CALL ME SNAKE

I recently saw part of Nightline, which I sometimes end up seeing when I don’t turn off the TV fast enough after the sports and weather come on at about 11:30. For once, Nightline was not doing a story about how expensive gas had become and what people were doing about it (i.e., installing extra-large tanks in their pickup trucks and driving to Mexico to fill up their vehicles). This time they had a segment on a guy called the “Sound Tracker”–one of the world’s premier recorders of nature’s sounds and a champion for what’s called “quietude.” I wrote a couple of articles on the subject, and about the Sound Tracker, for Omni Magazine about 15 years ago; we’d talked over the phone many times but I’d never seen him before, as he’s based in Washington state, so that was kind of interesting. Even more interesting was the fact that this guy, whose whole life revolved around sound, became deaf for a brief period due to some sort of viral infection. But fortunately he regained his hearing and is back to doing what he does best–capturing rare sounds and trying to protect quiet places.

People say I do OK in the intelligence department. In fact, my bored demeanor during a Mathematical Physics class in college secured my reputation as a “genius” that lasted for, well, at least a week or two. But I must say, I’m often stumped by the directions found in simple consumer products and wonder how the average, or below average, citizen fares in this regard. Last week I got a moth trap and had the hardest time trying to figure out how to “mount” the lure. It was a humbling experience, and life deals out no shortage of them–even to someone who famously appeared bored in Herb Bernstein’s legendary, though short-lived, Mathematical Physics course.

For years “busy” people keep telling me that email is the best way to reach them. Yet I know from experience that the good old-fashioned phone is often better. For example, I was just writing something and need to talk to someone (the lead engineer on a project). I sent him an email a week ago and got no response. Finally yesterday I called up his organization and said that if they want me to mention their outfit in my story, somebody there better call me pronto. I soon heard from the guy I’d emailed the week before. We had a nice chat. Afterwards he said if I had any further questions, “don’t hesitate to get in touch. Email is always the best way to reach me.”

The other day I saw a guy biking down Mass. Ave. near Central Square–which for those of you who don’t know is quite a busy stretch of road–sporting the “look ma, no hands” look. He was holding a small paper bag in his left hand and a cell phone in the right. For some reason the quote from “The Friends of Eddie Coyle” came to mind: “Life is hard, but it’s harder when you’re stupid.”

I was walking to the Y for my Friday evening handball game, around the corner from my house, when a woman I’d never seen before gave me the finger as we passed on the sidewalk. It took my totally by surprise. “Hey, what’s that all about?” I yelled. But she did not say anything. Just kept walking. And the impact of her unexpected gesture have stayed with me ever since.

I ran, or co-ran, a tutoring program in a downtrodden Boston school in a downtrodden neighborhood for 7 or 8 years–right up until my first child was born. The program petered out around that time and I decided to call it a day. Years later I just learned that that run-down school–that didn’t even have a functioning drinking fountain while I was there–was shut down. From the little I know it was not a surprising decision. But it does make me a bit sad thinking of some of those poor kids who showed up at our program year after year, trying to catch a little break, trying to get ahead.

You know you’ve grown up when one of your peers and best friends–somebody you’ve known since your teenage days–has become Chairman of the Board of Trustees at a major university. And even if it’s not a major university, but more of a minor college, that’s still not the sort of position they’re handing out to callow youths. So I guess that means I’ve grown up. Or at least my friend has.

Wednesday was the last day of school in Cambridge, and the routines carefully assembled over the previous 9 and a half months were summarily shattered. On Thursday morning, my older daughter went to a friend’s house for a play date. At the “dropoff,” I spoke to the dad, who, like me, does freelance writing. We were only a couple of hours into summer vacation and already he couldn’t take it. “I wish they were back in school,” he told me when the girls were out of earshot, performing some ritual or another with their toy horses.

I recently ran into an older guy at the YMCA who apparently couldn’t speak much English. But he could nod his head enthusiastically and say “handball!”. Come to think of it, sounds like I’m describing myself in a couple of years. As Neil Young once said (sang): “Old man take a look at my life. I’m a lot like you…”

Ode to Joy is a poem written by Friedrich Schiller that is famous because Beethoven incorporated it in the fourth and final movement of his Ninth Symphony. I’ve heard the piece many times–my daughter is learning to play it on the piano–but never found it especially joyful. At 3 p.m. yesterday afternoon, however, I did hear a pure expression of joy–shrieks or squeals of delight emitted by, I’m guessing, many dozens of King and Amigos students (the schools being a block from my house) who’d just been released for the summer. I heard that spontaneous, gleeful cry for a few seconds and then it all quieted down just as fast, everyone evidently having already settled into their summer routines.

I’ve watched at least the second half of every Celtics playoff game–23 until last night. But last night, when the Celtics were playing like crap [in the early 3rd quarter] and didn’t seem to be able to get much within 15, I had the sinking feeling that it was hopeless. “If you want to turn this off,” I said to a friend, “it’s OK with me. You’d be doing both of us a favor.”

Fortunately my friend was smart enought to say, “I’m going to leave it on anyway.” Had I not stuck it out to the end, I would have felt bad at midnight when the sounds of helicopters circling above would have told me that the Celtics pulled off the impossible. And I would never have forgiven myself for having missed that remarkable comeback.

We all know about the loud people talking on their cellphones while on a train, for example, speaking so loudly that everyone in the whole car gets to join in. But I have to say, the environment in general has become noisier. My office is near a sidewalk and for years people walked by, making no noise other than their feet hitting the pavement. Now most of them are talking on the phone as they walk by, and when people are outside on the phone, they always talk in a louder voice than is normal. Or necessary. Could we ever go back to a world when people just walk on their own, without blabbing away. And where people who are driving actually pay attention to what is happening on the roads?

Something happened today that’s never happened before. Someone I know called me “a man of Solomon-like wisdom,” and then presented a conundrum upon which I was supposed to pontificate. But I never lived up to the star billing. Instead of dispensing wisdom, as I was supposed to, I suggested a cheap answer to a question that demanded better. While I won’t go into the problem in full, I can say that my profferred solution involved color xeroxing, something Solomon himself would likely have sneered at.

A friend came over recently to try to see what was wrong with my computer and try to figure out how to make it better. At one point, I was showing him a few things about the machine and he wanted to take over the controls. I like the expression he used, which is one I hadn’t heard before: “Let me drive.”

First John McCain released his medical records, then Barack Obama, so it seems only fitting that I should release mine (at least in part), having had my biannual physical just last week. I’ll leave McCain out of this comparison as he is a senior citizen with the numbers to show for it. But I can say that my blood pressure is very close to Obama’s. He has a slight height advantage, which is to be expected because he is taller. His weight figures are unavailable (at least to my sources) but I think it’s fair to say I’m not as skinny as him. Regarding cholesterol, I’ve got Barack beat in terms of the “good” (HDL) while he has me beat in terms of the “bad” (LDL). So I’m calling it a draw for now but ultimately we’ll have to let the delegates or superdelegates decide. I guess the main point is that I’m ready to assume office should the nation call on me.

After watching the CHEAPER BY THE DOZEN remake with my daughters earlier tonight, neither of them hesitated for a second in answering the question, who is the funnier dad: me or the character played by Steve Martin? They picked the other Steve. And once again the kids were right.

I write a humor column for the local paper, The Chronicle, among my many jobs. But my youngest daughter seems to be confused about the various outlets for my work. “Who do you write for again, The Chronicle or The New Yorker?” she asked, as if there were a difference between the two.

A friend who once used the moniker Turd Blossom (I’m not sure what he’s calling himself these days) told me that when he looked up my email message on gmail, he was bombarded with all kinds of ads related to sweat and perspiration. There was an ad, for instance, for “Burning Man Wet Wipes”  www.actionwipes.com and  for Music Festival Wipes: “Xtra Big Xtra Thick. Clean Body Odor Grime Sweat.” Or this: “Excessive Underarm Sweat?Natural, Quick & Permanent Solution Easily Reduce Sweating By 95%. Now! StopSweating.NewReview.info.”

So my friend asks: “How does Google know about my perspiration issues?” He adds: “If this is not blog-worthy, I’m giving up.” This post was a testament to the fact that I did not want him to “give up.” At least not yet.

I hit a rough patch with an editor regarding my humor column. At issue was my penchant for exaggeration and exercising poetic license. When I told a writer friend about our differences of opinion, he didn’t get what all the fuss was about. “Nobody reads a Steve Nadis column for the facts,” he said.

We’ve heard the junk food defense, the Twinkie defense, and now we get the … chemistry defense? Of course I’m referring to the case of the man from East Bridgewater (a town somewhere in the vicinity of Boston though as to where it is I have no clue) charged with storing an inordinant amount of ordinance–39 pipe bombs–in his garage. And what did his lawyer have to say about this? The man, the lawyer maintains, has had a long-time interest in chemistry and has been harmlessly building explosives since high school (this according to the Boston Globe. To which I reply: What’s wrong with stamp collecting?) “He just makes bombs, that’s all,” claims the lawyer John Creedon. “He is interested in chemistry… He never, ever set one off.”

Well I guess you can’t begrudge a man his hobby. And if I were the man’s next-door neighbor, the reassuring words of his attorney would be enough to set me at ease.

My five-year-old told me about all the animals she loved. Then it occurred to her that people are animals too. It turns out, I am one of her favorite animals–right up there after cats and dogs, bunnies, chipmunks, and barn owls.

Sometimes you get what you’re aiming for on a milk run, and sometimes you get something else altogether. I went to the 7-11 tonight at about midnight, which is part of my regular routine. I wanted to get a gallon of 1% and a bunch of bananas. I found the bananas OK but they were out of 1%, so I had to settle for 2. On the way back, with the gallon in one hand, the bananas in the other, I ran into an artist friend outside a pub who’d just got a new grant to develop his idea for creating artificial lightning over the Gulf of Mexico. (At least I think that’s what it was.) I would have heard more about the project had not the milk started getting heavy–on an arm already fatigued by doing too many Sudoko puzzles while my family watched American Idol. But as I was saying, that’s the thing about a milk run. You never know what you’re going to come back with. But it’s usually more than just milk.

Earlier today, I had a difference of opinion with an editor for whom I write regularly. I thought it was the kind of difference we could shrug off–not a big deal–but I was wrong. It turned out to be a big deal, and maybe even a deal-breaker. I’ve been served noticed. I’m officially on probation and it could be the end of the line for me, at least so far as this gig is concerned. Unless I shape up.

I was on probation with another magazine almost 20 years. (They’ve been out of business for more than 10 years; at least I’m still going.) I was writing about solar neutrinos and carelessly said that a neutrino could reach the Earth from the sun in about 30 seconds (far faster than the speed of light) when I meant to say 30 minutes. Well, an editor kept reminding me of that mistake for almost a year. But I didn’t blow it like that a second time and gradually worked my way out of the doghouse. Now I’m back in the doghouse trying to find my way out again.

For those who get all bleary-eyed over that Hallmark holiday known as mother’s day, consider this quote (or paraphrase of a quote) from Jimmie Carter’s mother, who said: “When I look at my children, I wish I had remained a virgin.” Let us contemplate those words as we celebrate the day designed to celebrate moms–and all their untold secrets.

I had a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. They got me in the room, took my blood pressure and temperature (98.1), and told me the doctor would be in shortly, which is what they always say. Forty-five minutes later he still hadn’t shown up so I decided to leave. Evidently the guy forgot about me and went out to lunch. As I left I saw a guy with a name tag bicycling up, looking nice and relaxed, and I was sure it was the doctor coming back from lunch. I was pretty irritated but knew it could be worse: A couple of years ago a doctor left the hospital to go to a cash machine in Harvard Square and attend to other errands. I forgot to mention: He did this in the middle of surgery. Compared to that, I guess I didn’t fare so badly.

A prestigious astronomical research institution recently posted an ad tailor-made for me: “seeking an intermediate science writer…” At first it seemed on the mark but after some reflection I realized it was probably a bit of a stretch for me. Now if they had said instead–”seeking a mediocre science writer”–that’s something I think I could do.

I was having trouble with the aerator in the bathroom faucet so I replaced it and threw it out. But then I took it out of the trash to see if it was the same size as the aerator for the kitchen faucet which was also acting up. If so, I’d bring the old one to the hardware store to make sure I got one of the right size. Not only did that aerator fit on the kitchen faucet, it worked perfectly, whereas on the other faucet it barely worked at all. I cannot account for this anomalous behavior. It is one of those mysteries of life, mysteries of aeration, that we see from time to time but cannot explain.

In the current issue of a glossy science magazine, I have a feature article that immediately follows a feature by a well-known astronomer whom I’ve met on many occasions and written about as well. This is the first time we’ve both appeared, side-by-side, in the same journal. I commented on that coincidence to him, saying it either meant I was moving up in the world or he was moving down. “I would prefer to believe your first interpretation,” he said. Which means, rather definitively, that I am moving up. Who’d of thunk it?

I just learned that “Calabi-Yau” is the name of the starship captained by Jetfire and his crew of Technobots in the IDW Publishing Transformers comic, Stormbringer. But if you ask me, Stormbringer is pretty close to Strominger, which is the last name of the physicist who is credited with coming up with the name “Calabi-Yau.” Only Strominger was referring to the tiny spaces that, at least according to string theory, house the universe’s hidden “internal” dimensions. He was not talking about a starship in a comic book series. Still the coincidence is there. And, oddly enough, it reared its ugly head on none other than Freaky Friday. Which makes this a Double Coincidence, Extra Freaky Friday.

It’s Tuesday, which means it’s time for (what else?) Freaky Tuesday. Yesterday I was perusing an article on Telegraph.co.uk about the mathematician Grisha Perelman who is credited with proving the Poincare conjecture by exploiting a technique known as “Ricci flow.” Immediately below the Perelman article was a link to an article about another Ricci–the actress Christina Ricci. How’s that for freaky?

According to the website, ZOOMINFO.COM, I’m Vice President of Engineering for Srico Inc., a Columbus, Ohio-based concern specializing in integrated optical waveguide components. (Don’t be put off by the fact that I don’t know what integrated optical waveguide components are; that just means I’m overqualified.) My high-level executive position with Srico will come as news to many people who know me, none more so than myself. Every now and then I’m tempted to give up the freelance life and take a real job. Now I have a job–and apparently one with benefits–all thanks to the wonders of the internet.

I recently fulfilled a longstanding ambition; I’ve made the list of “AIRCONDITIONING BLOGS” posted on www.airconditioningworld.com. The entry that finally got me there was called “WHAT’S WRONG WITH OUR COUNTRY, Part 462.” Here’s an excerpt of that celebrated post in case you don’t recall:

“You’d better just crank up your air conditioning and try to get through it,” she said. Actually, it wasn’t uncomfortable at all. We don’t have air conditioning, and I didn’t even need to turn a fan on. But she said people better turn…

So much for my latest 15 seconds of fame. I don’t see how I can surpass that and am considering getting out of blogging game while I’m on top.

[Editor's note: The actual site in question is airconditioningiworld.com/. I deleted the "i" because it looked funny, but it is there. And there's probably a good reason for it--something that airconditioning insiders must know that the rest of us outsiders can only guess at...]

I have to write something about nuclear power, which used to be one of my specialties, though that was some decades ago. While surfing on Google under “nuclear power” and another keyword, I came across the following warning: “This site may harm your computer.” I did not need to go to that site, as there were plenty of others I could check out. Still the warning did intrigue as I’d never seen anything like it before. What was the story of that site? Was it evil? I guess I’ll never know because curious as I am, why risk it?

During my recent trip to Chicago, I mentioned to my mother that a local girl I went to grade school and high school with had a bestselling book about how not to get old. “There’s only one way not to get old,” said my mother scornfully. “You shoot yourself.”

It’s Monday which means it’s time for Freaky Friday–a chance to celebrate the strange coincidences life throws at us. Take this morning, for instance. I was thinking about which T-shirt to wear and chose my Alaska one, which I haven’t worn for awhile. A minute later, my wife told me that today’s Globe had an article about a local man killed in an extreme skiing event in Alaska, which was the first time I can ever remember her telling me anything that has to do with Alaska.

An hour later, I was attending to my tax forms, writing checks to the IRS and the state, when I got confused by a form that I apparently was supposed to deliver to my tax accountant but hadn’t. Just that second, my tax guy called–the only time he’s ever called–asking about that form I was puzzling over at that very moment.

And this all happened by 10a.m. I’m sure the coincidences will continue to pile on. And why shouldn’t they? After all, it is Freaky Friday, the fact that it’s a Monday notwithstanding.

I’m no softie and am not prone to get weepy. But when I was working out this morning at the YMCA, the song “Falling Slowly” from the movie “Once” came on the radio and, I have to admit, my eyes welled up a bit. I found that song, and the movie as a whole, to be incredibly moving and haven’t felt that way about a movie for awhile. Next time I go to the gym maybe I’d better pack some hankies.

The funny thing about rain today–well actually yesterday-well actually there were a couple of funny things about rain, today or yesterday. First, he game for the girls soccer team I coach was called on account of rain but ironically the sun came out at around the time we were supposed to start playing and it stayed beautiful for hours on a day that was supposed to be a complete washout. (How did I know that? STORMTRACK 5 told me.) Another friend of mine coached soccer today (his game wasn’t cancelled) and he got a sunburn! Later in the afternoon, we went from sunny, summery weather to the cool chill of a thunderstorm. After that storm abated, I suggested to my daughter’s friend that we’d better bike to her home now so we don’t get rained on. But the girls were too busy with a beading craft and I could not prevail. Finally, by the time we started back on bike, the thunder and lightning were coming heavy. “I think we’re going to beat the rain!” my daughter’s friend called over the thunder. We pedaled fiercely and when we reached her house she cried: “We beat the rain! We beat the rain!”

“That’s great,” I said, but I still had the ride home and knew I would not be so lucky this time around. A second later, the deluge began and your humble narrator got soaked. This is the soggy tale that later emerged from his febril mind.

That woodpecker I wrote about a week or two ago is back. I’ve heard it for days but could not find it in our tree. Part of the problem is that my neck has been bad for the past couple of weeks, probably from playing handball. Or maybe it got bad from sleeping in an odd position and I notice it in handball because you need to move your head around a lot to follow the ball. Of course, I don’t need to tell you this after all that’s been said here about handball.

But getting back to that woodpecker. Our tree is very high and I had a hard time spotting him (is assuming it’s as he GENDER BIAS?) until this afternoon when my youngest daughter came back from school. This time I was able to follow the sound up our giant tree and finally see that guy going at our tree like a, uh, well like a woodpecker I guess. It’s nice to see some real nature at play (or work) in our backyard because most of what get in that regard is squirrels and the occasional skunk, raccoon, andopossum. In terms of wildlife, I’d call a woodpecker a step up. And given how tall our tree is, it’s actually a big step up.

I’ve noticed that it’s impossible to open some bags these days like the potato chips bag from Trader Joes. I’m in reasonably good shape & cannot pull open the bag at the top like I’ve always done with these products. I need to use a scissor or knife on it. I’ve found this to be the case with many other bags as well. Who were they designed for, people with superhuman strength? Maybe the materials science revolution has taken us a step backwards in this case.

I bought some computer equipment at Micro Center on Friday and the salesperson pointed to the receipt saying, “Here’s a web address for a survey you can fill out.” I wondered why people would bother. “What’s in it for them?” I asked.

She looked at me as if I were simple: “To get a better Micro Center, of course.”

Of course. Now why didn’t I think of that?

I happened upon a strange but endearing sight the other night, while I was walking down Mass. Ave. between Harvard and Central: a man and a woman walking together. That wouldn’t be unusual in itself, of course, except for the fact that this man and woman looked almost identical. They both had similar haircuts (on the short side), hair color (blondish-gray) and outfits (navy blue jackets, khaki pants, etc.). While it doesn’t seem that out of the ordinary–no bizarre hairstyles or hair colors or body art or piercings–it was still one of the oddest things I’ve seen in awhile.

Yesterday, after dropping my kids off at school, I was bicycling through Harvard Square where some construction is going on. I stopped at the red light and then walked my bike across the crosswalk as there were no pedestrians around. “Go ahead,” a policeman yelled at me. “Run the red light. You can do anything you want in Cambridge today.”

I resented his smart-aleck comment since I wasn’t doing anything really wrong. On the other hand, he hadn’t issued me a ticket so I guess I was ahead of the game. Plus, for the first time in my life, I had a free pass–license to do, well, anything. And what did I do? Nothing.

About a year ago, I complained about Barbie.com and what they said about my daughter’s name. The word they used was “naughty,” by the way.

Now out of the blue comes this missive from someone who calls herself madamgoat50: “I found this site when I was searching for “Barbie.com customer service”. The same thing has happened to my daughter–who is old enough to read the comments about her name–and she’s quite angry with Barbie to say the least!! While I applaud the efforts of the site to keep children away from in-appropriate language, I think they need to find another filter to use. My daughter is named for her great-grandmother and has a perfectly lovely, old fashioned name. It in no way sounds like, looks like or relates to anything ‘naughty’!”

Others whose children have been similarly traumatized at the hands of barbie.com should contact us re. the new support group we’re forming called “WHAT BARBIE WROUGHT…”

We got a call this morning telling us our house was in the newspaper. That made no sense because our house, though it is so “very, very fine,” would never make it into the Real Estate section of the Sunday paper. I figured it had to be the park across the street and, sure enough, I was right. The shot was taken from the back end of the park and somehow our diminutive house made it into the frame. I think I was overstating things when I referred to 15 seconds of fame. One second is more like it.

Our daughter had her first sleepover last night. My wife mentioned that to a friend whose daughter used to have sleepovers often but now does it rarely. “I don’t mind the sleepover part–the dinner, the movie, the wrestling them to bed,” her friend said. “I just don’t want to see those kids again in the morning. For me it’s like one of those bad one-night stands you just want to be over with.”

Around this time of year of the NCAA basketball championships, Friday turns out to be a big day for–who guessed it?–vasectomies. The idea, according to a surgeon at the Oregon Urology Institute, is that after the procedure men are supposed to laze around for a couple of days taking it easy. So why not get it done on Friday and then have two to three days to watch basketball–this time with a perfectly legitimate excuse to watch TV and do nothing else. That’s why on Fridays during March Madness, urology departments are such busy places to be. In case you’ve been wondering…

A year and a half ago, I wrote an article about why woodpeckers don’t get headaches. I can’t remember the details but it has something to do with the cushioning inside the cranium and the musculature on the head and neck. Now the chickens have come home to roost, so to speak. For the past week, a woodpecker has been going steadily at the tree in my backyard–right near my bedroom and office windows. I’m not going to complain, because it’s part of nature and that woodpecker is probably doing something good for the tree and for the environment and for, or against, global warming (I should know after my article though the details presently escape me). Still, I have to say, maybe that woodpecker is not getting a headache from all his (her?) nonstop activity, but I certainly am.