Robots still suck at stuff

Look: I’m sure all the technology that went into this microwaving robot is mind-boggling, but there’s really no denying that the robot still pretty much sucks at microwaving. Don’t get distracted by Sidd’s spiel. Keep your eye on the automaton. Nearly a full minute goes by between the time the robot drops the dish in the microwave and presses the button to start the cook, and there’s an edit in there. That only takes me like five seconds! We can beat the machines at this. I’m the John Henry of microwaving.

Where I think robots could really come in handy is the micro-bake process, especially where instructions are not included on the burrito package. I bet robotic precision would help take some of the guesswork out of that.

Via PopSci.

Can I hold $1.5 million (and a much larger apartment)?

Heritage Auctions is holding its Natural History and Fine Minerals Signature Auction in New York on May 20. Items up for bidding include this skeleton from a Tarbosaurus, a member of the Tyrannosaurus family:

From the description:

This is an incredible, complete skeleton, painstakingly excavated and prepared, and mounted in a dramatic, forward-leaning running pose. The quality of preservation is superb, with wonderful bone texture and delightfully mottled grayish bone color. In striking contrast are those deadly teeth, long and frightfully robust, in a warm woody brown color, the fearsome, bristling mouth and monstrous jaws leaving one in no doubt as to how the creature came to rule its food chain. Equally deadly and impressive are the large curving claws, with pronounced blood grooves.

Pronounced blood grooves! I don’t even know what that means but it’s almost certainly the name of my next album.

Via Boing Boing.

Background check

I’ve been meaning to write this all down for a while and in light of the Deadspin/ESPN stuff, now seems like as good a time as any to actually do it. This is long and incredibly self-indulgent, for which I apologize. Site’s called TedQuarters. And I mostly want something handy to link when people ask.

I get emails pretty frequently from prospective media types wondering how I got my job and how they can get one like it. That makes sense: I have an awesome job that includes writing about the Mets (my favorite sports team), sandwiches (pretty much my favorite thing) and just about anything else I want as long as it meets with this network’s utterly reasonable standards of decency. And in addition to my administrative and editorial duties on SNY.tv, I get to host videos and podcasts, interview athletes and celebrity hairstylists, and attend all sorts of amazing events for free. It’s sweet. Keith Hernandez says hello to me at Citi Field. I met Shaq!

(Plus I have healthcare. That’s huge.)

Don’t take any of this as bragging or false humility. I think I’m pretty good at my job, but I also think there are countless unemployed or underemployed Mets fans out there who would love to have this job and could do just as well in it who just haven’t benefited from the series of events that put me here. And though I’m thrilled to have a job this cool, I’m never thoroughly satisfied with my standing. I’m vain enough to want my name to ring out in the streets, to want people naming haircuts after mine 2,000 years after I’m dead like Caesar. I sit down to write about Taco Bell with some hope I’ll churn out the greatest work of art ever created by man, then wind up disappointed every time I don’t.

Anyway, the point: I never mean to discourage anyone from trying to find a job like mine or employment in sports media because if I did, people clearly do. But I’m not sure any other job exactly like mine exists or that it’s easy to count on the type of randomness that put me in a job so perfectly tailored to the things I want to do.

I hosted a sports and comedy show on campus cable in college and interned at the sports desk for the Washington, DC Fox affiliate, but graduated in 2003 with no job lined up and no real direction. I wanted to go into TV, I thought, and probably sports. Ultimately I wanted to host a sports version of the Daily Show, like all those sports versions of the Daily Show that have since come out and failed (but better, obviously).

I moved back home with my parents on Long Island. I worked at the deli for a while, then coached football and subbed at my old high school, then worked at Macys.com and got fired for admitting I was pursuing a job elsewhere. That job — the NBC Page Program — put me through a series of five interviews over seven months then called to say thanks-but-no-thanks. I got a lead on a six-month position working as a production assistant on the ESPN25 series, but I couldn’t afford to move to Bristol on what they would have paid — especially since there was no guarantee it would have continued past the six months. I might have figured a way to make it work, but I was getting serious with my girlfriend (whom I later married) and playing in a new band I was psyched about.

Soon after I got fired at Macys.com, I started subbing again, then got hired as a full-time Teacher’s Assistant at the high school. Desperate for more money, I put up flyers around town advertising my services as an SAT Verbal tutor. My first student, Sarah, a smart and tireless worker who clearly just underperformed on her PSAT, went up 170 points. Word got out in the suburbs, and soon I had more students than I could handle.

I kept working at the high school, coaching football and tutoring in 2004 and the spring of 2005. With the money I saved from tutoring, I moved to Brooklyn that summer and entered a 40-credit interdisciplinary arts masters program at NYU, aiming to improve my academic resume to make myself a better candidate for doctoral programs and a life in academia. I left the high school but kept tutoring, and parlayed that into a part-time job in the writing center at Nassau Community College.

Sometime in early 2006, on a whim, I applied for a job at MLB.com on Craigslist even though I was a full-time student working two part-time jobs. Months later, just as the spring semester was finishing up and I was starting to look for more work for the summer, I got a call from someone there.

The guy, Richard, was the head of the partner-sites division. He claimed that in his first wave of hires, he had focused on tech-savvy editors and was now looking for people with better grammar. So he said my writing background appealed to him. It later came out that he plucked my resume from a reject pile because he thought it was funny that I included my experience as a Shea Stadium vendor and that my email address at the time was ted@awesomeburrito.com. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to hire me; he thought it’d be an entertaining freak show. I went in for an interview and we spent 45 minutes talking about food, which won him over.

I started working part-time at MLB.com a few weeks later and trained on SNY.tv, which was and still is run in partnership with MLBAM. I began working night shifts, cutting photos and posting Mets recaps, taking breaks to walk around the newly hip meatpacking district. One night, I briefly met a guy named Bob working at a nearby cubicle. Bob worked out of Maryland for another partner site, WCSN.com, but was in New York for training.

A few nights later, Bob called the late-night helpline that was set up for partners to call in with editorial issues. I was the only one in our section of the office, so I took the call. He was struggling to get a live video streaming on WCSN.com. I had no idea how to help him with that, but together we poked around the site’s CMS and figured it out.

The next time I saw Richard, he told me that Bob “raved” about how helpful I was and thanked me for putting out a potential fire. I asked if he was sure Bob meant me, because I didn’t think I helped that much, but I guess Bob liked to give credit where it was due — and sometimes where it really wasn’t.

After a few days off, I came in for my next shift and got that week’s schedule only to find I was set to work some 60 hours over six days. Richard pulled me aside.

“Sorry to schedule you for so many hours,” he said. “We won’t normally do that, but we need you to step up this week because of the Bob situation.”

“What’s the Bob situation?” I asked.

“Oh,” he paused. “He died.”

This is awful: It turned out that about a day after crediting me for something he hardly needed help with, Bob got hit by a car. Needing someone to fill his shifts and thinking — thanks to Bob — that I was some sort of CMS wiz, they scheduled me for most of them. I was hired as a full-time employee about a month later.

I wanted to write, and the good graces I earned by being thought good at managing the sites helped me do that. I took assignments on SNY.tv wherever possible, starting with a fan-reaction piece about Mike Piazza’s return to Shea and then covering odd sporting events around the city.

The editor liked the way I (over)wrote those articles, and when the site added team blogs in October, 2006, he accepted my offer to write the site’s Mets blog (later renamed a column). I worked mostly on WCSN.com in 2007 but got a season credential to Shea Stadium and maintained the blog (and finished my masters) in my downtime. As I became a little more vocal about my distaste for the Olympics sports covered on WCSN.com, my bosses started giving me more responsibilities on SNY.tv.

In fact, I learned that SNY was adding my current position — Senior Editorial Producer, for what it’s worth — because the job listing was sent to me to post on the website. And as I was adding HTML code around the responsibilities, I realized I was already doing most of them and applied. I was hired in December of 2007 and started working here at the beginning of 2008. This site launched in Oct. 2009 and immediately started dropping truth bombs like this one.

The Snackman cometh

Charles Sonder is being hailed a hero for stepping in between two scuffling straphangers — all while casually snacking on cheddar Pringles.

The noshing crusader shot to Internet fame after his exploits were captured in a cell phone video and posted on YouTube, garning more than a half million hits.

He even has a name: Snackman….

“I just got caught up in the moment,” said Sonder, who was also holding a bag of gummy bears during the incident.

Rich Schapiro, N.Y. Daily News.

Let’s go to the videotape!

Snackman is the strong, silent type of hero. Sometimes vague inaction speaks louder than… well, action. If more people just sort of ambled in the way of aggressive morons kicking and flailing — I’m not even kidding — this world would be a better place. Also, we all should eat more gummy bears.

And I’m not sure if Snackman is single, but he’s an architect, which everyone knows is the No. 1 all-time romantic-comedy guy profession*.

*- I should note that Mindy Kaling pointed this out in her book Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?, which made my wife laugh so hard that it was impossible to watch TV in our apartment while she read it. But it was something I had long noticed, since it really does seem to be the case in like every romantic comedy.

LOAD “*” ,8,1

I’m 31, which means I’m likely older than about half the people reading this blog, old enough to remember life before the Internet, and just barely old enough to remember life before Nintendos became ubiquitous in households around the country.

A couple families on our block had Ataris. We had a Commodore 64. For me that meant countless hours in the basement spent pouring over stats and simulating games on Micro League Baseball. My baseball nerdery runs deep. For my older brother Chris, it meant a whole world of other things that failed to impress me at the time but now seem pretty damn amazing in retrospect.

At school, Chris was a two-sport athlete and a very good one, but at home he was kind of a a prototype 80s nerd, right down to the mesh-backed hat and the glasses with the double bar between the frames — both of which have come back into fashion ironically now. With his friends he played some the same games I did, but while alone he passed more time programming for the Commodore 64, staring at the glowing blue monitor, mastering its rudimentary operating system, making his own games.

I remember he wrote a program that turned the computer keyboard into a piano, learned to play the beginning of “Hey Jude” on it, then moved on. I think he made a couple of lemonade-stand type games too. It never seemed special at the time because I was 7 and never had any other older brother, so I just assumed programming computers was something older brothers did. He taught me a few basic operations, but it never really took.

Chris loved the Commodore 64 enough that he made 64 his football number and part of his email address and AIM name and probably his ATM pin — the number was some odd part of his identity. And he parlayed his interest in computers and science into a degree from M.I.T. and eventually a robotics fellowship at Texas A&M that he never got to enter.

OK, that took a turn for the sad that I never intended. I brought it up because Jack Tramiel, a Holocaust survivor and the inventor of the Commodore 64, died on Sunday at age 84.

And while I guess guys like Chris suspected this would happen back in the late 80s, so many of us now work and bank and learn and meet friends and lovers everyday through computers. We take it for granted, but that all started with nerds plugging away at lines of code in basements somewhere.

So give it up for the geeks, I guess.

Octopus eats seagull

I’m not sure there’s a living creature I detest more than the seagull. And it sucks because when you’re an aspiring sandwich artisan growing up on Long Island, a picnic on the beach seems like a great idea for a date right up until you’re forced to reveal how freaked out you are by the scores of seagulls circling your blanket, sizing you up.

They just don’t look like they’re nearly as afraid of me as they should be given our difference in size, plus they eat garbage all day so I just assume they’re rife with all sorts of infectious disease. And they don’t seem nearly as dumb as every other bird. Man I hate seagulls.

Anyway, octopi are awesome and this one is fighting the good fight:

 

Disclaimer before baseball season

I could present this in some more detailed or more organized fashion but the workday is getting short and none of it will be new to regular readers of this site, so I’m just going to come with it: There’s a massive distinction between arguing with someone’s baseball analysis and suggesting that the baseball analysis in question comes with insidious motives.

I like this job a lot. I have a platform to write about baseball and sandwiches and space travel and whatever else that comes to mind, in large part because no one ever tells me what to write about. I can’t speak for anyone else and I don’t speak for anyone else. This site’s called TedQuarters. The thoughts and opinions expressed here are my own and only my own except where noted. If you believe otherwise, honestly, just don’t read it. You’ll save us both a hell of a headache.

Which is to say: I want to be able to continue writing what I believe about the Mets, which often comes through my own pathetic lens of optimism, without worrying that anyone will think I’m doing the Wilpons’ bidding — as is sometimes suggested by email and in comments sections elsewhere.

I recognize it comes with the territory and I know I shouldn’t care as much as I do, but it still stings to have all the hours of work and energy you invest in something undercut by some guy who doesn’t know the first thing about you suggesting that your work comes with less-than-honest intentions. And I realize, of course, that this is pointless, because people are going to believe what they want to believe regardless of what I say here. So we’ll all just carry on, I guess.

Here’s an ice-skating monkey:

More from the 6 Train

This is what happens when a crazy person catches a cold:

I heard the woman before I saw her, and I assumed her to be the type of sick commuter I judge the crap out of: Someone clearly too ill to be going to work (or really anywhere besides the doctor’s office or the kitchen for a glass of water) who believes herself and her responsibilities too important to avoid germing up whatever mass-transit system she favors with whatever virus or bacteria or fungus is responsible for the disgusting ailment she has clearly come down with.

And look: I’ve been there. It happens. Sometimes you’re out of sick days, sometimes you underestimate how sick you are, sometimes you’re so sick you’re not even thinking straight and you can’t consider any option besides going through your morning routine and getting on the subway feeling awful. Plus, who wants to waste sick days on days when you’re actually sick?

Anyway, I’m hardly a germophobe, but part of having MS means — at least as far as I understand it — if you wind up with some sort of serious illness or infection you could be totally f@#$ing screwed. Not definitely screwed, but it’s not something I’m aiming to gamble with. So I try my best to stay out of harm’s way, and when there’s some woman sneezing and wheezing and hacking in the subway station, I walk down the platform a bit to avoid ending up face-to-face with a coughing mess who could cripple me somehow.

Only this lady was hot on my heels as the train pulled in, and I couldn’t shake her even as I scooted along the side of the car to get to the farthest possible doors. From her array of sick-person noises it wasn’t hard to sense her veering right upon entrance, so I hooked left and proceeded to the middle of the car because I am a responsible commuter.

The train started moving and I unraveled my headphones while she continued with her ridiculous cacophony of grossness. Then, from her general region of the train car, came a commotion and a scattering of passengers.

“She got my suitcase!” said someone with a nasal voice.

Behind a three-deep shield of high-school kids in puffy jackets, I looked toward the woman. She wasn’t the self-important but irresponsible white-collar worker I expected, and it certainly didn’t seem like she was heading to an office. She was probably in her late 40s or early 50s, wearing a black knit hat sitting way off the top of her hat and a long green trenchcoat, and she looked for all the world like she had gotten on the subway specifically to menace people.

The people on the train soon provided her about a four-foot radius of personal space — unheard of on a crowded rush-hour subway. And she used all of it, pacing around, glowering at commuters, and mostly — and I don’t know if there are grown-up words for these actions so I’m just going to use what I called them in seventh grade — blowing snot-rockets and hocking loogies.

Everyone else huddled together as far from her as possible. People abandoned nearby seats and stood in the aisle — their chances of incurring her mucus-wrath lessened by the crowd; herding at its most beneficial.

The guy next to me craned to try to see over my head. He turned to his girlfriend, sitting down but with a much better angle on the woman.

“Yo, she spittin’ on n****s,” she said.

One of the high-school kids, a girl about 15, looked straight down. “I think she got me; I think she got me; I think she got me,” she muttered.

A friend assured her she was safe, then expressed some concern over the condition of his fitted cap.

The woman got off at 68th St., but nobody who was on the train for her spitting spree returned to the area they freed up for her. A couple people got on at the stop and must have wondered why everyone on the train was crushed toward the sides, leaving a big empty space in the middle for them to stand in.

Part of that was certainly inertia: The train’s going to fill up anyway, you’ve already moved once, and it’s just a hell of a lot of effort to move back even if you’re jammed up against a bunch of other people.

Part of it, I think, is a certain and likely misguided type of germophobia: No one wants to stand in the space where they saw the crazy phlegm lady spitting. But of course it’s every man for himself, so no one was going to tell the 68th St. people that they might be wallowing in her hepatitis B, either.

The terrifying thing is that for all we know that type of thing has just happened on every train we get on and we are perpetually the naive 68th St. passengers. I’ve seen people urinate on trains on multiple occasions. Hell, just a couple weeks ago I saw a man vomit up half of his soul on a Manhattan-bound 7 train.

Point is, don’t lick anything on the subway.