We Need a Name for Our Ungluing Books Service

In 1996, the company I worked for was briefly named "Company B". The day a new name for the company was to be unveiled was really quite exciting. The company that had been AT&T was being split into three pieces. The "A" piece, was to keep the AT&T name and the long-distance phone service. The "C" piece was NCR, which had been acquired a few years before for reasons no one really understood. The "B" piece was going to sell telecommunications equipment and would be centered around our beloved Bell Labs. That's what the "B" stood for.

Nobody was excited by the name "Lucent Technologies" when it was announced. Millions had been spent on a brand consultancy, and more had been spent trying to get Judge Greene to allow the use of "Bell" in the name. And none of us could comprehend that with all that money, they hadn't even bothered to secure the "lucent.com" domain name.


Our management struggled to convince us of the benefits of a meaningless name. They told us the name was an "empty vessel" which meant it would only acquire the meaning that we put into it with our "Bell Labs Innovations". The name had been field tested with focus groups, and nobody hated it. The domain name was acquired.

In late 2005, I needed a name for my company, because I was selling the business along with the name to a non-profit. The company itself was to become an empty shell that would hold money until I had something to do with it. I asked my son for name suggestions and we came up with "Gluejar".

Last year, as Gluejar began serious work on a new business, I back-formed the term "ungluing ebooks" from the company name. I didn't really expect to still be using the term eight months later, but its "empty-vessel" quality has proved to be useful. People have no idea what it means to "unglue" an ebook, so we have the opportunity to fill the word with meaning. The downside, of course, is that we have to explain what it means. "Crowd-funding the relicensing of ebooks with Creative Commons" is a mouthful, and most people don't understand that either!

The language surrounding ebooks can be tricky. "Free" is an immediate turn-off for publishers and authors who want to earn a living from their books; "unlock" suggests breaking DRM, "liberate" suggests that the books were in prison. So we keep on using "unglue".

We've brainstormed a bit about a name for the ungluing-ebooks website we're building. Our working name for the site is "BookPatrons.org". It's a name that  describes with reasonable accuracy the activity that we want to occur on the site, and it has some library flavor to it. From Wikipedia:

Patronage is the support, encouragement, privilege, or financial aid that an organization or individual bestows to another. In the history of art, arts patronage refers to the support that kings or popes have provided to musicians, painters, and sculptors.

"BookPatrons" is a bit boring, though. Will ordinary people want to think of themselves as "patrons" of books? Does the "pater" root make it seem a bit male? (Will we get competition from "BookMatrons.org"?)

Maybe we should "stick" to Gluejar or some other "unglue" related name. What do you think? This is your chance to be consulted!




If you think that "ungluing books" or "BookPatrons" are really stupid names, please say so now, in the comments. If you think they work well, tell us that too. You can contact us privately, too, with your great ideas.

It can be fun to come up with really awful names, too. My worst effort: "Biblerty.com".

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Real Research Gets Reproduced

It's not often that I'm identified as a physicist, as Richard Curtis did in his commentary on my followups of Attributor's piracy "demand" report. But it's true, I worked in materials physics research at Bell Labs from 1988-1998.

Crystal structure of YBCO

Those were great years to be in materials physics. In 1986, two guys at IBM Zurich discovered some amazing new superconducting materials. By the end of that year, a team in Japan had reproduced their results; a group I was a part of at Stanford did the same after talking with the Japan group in December. By March, so many groups around the world had made exciting discoveries that the American Physical Society meeting in New York became known as "the Woodstock of Physics".

A blue semiconductor laser.

A few years later, a guy in Japan reported that he had made a semiconductor light emitting diode (LED) glow blue. His work was a lot harder to reproduce; it took years for anyone to come close to what his team reported; although he published many details, it was hard work. I even sawed one of his LEDs in half to try to understand how it worked. Today, my kitchen (and the screen of my MacBook) is lit by white LED's made from that same semiconductor.

Around that time, some chemists in Utah announced a truly amazing discovery: they saw fusion reactions occurring in palladium electrochemical cells. Since they were respected electrochemists, their results were taken seriously, and lots of people tried to reproduce the incredible results. The promise of a seemingly magical, unlimited power source seemed almost too good to be true. This time, however, nobody could reproduce the results. Some scientists saw odd things happen, but they were different in every lab. At Bell Labs, the scientists trying to reproduce so-called "cold fusion" became convinced that the guys in Utah were being led astray by their excitement.

In science, it's usual that a surprising result will only be accepted once it has been reproduced by someone else. My scientific training has sometimes gotten me in trouble in the world of libraries and publishing. When presented with something that seems surprising to me, I ask for the evidence. In cultures that are more comfortable assigning and recognizing authority, my questions have sometimes been seen as irritants.

It's been that way with my questions about the Attributor report. I was surprised at some of the findings, and I tried to reproduce them. My results can't reproduce some of the key findings reported by Attributor. It would be nice to better understand the factor of a hundred difference between my results and those of Attributor; much might be learned from such an analysis. Attributor is a company that sells anti-piracy services; one would hope that the data they report is somehow rooted in fact, even though they benefit from overestimates of privacy.

In Richard Curtis' article, Jim Pitkow, Attributor's CEO, is quoted:

Our study’s rigorous methodology ensured highly accurate results that align with actual consumer behavior. We analyzed 89 titles, using multiple keyword permutations per title, across different days of the week, with very high bids to ensure placement – each of which is fundamental in guaranteeing accuracy and legitimacy. Each of these variables impact the findings, and analyzing all variables together produce highly accurate results. We stand by our research, and we’re confident that the study addresses an accurate portrayal of the consumer demand for pirated e-books.

If Attributor really stands by its research, it will make it easier for people like me to reproduce their results. In particular, they should publish the complete list of the "869 effective keyword terms" used as keywords for their Google AdWords experiment. There are mistakes they might have made in permuting and combining search terms; they might also have thought of a class of effective search terms that my study totally overlooked. As it stands, it's impossible to know.

I can understand why Attributor might not want to release their search term list. First of all, they should expect people to try to tear it to shreds. The marketing department isn't going to like that. That's what happened to the superconductor guys, the blue LED guy, and cold fusion guys. They stood behind their work, and let the scientific community look for weaknesses and make their own judgments.

Cold fusion didn't pan out, and Pons and Fleischmann, the Utah guys, tried for years to figure out what it was they measured. Bednorz and Müller, the guys in Zurich, won the Nobel Prize. Shuji Nakamura, the LED guy, won a Millenium Prize and a lawsuit.

It may be easier to do a followup study without the worry of spurious searches for widely known terms. But at this point, Attributor customers and the book industry as a whole stand to learn a lot from understanding where the irreproducibility of Attributor's study is coming from. Publishers need that information to plan out a response to the threat of ebook piracy, and their needs should come first- no matter what the marketing department says.

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White Dielectric Substance in Library Metadata

A bad scientist assumes his data is pristine. A good scientist understands all the shit in her data. When I worked at Bell Labs, we listened repeatedly to Arno Penzias talk about his Nobel prize. In 1965, Arno and Robert Wilson were trying to understand the noise sources in radio signals received from communication satellites. Because they worked for the research arm of a big, rich monopoly company, they had big, expensive ultrasensitive microwave horn antennas to play with and the fanciest, most expensive electronics. But however much work they did, there was more noise in their signal than they wanted. Noise would limit the amount of data that could be transmitted, and therefore the amount of money that AT&T would be able to make from their communications satellites. At one point, Penzias and Wilson thought that the noise was coming from an unwanted "white dielectric substance" being deposited by birds that were perching on their antenna. They cleaned out the antenna, but the noise was still there. Diligent and focused work on problems related to the business of AT&T, we learned, could lead to great discoveries.

When I was a student at Princeton, we listened repeatedly to the story of how Bob Dicke and Jim Peebles tried to find the 3 degree background radiation predicted by George Gamow if the big bang theory were really true. They were unsuccessful, but when they happened to hear about the noise problem down the road at Bell Labs, they knew immediately what it really was. It was the afterglow left over from the very beginning moments of our universe, an unmistakable sign that the Big Bang had really occurred. Penzias and Wilson had worked so hard at understanding and eliminating the other noise in their radio receiver that they could confidently publish their findings, after being clued in by their Princeton colleagues. Penzias and Wilson eventually received the Nobel Prize in Physics that eluded Dicke and Peebles. Understanding the noise turned out to be more important than understanding the signal.

I was reminded of this story on reading the accounts of Friday afternoon's session at The Google Books Settlement and the Future of Information Access Conference. I attended in the morning, but due to family commitments I missed the entertainment in the afternoon, which was highlighted by Geoff Nunberg's report on mistakes in the metadata in Google Book Search. Reading Nunbergs blog post corresponding to the talk is very entertaining in a juvenile sort of way. The poor guy has been trying to use Google Books as a linguistic research corpus, and has discovered to his professed horror that there are all sorts of errors, many of them humorous, in its metadata.

I must now let you in on a closely held secret among library metadata technologists which due to the Google Books metadata fiasco must now be revealed to the general public. There is some crappy data in library catalogs. How much is an interesting question, and my ability to comment on how much is limited by confidentiality obligations. However, I am free to observe that studies have been published on the error rate in OpenURL linking. OpenURL linking usually depends on matching of metadata between a source metadata file and a target metadata file; errors in either file can cause a linking error. Reported error rates are in excess of 1%. In his response to Nunberg blog post, Jon Orwant points out that a one in a million error occurs a million times if you have a trillion metadata items; my guess is that an error rate of one part per million may be overly optimistic by four orders of magnitude when applied to library metadata.

In my post on "collecting too much data", I wrote that a huge challenge of maintaining a large metadata database is battling entropy as the collection grows. I've observed that most people trying to collect metadata go through an early period of thinking it's easy, and then gradually gain understanding of the real challenges. Google has certainly been no exception to this pattern. When they first started dealing with book metadata, they were oblivious to the difficulties of maintaining a large metadata database. As Orwant's response to Nunberg shows, they are currently in the phase of understanding the true difficulties of what they need to do. They have most certainly become attuned to the importance of keeping track of the source (provenance) of their metadata, if for no other reason than to have someone to blame for the inevitable metadata stupidities. Much of the "Linked Data" crowd has yet to digest this lesson fully.

Nunberg's thesis is that Google Books will be the "Last Library" and that it would be a disaster for society if Google does a bad job of it. He does not consider the converse possibility. What if Google manages to do a better job of it than libraries have done? If that happens, all of the library world could be turned upside down. Existing metadata maintenance cooperatives would vanish overnight and libraries around the world would become dependent on Google's metadata prowess. Google would acquire a legal metadata monopoly through technical merit rather than through class action maneuvering. What if Google, with pseudo-monopoly funding and the smartest engineers anywhere, manages to figure out new ways to separate the bird shit from the valuable metadata in thousands of metadata feeds, thereby revolutionizing the library world without even intending to do so? Is it this even conceivable?

Arno Penzias would say YES.

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