CALL ME SNAKE

Mitt Romney recently said that his income included “not much” (around $375,000?) for lectures. Being one of the 99%, I resent that he calls that “not much,” though his 2010 income statement–printed in yesterday’s Boston Globe–shows that he made even more, $600,000, by giving lectures that year. That’s a fair amount of change in my book, and I find it hard to believe that people could pay that much to get one of the most boring speakers on Earth talk to them. Though I find it somewhat more credible that people would pay a substantial sum to get him to stop talking.

I submitted an article for a journalism prize, and started fantasizing about what I’d do with the money–i.e., which bills I’d pay first–if I won. Then I referred back to the prize guidelines (which I forgot to read before) and saw that the article or articles must have “an impact on society.” Since my article is about black holes, I’m feeling a little less sanguine about my prospects (as societal impact tends to be narrowly viewed these days), and am holding off on my plans for an imminent spending (or bill paying) spree.

I frequently check amazon.com to see if any new reviews of the book I co-authored–THE SHAPE OF INNER SPACE– have come in. I noticed one today that I’d never seen before. It had a five-star rating, which is good. In fact, the whole review was exceedingly positive except for a comment about yours truly: “The only caveat is that Steve Nadis, the spokesman that Prof. Yau chose as his co-author, has a penchant for sloppy grammar and puerile prose. This occasionally grates on the reader.” I’m repeating that here to show that I’m secure and can take the heat and am not as small-minded as many people would have you believe. And I still like the review, and applaud the reviewer for speaking his mind, despite the rather harsh assessment of my penmanship.

The Sunday magazine of our local paper recently published an “essay” I wrote. I put that word in quotes, because the so-called essay was only a paragraph long. And a short paragraph, at that. Yet I got a lot of comments about it. In fact, it’s safe to say that I got more comments per printed word than anything else I’ve published. (The good news is that they weren’t paying me by the word. The bad news is that they weren’t paying me anything.)

For years, friends have urged me to Skype, for all the obvious reasons. Last week, I spoke by email with a scientist in Chile who was about to head up into a glacier on the Andes. He said we could talk by Skype but, being old-fashioned, I didn’t have that capability. Our phone conversation was just partly successfully, as I only caught about every other word.

Later that same day, a mathematician I was trying to reach in Rome encouraged me to get Skype, telling me it was easy to do and that it would be a good way–and indeed the best way–for us to talk. His urging, combined with my earlier experience that day, helped push me over the edge, and I finally entered the 20th century, albeit a century late. That said, our conversation–which lasted about an hour and a half–went really well. This guy, whom I’ve known for about 25 years, is always great to talk to, and the reception was crystal clear. I was able to make out approximately 99.99 percent of his words, which I’d call a marked improvement over my South American colloquy.

I’ve been trying to arrange an interview with a sleep researcher, but our conversation will have to wait for awhile. The scientist just informed me that he needs to write a couple of review papers, and he’s now holed up in a Franciscan monastery (no WiFi!) until he gets them done.

I just noticed that one of my articles last fall, which was about black holes, showed up on a website called “The Browser,” which is devoted to “Writing Worth Reading.” Curious (as well as hopeful), I searched the site to find out what other things I had written had been deemed worth reading and discovered it was only just the one I already mentioned. So I’m forced to conclude that among the hundreds (and indeed thousands) of other things I’ve penned were not worth writing. Which begs the question: Were they worth writing?

I was at the Star Market near MIT this morning when a guy I know from the neighborhood and our kids’ school walked up to me and said: “Kris Kristofferson.” He acted as if that statement should be self-explanatory and started to walk away before I said to him: “Sorry, I’m not making the connection here…”

“You said Janis Joplin, when you should have said Kris Kristofferson” he said by way of explanation. “You should pay attention. People actually read  this stuff.”

I then recalled that in a recent column for the local paper I attributed the line “just another word” to Janis. I did not say that Janis wrote it, but I also did not give credit to Kris who actually wrote it. That was brought to my attention this morning, and I am now spreading the word to the rest of the world here in my internationally-read blog. (Greetings to Islamabad!)

The local paper came close to publishing a humorous essay I wrote about a longrunning dispute I had with a former neighbor. But the editor of said periodical finally decided that if he printed my essay, I would likely be sued and the paper sued as well, possibly putting that dubious enterprise out of business. Accomplishing all that in less than 800 words is no small feat. But it’s not gonna happen. And good judgment prevails once again…

I guess I’m distracted lately–so much going on that I can’t keep track of it all. And I hit an all-time low last night when it happened in my own dream. I wasn’t paying attention, I guess, and I missed something that happened in the dream. I asked someone there (my daughter or somebody) what just happened and never really found out. From then on, I was playing catchup ball. I never knew what was going on, and I eventually had to give it up and wake up because the dream had gone on without me. Fortunately, my clock radio kicked in soon to rescue me from that embarrassing situation. Henceforth, I resolve to pay more attention to things–including my own dreams.

For the past six or so months, I’ve often seen a mother turkey and her baby (now almost fully grown) wandering around our block and sometimes traipsing through our yard. I always assumed that they stuck close to our block but on Friday I saw the two of them crossing Putnam Avenue, which is outside their normal beat.  They seemed to be heading down Surrey Street, which goes to the river and seems like a good destination. Although I am worried as to how they are ever going to make it across Memorial Drive. They take their time crossing streets and assume they have the right of way. While that approach has worked so far on the small streets near my house, I’m not sure how it will fly, so to speak, on Memorial Drive. Speaking of which, they might want to think about flying, but I don’t know if they’re big on planning and foresight and all that…

Sometimes, nothing makes me happier than when the garbage collectors take a large item I’ve put out that I fear they might reject, and today was a particular high point in that regard. I dismantled a fence (and some say wall) erected by a recently departed neighbor, putting one large slat or column out with my trash each week. It’s finally all gone, except for a post I put in my basement, and it seems I am finally free of that former neighbor and the things she left behind…

I know that Christmas must be around the corner, as I just received a holiday card from my local drain-cleaning company. I don’t get many cards from friends and relatives, but I can always count on my friendly drain cleaners.

In 1972, I bought a 10-speed bike (brand name Folis) for my dad. I paid $75 for it, which seemed like a good deal at the time, even though I had little money then, being a teenager. Over the past weekend, while visiting my parents in Chicago, I rode about 30 miles on that bike on forest preserve trails. I’m pleased to say that the bike is holding up really well, although the brakes are a little dodgy. I use the bike every time I visit (my dad no longer rides), and this is one investment I’ve never regretted.

As reported in the Globe yesterday, Robert Kraft and Steve Wynn have pledged to preserve the bucolic character of Foxborough, while building a giant casino there, assuming their plans go through. But I have to wonder if there are better ways of preserving the bucolic nature of the town, perhaps by taking all their billions and setting aside conservation land? Of course, my question ought to be taken with a large grain of salt, since I’m a guy who knows next to nothing about real estate, whereas these developers are the experts. It’s also possible that I’m still clinging to an outdated definition of the word “bucolic.”

I worked on a book off and on over the past year, especially in the spring and summer. During Thanksgiving Weekend–maybe when I was getting the stuffing knocked out of me during a family ultimate frisbee game–I came up with a much better title. I called the editor on Monday morning to share my idea with him, and I’m pleased to report that he loved it. “It’s terrific! And amazing! And quite possibly the best title ever penned!” The only catch was that they’d just printed around 10,000 copies.

Being a (sometimes) mature individual, I realize there’s nothing I can do about it now, except to wait for a second edition. All I can say is that it could be a long wait. And the best opportunity to see that book adorned with its sensational new title could be never.

My anti-spam campaign has not been wholly successful as a few suspicious comments somehow slipped in (“under the radar”?). This has prompted me to reconsider my anti-spam policy and reverse my previous stand. For now commentors (or commentators) will not be required to log-in. That requirement had driven most people away and, frankly, it was starting to get a bit lonely here at Call Me Snake Enterprises. Perhaps another reason for the dearth of comments , and colloquy, might have been the lack of writing on my part. It appears that Snake got a bit swamped with some other stuff going on around here, and he’ll try to make amends as time permits, this representing a feeble effort in that direction.

A couple of years ago, our neighborhood laundromat here in Cambridge changed hands with some fanfare. Whereas the old establishment had just been called “laundromat,” or “laundry,” or something like that, the new place was being called “Captain Bubbles.” It seemed like the joint was getting a great infusion of energy. But the enthusiasm wore off. And a couple of years later, Captain Bubbles closed down. For awhile it was unclear what would happen with the place, as it sat there for months with the doors shuttered and the equipment untended.

But the laundromat reopened a week or so ago, “under new management,” I presume. And I’m quite happy about it, even though I have my own washer and dryer and don’t use public laundromats often. Still it bothers me to see all of them disappearing. I just don’t think it makes sense for everyone to have to own their own, especially if they live in a small apartment where owning such a machine might be out of the question. These days, too many places like Captain Bubbles are going out of business. It’s nice to see one come back from the dead, which I’m afraid is all too rare.

There’s a new breed of righteous cyclist in town who’ve decided to elect themselves sheriff. The other evening, I approached a small intersection (Broadway and Trowbridge) near the Cambridge Public Library. Two bikes were waiting in the lane behind a line of cars. I went up to the intersection on the side, as there was plenty of room (and a bike lane to boot). A loudmouth cyclist, waiting in the queue, yelled to me: “Red light, cyclist! Wait your turn!” I am not normally inclined to use profanity in public, but this time I could not refrain from telling him to “f” off.

The volume of spam comments on this blog–running at around 20 per day–is overwhelming, which has forced me to take the drastic step of having commentors register and log in. That requirement, I suspect, could be enough of a disincentive to insure that no one will choose to comment on this blog. I’m sorry about that, but I seem to have no choice because if I am away for the blog for a week, I might have 100 spam comments to wade through and that’s getting to be too much to deal with. As the saying goes, sorry about that chief(s).

During a walk last night, I felt kind of hungry and stopped into a pizza place to see if they sold slices. The guy at the counter said no and then told me to hang on for a second. He gave me something in a box, which I presumed was a slice, and told me to take it. I asked if I could pay him, and he said to forget about it. I then concluded that maybe I had to stop walking around in sweatpants and a hoodie since the guy must have thought I was destitute. Of course, when I got home I remembered that I was not even carrying my wallet so I couldn’t have paid for the slice (which actually turned out to be a calzone) after all.

I have written at length about the impending shortage of handball players in Cambridge–a problem that most citizens in this town are not only aware of but acutely concerned about. I’m sad to report that one of our stalwart players–someone who has played consistently (three days a week) at the Cambridge Family Y for the past 15 years–has hung up his gloves and is out of the picture, possibly for good, unless he is able to recover from his various injuries, some of a fairly serious nature. Given his dedication to the sport, this individual will be impossible to replace. I am grooming a younger player, who has the requisite  athletic skills, but may not have the singleminded devotion needed to survive and excel in the pressure cooker of the Cambridge handball world.

As reported earlier in CALL ME SNAKE, a neighbor who used to spend hours sweeping his patio (hence the moniker) has turned in his broom for a leaf blower. He was at it for hours today, and his new implement of choice is quite noisy. So you might say–as was argued before in these pages–that Sweepie has become Blowie. Except that another neighbor has grabbed the baton, so to speak, as she was out there for hours today, sweeping her steps and patio. So Sweepie is back and alive and well, after all, except that he has morphed into an older woman.

The City of Cambridge is now kind enough to accept online payments of real estate and property tax, water&sewer bills, and so forth. Since the city is so nice to offer us this exceptional service, we should be nice enough to allow it to charge us a “convenience fee” for taking advantage of this incredible opportunity.

If, for example, you elect to pay your $2000 real estate bill by credit card online, the city will charge you an additional $50. Isn’t that convenient? And how did we manage to get by before without this amazing payment option?

Earlier today, I had an inspiring interview with a civil rights attorney about whom I’m writing a “profile.” He’s a truly impressive guy–almost too impressive in that he makes you realize how little you’ve accomplished in your life by comparison. Afterwards, I went to Whole Foods and perhaps because of that conversation, bought a copy of the homeless newspaper, Spare Change, which I have not done in awhile. I’ve seen the guy who sold it to me for more than a decade in and around the Central Square area, and I’ve probably purchased more than 100 papers from him over the years. He seems to be an incredibly reliable worker and has a great disposition, always friendly and polite. In other words, he’s the kind of guy who would probably do well in a regular job. Unfortunately, I lead a somewhat marginal existence, as a writer and blogger, and am in no position to offer him employment. But I wish somebody would give this man a job. His steadiness suggests to me that he would rise to the challenge, and I wouldn’t mind buying Spare Change from somebody else.

Sorry, I’ve been out of touch for awhile. In the meantime, the comments have piled up on my blog in the “Pending” category, awaiting my approval:

“This is awesome! I can’t believe I’ve missed out on this blog for so long!”

“You are truly amazing! Each post hits the nail exactly on the head–not too far to the left, nor too far to the right, but squarely in the middle. Well done! I’m going to bookmark  you this moment, and that’s not a moment too soon!”

On and on they continued in this vein, and it was quite an ego trick, until I realized that–despite the names of the so-called authors–they were all, 100% spam, sent by Ski Travel Insurance, Travel Insurance, Consolidate Your Loan, AcneFacialTreatments.com, and various other anonymous players.

Then reality set in. And I had to accept the proposition that maybe I’m not so awesome. Maybe I’m not truly amazing. Maybe I didn’t hit the nail squarely on the head but instead hit it a bit too far to the right or left or, more likely, missed the nail altogether.

It’s hard to escape the fact that the campaign season is in full swing here in Cambridge. Today I received about 15 pieces of campaign literature in the mail, including five brochures from the same city council candidate and four from the same school committee candidate. At Trader Joe’s I ran into a school committee candidate, who I’d also seen earlier in the day, and I ran into a campaign manager at Whole Foods. As I biked home from Whole Foods, a city council candidate, who was holding a sign, called out to me on River Street. Yes, indeed, things are heating up around these here parts. It will all quiet down tomorrow night after the polls close and the counting begins. Our mailman’s loads will get lighter, and my email traffic will drop back to the usual trickle. Life will go back to normal, and the city politicians can finally stop acting like they care what I think.

I was surprised to see someone I know (though not too well) decide to run for local office since the fellow strikes me as extremely untalkative and someone who doesn’t like people. Yesterday I bicycled all over Cambridge and was surprised to see a sign for this candidate–the first I’ve ever seen in all my wanderings around town. In fact, I have not seen a sign at the candidate’s own home, but someone in Cambridgeport evidently saw fit to give his campaign a huge boost.

My humor column in the local paper–about the fast-growing sports of rockball and domeball–was bumped by a story, deemed even more important, about “broomball” of all things. That’s almost enough to make me use the word “ironical.”

A guy I know from Cambridge youth soccer said he saw me yesterday biking down such and such a street at such and such a time. He said, “You looked like you’d been riding a long ways.”
It turns out that he saw me less than a half a block from my home, which makes me wonder whether my conditioning is what it should be.

For years, an obsessive hedge trimmer, whom we came to know as “Trimmie,” lived next door. He tried to keep up on his hedges almost every day from May through October. Trimmie is long gone, having moved to the other side of Mass. Ave. many years ago. In his place, we have “Sweepie,” who obsessively sweeps his steps and patio practically every day. Or perhaps I should say we had “Sweepie,” as today I saw him out there with a leaf blower, doing his thing. I hope this was a one-time deal (maybe his brooms were in the shop?), because I’d rather not call him “Blowie.” It just doesn’t sound as good.

There’s a cool feature called Google Analytics that can give you a sense of who’s visiting your blog. It turns out that people from 10 different countries checked out Call Me Snake last month: the United States, Canada, Iceland, Germany, Mexico, Pakistan, Philipines, Russia, South Africa, and the United Kingdom. The majority of visits came from the U.S., but to my surprise second place went to Pakistan, specifically Islamabad. I know they call it the Worldwide Web, but I guess there’s a reason for that. This information–which I rarely check out but did during a slow time today–helps me realize that people may be more connected to each other than they realize–that this weird little blog called Call Me Snake somehow made its way into nine other countries last month and maybe it will hit a few more countries next month. Even though I haven’t left the U.S. in far too long, in some small way I’m still getting around.

I got roped into painting on Friday night at my kids’ school. A friend asked me to do it; he, in turn, was asked by a guy I’ve painted with before at the school. “Between the four of us,” my friend said, “we should get a lot done.” I asked him who the fourth person was, as I only knew about three. He told me, and I commented that the guy he mentioned didn’t strike me as the painter type. “Come to think of it, when I talked to him, he didn’t seem like much of a painter either,” my friend said. “The stuff he was talking about all seemed pretty abstract.”

“Maybe he is a painter,” I said, “but just not an applied one. He might be more of a theorist.”

One of my favorite books from childhood was THE PHANTOM TOLLBOOTH. I tried reading it to my older daughter when she was in the 1st or 2d grade, but the subtle wordplay was lost on her. She’s old enough now to understand and appreciate the book, and we just finished reading it last night. When the mail arrived this morning, I found a long article in The New Yorker about, you guessed it, The Phantom Tollbooth, which was published 50 years ago and that’s about when I read it, not knowing at the time that it was hot off the presses. There is some kind of coincidence at play here that we just finished the book one night, and the very next day a long article appears about that same book. I guess the main coincidence stems from the fact that I took almost exactly 50 years between my readings of the book. I liked it both times very much, and I have to said that Norton Juster’s writing has held up quite well. Juster, again coincidentally. was a professor at my college. It was a small school, yet I never once saw him or talked to him, though I was kind of shy then and didn’t go out of my way to introduce myself to professors. Now I wish I had, but I’m not the same person anymore, just as I’m not the same person as the boy who read that book for the 1st time nearly 50 years ago.

Earlier today, a fellow Cambridge resident, who shares no undue affection for yours truly, called me “a small, petty, asshole of a man.” I had been called all those things before, at various times in my life, but never together in a single package. While I didn’t especially mind the turn of phrase, I did bristle at the word “small,” because I’m not small. I’m average. The person who characterized me in this way happens to be above average in height but, in my estimation, below average in other attributes.

I’m not a real handyman even though I usually dress like a slob. But after noticing my daughter struggle for years to reach the clothes hooks on her bedroom closet, it recently occurred to me that maybe we ought to take some of the scraps of wood in our basement and build a little footstool. And after school yesterday, that’s what we did. I found a nice rectangular piece of wood for the platform and, using an old, rusty saw, cut off two pieces of two-by-fours as the base. We sanded it down, nailed everything together, and painted it–the whole thing taking not much more than half an hour. And at the end of that process, we had a nice looking footstool that allows my daughter to (barely) reach her hooks. She’ll soon grow an inch, which will make the reach even more comfortable. And after she grows several more inches, we’ll probably have to get rid of the thing, but it was nice in this rare instance to actually build something with my hands–a modest piece of work that, nevertheless, does not look too shabby.

On Friday, I served as a chaperone on my daughter’s school canoe trip on the Charles River. In that capacity, I had to sign all kinds of legalistic waivers absolving the boat rental company of any liability in the event of an accident and taking on all that responsibility myself. That responsibility was weighing heavily on me, and before any of the school kids got in the canoe with me, I had to make myself perfectly clear on one point: “Nobody dies on this trip!”

The Snakemeister is a year older today and maybe showing signs of it. I caught my daughter looking funny at me today and asked her what was going on. “Dad, you’re completely gray!” she was kind enough to point out.

I offered a different assessment of the situation. “My hair is light brown with a generous dusting of gray,” I countered.

We’re offering a new feature here at CALL ME SNAKE. Or maybe we’re reintroducing an old feature here at CALL ME SNAKE and I just forgot about it. In any case, I’ve decided to run periodic reviews of movies I’ve never seen. Only in this case, I won’t write an entire review but rather a pithy “capsule comment.”

Without further ado, let’s get to it. “The balcony,” as they used to say in Chicago, “is now closed.” The movie under consideration today is “The Smurfs.” And herewith is my short but punchy review: “A truly cross-generational picture. Finally a movie that is universally loathed by audiences young and old, on both sides of the aisle.”

I was at an event last week during which alumni from my college met the school’s new president. The president was introduced by my friend–chair of the board of trustee’s–who told an amusing anecdote regarding how he recently had to go to a meeting with other college presidents and trustees wearing two left shoes.

I laughed at the tale but found myself in a similar situation yesterday. I rollerbladed to the other end of Cambridge yesterday, near the Belmont line, to pick up my daughter and her friend. The plan was for me to change into my shoes and then catch a bus back to Harvard Square with the girls. And the plan worked with one small hitch: I too, like my friend, had brought along two left shoes. As a result, I ended up walking to the bus stop, and then from Harvard Square to my house, under less than ideal walking conditions. I never realized that when I heard that story last week that I would be reenacting it, to some extent, just a few days later.

More than two decades ago I wrote an article about neutrinos for the now-defunct Omni magazine, which contained an unfortunate typo. I said that neutrinos from the sun reach the earth in eight seconds when I meant to say eight minutes. That implied the neutrinos were traveling faster than the speed of light–an obvious impossibility, many of my critics said at the time. Yet today on NPR I heard about researchers at CERN who seem to be finding neutrinos that travel faster than the speed of light. If those startling results are borne out, they will completely  topple the physics of the past century. More importantly, they will also validate the statement I made in my 1989 Omni article for which I received a lot of grief.

A friend warned me to be careful while riding through Central Square today, as the police were pulling over bicyclists left and right for traffic violations. I’m not sure why she warned me, as I am, for the most part, a law-abiding citizen. Still, as I have cut a few corners over the years, I did appreciate the warning, and I promised my friend that I would be on my best behavior.  “If I do break the law,” I told her, “I will do so judiciously.”

The Celebrity Guest Comment has long been one of the favorite features here at CALL ME SNAKE. It would not be stretching things to say that it is the favorite feature of all the features featured here. And today I’ve decided to reprint a comment that just came in moments ago, “hot off the presses,” as it were. I shall cherish this comment always, and if any deserves the Celebrity Guest Comment imprimatur, this is one:

What an insightful posting! You are a gifted writer and your site is loaded with valuable (invaluable?) information! I shall bookmark it and visit regularly. (Twice a day would not do it justice.) Keep up the good work! The world needs more people like you, Mr. Snake, if I may be so bold. You are a credit to all bloggers, showing that, in the right hands, blogging can be a lofty endeavor–an artform of the highest order. A comparison with Picasso would not be out of line. Van Gogh is another who comes to mind. Thank you again Snake for, time after time, producing such incomparable gems. The world would be an impoverished place without your timely contributions.

An item I posted almost exactly six years ago has been an incredible magnet for spam comments, which I’ve been receiving–in great quantities–for years. Today, after much headaches on that score, I’ve tried deleting the 2005 post, yet I must confess that I do like the wording of it and am reluctant to part with it permanently, irrevocably. So I will reprint that item here, provisionally, under the condition if more spam comes in through this portal, it will be summarily deleted. Herewith is the aforementioned post from September 16, 2005, reproduced in full (save for the title, which might be the spam beacon I’m trying to avoid/evade/elude/eschew…)

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As I mentioned before, many people joked about screen rights for the book I recently coauthored about string theory. Yet the proposition is not as absurd as it might sound. Earlier today I came across a webpage entitled, “Books or Novels you wanted to adapt for a film,” and along with some of the works that people suggested–including The Painted Bird, To the White Sea, Rubyfruit Jungle, and The Recognitions–another book was also listed, namely The Shape of Inner Space, which attempts to explain the mathematics of string theory.

More than a year ago, Warner Bros. received permission to have a character in the “Green Lantern”  (played by Peter Sarsgaard) read a passage in the movie from an article I’d written about the probability of there being extraterrestrial life in the galaxy. I just learned today that that scene never made it into the movie. I also just learned that the “Green Lantern” was a huge box office failure. Would the the movie  have fared better if it included some of the lines penned by yours truly? Who knows but, from what I gather, it couldn’t have done worse.

Six months ago, I visited a high-tech company in Danvers and reported on how I was unable to find the proper entrance via my bike (from the Beverly train station) and had to scale a fence in order to get to my meeting with the CEO. I saw the CEO again today, but this time I arrived more respectably — up the driveway and through the main entrance. This time I found some back roads that enabled me to get there without climbing the fence and risk getting gunned down by armed sentries. While today’s route was clearly the safer way to go, the last time was more fun.

I got a message on my voicemail from some guy saying he could come tomorrow at 1:30 p.m. to install darkening shades on our skylight. He told me to call back to confirm ASAP because otherwise he would be tied up for the next week or more. Since we have a skylight that lacks “darkening shades,” I thought my wife might have made arrangements with this company without my knowing it. But it turns out she never talked to them. It was just an entrepreneur who called out of the blue, trying a new approach to drum up business. I called him back and let him know that tomorrow would not work for us. He asked me what would be a good time. “How about never?” I replied. “Does the work for you?”

CALL ME SNAKE is now reprising one of its all-time favorite features on CALL ME SNAKE, namely the CELEBRITY GUEST COMMENT. Today, we have a special celebrity guest, who happens to be the world’s leading authority on the regenerative properties of YooHoo. Without further ado, I shall introduce you to our Celebrity Guest Commentor (Commentator?), Mr. YooHooYaHoo (not his real name).

Mr. YooHooYaHoo: YooHoo is the ideal sports drink! It hydrates, has lots of vitamins (and a little hydrogenated oil apparently), and you can chug a whole can with its extra big opening (for a quick boost during a timeout). However it is ideally served cold in a glass bottle. I just found out it also comes in strawberry, double fudge, and even YooHoo Lite (approved by the American Heart Association). As a kid I was sent to the store to get some soda and came back with YooHoo; it was then that I came to the sad realization that YooHoo is not liked by everyone.

A brief interjection from Snake (who cannot resist stealing the spotlight): Thanks Mr. YooHooYaHoo for that authoritative report. It must have been disheartening to find out that not everyone loves YooHoo (let alone likes it). On the other hand, it must feel good to know that you are way ahead of the curve on this one. The masses will eventually see the errors of their ways. Or they’ll miss out on the perfect sports beverage with great hydration properties in addition to the many flavorful offerings, cardiac benefits, and little known nutritional attributes. Thanks again Mr. Sports Drink expert and (I’m assuming) generally nice guy who doesn’t mind a quick boost during a timeout. And why should you?

I’m no Eric Heiden or Apolo Ohno, but I’m pretty fast on my rollerblades. Or at least I thought I was. Today I was coming down Brattle Street, headed towards Harvard Square, when I saw a guy speeding down Sparks Street on what I assumed was some kind of scooter. It turns out that he was on a skateboard (nonmotorized); he turned left on Brattle and shot ahead of me, leaving me in the dust. So today I experienced something I’ve never experienced before–I was beaten by a skateboard, on Brattle Street no less.