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.