I am always humbled by any response that I get on the blogs. But once in a while one comes that is especially humbling, and this one from a certain “Leon” in response to a recent post, “screamers,” was one of those very special ones, so I wanted to share:

You “don’t want to sound like the Grinch of Upham’s Corner” but you’re going to sit there and bitch about the young kids in your neighborhood? Relax, when you live in the city you have to accept a little noise.

Of all the things I hear outside my window, hearing children play doesn’t bother me too much. If it [sic] the sound of these children playing bothers you so much, why don’t you go knock on their door and talk to the family about it? Or better yet, sell your computer and buy and [sic] AC. That way you wouldn’t have to hear noise from outside and we wouldn’t have to read your terrible blogs anymore.

Douchebag.

I’m not sure if that last bit was Leon’s signature, or was meant for me. I puzzled over it, asked a couple of brainy friends and some very clever colleagues, and we decided Leon probably signs all his correspondence “Douchebag.” It seems a pretty good nickname for him, in fact. In the future I would just recommend “Yours Sincerely, Douchebag.” It’s more professional-sounding.

Some thoughts. First and foremost, I would like to assure my readers, while I have your attention, that no children were harmed in the writing of this blog.

And I would now, for the sake of posterity, like to respectfully address Mr. Douchebag’s comments point by point:

1) “You’re going to sit there and bitch about the young kids in your neighborhood?” Yes. I think this is a rhetorical question, and if so it’s very astute of you to catch that. Good job, Douchebag! Because it’s something a lot of people don’t seem to get about the blogosphere: bloggers “sit there and bitch”. That’s what they do. If, after nearly a decade of blogs you haven’t gotten that bit, just turn off your computer. It’s not making you any smarter.

2) “Relax, when you live in the city you have to accept a little noise.” Thank you, Douchebag—may I call you Douche for short?—for the sage advice, but I was not talking about “a little noise,” I was talking about a BIG, EAR-SPLITTING, BRAIN-PIERCING NOISE.

3) “Of all the things I hear outside my window, hearing children play doesn’t bother me too much.” No, I’m sure you like it very much. It’s a cue to grab your camera with that special telephoto lens to capture their nubile flesh glistening in the golden sunlight as they gambol and frolic about. Thank you so much for sharing, Douchebag! Of course, nowhere in my post did I say that “hearing children play” bothers me too much, either, actually. What I find nerve-jangling, as I believe I said several times, is kids “screaming bloody murder.”

4) “If it [sic] the sound of these children playing bothers you so much, why don’t you go knock on their door and talk to the family about it?” Hey, maybe I should call Child Welfare Services instead! I think the real question here is actually why it bothers you so much that it bothers me so much.

5) “Or better yet, sell your computer and buy and [sic] AC. That way you wouldn’t have to hear noise from outside and we wouldn’t have to read your terrible blogs anymore.” Ooh. Was that a psychotic break I just heard? Who is the “we” you refer to, first of all? Is it the Royal We? Are you a Queen? Should we call you HRH Douchebag, Queen of Dorchester? How many voices are there in your head with you, Leon? Just give us a rough estimate. And are they the ones forcing you to read my “terrible blogs”? Or is it the little green men with the anal probe? Or is it…Satan?

Let’s be serious, though, for a moment, here. Is this a cry for help, Leon? Or just an excuse to vent your unfocused rage at your own loneliness and impotence, your isolation and unhappiness, and using my blog as a forum to advertise your painful limitations, and the young kids in my neighborhood as your human shield? No one could criticize you, after all, for bravely defending innocent, adorable screaming children against an evil blogger who insists on mercilessly bitching about them! The horror.

I mean, it’s not like I even hinted at how such little monsters might be justly dealt with. Can you imagine Douchebag’s reaction if I had gone as far as W.C. Fields when he said, “Madam, there’s no such thing as a tough child— if you parboil them first for seven hours, they always come out tender.” Or, echoing Jonathan Swift, in “A Modest Proposal”: “a young healthy child well nursed is at a year old a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled …” Douchebag would be screaming CANNIBAL! And calling the cops!

But do I honestly think Douchebag is in a flaming tizzy over me sitting here bitching about a screaming child (not just a “playing child” as he disingenuously, distortingly says in his flame) under my window? No, of course not. As pathetic as it might be to sit here bitching about a screaming child below my office window, it is infinitely more pathetic for Douchebag to sit there bitching about me bitching about a screaming child. Whether it is even exponentially more pathetic for me to be sitting here now bitching about him bitching about me bitching about the screaming child—well, it’s a risk I am willing to take to make my point.

Which is that the chief purpose of these self-righteous rants–not mine, silly! Douchebag & Co.’s!–is to prove that somewhere, somehow, however briefly, the ranters themselves exist. No one in their day-to-day, flesh-and-bones life seems to notice them overmuch, which is understandably unsettling for them. So they flame out on the internet, projectile vomiting their curdled, acidy, upchuck existence into the ether, hoping that the splatter will stain, or otherwise somehow leave a trace of them on someone else.

But I suppose it’s also possible Douchie’s addicted to T-Rage! And in case you are struggling with such an addiction, I am here to tell you, Douchebag–because obviously you need to be told–that it is easy to free yourself from The Rage! Simply stop doing things you don’t want to do and then blaming others for your doing them. You know, blogs don’t flame people, people flame people. It’s not my fault you seem unable to stop reading my blog, now, is it? Whose fault is it, Douchebag? I think you know. Own it, babe. You can’t move on without owning it.

I want you to reflect on what you wrote and why. It might help you to understand why you feel you have no control over the things you yourself initiate and do. And then why you lash out at others who have not had anything to do with you or your lonely inner life. I’m here to help, but I can only help you if you will help yourself.

If I can lend you one piece of advice (and it is a bit selfish, I’ll admit): I think a good first step would be for you to not read the blog, Douchebag. Go cold turkey. It will be hard, but I think you need to see that what it is that causes you to act like this is inside you. It’s not the blog, Douchebag, it’s you.

I’ll wrap up with a friendly reminder to all: I am not responsible for your personal limitations, and you are not responsible for mine. If you want to spew yours out, get your own blog. Or get a therapist. I’m all set on both counts.

Thank you, and please read responsibly.

There was recently a story in the New York Times about problems along the Hudson River bike path. Letters to the editor illustrate what I was saying the other day about the three-way war amongst motorists, pedestrians, and cyclists (whew, Boston, you are not alone):

To the Editor:

Re “When the Bike Path Crosses the Drivers’ Path” (news article, June 28):

I commute to work using the Hudson River Park bicycle path. I am well acquainted with the dangers posed by vehicles crossing the path, and although I obey all traffic signals, I have had several close calls myself.

In designing the path, officials apparently tried to have it both ways: to accommodate bicyclists while not inconveniencing drivers.

There are a number of ways that the path could be made far safer for cyclists, but each solution requires a fundamental reordering of priorities.

The safety of cyclists — who, after all, are using the cleanest and most sustainable form of transportation available — would have to come first, while the “needs” of motorists to get where they are going as fast as possible would no longer be pre-eminent.

Elizabeth Oram
New York, June 28, 2006

•

To the Editor:

Bicyclists make their own major contribution to the perils of New York City.

As a dedicated walker in Central Park, I can assure you that it is rare for a cyclist to stop at a crosswalk when the light is red against him. Many whiz through, as if they were competing in the Tour de France, and pedestrians cross at their peril, even people pushing baby strollers.

In contrast, cars in Central Park almost always obey the rules of the road.

Until bicyclists follow the law and decent behavior, they are in a poor position to complain.

Richard H. Levenson
New York, June 28, 2006

•

To the Editor:

The joggers and pedestrians who clog the Hudson River Park bike path, despite their own, much wider designated path just feet away, are arguably more dangerous than the relatively few car crossings.

It is confounding why, despite all the signs saying the bike path is for cyclists and skaters only, strollers and joggers choose to risk life and limb in the bike path.

Parents pushing strollers risk cyclists crashing into their babies. Dogwalkers with 10-foot leashes blithely block both lanes.

Pedestrians in the bike lane are more dangerous to both themselves and cyclists than the relatively few car crossings are to anyone.

How about some enforcement of the existing regulations, Parks Department?

Alan McCutchan
New York, June 29, 2006

Check out Ric Kahn’s article on fare evasion in today’s Globe.

What a pleasant surprise.

National holidays. Gotta love ‘em.

I have always had a–let’s call it a “nontraditional” schedule. I’m not interested in working nine to five, in the whole TGIF routine, in going shopping on Saturdays, to mass on Sundays, and so on. I am especially not interested in taking my vacations with hordes of other vacationers. Isn’t the point to “get away”? Or did I miss something? I mean, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to go to, say, the Cape this weekend. Half of Boston is there. What are you getting away from? Hmm, well, the other half, I guess.

It could be enough to be able to say, on the fifth, at the water cooler, or whatever: “yeah, I went down to the Cape last weekend.” That way, if nothing else, people know you weren’t forced to tough it out here in Boston with the prolies. I mean, lining up on Storrow Drive to watch the fireworks. How working class is that?

Personally, I’m all for fireworks. In my neighborhood they’ve been shooting them off pretty much nonstop every night for a month already. Every night’s the 4th of July here in Dot! As long as it means you can shoot something off, blow something up, or light something (or someone) on fire! ¡Viva América!

But if you want to know the truth, I never really got into national holidays. They always seem like an accident waiting to happen. I mean, masses of people with nothing to do all day. You got ‘em gathering with no supervision. And we all know that crowds are just mobs that haven’t been incited yet.

And the fourth is not one of those holidays where people are getting or giving gifts, or hunting for eggs or going door to door begging for candy, either. You’re just sitting around eating hotdogs and drinking beer all day. It’s inevitable that by the end of it all people are going to want to blow shit up, just out of sheer boredom.

That’s why the state sponsors all these fireworks. Because, can you imagine if they didn’t?

Still, I’m sorry, but I just don’t like crowds. And I don’t like crowds because I don’t trust crowds. And I don’t trust crowds because you can’t trust crowds. I don’t care how well-intentioned they are. One-on-one a person can’t stampede you to death. In a crowd, they’ll do it gladly.

And we all know it doesn’t take much to spook ‘em. They say two heads are better than one, but that applies mainly to cattle. As stupid as people act when they’re alone, they get exponentially stupider the more you put together. And people love crowds because there’s no accountability in crowds. People in a crowd will stomp you to a bloody pulp and then be like, “what?”

Thing is, I was a latchkey kid, same as every other kid in the neighborhood where I grew up. Every summer in my neighborhood was like The Lord of the Flies. No adults around ten hours a day and when they did come home, after they put out the slop and you all fed at the trough, they were finished with you. We were raised like free-range pigs. We had adult supervision for, like, twenty minutes a day, max. As long as you weren’t missing any limbs at bed-check, they considered that the supreme proof of good-parenting.

That’s where I come from.

But it wasn’t so bad. I think it was better, for me, at least, than if my every move had been micromanaged, like it seems is the case with kids nowadays. Longfellow wrote, “A boy’s will is the wind’s will,/And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” And that sums up those long, adult-free, summer days of my lost youth.

I loved my latchkey summers. I could hold my own with the kid-gangs that ruled the streets, but even at an early age I didn’t care for the flaming hoops and hierarchies that define a social life, regardless of age, color, or class. I built myself a little hobbit hutch amongst the pine trees in the back yard–my own little Walden before I’d ever heard of Henry Thoreau–and that’s where I spent most of my time, digging in the dirt, conducting my thought experiments, contemplating infinity, thinking those long, long thoughts.

So I never liked the big to-do type holidays, where you got loaded up with the rest of the family in the old station wagon, and trundled off to relatives’ or family friends’, seemingly against everyone involded’s will (and certainly against all our better judgment).

And this was especially bad in the summer. There were two criteria for family outings in the summertime: wherever we went had to have an amusement park and a major league baseball team. (These criteria might have been even further refined, but they already spelled a sort of doom and gloom for me, so I didn’t go any further into it than I had to.)

Even when I was a kid, I was never amused by amusement parks. They always seemed an utter waste of time for me. I was pretty capable of amusing myself for the most part, and didn’t see the point of having to stand in long lines in what always seemed to be oppressive heat to do something that was not really all that amusing in the first place.

But then, there’s a certain type of personage, I have gathered—my older brother was one—for whom rollercoasters are especially thrilling. Yes, speed gets the adrenaline pumping, there’s no doubt. But there are apparently people for whom that adrenaline rush is enough. Not for me. From a very early age, I was more demanding of my amusements. I needed catharsis. I never found a rollercoaster that did it for me. Descarte’s Demon at Six Flags over Cincinnati came close. The Cathartic Comet at Busch Gardens St. Louis was on the right track but disappointed on that last loop-dee-loop.

It was enough for my bro, though. He could go back to the same rollercoaster again and again. He’d wait in line forever for that three-minute frig, like an addict in search of his fix. And when it was over, what had changed? Nothing. Hmm. need another fix.

His never-ending enthusiasm was almost infectious. Once I got so infected, in fact, that I threw up on my mother, who, upon drawing the short straw, had been forced to accompany me on one of those girlie rides: the spinning teacups. Oh, goodie.

Personally, I liked the idea of teacups. The ride seemed very refined and civilized, like that Mad Tea Party in Alice in Wonderland, and as such, somehow, potentially cathartic.

But while we sometimes confuse catharsis with throwing up, and vice-versa, I have come to understand, after ample experience with both, that they are not the same thing.

But it was enough for my brother. It’s like people for whom drunkenness is the point of being drunk. The rush was an end in itself. The thrill was the thrill. For me it was always, like, “hmm, thrilling. Is that all there is?” This question would lead down the path to despair, I knew. But there in the abyss, beyond the loop-dee-loop I would find my catharsis as well. While my brother stood in line, scratching his ass, in despair of not knowing he’s in despair. Poor sod.

But I do like hotdogs. I am a food whore. Always have been. Not gonna lie about it, try and pretty it up. Why should I? And we’re talking anything from bratwurst to beluga here. It’s all good.

I guess there’s no reason the fourth can’t be a few choice friends, good food, and fireworks. Still don’t know if I’m willing to brave the crowds down at the hatch shell, though.