CALL ME SNAKE

Thanks to the marvels of the internet, I just discovered that a second childhood friend, whom I have not been in touch with for decades, is not only reading this blog but actually enjoying it. We had a brief email exchange today, and I was pleased to hear that he and his family are doing well.

Our friendship was pretty much based on sports, which is often the case with boys. Neither of us was into deep conversations back then, and our recent exchange–given the passage of time–was somewhat similar in nature.

I think of my friend as a rather shy fellow, which is why I’m still struck by one memory. At a party in junior high school, the only time I can recall the game of “spin the bottle” being played, I remember that when it was his turn, he confidently grabbed the bottle and held it behind his back with one hand as he leaned over and, without hesitation, kissed whichever girl he was supposed to be kissed–doing so firmly and squarely. In that moment, I saw him in a whole new light, and it is through that light that I still remember him–more than 40 years later.

My brother recently sent me a flyer about his upcoming performance with a Santa Barbara-based Klezmer band, which is billed as “5 musicians and that box guy.” The aforementioned box guy stands in the middle of the picture, a box in hand, pretty much dominating the scene. “Why do I get the impression that the guy with the box is the key to the whole thing?” I asked my brother.

“His wife designed the brochure,” my brother replied.

I often wonder why I persist with this blog. Force of habit, mainly. But there are some nice, unexpected things that come with it. Like waking up this morning to hear (through the blog comments) from a grade school/high school friend whom I haven’t spoken with for nearly 30 years. We live on opposite ends of the country and are unlikely to become best friends again. But maybe our paths will cross one of these days. And even if they don’t, it was still nice to make contact in that vast, nebulous space known as the blogosphere.

Not to toot my own horn (too loudly) but yours truly has been published again–this time in the alumni notes section of my alma mater’s alumni magazine to which I submitted an epigrammatic paragraph comparing my life’s passage to that of the literary creation, Frank Bascombe. I’m pleased to say that my paragraph was accepted for publication–along with hundreds of other paragraphs, submitted by hundreds of other “alumns,” that were also accepted in this illustrious journal. And if said magazine/newsletter keeps to its biannual publication schedule–not a certainty given the rising costs of paper, ink, the “hard times,” etc.–I just may be published again before the year is out.

It’s Memorial Day, so it’s natural that ones thoughts might turn to death. I’ve thought for instance of the former South Korean president who killed himself by jumping off a cliff. Not to make light of the situation, but one thing about the story, as reported in the press, strikes me as odd. They say the guy was accompanied by his bodyguard, as he ascended the hill that he eventually went careening off. You might wonder why he felt the need to bring the bodyguard along. Maybe he didn’t want any harm to come to himself.

I spent an hour walking along the river (the Cambridge side of the Charles) with a friend who’s going through a divorce. I’ve been writing about “extra dimensions” for some time now, and this guy–by his own admission–”is getting screwed in many dimensions.”  

He asked me if I walk along the river often, and I said not too often. The last time that I can recall was a few months ago, with another friend who was also getting divorced and enjoyed the opportunity to talk about all that he was going through and the many dimensions in which he was being screwed.

So it’s becoming kind of a tradition for me–that riverwalk with friends going through a divorce–and I have no idea who I’ll be walking with next.

Yesterday, a friend told me that her son, who’s just graduating from high school, got a college scholarship on the basis of his blog. That was a revelation. I’ve never heard about anything like that happening on account of a blog. Mostly I try to avoid embarrassing myself too much. I’ve mostly been successful in achieving that modest goal but not always. Maybe it’s time to start aiming higher…

In response to my most recent post, Gordon Marshall–a poet, intellectual, scholar, and blogger (three out of four ain’t bad!)–said he was reminded “of a story from the poet Kenneth Koch. When a grade school student told Koch that he didn’t understand his poem, Koch replied: ‘It doesn’t matter if you understand a poem, son; what matters is that you like it. I don’t understand YOU and I like YOU!’”

Write on, GM! Write on.

My coauthor sent a copy of our manuscript to a CalTech student to see whether it would make sense to the nonprofessional. He received the following polite reply: “I am looking forward to reading your book, though I must confess I will not understand it.”

This just in from the cutting edge of scientific research: “If you think having loads of money, fetching looks, or the admiration of many will improve your life — think again. A new study by University of Rochester researchers demonstrates that progress on these fronts can actually make a person less happy.”

I’m still pondering the implications of this study but am hoping it means there may be hope for average folks like you and me. Or at least we can hope…

In the midst of its worst economic crisis in decade, Harvard University has announced a series of cost-cutting measures aimed at bringing its budget in line. Foremost on the list is the elimination of pancakes at breakfast. Not having gone to Harvard myself, I’m probably not smart enough to have realized that pancakes are so expensive and that doing away with them can be a signficant cost-saving strategy. As the United States is in crisis too, we might want to consider something like this nationwide, although I fear my daughters will protest and possibly take up arms. I’ve actually heard rumors to the effect that IHOP is struggling of late, and that franchise might consider whether the elimination of pancakes will help their “financials” too. 

Is there a better nickname in all of sports than “Big Baby”? I can’t think of one. Yet even so, it might be due for revision. For after two clutch baskets in the final minute of game four (including the game-winning buzzer-beater), Glen “Big Baby” Davis has proved that he is a man. Not only that, he is THE man.

A friend sent an email the other day asking me what I’d been up to. I gave her a call, as it had been a long time since we’d talked, and she evinced surprise: “Wow, you’re answering an email with a phone call!” Which made me wonder: What is the protocol here? Had I unwittingly broken some unwritten rule?

I asked my friend about it–the one whose response had got me thinking about this stuff for the first time–and she confessed that she didn’t know either. “I guess that if you answered a phone call with an email, that might be considered kind of a snub,” she said. “But answering an email with a phone call? Well frankly I’m flattered.”

For now, or until I hear otherwise, I guess that’s where I’m gonna leave it.

I’ve spent the past couple of years trying to explain complex mathematical concepts in relatively simple terms. That’s easier said than done and sometimes well nigh impossible. So I was amused when I came across this passage on the web concerning MIT mathematician Isadore Singer who “was once asked politely by a reporter if he could explain the Atiyah-Singer index theorem in simple words for the newspaper’s readers. Singer replied, ‘No I can’t.’” Sometimes I wish I’d had the same response before taking on this misbegotten project.

A friend, who’s a professor at an area university, encouraged me to apply for a job that I’m unqualified for (and probably don’t even want). She told me to send her my resume, and she’d then get it to the right people in her department. Since it was easy to send the email, I did so, not having any idea whether the job made sense for me. She told me my resume looked OK but could be spiffed up substantially. And she took it upon herself to show me exactly how it could be improved. I spent a good chunk of time yesterday working on it and she diligently edited each round. Nothing may come of that job, but at least I’ve now got a resume that makes my paltry accomplishments look somewhat more impressive.

I recently got permission to reprint an abridged version of someone else’s article, which was part of a humor piece I was working on. The other publisher insisted on one condition, however: “I had to refer to their publication as a “publication” or a “magazine,” but not a “journal.” That seemed like a weird request but not a deal-breaker, so I acceded. And the rest, as they say, is history. Too bad the Globe’s negotiations with the New York Times couldn’t have gone so easily.

I met my friend along the river this afternoon as planned. The river, in case you’re wondering, is called “The Charles,” and we were right by the Sonesta, which is to say not far from the Museum of Science. After saying hello, my friend told me—and I kid you not–that he thought Mars was out of place and that I’d better go over there and put it where it belonged.

That sounds psychotic—or maybe like the drugs talking—but my friend was serious. And of sound mind. For over the past two weekends he’s set up a scaled version of the inner solar system along the river as part of the Cambridge Science Festival. I helped out a little bit on both weekends. My job today was to move Mars and then watch it (presumably to make sure it stayed where it belonged) and then help take down the whole display (consisting of the sun, Venus, Earth, the moon, and the aforementioned Red Planet). As for how it went, well, I can truthfully say that I moved Mars today. Have you done anything worth bragging about?

When I was a kid, I remember making balsa wood cars with my dad and winning some races with them. This year I took my daughter to school to sign up for a similar kind of race and get the kit. The next night after dinner, we pulled the kit out and started to work on it. The first step, according to the directions, was to tap the axel gently with a hammer until it popped into position. I tapped it gently but it didn’t go in, so I tapped it a bit harder. And it still didn’t go in. So I tapped it even harder, repeating the process for the second axel. Finally both axels were in and I slipped on the wheels to see how it might run. That’s when I realized that in the process of all that tapping, I’d bent the axels. And the thing didn’t run worth a damn. I told my daughter that I’d get another kit the next day, and this time we’d have better results, but she said to forget it. Two nights ago, they had the race at school while we were home eating dinner, with the kit upstairs in her bedroom–untouched since our first botched effort.

 And that was the end of our grand racing experience, which I’m sorry to say was nothing like my memories of racing those balsa wood cars with my dad. On the other hand, at least my daughter has learned a valuable lesson about failure.