CALL ME SNAKE

I’m off to Mexico for a week, so you’ll all get a welcome break from me. But I’ll be back in early January–rested, refreshed, tanned, and ready to get back to the business of blogging.

Although my judgment is superb, I have to consider this list a first draft because I saw fewer movies in 2005 than in any year in recent memory and did not see many that might have made my 10 Best List. That said, here’s my list which, as I said, is a work in progress:

Junebug: A good old Southern family drama.

Seducing Dr. Lewis: A good old French Canadian smalltown comedy.

The Squid and the Whale: “searing, unflinching”

Cinderella Man: “packs a punch”

Me, You, and Everyone I Know: “offbeat, kooky”

Bright Leaves: “a personal history that shows what every blogger should aspire to but can probably never attain.”

Riding Giants: “Those waves are f___ing big!”

The Beat That My Heart Skipped: “better than the original”

Fever Pitch: “the perfect feel-good flick for Red Sox Nation”

Ice Harvest: The perfect antidote to “White Christmas”

I don’t normally do this but today we’ll have a guest correspondent, my cousin Ken who lives in Nashville and tells of a horrible crime: A cinammon bun that resembles Mother Teresa [See: http://www.bongojava.com/beans.php?content=nunbun], which has been enshrined at the Bongo Java coffee house for the past nine years, was stolen on Christmas Eve. The so-called “NunBun” was a famous tourist attraction, having been featured on various TV shows, the Washington Post, and perhaps most famously in the Annals of Improbable Research. For details on this stunning development, I turn the “conch” over to Ken (whose brother Bob, also my cousin [funny how that happens], owns the aforementioned [and thriving] Bongo Java chain). Ken, are you there? Ken? Ken? Shit, where’s the number for tech support? Sorry, is the mike turned on?

KEN (DATELINE DECEMBER 25, 2005 in a small town called “Nashville”): I have never blogged so I am counting on one who does. Happy Holiday Season. I say that not necessarily to be politically correct. I say that not because it is Hanukah (sic) & Christmas today. I say that because of the confusion today brings. Last night Christmas Eve was fun being with Bob & Irma at Irma’s sisters. Watching the kids getting ready for Santa Claus. When I left the milk & cookies & a big fat apple were left out for Santa Claus. I went to sleep reading a book about filmaking & missed an early 6:47 AM as my cell phone was on vibrate. Well, vibrate it did again at about 11:30 AM with breaking news. It was my brother Bob: ” I don’t know hot to tell you this, but someone stole the NunBun.” Yep that’s the news. So once again I say Happy Holiday Season. What else can you say? When I arrived at around noon, it was clear something wasn’t right, with 2 of the 3 entrances blocked off by police tape: POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS!

As CNN is playing the one year ago TSUNAMI story I sit and wonder what will be for the NUNBUN on next year’s Holiday Season. Will we see her again? Will there be a ransom note? Who & why? And How? So BLOG THIS & see who might be listening…

SNAKE (our man in Cambridge): Thank you Ken. Please keep up posted on this Christmas Eve shocker. Though rarely at a loss for words, I am now dumbfounded and, in response, can only repeat the words of my cousin: WHY?

In his sci-fi novel, THE MAN IN THE HIGH CASTLE, Philip K. Dick writes about a world in which the Germans and Japanese won World War II. In this version, which is kind of a sequel, Al Gore became President in 2000 and we’re not in Iraq. That could easily have happened, were it not for an innocent action, which seemed almost trivial at the time, that nevertheless triggered a chain of unforeseen events. So how did Bush end up in the White House instead of Big Al? I’m embarrassed to say that I, Snake, played a pivotal role in that process, even though anyone who reads this blog knows I’m no fan of our Fearless Leader.

Here’s how it happened: Let’s go back in time to 1980. (Time travel is easy in science fiction.) I’m at a conference/exposition in Rotterdam, staying at the same hotel as Ralph Nader. I even had breakfast with him once or twice. The last time I saw him was during breakfast, in fact. He got up from the table, leaving his International Herald Tribune behind. I grabbed the paper and raced to the train with a friend. He asks me where I got the paper. I say Ralph left it. He says, “Ralph just went to get more food, you idiot! He was coming back!”

Interesting story, you might say, a real sidesplitter, but how did that put W in the White House? Don’t feel bad if it’s not obvious to you–it took me a quarter of a century to piece it together: Ralph comes back from the buffet table, looking forward to having a quiet moment to read his paper before heading to the conference himself. And the paper is gone. That’s right, vanished. And that young kid, just 25 years old, who seemed to have so much going for him–our nation’s future, you might say–had the nerve to swipe it. HIS paper. As a result, Ralph Nader, who had been a selfless crusader–taking on GM, the nuclear industry, and anyone else in the path of truth, justice, and the American way–becomes jaded and cynical. He runs for president in 2000, even though everyone tells him not to. It will put Bush in the White House, they warn. F___ ‘em, he says. Bush, Gore, what’s the difference? And, as a result, Bush beats Gore, as we all know–with some assistance from his brother, the Florida Secretary of State, the U.S. Supreme Court, tough guy Jim Baker, and a few other little helpers along the way. The rest, as they say, is history. And it’s all my fault.

Bush says if he could do all over again in Iraq, he’d do it just the same way–making the same mistakes, telling the same lies, saying the same idiotic things on that aircraft carrier, etc. And if I could do it all over again, knowing what I know now, what would I do? Would I take the paper? Or walk away?

Truthfully, it’s hard to say. I can’t stand the thought of Bush in the Oval Office. It turns my stomach and may be contributing to my acid reflux disease (for which the makers of Prilosec thank me). On the other hand, I was looking at a long train ride to Amsterdam with nothing to read… What would you do?

I don’t do much in the way of Christmas/Hanukkah (I still can’t bring myself to use the term “Christmukkah”) shopping. My wife takes care of that all too well. In fact, I wish she didn’t do such a good job of it. Maybe cut a few corners, here or there. Which reminds me of the old Jewish joke: “We hold hands all the time. If I let go, she shops.” (Which reminds me, in turn, of some other old Jewish jokes I like: Why do Jewish divorces cost so much? They’re worth it. Why do Jewish men die before their wives? They want to.)

The point I was trying to make is that I just need to buy a gift for her, yet I always take it to the last minute. The last store on my list closed at 3 p.m. today, and I got there by 2:45 p.m. I could have gotten there earlier, I suppose, but I like the rush of last-minute xmas shopping. I guess I am a bit of a thrill junkie in that way. When you take it down to the wire, as I invariably do, there’s no time for hesitation. No time for indecision. You buy the item and get the hell out. If you don’t, the store clerks will forceably remove you. You also don’t have to worry about checking 100 different stores for the perfect item because they’re all going to be closed.

Here’s how I think of it: The game is on the line, the clock is winding down, and you’ve got just one shot. It’s time, in other words, for the “go-to” guy. The ringer. In that moment, I am Larry Bird. Or Michael Jordan. And the fantasy is perfect–that is until the cashier has to ruin the moment by saying: “Cash or charge?”

First off, I want to say that I’ve checked and rechecked my files and can’t find any entry from Zardoz, so if I’ve lost them, sorry. Please resubmit. It’s not too late. Second, we have a dissenting opinion from Turd Blossom as to who the real winners should be. Picking winners is never an easy decision, and rest assured that we take these competitions very seriously. That said, I should also point out that any process involving humans has the potential for fallibility. (Remember the immaculate conception?) In other words, mistakes can occasionally occur though we take great pains to ensure they do not.

So what’s to be done? I recommend that people should take Turd Blossom’s advice and send their best ideas to Northern Sun; they might even get some money for them (not that we do this for money!). Second, to avoid any whiff of controversy, I’m going to announce a new Grand Prize Winner for Overall Excellence. And the winner is …. ME!!! For my new entry:

TEACH THE FALLACY.

I’d like to end this broadcast in the way my journalistic predecessor Edward R. Murrow invariably ended his: GOOD NIGHT AND (for any Australian readers out there) GOOD DAY!

Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please? In just a short moment, we shall announce the winners in this year’s Pre-Yuletide Bumper Sticker Sweepstakes. The competition was fierce this time around and the caliber of entries was uniformly excellent. Yet one entry stood head and shoulders above the others (mainly because I left my printout of it in the attic). Now the moment you’ve all been waiting for. And the winner is… ME!!!!! For my pathbreaking entry: “LIFE, LIBERTY, AND THE PURSUIT OF TORTURE — All Hail the Bush Legacy!” I won, as explained above, for “General Excellence,” yet there were many other winnners as well.

Windfall Woman won in the “Windfall” category, so named because she never even entered the contest. So her victory here is like a windfall in the truest sense of the word. Her entry: “Here’s my definition of torture — George W. Bush as President.

Ms. Amber won the “Brevity” award for: “Undercover Cop.” She also won the “Politically Correct” contest for “I’m Not a HillBilly–I’m an Appalachian-American” and the “Car Talk Plaza Prize” for: “This car is still running, courtesy of Duct Tape”

Dr. Max won the “Christmas Spirit” award for his inspired: “Keep the Christ in Christmas or I”ll kill you!”

Flubberwinkle captured the “Stephen King” award for being so prolific. (Too many entries to cite here.)

And Gatemouth won the “Iron Man” award for having competed in and won every single competition. His winning entry this year: “If Bush were Santa, we’d be spending Christmas on our knees with our stockings pulled over our heads.”

I’d like to take this time to thank all the winners, and I’m going to ask them to personally thank all the losers (as I don’t have time to do that and find the job depressing anyway). I wish there were enough categories so that we could all be winners. On the other hand, there is something to be said for the current (cutthroat) arrangement. After all, what’s the fun in winning if nobody is losing?

On the subject of TV viewing, I’ve been nothing if not consistent: I do not watch TV. That has been my mantra. That has been my party line. And for the most part, it’s been true. But I can no longer, in good conscience, call myself a non-TV watcher. For me, the tipoff came last night when my wife mentioned something while the TV was on, and I said: “Can you tell me later? I’m trying to catch this ad…” I immediately realized what I’d said and with it came an even greater realization–namely that I had been living a lie. So I’d now like to set the record straight: I do watch TV. Rarely, of course. And only when I’m doing other things — like the dishes, putting away Tinker Toys, reading the paper, paying bills, and other mindless tasks to go alongside the mindless pablum served up on the screen. But watch I do, if only out of the corner of my eye, while talking on the phone and attending to my sudoku backlog.

Now that I’ve publicly outed myself, will I go from being a closeted, occasional TV watcher to a full-throttle, channel-surfing addict? I can’t really say. But I can tell you this: I tried like the devil to watch last night’s Barbara Walters special on “Heaven and How to Get There.” And I would have gone to Heaven if I could. It was not for lack of trying, but I couldn’t find the damn remote. So I stayed here in my personal hell instead. Or maybe it was limbo or whatever it is they call the place where my couch is now located.

Yesterday I was feeling smug, having seen how horrible the father (played by Jeff Daniels) was in “The Squid and the Whale” and knowing that even on my worst days I was far superior. But now I’m not so sure. Without planning to (it just kinda’ happened), I have somehow gotten my six-year-old daughter hooked on sudoku. It looks serious. We did two puzzles last night and I literally had to drag her off to bed, as she screamed: “Just one more square! One more square!”

“Are you proud of yourself now?” my wife asked me after I administered a sedative to our screaming child. “It’s not bad enough that you’re addicted. You had to get our daughter addicted too?” She’s now worrying I’ll soon have our three-year-old hooked on sudoku too, which will be the end of preschool homework as we know it, irrevocably hurt her chances of getting into an elite kindergarten.

I’m usually quick with the comebacks. A real repartee kind of guy. But this time I have no answer. And no excuse. I got the kids into this mess. And they’re going to have to find their way out. It’s that simple.

I used to get to the movies all the time–at least once a week on average–but that’s dropped off a lot, partly a result of having kids and other bad habits I’ve acquired. But Call Me Snake has been to the movies twice in the past three weeks, which is–in recent memory–a record. Last night we visited “The Squid and the Whale,” a story of a family in the midst of a divorce. I give it my highest rating, 3 thumbs up, for its telling details and unblinking look at the pain inflicted on two adolescent boys as a result of the breakup of a marriage and even more as a result of the bad marriage that preceded the breakup and bad parenting all around. The sad academic played by Jeff Daniels, an insufferable, self-absorbed writer whose career has seen better days, was a comfort to me, ironically, because it showed me that even on my worst days as a father I had not hit rock bottom. (That, of course, is setting the bar pretty low.) My only criticism of the movie–and it’s minimal given the fact that all three of my thumbs are up–is that the Daniels character (arrogance masking insecurity) is so one-dimensional. But that may not have been a problem in the writing but rather a defect of the man himself (modeled, I believe, on the writer/director’s own father), who was oblivious to the pain he dispensed so freely to those around him, particularly his sons.

Look for this to appear on my 10 Best List, a less distinguished honor this year than in previous years, because I may not have seen 10 movies all year. Until then, the balcony is closed. If you fell asleep during our show, now would be a good time to wake up.

You can learn a lot about a person by the way he (she) spends their Saturday nights. Here’s what I did last night: First I watched Lassie (the 1994 remake) with my older daughter. Then my wife and I watched the last act of the 40-Year-Old Virgin. I do not bear much resemblance to the character portrayed by Steve Carrell in that (the “Virgin”) picture, except for the fact that I take my bicycle everywhere. I never thought bicycle riding was so weird but in that movie it was taken as a sign of true deviance. The resemblance between me and Andy Stitzer ends there, with the bike habit, as I do not own Iron Man dolls and other superhero collectibles, nor do I work in a consumer electronics store (as a stockboy or as a floor manager). I think I’ve already said more than enough on the subject. But getting back to my original point, that’s how I spent Saturday night. I’ll stand by my record, will not shrink from it, and am, in fact, proud of it. What did you do?

Hello everyone — Please take a minute from your shopping to read this important notice. Entries for the latest Bumper Sticker competition are pouring in from all quarters and our judges are close to rendering a decision. Consider this a gentle reminder to one of our readers, and a perennial winner (like the Celtics and Lakers when they used to win), named GATEMOUTH. Please respond when you get a moment. Otherwise all winners will have an asterisk after their award, thereby devaluing their efforts. I don’t think you want to have that on your conscience–headed as we are, full steam ahead, toward the holiday juggernaut.

President Bush had threatened to veto John McCain’s bill banning torture. We never do anything like the, Bush maintained, but it’s nice to have the option. Given that McCain’s bill had strong backing in both the House and Senate, and with the approach of Christmas, Bush and his advisors realized that a tough anti-anti-torture stance might isolate our leader further, making him look like a latter-day Scrooge or worse. So yesterday Bush agreed to a “compromise,” which allows him to torture people “just a little bit.” Bush had been angry at McCain for taking such a hard line against torture but yesterday the President took the high road, saying that McCain is still “a good man,” despite his opposition to torture.

Jungle Jerk stopped by last night en route to “The Jungle,” as usual. I’m not sure which jungle–somewhere in the “equatorial zone.” We passed the time unproductively. (Note to myself: Be more productive!) We watched part of a horrid horror movie called “Jeepers Creepers.” The characters were unremittingly stupid, moved slowly, talked slowly, and when given a choice invariably chose the worst possible path. The most amazing thing about “Jeepers Creepers” is that it somehow, against all odds, managed to do well enough that they made a sequel with the inspired title “Jeepers Creepers II.”

Eventually Jungle Jerk yanked the DVD–kind of like a “mercy killing”–and instead put on “Triumph the Insult Comic Dog, which is a lot funier than it sounds. I never found out how Jeepers Creepers ends, and I must say that comes as quite a relief. Bon Voyage, monsieur Jungle Jerk!

It’s that time of year again. No, I’m not talking about Christmas, Hannukah, or Kwanzaa. I’m talking about the Great First Annual Pre-Yuletide No-Holds-Barred Down-and-Dirty Bumper Sticker Sweepstakes. There are no ground rules for this competition, save for one: Given the holiday spirits that have taken over our nation like a magical balm, I request that you make your bumper stickers positive and uplifting, trying to keep your negativity and cynicism to a minimum. That said, here is the first (winning) entry:

LIFE, LIBERTY, AND THE PURSUIT OF TORTURE — All Hail the Bush Legacy!

Rest assured that I will give each and every one of your entries as much scrutiny as I did my own entry before announcing it the winner. Good luck, play ball, and remember: Keep it clean!

Some time ago, I made wisecracks about the latest trend in cookie fashion, Whole Wheat Chips Ahoy! I can’t remember what I said though it was probably the usual cynical stuff you’ve come to expect from me. But today I broke down and actually tried them. And, the fact is, they’re, um, um…, well, I’m not sure. I’m going to need more time to make a thorough assessment but they may, in fact, be pretty good and possibly better than the original. Not that the original, although still quite edible, didn’t have a somewhat sickeningly-sweet, trashy taste. Anyway, I’m going to keep an open mind on the Whole Wheat Chips Ahoy! line, despite my early skepticism. It may be the way of the future for me, a real turning point, you might say. Next up, no doubt, will be flaxseed Doritos and soy potato chips. Junk food just ain’t what it used to be.

With the holidays soon upon us and all the additional stuff that needs to be done–gift buying, social gatherings, etc. (not that I do any of that, but some folks evidently do)–things are starting to pile up for me. A clear sign of that is what I called the “Sudoku backup.” I cut 12 puzzles a week out of the Boston Globe and the disposable daily, “Boston Metro,” and I’m already behind by four. With two coming out per day through Friday, I don’t see how I’ll manage to work through that backlog and keep up with the new ones. Now I know why some people consider the holiday season a very stressful time. I never used to until I took up this wonderful new hobby on top of that other wonderful new hobby I took up called blogging.

My wife and I were arguing the other day about what kind of insects were biting us–be it fleas, bedbugs, mites, and lice–when in frustration she called me an “ignoramus moron.” That got my attention, just as Samuel L. Jackson got some attention by shooting off a loud pistol in Pulp Fiction. Kind of like a wake-up call in a jarring, disorienting way.

The fact is, I’ve been called a lot of things over the years. (“Who hasn’t?” I’d like to humbly submit.) But never “ignoramus moron.” Them’s fightin’ words–almost enough to make you want to take stock of the situation and perhaps not mouth off so glibly as you might have in the past. For instance, maybe I shouldn’t be talking so much about torture, when it’s clear I have absolutely no idea what it means–at least as performed by top U.S. practitioners in secret prisons in Eastern Europe. The same could be said about my lack of expertise in matters pertaining to volleyball and flying squirrels, two other areas about which I’m prone to make sweeping (and specious) pronouncements.

As I said before, it’s ALMOST enough to prompt me to change my ways, exercise a bit of caution for a change, and quit running off at the mouth at the slightest provocation. “Almost enough,” like I said. But still not quite enough. So I’ll continue to air my half-baked arguments at considerable risk of being called an “ignoramus moron” again. Or worse.

The holiday season is upon us. I know this for a fact because a fast-moving blizzard just dumped 10 inches of snow on my driveway. It’s not my driveway, actually. It belongs to my neighbor (almost 94); I’m just the lucky guy who gets to shovel it. But getting back to what I was saying, I know the holiday season is upon us because I’ve just received my first “non-invitation” to a holiday party this year. Some friends of mine, who’ve hosted a New Year’s party for many years running, were not able to do so this time. (Something about a puppy…) So instead we were informed that there would not be a party this year.

I like this idea so much, I can’t wait to start sending out non-invitations myself. In fact, I’m certain that before long, non-invitations will become more popular than proper invitations.

Have you received one yet? Don’t be dismayed if you do. Think of it, instead, as a badge of honor. A rite of passage. Your first fledgeling step into the realm of high society.

Many astute readers were puzzled by the “Sneak Preview” I posted the other day about a supposedly new “TV pilot.” We’ve seen that show before, they said, earlier this year (or was it last?) on ABC in fact. Aren’t pilots supposed to be about new shows rather than about (pilfering) old shows?

Before answering, I want to thank all those people for asking such a good question. It truly was a good question, inspiring in fact, and I thank you (them) for it. In response, I’d like to say that, yes, it is customary when writing a TV pilot to do one for a new show rather than for an old one. Everyone, in fact, does it that way. But I like to do things differently. Which is why I decided to write a pilot for an old show. (That’s the way I always do it.) And judging from the response received to date, I think it’s fair to say that the new old show is superior to the old old show, though some will say I’m not setting the bar too high. (I, for one, however, liked the old old show, even though most viewers did not share my opinion. I also happen to like the new old show, even though most readers do not share my opinion. They killed off “Homicide,” I often say in moments like these, by way of suggesting that “they” don’t always know what they’re talking about. Or doing)

This will end my press conference; no further questions please. (Oh, you didn’t know that this was a “press conference” or that you could ask questions? Sorry, maybe you’re just going to have to get up earlier in the morning. [If I got up any earlier, I'd be waking up before I went to sleep. But that's another story altogether--a tale we'll save for another sleepless night...])

We make choices in life, and those choices have consequences. For example, I wrote a blog awhile ago about how I had switched to watching Harvey Leonard’s weather reports on the 11:00 news instead of the forecasts of Ed Carroll, who I used to watch, or Harvey’s replacement at WHDH, Todd Gross.

Evidently enough other people read that post because now both Todd and Ed are out of jobs–or at least out of jobs in the high-profile Boston market, which is, by all accounts, a “great weather town” and, depending on which meteorologist you talk to, possibly the best in terms of interesting fronts swooping down from Canada, sweeping across the Midwest, and rocketing up the East Coast.

By switching to Channel 5 (WCVB) and then writing about it, for the whole world to see, I never really thought about the consequences. And I never meant for anyone to lose his job over it, though I sometimes forget how influential I’ve become. I don’t know what to say, Ed or Todd, or how I’ll ever make it up to you. I guess I’ll start by saying sorry. Then I’ll call my friend in New York, an agent who represents TV and radio people, and see what can be done to make things right.

This is some country: A German man who claims to have been abducted by the CIA and tortured for five months is now suing former CIA director George Tenet and others for damages in excess of $75,000. If he only gets that paltry sum, it works out to just $15,000 in damages per month of torture. Meanwhile, a Staten Island woman is suing a local Dunkin’ Donuts for $10 million for being scalded by a cup of coffee. “The coffee was too hot, and the workers didn’t fasten the lids tightly enough,” she claims, as reported by the normally unimpeachable New York Post.

$10 million for spilled coffee versus $75,000 for being detained, kicked, beaten, and administered drugs over the course of months? It doesn’t add up for me. But what do I know about this stuff? I still use the archaic term “torture,” whereas today’s practitioners have moved way beyond that, referring to “powers of persuasion” and all sorts of terms (like “enemy combattants”) I’d never heard of before.

For example, there’s this new word being floated around by the Bush Administration called “rendition,” which sounds like the latest version of “New York, New York” or “White Christmas,” but actually means kidnapping terror suspects and transporting them to secret prisons for long, private chats. The amount of thought Bush and his friends have given to this matter is really quite amazing; somehow they’ve managed to convince the best legal scholars they could grab to find ways of circumventing international codes of conduct and decency. In his lame-duck term, Bush has got to be thinking about “legacy,” and, after a slow start, he is now lining up one heck of an impressive one.

Condi Rice, of all people, has come out in favor of “rendition,” which must be a relief to the Administration as she appeared to be a bit of a holdout–i.e., not coming out squarely behind torture as Cheney and Rumsfeld have. It’s nice to see that she’s finally ready to play ball. It took awhile, but now she’s just “one of the guys.”

And to think Colin Powell had a chance to be part of all this and instead walked away. What on Earth was he thinking?

Today we’re doing one of the things we do best here at Call Me Snake, announcing a new feature–this time a sneak preview of an actual TV pilot written by yours truly. I wear many hats in the course of a day but many of you don’t know that one of the things I do–and do best–is write pilots for the small screen, what we used to call “teleplays” in the old days. Here’s the pilot for my latest series: “I GOT EARS (The True Adventures of Jimmie the Blind Cop).”

Jimmie walks to his desk and trips over a chair suspiciously left in the middle of the aisle. He curses: “Christ, who’s been f__’ing with the furniture around here?”

Snickers can be heard from two other detectives, Marino and Bonez. “The guy takes a shot in the face and now it’s like he’s mad at the world,” Marino whispers. Bonez nods: “So he loses an eye. Get over it!”

The captain, Joe Murtaugh, a burly black man comes into the squad room to check out the disturbance. “Will you ladies quit your squabbling? How many times I gotta tell ya’, we’re like a family, y’hear? We don’t have to like each other. We don’t have to love each other. But let’s not kill each other — unless, of course, it’s absolutely necessary. Say in one of those ‘fratricide-type’ situations. Unnerstand?”

”OK boss,” grunts Marino. “I hear ya,” says Bonez.

Murtaugh turns to Jimmie: “What about you Conlon? Can we get past this? Or is something still eating you?

“Well, cap,” Jimmie begins, “something about this case that’s still not right. I was over at the crime scene the other day and I heard something…”

“Here we go again,” says Marino, rolling his eyes.

“He hears dead people,” Bonez adds.

“Knock it off,” says Murtaugh. Again turning to Jimmie: “So tell us Conlon, what’d you hear this time?”

”You’re not going to like this cuz it means recanvassing the whole area. But the super says he heard the shots and then saw the skell bust out the front door. But I was eating a chili dog right outside the building, and I’m sure I heard the door open before the shots.”

”What’re you sayin’?” asks Murtaugh.

”I’m saying we’ve got a bad guy in lockup. But he’s the wrong guy. I’m gonna talk to the super this morning. Go over his story.”

”What’s a matter, Conlon?” interjects Bonez. “Can’t stand to see someone else close a case?”

”I got no problem with that, Bonez. But when you close a case, close it right…”

Jimmie walks down the hall, calling for his dog: “Scooter, scooter…? Hey, which one of you clowns took my dog?” (Snickers can be heard from the vicinity of Marino’s and Bonez’s desks.) Jimmie stumbles again: “It’s not funny…”

[End of Prologue--OPENING CREDITS ROLL...]

I checked my calendar, then I checked my shoe phone, then I checked my palm pilot (don’t have one but should), then I checked my blog archives, and it’s true: Call Me Snake has been in business (if you can call it “business”) for a year now. Actually a year and two days, give or take. My first post went up on December 3, 2004–a cerebral essay entitled “The ‘No Problem’ As It Relates to Contemporary Thought.” That one landed with a resounding thud, and I’ve changed the content a lot since then, made things shorter, snappier, and easier to read because that’s what the public likes, right? Shorter, snappier, easier to read?

Well, it’s been an evolutionary process. Sorry, did I say “evolutionary”? I meant to say it’s been a “controversial” process, and we’re teaching the controversy here and learning from it. And the world is a better place as a result. But I digress. (Note to myself: Stop disgressing!) The main point I wanted to make is that here I sit in the waning moments of 2005, thinking to myself: “Oh my god! I CAN’T BELIEVE I’VE WASTED A WHOLE YEAR!” Whatever was I thinking when I took up this bad habit? And more to the point, whatever was I NOT thinking?

No sorry, that came out all wrong. This is really meant to be a celebration. Like a birthday party–only without the cake, or candles, or gifts, or party favors, or any guests for that matter. Just me, sitting at my computer when I should be doing the dishes, thinking about the passage of time and this habit, blogging, that I never planned on taking up. And if I were a practical person, with a clear eye on the bottom line, I ought to give it up as quickly as I started which was, uh, well, pretty darn quick.

But I’m not very practical, when you get right down to it. Then there’s the fact that I actually like blogging. I like having a place to jot down the rare thought that occasionally pops into my head. It’s nice to have an outlet, ready and waiting, on the off chance that rare thought does pop into your head. Plus the unexpected feedback you may get–sometimes a kind word, sometimes a hostile word, sometimes an unintelligible word, but a dialog nevertheless. And a community that builds up gradually over incoherent exchanges like these.

It seems I’m rambling. (Note to myself: Stop rambling!) And becoming longwinded. (Stop that too!) So I think I’d better wrap things up here. In conclusion, I’d like to say to anyone who’s glanced at these pages, even for a second, over the past year and two days, give or take, thanks for putting up with me. And if you didn’t put up with me, well, thanks for that too.

After crying in my last post about how no one–apart from my creditors–calls me anymore (note to myself: stop whining!), things are definitely looking up. Yesterday, I bought some dinner supplies at the store I love to complain about, Whole Foods. On my way in, an older woman said: “I thought you rode a bike. You just seemed like the type.” I did not recognize the woman, though she seemed pleasant enough, and I asked her how she knew me. “Aren’t you that nice emergency room doctor I met recently?” she asked.

I was flattered by the question, since no one had mistaken me for a doctor before, though I have been mistaken for a series of scondrels, reprobates, and miscreants. It was nice to know that at least in someone’s eyes–admittedly a person who might have had failing eyesight–I could have passed for a reputable professional, the kind of person my parents would have been proud of, even though I was dressed like a slob in my standard-issue sweatpants and sweatshirt, with a rubber band around my ankle to protect from chain grease. For a brief moment, I lived up to the lofty expectations that had been placed on me since high school.

But the moment passed, and I remembered I wasn’t anything of the sort. “Sorry,” I said. “You have the wrong guy.”

Things have dropped off for me personally, socially, and perhaps in other respects. It’s gotten so bad that my 3-year-old girl now gets more phone calls in a day than I do. (That’s even more alarming than it sounds when you consider the fact that I “work” at home.) Even our cat gets more phone calls–the missing one, that is, (“Moonshine”) from people who think they’ve spotted him in various parts of our city.

But today may have been an all-time low: My older daughter grabbed my phone, which rang after dinner, and chatted with my mother. Then she handed the phone to my wife. “Hey, wait a minute!” I called out. “That’s my mother! That’s my mother!”

“She wanted to talk to mom,” my daughter said matter-of-factly. When my wife finished her conversation, she hung up. I never entered into the picture, not even as an afterthought. And that pretty well sums up where I stand these days: not even an afterthought.

Have you heard about all the good news coming out of Iraq? The newspapers there are full of stories describing the triumphs of U.S.-Iraqi forces over the evil insurgents and touting the reconstruction efforts. The great part about it, at least from the Iraqi newspapers’ point of view, is that the U.S. military is actually paying them to print this uplifting stuff. This sheds a whole new light on the term “newsmakers.” Maybe they ought to be paying the U.S. papers as well, if they’re not doing that yet, so we can read some positive news from Iraq these days. In fact, maybe they should be paying me so that you can read some positive news from this blog. Who’s to say I haven’t been paid off already?

As I’ve mentioned before, perhaps one time too many, I don’t watch TV but:

• THE OFFICE, which always had its moments, but at times came off as one-dimensional, now seems to have hit its stride. In the past few weeks, it has been funnier and better, mainly because some of the side characters are getting more developed and it’s no longer just Steve Carrell, who is exceedingly funny despite the fact that (and perhaps because of the fact that) his character has gone way past obnoxious into borderline insufferable and beyond.

• BOSTON LEGAL, a show that can be worthwhile due to the presence of James Spader and William Shatner, is now suffering from a spate of terrible writing. Both Spader and Shatner, I’m pretty sure, have won well-deserved Emmys the past two years. At times their performances (and comic timing in the case of Shatner) are nothing short of brilliant. But now that the writing has gone south (apologies, again, to my “friends from the south,” whoever they may be), they often look ridiculous, especially the Denny Crane character who has been painted into a corner by bad scripting that has forced him to act like buffoon, if not a total idiot. Meanwhile, it’s becoming painful to see that talent being wasted.

• LOUSED is the only other show that I don’t watch but I’ve already said enough about that. A few weeks ago, the second season seemed doomed by absurdity and downright sillnness but now–after several strong showings–I’m hopeful he series has righted itself, at least for the time being.

I’d love to take the opportunity to review more shows, but these are the only ones I don’t watch on a regular basis.

The title of Thomas Wolfe’s excellent novel notwithstanding, you can go home again. In my dream last night, I was driving on the highway, supposedly heading north of Boston, when the city’s familiar skyline came into view. Apparently I had turned around and come back downtown. Later in the dream, as I was driving out of town again, I somehow ended up in the city again. So Wolfe appears to have been wrong, at least so far as my dreamlife is concerned.

In a separate chapter last night, I was watching a new comedy starring Jerry Lewis. (France take heed! Jerry is back!) One scene in the movie was supposed to be set at a beach in my hometown near Chicago. The bluffs above the beach looked about right, but the hills beyond were way too big and I realized it must have been shot in L.A. instead. Still for a short while, at least in a fictitious movie in a fictitious dream, the Jerry of my childhood had come home again too.