What a very strange time to have lived into after growing up with no telephone in any house I went into.
The New Yorker of 27 March (which has not arrived here yet) has a story about a lad named Evan who has things in his backpack no one should have to carry. One is the 1000 page, more or less, "Herman Melville, Volume I." This was fun for a few hours and will be funny when the New Yorker comes, and I got to check with Vittorio who had just arrived in Seattle for a book event and agreed that it was a hoot. Then my daughter drove home after her turn with the ailing John Perry Barlow during which he and I had talked on the phone about Gene Autry and Willie Nelson and American Morse and tying messages on the Y stick so you did not tear off the brakeman's arm and the Internet. She turned on something called Podcast and Lodato came on reading "Herman Melville, Volume I." She was startled, but I had just told her about it, and she kept control of the Saab that used to life in Morro Bay.
At least I got to tell John Perry Barlow about how the Internet had changed life for me during the last 15 years, after "Herman Melville, Volume II." He had no idea, of course, about the Internet.