CALL ME SNAKE

In Cambridge, Massachusetts, where I live, everyone's a potential freelance writer. It's an easy job to stick on your resume if you don't have to make a living at it, since there's always the chance that someday you might actually write something. Until that happens, the pressure's off, since no one is waiting for that story anyway. It's tougher when your livelihood depends on this trade--especially with a few needy kids in the picture. The writing part is hard enough, but then you've got to deal with all the doubters who're convinced you're a lazy bum who's never worked an honest day in his life. This persistent lack of respect makes the job even harder, which is why a support network is so critical. As novelist John Gardner wisely put it, "Every writer needs people who believe in him, give him a shoulder to cry on, and value what he values." The same is true of science writers who--for various psychoanalytical reasons I won't go into right now (and which do not, by the way, involve the word "anal")--need more support than most writers, who, in turn, need more support than most civilians. But getting that support, the edifice upon which all science writing rests, is no easy task. My parents, for instance, are delighted to one of my articles in print, especially when it doesn't appear in a porno mag or journal about "Motorcycle Mamas." But they still can't stop asking, "When are you going to get a real job?" It's a constant refrain. Relatives routinely ask whether I've started working or if I'm "still taking it easy" (23 years later). My father's friends also say things like: "You've got the right idea, taking your retirement early." Acquaintances, likewise, feel free to barge in on me at any time, with little heed to the vital work they might be interrupting. They see the TV on and assume I'm "goofing off," without considering for a second that I'm in the midst of important research on daytime viewing habits. The sad truth is that the average person has no idea of what it takes to be a science writer and the grueling labor involved. My so-called "working" friends share these misconceptions. The other day, after doing weights, swimming, and rollerblading along the river, I needed a minute to collect my thoughts for an essay about putative black hole sightings in a western suburb. So I stopped for carrot juice and a charred muffin at a local caffeination outlet, where I bumped into Joe, a carpenter and neighborhood gadfly I know through volleyball circles. "What are you up to?" he asked with a knowing wink. "Just screwin' around?" I could have explained to him that I was working on a challenging (and potentially award-winning) piece--thinking, cogitating, letting ideas percolate in my head until they spill naturally, irrepressibly onto the parchment (pavement?). But what's the use? If only people would heed the words of writing guru William Zinsser--"It's hard work"--a statement that applies to science writing, as well as to lesser forms of prose. But trying telling Joe I had to spend two weeks in Ixtapa for an article about the effects of El Nino on beach erosion. He'd probably just laugh. Or pull that infuriating wink. So what if, two years later, I still haven't written that article? It's in the back of my head, somewhere, and someday I just might get around to it. So far, I've only discussed the science writer and his relationship to normal, everyday citizens--the kind of folks you might see huddled in a back alley (note: Has anyone ever seen a "front alley"?) or standing up at a bingo parlor to shout whatever it is you're supposed to shout when you get "Bingo!" (By the way, is it correct usage to say "bingo parlor," or should I stick with the more conventional term, "bingo hall"?) It is, of course, essential for a science writer to earn the respect of those around him. Not only his colleagues in this rarified field, but also the readers who make the whole enterprise worthwhile and enliven magazines with trenchant questions about why the sky is blue and other, equally provocative, quandaries. There is, however, another kind of respect that is even more important: I'm talking about self respect. If a science writer doesn't have enough dignity to value his own work, how can he expect others to care? Furthermore, he won't have the drive needed to get through the arduous daily tasks--like going to the beach (to study dune ecology), playing volleyball (to test principles of complexity theory), participating in the science writer support groups held at virtually every neighborhood bar, and joining the daily literary luncheons--obligations that every serious practitioner must attend to. Lacking the will to meet these commitments, the would-be science writer ought to throw in the towel straight off and become a Maytag repairman. Or, better yet, sign up for one of those no-show patronage jobs I'm always hoping for. On the other hand, for those of us truly committed to the craft--who aren't ready to exchange the aforementioned responsibilities for a regular 9-to-5 job--a vast world awaits us, ripe with possibilities. Bolstered by the approval of his peers and his own self-confidence, there's no limit to what a science writer can do. He could write about science, which is the obvious thing to do, and the approach taught at most science journalism schools. The true artist, however, writes about science writing itself, which is the genre's purest form and the one thing the public is really clamoring for. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- STEVE NADIS lives in Cambridge, Mass. and writes about science writing.

After negotiating miles of icy roads in the rugged "Northeast Kingdom," my wife and I arrived in Greensboro, Vermont late one night, ready for a rustic weekend in the country. We pulled into the secluded driveway of my friend Nick's house, unpacked our DVDs and other wilderness gear, settling in for what we hoped would be several days of concerted relaxation. Before I had the chance to polish off my first martini, our host took me aside and murmured something about "some strange things..." I tried to ignore him, as Nick has a tendency to advance the most far-fetched explanations for ordinary occurrences. He grabbed my arm and guided me to the sliding glass door. Turning on the floodlight, he pointed to several unusual footprints in the snow, all uncommonly large. "Bigfoot?" he said with a devilish grin. I laughed, as we all did, at his crazy suggestion. The Bigfoot, or Sasquatch, was a well-known mythic creature of the Pacific Northwest--twelve feet tall, or so they say. With a shoe size of 20 or bigger, these outsized creatures would be hard-pressed to find appropriate outerwear even at a Big and Tall Men's Store. What would have brought them all the way to northern Vermont, and how would they have made the cross-country journey? Was there an unknown Northern Passage--the Sasquatch equivalent of the Lewis & Clark Trail--blazed, perhaps, by Bigfoot & Hugepaw or some such duo? Of course not. The whole notion was preposterous. Still, I wondered as I peered beyond the patio, something made that impression in the snow, and if it was a foot, well, that was one very large foot. Nick abruptly ushered me outside, through the snowdrifts, pointing to a trail of what looked like urine leading from the alleged prints. I was unimpressed. "Can we go back now?" I asked. "My drink is patient, but it won't wait forever." I returned to my martini and E-Z chair, dimmed the lights, and popped in the first installment of the "Scream" trilogy. After two gruesome murders, things were looking up. I leaned back into the chair, just as my wife, Blinkie, begged me to join her on a midnight cross-country ski outing. "We'll go by the lake," she said. "It'll only take a minute." Skiing was the farthest thing from my mind, but I was reluctant to have her clomping around in the woods alone, in the middle of the night, especially with hairy Sasquatches on the loose. And as we didn't have too many opportunties for such excursions in Boston, I turned off the TV, applied some wax to my skis, and followed her down the windy path to Caspian Lake. Standing on the shores, we gazed at the snowy expanse, meditating under the slimmest of crescent moons. Then I saw it: a dark figure standing in the middle of the lake. Actually it wasn't standing but moving in a strange way as if spinning or dancing. Could it be a deranged human? A bear? Nah..., too big, even for a grizzly, which certainly wouldn't be caught dead within a thousand miles of Vermont. Could it be, I was embarrassed even to think, a Dancing Sasquatch? Blinkie saw it too, whatever "it" was. "We should do something," she said. "Make sure he's all right." "I'm not sure it is a 'HE,'" I replied. "Hello!" Blinkie yelled. "Anybody there?" There was no response, as might be expected in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night with nobody around but us and the stars. I told her there was a perfectly logical explanation for all this, and once I figured it out, she'd be the first to know. Even though I believed what I'd said about the "logical explanation," I still found the episode a bit unnerving. While completing the last stretch of our circuit through the woods, I couldn't get the image of that mad, gyrating figure out of my head. First thing in the morning, I set out to deconstruct the myth--kill the beast, so to speak. I strapped on my skis and retraced our course. Finding our vantage point from the shore, I turned to the lake and saw an ice-fishing shack in roughly the same spot I imagined seeing the disco phantom. Aha, so it was an optical illusion, just as I suspected. Something was dancing all right, but it was an ice house, not a disco. The way I figured it, photons had come intermittently under that pitch-black sky, causing the object to flicker, and that apparent motion sent our minds wandering down some pretty strange paths. In the light of day, however, the scene looked quite mundane. So much for that mystery. But what of the giant footprints and urine trail? I dismissed that as a joke staged by Nick, a prankster credited with installing a giant breast on MIT's main dome during his undergraduate days. What's more, I knew for a fact he was not shy about micturating in public--a product, no doubt, of his European upbringing. Later that night, while the rest of our party slept, I was suddenly gripped with terror. According to a rumor cited in Variety (yes, I try to keep up with the industry, despite living in Boston), more Scream sequels were in the works. This was shocking to me because the original production team had promised to quit at three. Moreover, the audience that made the first three movies a hit had moved on and were now refinancing their mortgages. My main fear was that I'd never get through the Scream series--one of those goals that overachievers like me set for themselves--if they kept churning out new installments. There was only one hope--to get cracking now. Midway through "Scream 2," at a critical juncture between stabbings and dismemberments (though that description could aptly pertain to 99.9 percent of the picture), I got the unexpected urge to grab my skis and glide atop the snow one more time. Arriving at the lake's edge, I squinted toward the hut, trying to view the whirling dervish through the lens of my newly acquired understanding. Sure enough, the shack did a little jig, right on cue. And then I'll be damned if the thing didn't wave at me.

As many of you know, October has traditionally been a hiatus for me--a chance to spend some quality time, and virtually camp out, at my favorite haunt, Spooky World. For years, this family-friendly theme park was Foxborough, Massachusetts' best-kept secret, opening its doors each fall to the innocents. Last month, my world (aka "Stevie World") was rocked, as if an earthquake had torn my home asunder, by the announcement that Spooky World would be closed and its holdings auctioned off, piece by piece. At first, the news was hard to fathom. An October without Spooky World? Surely this could not be. But then I bounced back, showing a resilience that surprised me--a hardiness reminiscent of another Foxborough mainstay, the New England Patriot football team. Rather than wallow in self-pity, which was how most people I know reacted, I tried to turn a negative into positive--an attitude that would have made Coach Belichick proud. If I could not make my home in Spooky World, well then Spooky World would have to come to me. Mind you, I could not afford to purchase the park's entire, million-dollar-plus holdings. Perhaps if I'd been more frugal in my youth. But that was then. Today's reality was this: I could not sit back and let Spooky World slip away from my life forever. I consolidated some loans, took out a second mortgage, and bought what I could. My two-year-old daughter now shares her bedroom with wax statues of Charles Manson and Bela Lugosi. The poor girl, I'm ashamed to admit, is a bit of a scaredy-cat, preferring her stuffed bears and bunnies to cult murderer and vampire. I patiently explain that Spooky World has been a vital New England tradition for the past 13 years, and we must always honor the past. Besides, my bedroom was already stuffed with artifacts--fog machines, torture devices, gargoyles, bats, and assorted monsters--courtesy of Spooky World's Horror Museum. I can barely make it to the bathroom in the middle of the night without killing myself, and there's absolutely nowhere to put Charles and Bela except in the bed itself--a sacrifice that even a horror nut like me has refused to make. My five-year-old did her part without complaint, trashing her Barbie set to free up space within her quarters for legions of Disco Ghosts and Killer Klowns. My only complaint is that she consistently misspells "Klowns," substituting a "c" in place of "k." I have to remind myself that her kindergarten is what they call "traditional." No Child Left Behind notwithstanding, education is not what it used to be. The Grim Reaper now sits at the head of our kitchen table--our dining room jammed with artifacts from the House of Fangs, one of the nicest mausoleum's you'd ever hope to visit. Having ceded my chair to the cause, I often kneel next to the table to join my family at dinner. It all comes down to values: We put a premium on togetherness in our household, even if that includes the odd ghoul or zombie. The living room is, shall we say, a work in progress. While Tiny Tim's ukulele is a proud addition to any room, I'm still trying to find a way of exhibiting Janet Leigh's "Psycho" dress to best effect. Michael Myers' knife from "Halloween" is also posing some display challenges, though I'm confident a solution is close at hand. While it's hard to single out any one area in particular, the bathroom is the place I'm most proud of. For starters, we have the shower curtain and stenciled drain pattern from "Psycho"--original items that did not come cheap. Latex cobwebs stretch from ceiling to floor, while the sink is filled with a seething mass of glow-in-the-dark plastic snakes. Those things, I expect, can be found in most any house. What sets this room apart is the toilet: The usual whooshing sound has been replaced with Vincent Price's unforgettable laugh from "The House of Wax." Admirers have called it "a flush of genius." But I'm more modest, merely considering it a deft stroke. I'm always shocked to hear from friends who have little or no childhood memories of Halloween. It's sad to think that such an important part of our heritage--arguably the most important part--could pass by, year after year, without making a dent. I may not be the perfect dad. In fact, I'm sure that upon occasion I've left the toilet seat up and toothpaste uncapped. There may be other missteps I can't recall. Milk left out over night and that sort of thing. But on one point I'm certain: My children will always remember their Halloweens--frightful days that may provide fodder for decades of fruitful psychotherapy. Now I've got to make sure the non-Halloween portion of their lives also makes an impression. Responsible parents like me can do no less. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Cambridge resident Steve Nadis has vacation property in Foxborough for sale or lease.

It is a source of endless amusement to me, an aging logician, to hear people glibly say: “What part of 'no' don't you understand?” or the equally absurd rejoinder, “No means no.” The naivete of such remarks is astonishing in this era when one considers that the “problem of no” has confounded philosophers over the ages--invariably leading to bafflement, despair, and worse. Count Hinkel, the renowned 19th-century semiotician, was driven to madness in his obsessive pursuit of “the no,” as he called it. Wolfgang Perlich, his protege, took his own life, but not before claiming (in some margin notes) to have proved that the problem has no unique solution and, in all likelihood, no general solutions either. (The full text of his argument has yet to be found.) Another noted philosopher, Sir Martin Luddington, died of syphilis though the precise link between that affliction and his work (a spectral analysis of the gradations of no) is still shrouded in secrecy. These setbacks have not dissuaded others from trying where the hapless Hinkel, peerless Perlich, and lusty Luddington have failed, yet progress in this century can at best be described as “incremental,” with a steady narrowing of the domain space for no the only tangible result. Concomitant efforts to attack no's parameter space have proved fruitless to date. Perhaps the only definitive statement that can be made is that no resolution to the no problem is in sight. Lest there be any confusion on this point, I'd like to stress that by exposing the fundamental ambiguity of no, I am in no way condoning the exploitation of syllogistic loopholes to justify acts of violence and moral turpitude. Still, we should be aware of the perplexities involved in defining no, not just for heuristic reasons, but to guide our legislators, policy-makers, and schoolyard leaders with the “shining light of metaphysics.” A simple example might be instructive here: If we assume for the sake of discussion that “no means no” and “yes means yes,” then what does “not no” and “not yes” mean? By fundamental principles, not no must include both yes and the netherworld of maybe. Not yes, by similiar reasoning, encompasses the domains of no and maybe. Solving these equations for maybe, we're left with the unsatisfying conclusion that not no minus yes equals not yes minus no. Juggling terms, this translates to: No plus not no equals yes plus not yes--a.k.a. Conrad's Conundrum. The flaw in this proposition is that it assumes both time-invariance for yes and no, as well as absolute values, both of which are insupportable in a quantum mechanics world dominated by probabilism. Complications arise, for instance, from notorious QM “tunneling effects” in which seemingly impossible events happen. Many assume that no is the correct response to the question (familiar to any student of casuistry): Do sheep fly? The right answer, in fact, is “yes, though rarely,” as argued so trenchantly by Deschamps in his rhetorical tour de France. God does indeed “play dice with the universe,” Einstein's qualms notwithstanding. Indeed, if we affix probabilities to the “wave functions” for yes, no, and maybe, we are left with the infamous bell curve--a useful pedagogical tool tarnished by Murray and Herrnstein. Yes, in most graphic renderings, occupies the left-hand portion of the curve, no the right, while maybe occupies the vast bulge in the middle--not unlike that burgeoning from the waistlines of middle-aged men who can't say no at the buffet table. In the special (and some argue “trivial”) case of a flattened bell curve, yes, no, and maybe are all equivalent (and normalized to zero on a Gaussian scale), pointing to the patent absurdity of the standard yes/no dichotomy. Would that it were so simple, then I too might join the great mass of couch tubers splayed out in living rooms across the country. But in this world of Heisenbergian uncertainty, where no routinely spills over onto yes and vice versa, I must continue my quest for the “grail of no”--a quarry that has lured and destroyed some of the greatest thinkers in the lands. It is now a lonely occupation, with few professional journals extant, save for the vestigial “Null” and its online derivative, “Naught.” The times--to echo the words of Zimmerman--are indeed “a-changin'.” Years ago, when I was a philosophy student at correspondence school, we used to knock off several paradoxes before breakfast, taking on Xeno's dilemma, as well as Euclid's vaunted (though misguided) attempts to “square the circle.” Nowadays, so-called philosophers can spend an entire career trying to prove the existence of “Lucy”--a fictional character evidently much beloved to TV viewers in the early days of that medium--without knowing a single word of Heidegger or Husserl. I recently spent time with one of these “scholars,” debating the pervasiveness of palindromes in written discourse late into the night over a cup of latte' (what we once called “Sanka” ). I insisted on picking up the tab, despite my meager philosophy pension, yet try as I might, I could not interest the young sophist in the problem of no and the converse theories of affirmation. Indeed, my classes on these subjects were barely attended up to the time of my forced retirement 20 odd years ago. The only graduate student I managed to attract to the enterprise--an enthusiastic, though not overly bright Canadian--quickly abandoned ship, taking a position in the “laboratory” of my department rival to exact ever greater constraints on the number of angels that could safely flit on the head of a pin, or some such rubbish. His name frequently crops up in the literature, though only on ancillary problems of little import to humanity. I've reached the sad conclusion that until our society is ready to truthfully and diligently confront the no question, we will never be able to fully embrace “yes,” as Molly Bloom did so convincingly at the conclusion of Ulysses. That would be the real tragedy here, making the demise of Hinkel, Perlich, and their luckless successors (a list of names that might someday include my own) seem insignificant by comparison.