Dead Letter Office, most likely in Washington D.C., 1922.
Above is a classic 1922 photograph of a dead letter office, a way-station where misaddressed missives went to get back on the right track. An excerpt from an1878 New York Times article in which the staff of a Manhattan dead letter office was profiled:
“The deparment is in charge of Mr. John H. Hallett, a white-haired, white-bearded, bright-eyed old gentleman, 65 and upward, but still as lively and business-like as a man of 30. He has seen just half a century of service in the Post Office, and he is a perfect encylopedia of New-York history. What he does not know about misdirected, badly written, mutilated, and unmailable letters, it would be useless for anybody to try to find out. Assisting Mr. Hallett in straightening the address of badly directed letters are two experienced clerks, whose intuition into things is little less than marvelous. They handled last month 11,800 imperfectly or wrongly directed letters, and sent to their destination all except 217. They have handled an average of 500 letters a day for the last two months, and the blunderers are increasing at a steady rate.”
The opening of Tom Junod’s excellent 1994 GQ article, “The Abortionist,” a profile of Dr. John Bayard Britton, who was murdered several months after this piece was published:
“The abortionist makes house calls. The abortionist’s patient, Mr. Beazley, is dying, and the abortionist has made a habit of visiting his house after work, to steer him to his end. Mr. Beazley is an old man, dying in his bed. He is beyond speech, beyond seeing and hearing. His lips are blue, and his gray tongue hangs out of his mouth. His wife and daughters stroke his arm, his leg. A drip bag, suspended over his bed, feeds him. The abortionist adjusts the rate of the drip. There is nothing else he can do. He cannot save Mr. Beazley. He cannot do anything but deaden his pain and console his family, and for this the Beazleys love him. ‘Oh, Doc, I can’t tell you how much we brag on you,’ Mrs. Beazley says to him in her weary smoker’s voice, and every few minutes a little blonde girl in an orange skirt -Mr. Beazley’s granddaughter-hands him, with a curtsy, a fresh drawing of the sun. The abortionist puts the drawings in his pocket and bows. The abortionist has a weakness for children. Some years ago, he delivered babies. The abortionist is a family doctor, and he understands that what he is doing -drawing out Mr. Beazley’s death- is simply a gesture for the family’s sake: an exercise that enables the Beazleys to believe they have done all they can, and to get a head start on their grief. The abortionist would rather let Mr. Beazley go. He is not, as he says, ‘sentimental,’ and he is ready to withhold the medicines that allow Mr. Beazley his scant purchase on existence. As a physician, he has decided that Mr. Beazley is already gone, and it is this-his willingness to make decisions, to answer questions of life and death-that permits Dr. John Bayard Britton to believe that one day, should his enemies come to kill him, he will find the courage to kill them first.”
"It was a tightly contested match against a local dentist, whose practice was suspended temporarily because of 'abject filthy conditions'"
WHY DID MY PARTNER TURN AGAINST ME? (OSCAR’S PATIO CAFE)
I often play golf with a younger, left handed, single digit player for whom I have great admiration. Yesterday, I was playing my heart out for my partner who was struggling a little bit in the early going. It was a tightly contested match against a local dentist, whose practice was suspended temporarily because of ” abject filthy conditions” and a psychotically competetitive masseuseur who pretends to be a “physical therapist”. On the eighth hole, a par three, i hit my tee shot into the hedges. Chopped out into the sand. then bladed a wedge to the other side of the green where the ball rested against the collar. My partner was lying one just off the green. Even though he knew I was disgusted and a little out of breath (suffering from a chest cold), he expected me to run across the green and putt so he could see the line. I was incredulous since his putt was not that difficult. I walked to my ball but before I could hit, he flubbled a chip or putt leaving it woefully short. Long story short, he three putt. the other team got up and down for par and we lost the hole. My partner was furious with me because I “rushed” him. Later in the match, he tried to get me to hit the wrong ball (we have a judge/member who has perfected this trick) and also bullied me on a tee box on 15 and made me bury my drive in fairway bunker. I think he was showing off for the young caddy who was stroking him for 18 holes. I don’t think he craves cock, but he has a friend (initials: OJ) who does. what should I do?
The Wall Street Journal, a newspaper with some amazing reporters, todayruns a “defense” of its parent company that would make Fox & Friends hosts cringe. The one News Corp. paper that you’d hope would come out of this ever-growing scandal unscathed is now stained by it. The tone-deaf opening:
“When News Corp. and CEO Rupert Murdoch secured enough shares to buy Dow Jones & Co. four years ago, these columns welcomed our new owner and promised to stand by the same standards and principles we always had. That promise is worth repeating now that politicians and our competitors are using the phone-hacking years ago at a British corner of News Corp. to assail the Journal, and perhaps injure press freedom in general.
***
At least three British investigations into phone-hacking and payments to police and others by the now-shuttered News of the World tabloid are underway, with 10 arrests so far. News Corp. and its executives have apologized profusely and are cooperating with authorities. Phone-hacking is illegal, and it is up to British authorities to enforce their laws. If Scotland Yard failed to do so adequately when the hacking was first uncovered several years ago, then that is more troubling than the hacking itself.”
In a1993 Wired interviewconducted by Gary Wolf, Steve Jobs, who was then doing his walkabout at NeXT, spoke cautiously about the World Wide Web. He thought it would be great for commerce but maybe not landscape-altering in essential ways. He was right in that all the connectivity and information hasn’t stopped wars or thinned the ranks of ignorant politicians.
One interesting thing that Jobs said was that the Web wouldn’t have the same awesome immediate impact that radio and TV had, that it would creep up on people. I think that’s true. Because the Web is controlled to a good extent by users, its wow factor is revealed incrementally, as people continue to tinker with it and grow it out. Ultimately, it will have much greater consequence for change than earlier technologies that made a bigger initial splash but were hampered by central control. An excerpt from the Q&A:
“What’s the biggest surprise this technology will deliver?
Steve Jobs: The problem is I’m older now, I’m 40 years old, and this stuff doesn’t change the world. It really doesn’t.
That’s going to break people’s hearts.
Steve Jobs: I’m sorry, it’s true. Having children really changes your view on these things. We’re born, we live for a brief instant, and we die. It’s been happening for a long time. Technology is not changing it much – if at all.
These technologies can make life easier, can let us touch people we might not otherwise. You may have a child with a birth defect and be able to get in touch with other parents and support groups, get medical information, the latest experimental drugs. These things can profoundly influence life. I’m not downplaying that. But it’s a disservice to constantly put things in this radical new light – that it’s going to change everything. Things don’t have to change the world to be important.
The Web is going to be very important. Is it going to be a life-changing event for millions of people? No. I mean, maybe. But it’s not an assured Yes at this point. And it’ll probably creep up on people.
It’s certainly not going to be like the first time somebody saw a television. It’s certainly not going to be as profound as when someone in Nebraska first heard a radio broadcast. It’s not going to be that profound.
Then how will the Web impact our society?
Steve Jobs: We live in an information economy, but I don’t believe we live in an information society. People are thinking less than they used to. It’s primarily because of television. People are reading less and they’re certainly thinking less. So, I don’t see most people using the Web to get more information. We’re already in information overload. No matter how much information the Web can dish out, most people get far more information than they can assimilate anyway.”
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The William Morris Agency gets NeXT computers in 1990:
Italian novelistPaolo Giordanowent to Disneyland all by his lonesome andfiled a reportfor the Wall Street Journal. An excerpt:
“I take no rides in Disneyland, not even one, but I go into the reassuring auditorium where they show the return of ‘Captain EO’ in amazing 3-D and the temperature change is severe. Mothers extract sweaters from their bags, but the children have no intention of wearing them. They are thinking how funny they look with those big 3-D glasses on their faces, even though 3-D is no innovation for them; it’s nothing special, like this place Disneyland is nothing special. It looks a little old and there’s much more future in the Nintendo DSs, iPods, PlayStation Portables they’re carrying in their pockets.
Only small children still marvel—the Asian girl sitting at my left side, for example, she’s terrified by the dark and the wild assault of people trying to get the best seats and by Captain EO himself who—I’m discovering now—is Michael Jackson, close to his original color and surrounded by a group of tiny farting monsters. He has a mission to accomplish that later results in him dancing amid androids and repeating ‘We are here to change the world,’ which more or less is what he’d said throughout his career. When the seats start bouncing to the beat of the bass drum, I think that one of the ways Michael Jackson changed the world was to build a place similar to this one, a colorful trap for children where he decided to live, and the reason why he did it appears to me at once to be clear, tender, dreadful and incomprehensible.”
I don’t know why, but I would rather read newspapers and magazines online but still prefer to read old-fashioned, non-virtual books. Maybe it has to do with the length of time we spend with an article as opposed to a longer work. I think it’s something I’ll get over soon, though I probably won’t have a choice. But I’m all in favor of digitization of printed materials of value (and even of dubious value) and the democratization of scholarship that it allows. James Gleick speaks to this issue anew Op-Ed piecein the New York Times. An excerpt:
“Where some see enrichment, others see impoverishment. Tristram Hunt, an English historian and member of Parliament, complained in The Observer this month that ‘techno-enthusiasm’ threatens to cheapen scholarship. ‘When everything is downloadable, the mystery of history can be lost,’ he wrote. ‘It is only with MS in hand that the real meaning of the text becomes apparent: its rhythms and cadences, the relationship of image to word, the passion of the argument or cold logic of the case.’
I’m not buying this. I think it’s sentimentalism, and even fetishization. It’s related to the fancy that what one loves about books is the grain of paper and the scent of glue.
Some of the qualms about digital research reflect a feeling that anything obtained too easily loses its value. What we work for, we better appreciate. If an amateur can be beamed to the top of Mount Everest, will the view be as magnificent as for someone who has accomplished the climb? Maybe not, because magnificence is subjective. But it’s the same view.”
"What is wrong with her ?" (Image by Pattymooney.)
The odd behavior of the massage therapist.
I was in a car accident a few months ago. As part of the post-operative rehabilitation, my doctor refereed me to a chiropractor. Part of the treatment I am receiving is massage therapy. The therapists are professional, pleasant and friendly.We would speak briefly about innocuous things.
There is one girl that likes to ask indirect, information seeking questions. One day my phone fell put of my pocket onto the table,I was almost out to the parking lot when I discovered it missing. When i went back into the room to look for it, there she was scrolling through my phone! She said that she has one like it and she was checking to see if mine had the same features. I chuckled and said “I did not think that anyone under forty still had one of these old razor phones.” and I left it at that. I thought to myself “damn what a nosy little bitch.”
On Tuesday one of the office staff photocopied something for me and put it in an envelope. I did not want it to get crushed in my pocket, so when I went in the room, I put it on top of the closet. After the session with the same girl, I forgot the envelope and returned for it a few minutes later. She was standing there holding the sheet I had been lying on up to her face with her eyes closed. Her eyes flew open and her face turned red when she saw me. I pretended not to notice anything unusual and said “I forgot the envelope” and retrieved it from the top of the closet.
I am not so conceited as to think that such an attractive young girl would be enamored of an overweight 44 year old guy with daughters her age. I am both amused and curious as I wonder, what is wrong with her ?
A vital report of national importance, the following account of a very puny dog ran in the December 6, 1885 Brooklyn Daily Eagle. An excerpt:
“Tiny, a black and tan terrier, has the honor of having been the smallest full grown dog that ever lived. He belonged to Lieutenant General Sir Archibald Maclaine of England, and in honor of his extreme tininess, is now carefully preserved under a glass case. Tiny was less than four inches long, and could comfortably curl up and take a nap in a common glass tumbler. An ordinary finger ring was large enough for his collar, and when he sat up, a baby’s hand would almost have made a broad and safe resting place for him. Of course, Tiny was no account against a rat. Indeed, a hearty, self-respecting mouse would have stood its ground against the little fellow. But if Tiny had not strength, he did have courage, and would bark as lustily as his little lungs would let him at the biggest rat that ever lived–when the rat was dead.
To tell the whole truth, Tiny was remarkable and he was famous, but he was not very happy. He could have almost anything he wished to eat, but he had no appetite. He shivered most of the time, even though he was usually hidden in warm wraps. Of course, he caught cold easily, and then, oh, dear, how pitifully he did sneeze.”
Iblogged recently about an excellent thumbnail description of Ben Katchor’s artistic heritage which ran on the Los Angeles Review of Books site, and that same site just published the first part of “The Ghost of Wrath,” a revisionist nine-part series about eminent (and hated) Angeleno Harrison Gray Otis that was written by Mike Davis. Otis is the original force behind the Los Angeles Times, and one of the chief “inventors” of modern L.A. The first few paragraphs:
“General Harrison Gray Otis is the wrathful gargoyle with a walrus moustache and Custer goatee who glowers down on us from the battlements of Los Angeles’s Open Shop era. The proprietor of Times-Mirror Company from 1882 to 1917, he was recently hailed in a PBS documentary as the ‘inventor’ of modern Los Angeles, both as an individual and via his descendants, the Chandler family.
Yet his eminence in the city’s history is cast almost entirely as shadow. Five or six serious books have been written about the Los Angeles Times and the Chandlers, but there is no published biography of the dynasty’s founder and leviathan. This is a major missing thread in the narrative tapestry of the current renaissance of Los Angeles history, but given the archival and literary obstacles in any potential biographer’s path, it is not surprising.
First, no one has yet excavated the pharaoh’s tomb. Rumors abound, especially in the tearoom of the Huntington Library, about family archives kept in a San Marino vault. But it is also possible that son-in-law and successor, Harry Chandler, destroyed many of Otis’s private papers when he ordered his own files burned after his heart attack in 1944. (Chandler might have been reacting to the literary and cinematic assaults on fellow-publisher and chief competitor, William Randolph Hearst.)
Second, any biographer has to tackle the fact that Otis was probably the most hated man in Ragtime America. His enemies ecumenically spanned a spectrum from evangelists to citrus growers, socialists to robber barons. Although chiefly remembered for his relentless crusade to destroy the labor movement in Los Angeles, Otis waxed most savage in his attacks on reformers within his own Republican Party. Progressive Republicans, in turn, repaid his vitriol with eloquent interest.”
My neighbor was widowed recently after 64 years of marriage and professed to being very lonely. I never knew his wife since I am considerably younger than his 90 years (58). We have been sharing a bottle of wine a couple of times a week and I have felt that his obvious infatuation was natural and healthy and healing. Thing is, I find him attractive too…but frail! Tonight, he tells me that I’m a “dish” and he’s horny. What should I do? I’m horny too. Should I demand a visit to his physician to make sure that he is physically able to have sex or should I just figure, “what the hell, he’ll die happy?”
I am single and without a lover at the moment. I like sex. But, as a boomer, will my openess freak this guy out? He wants to drive me home! Did I mention that I live next door? OK, country properties, so it’s a 100 yard trek but I’m not used to such gallantry!
I am interested in thoughtful comments and thank you all for considering the situation.
“If we look into the future, then, we can reliably foresee a time in which everybody is going to be using steroids or their pharmaceutical descendants. We will learn to control the health risks of these drugs, or we will develop alternatives to them. Once that happens, people will start living to age 200 or 300 or 1,000, and doctors will begin routinely prescribing drugs to help you live to be 200 or 300 or 1,000. If you look into the future 40 or 50 years, I think it is quite likely that every citizen will routinely take anti-aging pills every day.”
In her 2009 New Yorker article about neuroenhancers, Margaret Talbot explains the concept of “mission creep,” whereby a pharmaceutical created for one purpose is pushed into other more suspect treatment areas by drug companies looking to further monetize a product:
“The Lynches said that Provigil was a classic example of a related phenomenon: mission creep. In 1998, Cephalon, the pharmaceutical company that manufactures it, received government approval to market the drug, but only for ‘excessive daytime sleepiness’ due to narcolepsy; by 2004, Cephalon had obtained permission to expand the labelling, so that it included sleep apnea and ‘shift-work sleep disorder.’ Net sales of Provigil climbed from a hundred and ninety-six million dollars in 2002 to nine hundred and eighty-eight million in 2008.
Cephalon executives have repeatedly said that they do not condone off-label use of Provigil, but in 2002 the company was reprimanded by the F.D.A. for distributing marketing materials that presented the drug as a remedy for tiredness, ‘decreased activity,’ and other supposed ailments. And in 2008 Cephalon paid four hundred and twenty-five million dollars and pleaded guilty to a federal criminal charge relating to its promotion of off-label uses for Provigil and two other drugs. Later this year, Cephalon plans to introduce Nuvigil, a longer-lasting variant of Provigil. Candace Steele, a spokesperson, said, ‘We’re exploring its possibilities to treat excessive sleepiness associated with schizophrenia, bipolar depression, traumatic injury, and jet lag.’ Though she emphasized that Cephalon was not developing Nuvigil as a neuroenhancer, she noted, “As part of the preparation for some of these other diseases, we’re looking to see if there’s improvement in cognition.'”
If we seem to be forgetting more, it’s only because there’s much more to remember. Unsurprisingly, our brains have begun to use the Internet as our key external memory system, not retaining information that we know we can look up. It’s inevitable since our memories have never been incredibly elastic and more information than ever is available. Memory augmentation of some sort is also probably inevitable. From a New York Times story about memory research:
“The scientists, led by Betsy Sparrow, an assistant professor of psychology at Columbia, wondered whether people were more likely to remember information that could be easily retrieved from a computer, just as students are more likely to recall facts they believe will be on a test.
Dr. Sparrow and her collaborators, Daniel M. Wegner of Harvard and Jenny Liu of the University of Wisconsin, Madison, staged four different memory experiments. In one, participants typed 40 bits of trivia — for example, ‘an ostrich’s eye is bigger than its brain’ — into a computer. Half of the subjects believed the information would be saved in the computer; the other half believed the items they typed would be erased.
The subjects were significantly more likely to remember information if they thought they would not be able to find it later. ‘Participants did not make the effort to remember when they thought they could later look up the trivia statement they had read,’ the authors write.”
The amazing Hiroshi Teshigahara and a band of peers collaborated on this stylized 24-minute documentary, “Tokyo 1958.” No English subtitles, but the visuals and score easily carry it.
"When he went to the second story window the young man offered him whisky soaked bread."
This story about a soused monkey originally ran in the Louisville Courier-Journal and was reprinted in the August 2, 1901 Brooklyn Daily Eagle. An excerpt:
“The unusual spectacle of an intoxicated monkey, gaudily dressed in red and gold, throwing nickels and pennies at a crowd of children almost resulted in a tragedy on Chestnut Street the other morning.
The monkey was more intelligent than most of his race. He wasn’t young and his queer behavior could not be attributed to his inexperience. Of course, he was the property of an organ grinder. Up beyond First Street, the ‘musician’ stopped and ground out ‘I’d Leave My Happy House for You,’ always a favorite with the neighborhood students.
At a second story window, the little beast saw a young man standing. The stranger beckoned and the monkey quickly climbed to him. The window was opened and the little climber disappeared within. Five minutes later he climbed down the lightning rod. After that the whole monkey family would have been scandalized could they have witnessed his actions. For a block he was unruly. Then he began to separate himself from the money which he had collected . Nickels flew in every direction.
But the animal kept on jabbering. It was not his fault that he was drunk. When he went to the second story window the young man offered him whisky soaked bread and the animal ate heartily.”
