The Tipping Point is a book about how “ideas and products and messages and behaviors spread like viruses do” (Gladwell, page 7).  It discusses how specific changes, such as the person spreading the message or the format of the message itself, can effect how, or even if, the ideas, products, messages, and behaviors spread across a population.  Gladwell cites numerous examples, including Paul Revere’s fateful trip warning that the British were coming, hush puppies as a fashion trend, and the downward spiral of crime in New York.

According to Robert McCrum, the former literary editor of The Observer (via Kottke.org), it was Gladwell’s US-wide lecture that truly tipped The Tipping Point from failure into success.

The Tipping Point was almost a flop. It was published to mixed reviews in the US, did no serious business in the UK and was saved by — yes — word of mouth. After a dismal launch, and as a desperate last resort, Gladwell persuaded his American publisher to sponsor a US-wide lecture tour. Only then did the book ‘tip’. Eventually, it would become a literary success of its time, turn its author into a pop cultural guru and spend seven years on the New York Times bestseller list. This was one of those pivotal moments that illustrates the story of this decade.

There’s something very special about the number 3.

Years and years ago, I saw a fabulous documentary on comedy that featured the writers of the Sid Ceasear show, with the old funny men sitting around chewing the fat about the good ol’ days. In passing, they described the magic of the number 3 — that most of the time funny comes in threes: in a classic joke the 3rd man who walks into a bar is the funniest, in a sitcom the 3rd speaker in an exchange is the funniest, in a stand-up narrative the 3rd thing to happen is the funniest.

And ever since seeing that documentary, I “count” any comedy I see or hear, at least on a subconscious level.

1 2 ha ha ha. 1 2 ha ha ha.

“Caffeine,” he rants as he points to the word. “Does this say ‘caffeine’ to you?”

It’s fascinating how form can follow function, and function can follow form, in everything from physiology to poetry to words.

Humans have opposable thumbs, and this little digit allows us to do everything from type blogs to build houses.

I recently learned (at New York Public Library’s excellent exhibit on Jack Kerouac) that Gregory Corso’s famous poem, “Bomb” was itself a bomb until Kerouac shaped its words into a mushroom cloud.

And, of course, there are fonts. I left Helvetica and couldn’t help but be amazed just how present the font is in our day-to-day lives. I can’t walk a block in New York without seeing it: the font that can be superimposed on a grid, the font without little “feet” on its edges. These are changes without meaning.

And yet ….

I can’t imagine waiting at a sign that says STOP or STOP or STOP .