Brake Dancing on the Zakim Bridge

     My daily commute from Stoneham to downtown Boston is perfectly timed with the peak of morning rush hour. My home is in a great location, one traffic light away from Route 93. Unfortunately, that traffic light is in south Stoneham at the intersection between Friendly’s and Spot Pond Mobil. If you travel Route 28 in the morning you already know that short stretch of highway is a bumper-to-bumper nightmare. It’s a job just getting to work in the morning. By the time I reach my office I feel like I’ve already put in a full day’s work.    
     I’ve discovered many shortcuts to avoid Route 93 on my commute into Boston. After making my way through the intersection at Friendly’s, I can see if the highway is moving (it usually isn’t). I have the option of driving past Sheepfold toward Roosevelt Circle. Traffic at that rotary is always heavy getting up to the circle, but once you are there you have a slew of options:     
     You can enter Route-93. Even if traffic is slow, it feels like you’ve passed all cars who were sitting in traffic back at the Stoneham entrance. If the volume of traffic on the road is extremely heavy, you can get on the highway and immediately exit at Route 60 in Medford, then circle around the rotary and head up the ramp to Route 93. This method works as a last resort but you do save a few minutes if your desperate. There’s a lot of maneuvering for little gain because you end up back in traffic when you re-enter the highway but you still come out ahead of that Peter Pan bus you used as a place marker. If that sounds like a hassle, you can veer off Roosevelt Circle towards the Fellsway toward Wellington Circle (if you don't mind a million traffic lights). Once you make it past the Assembly Square Mall, take the ramp to the highway just before the Sullivan Square exit. Here's a Massachusetts driving tip: don’t wait in the line of traffic on the ramp. Simply drive past everyone to the top of the entrance and cut in at the last minute. The trick is to not make eye contact and wave thank you a lot. This was my shortcut of choice for a long time, but I knew there had to be a better way. I discovered Fulton Street, off Roosevelt Circle, which leads to Medford Square. The lights are annoying, but once you're on Route 38, traffic moves all the way to the I-93 on ramp just before Sullivan Square. It’s not ideal but it’s a great route for people who want to keep moving, and you pass a couple of donut shops.     
     Recently, I was given information regarding a secret short cut that involves Woodland Road and Flynn Rink. I can’t divulge the route because I had to sign a confidentiality contract. A secret shortcut is no good if everyone starts taking it. This hidden route is not for everyone. It’s fraught with danger, hidden drives and hairpin turns. But if it ends up saving me ten minutes in the morning, I’m there.Unfortunately, all of these shortcuts lead to the Zakim Bridge. This relatively short, beautiful span bridge is not unlike the bumper car ride at Canobie Lake Park. Every driver is changing lanes simultaneously so you have to be on your toes. It looks beautiful at night though.If you survive that treacherous stretch of trellis, you approach the O’Neill Tunnel of Horror. Before you enter, you are blinded by the glare of the morning sun and then immediately plunged into total darkness in the tunnel. You are forced to drive blind for the first few moments as speeding tractor trailers and weaving taxi cabs compete for each other's lanes. Hang on to your steering wheel and be prepared for anything at any moment, from any direction (including the ceiling). I can't forget hearing report regarding the metal safety rails along the tunnel wall. They were partially removed because of a “decapitation hazard” if a car accidentally drives into them. That news makes me keep my speed down much to the dismay of the oblivious drivers whizzing past me on all sides.     
     I’ve tried taking the scenic route from North Station to Atlantic Avenue. I’ve taken the McGrath Highway to Storrow Drive. (Spellcheck wants to change “Storrow to “Sorrow” which might be more appropriate.)
     Some people criticize my zigzagging shortcuts for taking longer than just sitting in traffic on the expressway. They can criticize all they want. I’ve got 185 channels on my Sirius Satellite Radio to listen to in my car so I really don’t care how long my commute takes. And if I’m late, I'll use the same excuse as everyone else in my office – “You wouldn’t believe the traffic.” Only in my case, it’s true.

Joyful Noise

My love for Top 40 music goes all the way back to the mid sixties when a new console stereo was brought into our house. It was a big piece of furniture – a polished walnut wooden cabinet with a hinged door on top. When you lifted the lid and looked inside, there was a turntable on the left, and a row of radio dials on the right. To me, it was a gateway to a whole new world waiting to be discovered.

The first album my parents bought was by Roger Miller, a crossover country artist who had a radio hit with the smash single “King of the Road.” Since the album was the only one we owned at the time, I got to know the songs very well. By placing the diamond needle stylus on the vinyl disc you could feel the rich warm tones of the tunes, along with all the snaps and pops that could be heard crackling from the speakers from repeated playing.

Every morning I would wake up extra early, creep into the parlor before the sun came up, and begin my 5:00 a.m. ritual of tuning in songs on the AM.radio. I would set the volume low and curl up on our royal blue polyester danish modern sofa, tuck an orange pillow beneath my head and listen to The Supremes, Barbara Streisand and Tom Jones sing about life and love until it was time for me to eat breakfast and get ready for school.

The nineteen sixties were a golden age for pop music, and Casey Kasem’s weekly American Top 40 countdown became a staple of my Sunday morning radio listening habit (as soon as I got home from church). I wanted to learn to play an instrument to make my own music but my training only went as far as the fourth string of my guitar. By the time I quit taking lessons I was semi-proficient at Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. I could read the musical notes on paper. I knew my F-A-C-E from my E-G-B-D-F. However, I recently discovered there is more to understanding music than just knowing where the notes are.

 Music may be the universal language, but currently in my home there is a cultural divide between my jazz-loving son and his pop music father. “That’s not real music,” my son recently told me regarding my musical preference. “Jazz snob!” was my snarky retort. I'll take my father/son bonding any way I can get it.

My son is attending college majoring in jazz composition. On a recent ride home from the dorms, I thought I'd pick his brain for some technical musical knowledge. I asked him what “intonation” meant. I heard the word used on several occasions by Harry Connick Jr. as he critiqued would-be pop stars on this season's American Idol. I got my answer in the form of a vocal lesson from my son. He sang the scales in various keys to show me the difference. It takes training to hit the right notes and sing in perfect pitch. This explains why my attempt at becoming a vocalist in Vinnie and Larry’s teen-age garage band in the mid seventies didn’t quite work out . My vocal style falls somewhere between The Clash and Patti Smith.

Music comes from the soul, no matter if your a jazz purist or a Top 40 rapper. There is no right or wrong in my book. It's all about personal preference.

My son and I have agreed to put our musical differences aside. He’s listening to John Coltrane while I'm enjoying “Happy” by Pharrell Williams from the Despicable Me 2 soundtrack. In the world of music, it’s all good.

 Although I realize a career in pop music is a long-shot for me, I still dabble in the Garage Band program on my computer. I've produced a few original songs of my own, enough to burn a CD or post on the web to amuse my friends.

Thanks to my son, my musical horizons have been expanded. I've discovered jazz is an acquired taste but it's not my cup of tea. To understand what the perfect pop song should sound like, I suggest listening to anything by the seventies group ABBA. I hear the band has a reunion tour in the planning stages. I hope it happens soon, before I’m the old guy clapping along from the handicap section.

Sunday Walk

Still no iPod for my morning walk (I think Max has my charger) so I am left to exercising while listening to the voices inside my head (which is not a bad thing since I came up with a few new ideas. The first half of my walk was dedicated to last night's house party in Everett in my old neighborhood on the street where Priscilla and I grew up. Lot's of fun talking to everyone there. Did I really have six beers? I blame Nemo and his "Kings" card game. Six beers definitely not on my Weight Watchers program (hence the walk around the block this morning). I passed lots of squirrels gathering food for the coming winter, reminding me I am due to write another chapter of the animals of the Fells. I wish I time to talk one of the guided woodland hikes some weekend before the cold weather gets here. I think it would be inspirational. The second half of my walk led to finalizing an idea I have for a Halloween story I can use for my Stoneham Independent column. I'd love to save it for my book of short horror stories, but I think I'll use it for the newspaper and I can always refine it later when I get the book together (cuz who knows how long that will take). The secret to writing is to write. Perhaps I should not take my iPod more often.

Walkabout

I've been walking around the block every Saturday and Sunday morning as part of my new healthy lifestyle. I try to notice something different each time instead of tuning out to my iPod (Blondie & Talking Heads mostly). Today my iPod battery was dead so I proceeded to walk with my ears au natural.
A soft rain was falling like teardrops from the sky. Not tears of joy or sadness, more like tears of indifference. The smell of the trees and grass rose up. It was the smell of the end of fall, of desperation, of knowing soon the winter would come and mask any green smells with its seasonal white out of sterility. There were few cars on the road. The houses I walked past were empty nests with nothing stirring behind the closed blinds. The zipper broke on my Red Sox sweatshirt, a fitting symbol for a crumbling 2011 team. I am rushing home to charge my iPod so this never happens again.

Wrestlemania

I could not be further removed from the world of amateur wrestling. When my friend “John” (not his real name) told me he was going to appear in the ring on Friday night at an event at the Saugus High School gymnasium, I knew I had to be there to witness the spectacle.

At first I thought I was the victim of an early April Fool’s prank. John is a mild-mannered advertising executive. He’s smart and funny – a great person to bounce ideas off. He’s a Monday-through-Friday suit-and-tie kind of guy. He’s the last person you would think to end up in the flamboyant arena of costumed wrestling.

The night of the event, a group of us arrived at the high school to purchase tickets and look for seats on the bleachers. John told us to sit on the left side of the gym to get the best view of the action. One of the wrestlers, Jerry Gunns, was talking to a woman sitting in front of us. Jerry Gunns looked like a younger version of Mickey Rourke in the film, The Wrestler. His appearance was deceiving – terrifying to look at, but warm and genuine at heart. I told him we were friends of John. Jerry told us John was fitting in perfectly with the group backstage. He said the other wrestlers were trying to persuade John to join their traveling troop of testosterone titans.

John came out to say hello before the show started. He was dressed in a suit, tie and black sunglasses – a regular Vince McMahon in the making. The expression on John’s face was priceless as he told us the plan for his first time in the ring. I never saw him look happier or more proud. He was positively glowing with the inner light of future stardom. Clearly, he was bitten by the entertainment bug and he was succumbing to the fever. It’s in his blood now. There’s no turning back.
He left to prepare to for his match. I turned to his girlfriend who was sitting behind me.

“John is ecstatic,” I said. “This could be the beginning of a whole new career.”
“Oh no,” his girlfriend said. “This is a one shot deal.”
We’ll see about that, I thought.

The event opened with a Battle Royale. Twelve costumed wrestlers entered the ring and began to toss each other out. The last man standing would be crowned the winner. The muffled sound system made it impossible to decipher what the announcer was saying, but the crowd got the general idea. Lots of commotion ensued. Elbows to the face. Drop kicks to the stomach. Knees to the groin. Muscle-bound men in garish costumes were flung out of the ring like rag dolls. A skinny, hooded Spiderman creature thumped to the floor and was dragged away by a medical team. It was Kabuki theatre with street credibility. It was rampaging mimes pumped up on steroids. The kids in the audience loved it as they cheered and booed. The wrestlers loved it too.

John’s match began with him parading into the ring, waving and smiling. He told the crowd about the large sum of money the event raised for Saugus Youth Hockey. The crowd cheered. Then he said he was confiscating the money and taking it all home with him. The crowd booed. Jerry Gunns grabbed John and spun him over the ropes and onto the floor. John stood on the sidelines while a four-person tag-team match unfolded in the ring. He traded insults with youngsters in the audience who stood behind the metal barriers. Some of the kids really believed he was going to steal the money that was raised. He ended up in the ring once more at the end of the match, unveiling a wrestling belt beneath his suit. He used the heavy belt as a weapon to pummel the winner of the match amid loud “boos” from the crowd. Down but not out, Jerry Gunns had a miraculous resurgence of energy and tossed John out of the ring again. John flew over the ropes and hit the wooden floor with a loud thud. The crowd cheered as John was dragged away by the medical team.

Whether or not John’s fifteen minutes of fame leads to a new career, only time will tell. These rag-tag groups of wrestlers make up a strange underground faction of the entertainment world. Some of them want to break into the big leagues, others are just there to have fun. John would be a huge asset to their entourage. There were seventeen people sitting in our section who paid to just to see John’s performance. Some came to support him, others came out of morbid curiosity.

The debate surrounding the reality of the sport of wrestling continues. The tournament seemed very real to the wrestlers involved. They exist in a world that blurs the line between fantasy and reality. Now that John has had a taste of that world, he might be ready to pack his gym bag and move there permanently, leaving his Monday through Friday suit-and-tie life behind.

Tales from the New Depression

Spring is a time for new beginnings. So why does this year feel like the beginning of the end? This economic "slump" the country is in suddenly appears to be more than a slump. This "recession" seems to be accelerating toward the dreaded "d" word – depression – at a rapid pace.

I've heard tales of the Great Depression from my parents who were born in the 1920's. I know the current financial crisis America faces doesn't compare to those days – yet.

This new depression is hitting close to home. I am dodging figurative bullets on a daily basis. Because of the economic slowdown I am losing colleagues at work at an alarming rate. In the past two weeks several of my coworkers have been eliminated from the workplace. Some took the company buy-out and left on their own volition. Others received the dreaded tap on the shoulder from the grim reaper from Human Resources. The terminated employees were escorted from the building with barely enough time to clean out their desks and bid tearful goodbyes to their friends left behind. Watching them leave was not a pretty sight. I interacted with these people on a daily basis not just on a professional level, but on a personal level as well. Some of them I will still see socially if we don’t lose contact. I am already experiencing "survivor guilt" for still being employed at the company. I take no pleasure adding my ex-coworker’s duties to my job description. I’m now part of a skeleton crew haunted by mournful ghosts of the unemployed departed.

In the old days, when times were good and unions were strong, workers could refuse to accept tasks that were not in their jurisdiction. Today the opposite is true. Companies now expect workers to be interchangeable automatons who are trained in all areas of production by the power of osmosis. There is no choice. Wage freezes, days off without pay and salary reductions are the norm. The new depression is approaching faster than a North Korean missile – excuse me, "weather satellite."

Forget about saving money for the future. I've seen my future. It looks like a stack of unpaid bills piled high as the eye can see. Forget about saving for retirement. My generation is going to have to work well into our seventies if current economic indicators hold true. The golden years are turning to rust before my eyes.
My son is graduating from college in May. Four years ago when he started school, the job market looked so much better than it does today. I know my son is talented and resourceful enough to find a job in his chosen field. I just hope his chosen field is still in existence ten years from now.

Times are tough, but there is still some joy to glean if you look hard enough. I am blessed with a family who helps each other maintain a positive attitude. Dinner table conversation is always a bright spot at the end of the day. These discussions are an endless source of inspiration for me.

Recently, my kitchen stove was out of commission for a week due to a faulty thermostat. I had to improvise dinner for a few nights, limiting the menu to things that could be microwaved or cooked on my electric griddle. My youngest son glanced around the dinner table with a questionable look on his face. He stared at the mismatched drinking glasses, the mixed patterned silverware and the Zataran's Beans and Rice with sliced ham steak I was serving as our main course.

"Wow," he said. “I guess we really are in a depression.”
I hope this is the only new depression era story he will have to tell his own children after things change for the better for all of us.

Red Robin

I took a walk to Spot Pond last week and it was still frozen over. The ice was beautiful to look at, deadly to walk on. I brought my camera with me hoping a photographic opportunity would arise.

A tangle of black tree branches formed a criss-cross pattern against the washed-out gray sky. As I focused my camera on the branches, I saw a speck of color in the middle of the dark design high above the ground. A shock of color in the twisted tree limbs revealed the first robin of the season.

My camera zoomed in on the robin. It was shivering in the cold. Its eyes were dull and lifeless. A chilling wind blew off the water and rocked the branches of the tree. The robin's feet grasped the branch tightly as it bobbed in the breeze. I snapped a quick photo and wondered if I captured the moment. The robin darted away in search of its own first sign of spring.

A few days later, I left my house for an early morning walk. The sun was out but it was still cold. Standing on my straw-colored lawn was a robin, looking curiously at me. It could have been the same one from Spot Pond. This time it brought the sunshine with it. It cocked its head and pecked at the hard dirt. It was not going to find any food here today. Its red breast looked brighter than it did at the pond. A good sign, I thought. It hopped away, hoping the next lawn would yield something nourishing.
The next day I took a walk to the Mobil station to buy a newspaper. The weather was once again unseasonably cold. On the way home, a bird swooped down from the tree behind me. I saw a flash of red and recognized my robin. It flew from tree to tree above my head, continuing its flight in the same direction I was walking in. I found it odd to have this many encounters with the same bird in such a short time.

My street was just up ahead. The robin looked down from the tree on the corner, chirping in agitation. I continued on my way while the bird chirped louder. I sensed it wanted me to follow. I changed my route taking a right turn instead of a left. The bird quieted down and flew on ahead. I followed it down Fairview Street as it flew from tree to tree in the direction of Spot Pond.

I reached a clearing to the pond as the robin hopped from bush to bush, leading me on a mysterious quest. I walked down to the water and journeyed into the thick underbrush, twigs snapping as I tried to follow some sort of path. Another robin joined the one I followed. Together they led me deeper into the woods. Another robin joined the two in front of me – then another and another. Now five or six more flew down the path, all of them chirping in exhilarated song. I should have been afraid, or afraid of getting lost, but I wasn't. The robins’ red markings flashed like scarlet beacons through the gray-brown trees.

I walked through the bushes into a small clearing. The noise was deafening as hundreds of robins converged before me in a sea of crimson. They lined the trees and bushes all around me, surrounding me in song. The flittering flock filled every empty spot on the branches and bushes. In a mass of motion they cocked their heads and bobbed up and down. A sea of black eyes blinked as beaks opened and closed wildly while they screeched.

The robin that led me there flapped above my head just out of reach. It hovered above me as I stood motionless, staring at the congregation of birds in front of me.
Following an invisible command, the birds lifted from their perches in one swift motion. I was engulfed by flapping wings as the flock rushed toward me. I was caught in their feathery vortex, spinning around in a sea of eyes, beaks and wings. I was encased in a red-orange blur as the birds raced forward like one huge living organism. I was whipped around by the wind from a thousand beating wings. The twittering tornado of robins spun around me faster and faster until I could no longer see the woods or water.

I stood trapped in the middle of the whirling birds but there was calm in the eye of the storm. Instead of fear I was filled with joy. Instead of dread I was filled with hope. All at once, the throng of birds lifted to the sky, leaving me alone in the clearing with the settling dust. As the chirping birds faded beyond the gray horizon, I found myself looking forward to the future. Maybe spring is coming this year after all.