing it first as a political opportunity, and then (even worse) trying to blame the politicization on a non-existent partisan conspiracy.

    Boys: A turd is a turd, and you’ve got it all over yourselves, which is a pretty neat trick, given where you live in that impregnable hall of mirrors. Begob, there’s our bus. Goodbye.

  • It's spring

    And time to think of more than death. So, here’s to love today. Go home early, enjoy the weather and a comely companion.

    I Knew a Woman
    By Theodore Roethke

    I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
    When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
    Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
    The shapes a bright container can contain!
    Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
    Or English poets who grew up on Greek
    (I’d have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)

    How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
    She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
    She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
    I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
    She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
    Coming behind her for her pretty sake
    (But what prodigious mowing did we make.)

    Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
    Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
    She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
    My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
    Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
    Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
    (She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)

    Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
    I’m martyr to a motion not my own;
    What’s freedom for? To know eternity.
    I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
    But who would count eternity in days?
    These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
    (I measure time by how a body sways.)

    Ok, that’s two from Roethke in the last three days, but I seem to have two Roethke devotees among my more adamant correspondents. Tomorrow, for the lusty weekend, a selection from the greatest (and some say first) of love poets–Gaius Valerius Catullus.

  • This Is Supposed To Be Fun, Stupid

    That, if I’m not mistaken, is a quote from Rick Stelmaszek, who is arguably the most hardened of the baseball lifers in the Twins clubhouse. This was last year, or maybe the year before that. At any rate, Stelmaszek’s reminder was directed at one youngster or another who was hanging his head at the time over some ultimately inconsequential gaff, or perhaps simply a bad day at the ballpark.

    I was reminded of the quote this morning as the Twins worked out in the Dome at what seemed an unreasonably early hour, particularly given that their plane from Seattle had arrived in Minneapolis after 2:30 a.m. and the guys were all dealing with the weirdness of time zone adjustments compounded by whatever the hell it was that happened to the hour we all lost on Sunday morning. Additionally, that Seattle flight had been preceded four or five days earlier by a six-hour charter from Fort Myers to the West coast, the longest flight the team will endure all year.

    Stelly was nonetheless in fine, midseason grousing form this morning, and reported with apparent regret that he and roommate Wayne Hattaway had been dining at White Castle less than six hours earlier on the way home to their apartment from the airport.

    You certainly could have forgiven the Twins for going through the motions Thursday morning, but the wonderful thing about this group of characters is that they never just go through the motions, even when they seem to be just going through the motions.

    It was a beautiful thing to see, really. Here was a team that had just completed the often monotonous rigors of spring training, followed by a successful three-game series against the much-improved Seattle Mariners. And yet there they all were –with the exception of Justin Morneau, who after taking a baseball to the head Wednesday was apparently given the morning off– running around the field, gobbling up ground balls, tracking pop flies, and taking batting practice. Rick Anderson put the pitchers through an extended series of drills in which they fielded bunts and ground balls and covered first base; time and again each of the pitchers toed the rubber, delivered a pitch, and then, with the infielders behind them, executed the 3-1, the 3-6-1, the 1-4-3, 1-6-3, and 1-5, all plays that seemed like nothing if not second nature to every one of them.

    For all of the Twins, of course, this was their first time they’d taken the field in the Dome in six months, and some of the younger players like Jason Bartlett have had limited experience with the challenges of the new turf and the always dangerous soiled teflon roof. I’m sure nobody was terribly happy to be there, but once they got rolling they honestly seemed to be having an infectious good time. There was –as there always seems to be around this group– plenty of trash-talking and laughter.

    Baseball players are ridiculously compensated for what they do, but the older I get the more I realize that what they do would be impossible for anyone who didn’t essentially love the game. It’s a long stinking season, with all sorts of travel, unimaginable pressures, and more ups and downs than any other sport. Watching the Twins go through this morning’s workout, though, it was obvious that they really were playing. Some of it, I suppose, is working at playing, and sometimes it’s playing at working. Bu when you boil it all down and strip away all the business and the behind-the-scenes nonsense of the sport, it truly is still just a game.