Ancient Sound, by Paul Klee (1925)

If I could only have one Italian cookbook, this’d be my cherce:

So you can make things like this:

According to a tweet by Joel Sherman, former New York Times baseball writer, Jack Curry has been hired by YES to be an analyst/columnist. Kudos to YES for landing the respected Curry.

A few years ago I spent a lot of time at main branch of the New York public library on 42nd street and 5th Avenue. You know, the Big One, with the lions out front. I hit the microfilm room, looking for great old sports writing in the archives of the New York Herald Tribune, the New York Post, Sport and Inside Sports. Then I thought about The National Sports Daily, Frank DeFord’s classic, if short-lived newspaper.

My pal John Schulian suggested that I look up Dave Smith, a reference librarian who had been profiled in the New York Times. Schulian was and is a great fan of good writing and he told me that Johnette Howard, Peter Richmond and Charles Pierce, amongst others, became stars writing bonus pieces for The National. One of their editors was Rob Fleder, a man who cares deeply about good writing himself, who later had a great stint at Sports Illustrated.

So I met Dave Smith and he was a mensch. A guy who loves to help writers. He showed me his desk–lined with copies of books that he’d contributed to in some way or another. Dude gave me a copy of a book about people who write obituraries called The Dead Beat, by Marilyn Johnson, who, it just so happens, is married to Rob Fleder.

Small world, right? That’s how it goes, man. Especially in a library.

Johnson’s new book, This Book is Overdue! How Librarians and Cybrarians can Save us All, features Smith, who, unfortunately, officially retired last summer, though he still helps writers. Like her first book, this one is written in a breezy prose style that is compulsively readable. Johnson is a sharp reporter and her enthusiasm is contagious. Oh, and she is also very funny. Johnson adores librarians in all their various attitudes because, they are essential in making society work:

Librarians’ values are as sound as Girl Scouts’: truth, free speech, and universal literacy. And, like Scouts, they posses a quality that I think makes librarians invaluable and indispensable: they want to help. They want to help us. They want to be of service. And they’re not trying to sell us anything.

This book examines a wide-range of librarian culture–from old school dudes like Smith–to the younger generation of librarians who’ve fully embraced the digital world. I had no idea about how much libraries have changed over the past twenty years, but of course they had. Fortunately, Johnson has written a winning account of the scene.

So…I’ve got an extra copy of This Book is Overdue! for the best library story you’ve got (you can leave it in the comments section below or shoot me an e-mail):

In the meantime, dig this excerpt from the book:

There are thousands of buildings lining the canyons of Manhattan, some more ornate than others; but I never saw one with a lobby floor like that at 260 Madison. Smith signed in with the guard and was barreling toward the elevator, but I lingered over the art beneath my feet: the two-dimensional globe in brass and Mediterranean blue, the Greek border. Decorating the hall upstairs, by the library, were eight display cases with little brass sculptures of dogs. Through the big glass double doors, a giant oil painting of a purebred something gazed prayerfully toward a beam of light; there was a guard or butler sitting at an ornate reception desk. Smith shambled past without a glance and we headed left through more doors and into the library of an English hunting lodge—anyway, that was the effect, a sense of gleaming order and privilege.

Behind the greeting desk, on which lay an old-fashioned guest book, glass cases displayed massive loving cups, including an oversized one for Pekingese; behind it, a photo of the cup with a Pekingese nestling inside. Presiding over one of the long tables was a glass case containing the skeleton of a midsized dog, and in the winter light streaming in the window he seemed to be looking down his bony jaw at the sole patron, a gentleman studying an old book of pedigrees. The skeleton was not that of any old dog, but of Belgrave Joe, a celebrity dog that died in 1888. We were in a shrine to The Dog, the dog of literature, journalism, and art; the dog of history; its purebred expression; its idealized state. There was no evidence of any wet, muddy, smelly, or mangy mongrels.

New York is full of these gems, little libraries and archives that capture a slice of the past and, in a disorderly and even chaotic world, organize the knowledge and art of, say, Louis Armstrong, or botanical gardens, or pornography (the Museum of Sex includes an unbelievable collection of pornography painstakingly collected and cataloged over the years by a Library of Congress librarian). The New York Society Library, a subscription library nestled in an Upper East Side townhouse, has a sweeping staircase and a beautiful old room for its old card catalog (“The members would never let me give this away,” its head librarian says). The fabulous Morgan Library and Museum, with its illuminated manuscripts and Rembrandt etchings, is three blocks down Madison. And … not complaining, but … here we were in the American Kennel Club Library.

The dog librarian was in her late fifties, with neatly cut graying hair and rimless glasses, a jeweled pin of a Scotty on her red boiled wool jacket. Barbara Kolb used to work in public relations for Good Housekeeping and Macy’s, but she never felt she fit in. She would go off to find some information she needed, and find all this other stuff, too. “I was always getting sidetracked.”

In thirteen years here, Kolb had organized the library, modernized its online catalog, and linked it to WorldCat, in between serving the information needs of the American Kennel Club and its magazine and stray members of the general public who wander in and ask about labradoodles or the Westminster Dog Show. Her kingdom is comprised of 18,000 volumes, more or less, some of them rare and irreplaceable, in seventeen languages—two thousand years of writing about dogs, including the only complete set of English Kennel Club magazine in the United States. Other libraries can be ruthless when it comes to their space, but “what’s a great policy in one library can be a horrible policy in another. People say, ‘Let’s weed the stacks!’ For the public library, maybe, but not for a research library.” Recently, Kolb had been collecting old children’s literature about dogs. “I’ve found some very good and rare dog books on eBay,” she said. “I keep my mouth shut and very quietly buy books for the library.” She showed me The Dog’s Dinner Party, the old tale of an eighteenth-century eccentric, an earl who habitually dined with his twelve dogs, assigning them each a footman who served them on silver plates. “You can get some bargains on eBay!”

I could live here, I thought. I could study dogs and help this lovely dog librarian …

“Come back anytime,” she said as I tore myself away, “though we’re crazy the week of the dog show!”

If you want to catch Johnson in person–and yeah, she’s worth the trip–she’ll be at the Barnes and Noble on 82nd street and Broadway tomorrow night at 7 pm.

Peep, don’t sleep.

Frank Lashes

How do you mend a broken heart? I don’t know a decent answer to that question, but after several decades my strategy has not deviated much from the one I formulated when I was 6: ignore the offending party as much as possible and try to get on with your life. Back in 1981, the original offending party was the Yankees, and following George’s decision to let Reggie trickle away following the season, I pretty much ignored them for the next 10 years or so – hat-tip to the Yanks for not being too interesting in those years.

When Reggie retired in 1987, I found myself oddly un-tethered from any team or player’s fortunes and my rooting interest free to land anywhere in the MLB. I initially gravitated towards the awesomeness of Don Mattingly, but I was too gun shy to submit myself to the Yanks again. Their whole non-Donnie situation reeked of flailing disappointment. I admired him dearly, but wished he played for another team. I also quickly got into and out of the Mets, like an aborted flirtation with cocaine, heard it might be fun, but the tragic warning signs were everywhere.

(more…)

The Strand, Kevin McGoff

I went to school and painted with this kid. Really dig his new stuff.

Dig this smokin’ groove. Sounds like something out of Mean Streets:

It was getting late, well past lunch, and I still hadn’t eaten anything. The sun was out yesterday but it was cold. I got off the subway on 231st street and walked due west to the barber shop. On the way, I passed Sam’s Pizza, a hole-in-the-wall in Kingsbridge.

I’m not a pizza groupie but I probably eat it as a stand-by more than any other street food. Sometimes, it’s just the perfect food–enough to satiate your hunger but not enough to make you full. I walked into the place and that New York City pizza smell enveloped me (who knows, maybe you get the same smell in Philly too). I can’t explain what the smell is exactly, but I know it when I smell it–it is the scent that immediately authenticates a pizzeria in this city.

Iniside, the place was small with no-frills. The front window was big, and opened during the summer; a gumball machine rested on the counter as you walked in. A kid was standing at the counter eating a slice and a thin but strong-looking man worked behind it. The soda fountain had an “Out of Order” sign on it. There were a few tables in the back, the walls covered in fake wood. An old Coca Cola sign hung on the back wall.

I ordered a slice. Three short, round-faced, Spanish kids came in and each ordered a slice too. A fat woman and her daughter ordered a pie. The pizza man moved deliberately. He smiled and had some charming words for the women. Otherwise he was, if not sullen, blank.

The slice was good, thin at the tip and then doughy–but not too doughy–at the crust. I soaked the grease with cheese, garlic powder and hot pepper flakes. Before I finished it I ordered another one. The pizza man was making a fresh pie. He clapped his hands clean of flower, took my bill with the tips of his fingers, and gave me change. I asked him if he always worked alone. He said that he did.

“Wow, that’s a lot of work, bro.”

“I got no choice,” he said without self-pity, just resignation.

I ate the second slice. The kid next to me ate too and didn’t say anything. The three Spanish kids stood in the back, talking softly. The mother and her daughter waited in silence. It was warm. My stomach felt warm too, which was comforting because the wind cut through me when I walked out of the door.

[photo credit: dM: nyc]

Cakes, by Wayne Thiebaud (1963)

Dig this killer koolness:

One of the least compelling Hot Stove dramas in recent memory has come to a close. According to a report, Johnny Damon has signed a one-year deal with the Tigers.

Ballet Dancer Standing, by Edgar Degas (1886-90)

Baltimore Museum of Art

I caught a link to the following article on Baseball Think Factory.

According to Brian Cashman, the Baltimore Orioles are a sleeping giant:

“I remember a few years back when Tampa Bay was perennially losing. Everyone in the industry was following them and saw all their young talent brewing and slowly getting refined. You don’t know, because prospects are suspects until they declare themselves at the Major League level.

“Andy is doing the same thing. Everybody kind of sees the collection of talent. Players with big tools and high ceiling. When you are athletic and have those kinds of tools, when it all comes together, it comes fast.

“The Orioles are a team that has closed the gap, without a doubt. And Andy is showing the patience. I think their fan base will be very, very pleased. All the sudden, before they know it, they’ll have that foundation in place. They just haven’t seen it pop yet at the Major League level.

As much as I feared and loathed the Orioles when they were good, it has been depressing to see them for the past decade. Be cool to see them improve. It’s only right.

The Times Magazine has a good photo slide show of Jeff Bridges in the latest issue. Bridges, unless something goes horribly wrong, is going to win the Academy Award for Best Actor this year. What goes into an Oscar campaign? Mark Harris provides the unsavory answers in this profile for New York magazine.

The Milkmaid, 1657-58

First:

Flipped:

For dumb nice doughnuts, you must go downtown to this spot. I’m not kidding, they are ridiculously tasty.

Check out Futility Infielder for more on this treasure:

Earlier in the week, ESPN’s Rob Neyer caused a bit of a stir when he wrote this assessment of the Yankees’ possible switch of new acquisition Curtis Granderson from center field to left field.

My guess is that they’ll stick with Granderson in center field for practical reasons. The Yankees can always move him to left field. But once there, it might be problematic to return him to center if, say, they signed a new left fielder next winter. It’s pretty obvious that the organization doesn’t care about defense. That’s why they’ve got all those high-strikeout pitchers. They can carry Granderson’s decent glove in center for at least one season and probably more.

I’m a fan of Rob’s writing, particularly his books on baseball blunders and great dynasties, but he’s way, way off when he says the Yankee organization “doesn‘t care about defense.” There is little evidence of the Yankees’ being indifferent to fielding issues. One of Brian Cashman’s biggest concerns after the 2008 season–and he stated this publicly on at least one occasion–was the team’s declining defense. That sentiment was a huge factor in letting both Jason Giambi and Bobby Abreu, two of their weakest links in the field, depart as free agents without so much as qualifying offers. The Yankees replaced both players with superior defenders in Mark Teixeira at first and Nick Swisher and Xavier Nady in right field. Faced with similar concerns about their double play combination of Robinson Cano and Derek Jeter, the Yankees assigned both to work extensively with new coach Mick Kelleher last spring. Both players emerged as improved defenders in 2009. And then there is the more recent decision not to bring back Johnny Damon. Damon’s defensive foibles (along with his age) factored into Cashman’s decision not to budge from making a two-year offer worth $14 million. In replacing Damon, the Yankees are calling upon Brett “The Jet” Gardner, whose prime attribute is his speed and range in the outfield. Does this sound like the working plan of a general manager that doesn’t care about defense? I don’t think so.

Yes, the Yankees do care about their defense. It’s just that they don’t place as high a priority on defense as teams like the Mariners, A’s, and Red Sox do. (And one could argue that those teams are placing way too much emphasis on defense, at the expense of fielding subpar batting orders.) The Yankees won the World Series last year with a solid but unspectacular defense playing behind a high-strikeout pitching staff. On the whole, the Yankees didn’t display much range, and they didn’t make many highlight reel plays, but they turned in routine plays consistently, made few tangible errors, and executed the fundamentals of hitting the cutoff man and throwing to the right base. That’s what solid defense is about: making the routine plays time and time again. The Yankees care about defense enough to execute that part of the game very well…

***

If you’re a Yankee fan–and you likely are if you follow the Banter–Adeinis Hechavarria is a name you need to know. Some people believe he will be the player who succeeds Derek Jeter at shortstop, perhaps in the year 2012 or 2013, assuming that Jeter moves to another position, or flat-out retires. Hechavarria is a Cuban defector who fled the grip of Fidel Castro for the relative freedom of Mexico last summer. Although major league clubs are not yet permitted to sign Hechavarria, that permission will likely come in the next few months. Once that happens, the Yankees will officially become the favorites to sign the shortstop, who is either 19 or 21 years old, depending on the source.

So what kind of a player is Hechavarria? According to the scouting reports I’ve found, Hechavarria offers a combination of blazing speed and plus power, with the ability to take the ball to right field. In the field, he has good range, quick feet, and soft hands, but his throwing mechanics need work. Having already scouted Hechavarria on numerous occasions, the Yankees like what they see in the athletic shortstop, who stands six feet tall and weighs 170 pounds. Some talent evaluators foresee him being moved to center field in the future, ala the Rays’ B.J. Upton, but the Yankees seem to think he can handle shortstop for at least a few years. By then, we should all have a better idea of how to pronounce his name; I am from Latino ancestry and have little idea how to say it. For now, we can at least practice how to spell it…

***

Finally, a non-Yankee note. Former big league right-hander Jim Bibby passed away earlier this week at the age of 65, a victim of a long battle with cancer. I was saddened to hear the news, particularly because I remember Bibby very well, especially from his days with the Pirates. An enormous right-hander who stood six feet, five inches and weighed nearly 250 pounds, Bibby was an important part of the Bucs’ 1979 world championship team, a valuable pitcher who could star or relieve with equal effectiveness. Blessed with a power fastball, Bibby was also well known for pitching a 13-strikeout no-hitter for the Rangers in 1974 and for being the older brother of Henry Bibby, a very good shooting guard for the Philadelphia 76ers during the Julius Erving-Maurice Cheeks era.

After a few moments, my sadness gave way to a smile in recollecting Bibby. That’s because he was one of the most interesting subjects of the one of the funniest baseball books ever written, Seasons in Hell, by Mike Shrospshire. A lot of the Bibby material is X-rated and therefore not appropriate to my PG writing style, but some can be revealed here. First off, Bibby used to sweat like no other ballplayer I’ve seen. On hot, humid days, he would look like Albert Brooks in Broadcast News, the perspiration pouring down his face and arms like Yosemite Falls. Furthermore, Bibby used to go by the “stage name” of “Fontay O’Rooney” during Rangers road trips. Now I’m not sure why he needed a stage name–was he performing in Vaudeville or doing one-man shows on the road?–and I have no idea why he selected the odd moniker of Fontay O’Rooney as his alter ego. Is it an anagram for something else? No one really seems to know. Whatever the case, it was an indication of Bibby’s colorful, offbeat character.

By all accounts, Bibby was a good man, too. A veteran of two years in the Vietnam War, Bibby’s intimidating physical appearance belied his friendly nature. He was outgoing and funny, and so popular as a minor league pitching coach that the Lynchburg Hillcats held a bobblehead night in his honor.

Farewell, Fontay O’Rooney. You will be missed.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times.

Ben Shpigel, who I assume is now covering the Yankees beat for the New York Times (he had been on the Mets beat previously), has a piece today on prospect Andrew Brackman. I met Shpigel at Citifield last year and mistook him for another Times reporter, Michael Schmidt, but didn’t realize my gaffe until later. Always felt like a putz about that. Regardless, Shpigel is following Tyler Kepner, who did a great job writing about the Yankees (Kepner is still with the paper as their national baseball writer). I’m looking forward to reading his coverage this season.