CALL ME SNAKE

I’m often asked: Why do you spend (waste?) so much time on the Patriots, Celtics, and Sox, with barely a mention of the Bruins or hockey in general? I don’t have a good answer, though I should, given how often the question is posed. I used to play hockey as a kid and showed great aptitude for the game; I wish I had time for an avocation of that sort, but that’s unlikely given my current circumstances–permanently chained, as it were, to my desktop. What happened to the hockey season this year was certainly “lamentable” (a word that’s not used very often but recently came up in a discussion of one of my articles by an editor). Even the “Great One” (Wayne Gretzky) couldn’t get it done, nor could Mario Lemieux, another great one though not the official “Great One,” but still very, very good at the very least. Gretzky survived countless cross checks, body blows, high sticks, and the occasional noogie, but could not survive a process euphemistically referred to as “collective bargaining.” Limeux, similarly, survived cancer, and untold invasive procedures, but could not get players and management to put their petty differences aside long enough to sign the papers in front of them. I’m reminded of the words of a great philosopher, Rodney King: “Can’t we all get along?”

I know it’s hard to use the word “cured” when it comes to psychopathology, but that may be the case with respect to my recent affliction with P.O.D. (Patriots Obsessive Disorder), which is now mentioned in an appendix to DSM-IV. Future Hall of Famer Ty Law was released by the team yesterday or the day before (miraculously, I can now say, “Who cares?”), and I didn’t bat an eye. The word “Patriots” now rolls off my tongue effortlessly, without any of the unfortunate side effects that use to accompany such an utterance: Gone are the palpitations, restless leg syndrome, and sweaty palms. “Get over it!” countless well-wishers have told me during the course of my well-publicized recovery. Well I’ve got news for them: I AM over it. And it’s been far easier than I ever dreamed possible. It’s almost going too well, too smoothly–enough to make one think I might be headed for a setback.

It’s only been two games, but the Walker trade may have been a shrewd move after all. In his second outing as a born-again Celtic, Walker scored 33 points and pulled down 13 rebounds. Plus all the intangibles–the leadership qualities, locker room presence, and whatnot that come with the package. More importantly, the Celtics won on the road, once again, this time beating the first-place Phoenix Suns on their home turf, a feat no other Eastern conference team has pulled off. The unflappable Tommy Heinsohn, who never lets his emotions get the better of him, had just one word for Walker’s on-court heroics: “Terrific.” (He had several other words, in point of fact, but none as succinct as that one.) So maybe Danny (Mr. Ainge, to the rest of you) was onto something here. Time will tell. But count me as an early skeptic whose opinion has now gone from “cautious” to “guarded.”

Maybe I was wrong in my previous blog about Antoine Walker. Why not give the guy a chance? Unlike some people, I’m man enough to admit it when I make a mistake. The leader of the free world, apparently, has a problem doing that, but I wasn’t talking about him. So if your mind was wandering in that direction, that’s you; it’s got nothing to do with me. As for me, I can admit a mistake when I make one. Although in this case, I did not make one. In point of fact, I never said it was wrong to have brought Walker back to the Celtics. I just gave voice to some questions that had been circulating. Based on his performance in his first game as a Celtic–a game in which the Celtics beat the Jazz on the road, 109-102–Walker got off to a fine start, contributing 24 points and 10 rebounds, as well as some key defensive plays in the game’s final moments. “A masterful performance,” said FSN TV announcer Tommy Heinsohn. And if no less an authority than Heinsohn said that–a man who is not given to hyperbole or partisanship–who am I to question it? To play it safe, I’d like to retract everything that’s been said before. Let’s just pretend it never happened, shall we?

I had not planned to get into this, as it just didn’t seem important enough. “Not on my radar,” as they say. But I’ve felt a lot of pressure throughout the course of the day to comment on the “Toine situation”–Toine being Antoine Walker, the newest (as well as oldest) member of the Boston Celtics, who rejoined the team last night, after having made the rounds in the NBA. Why give up their best point guard, Gary Payton, for a power forward, when the team desperately needs an experienced point guard? That question is better addressed to Danny Ainge, the Celts’ cryptic general manager. As for me, I have no answers, which is why I had been inclined not to comment on this truly curious move. I only did so under duress–bowing, as it were, to peer pressure–and am now starting to regret the whole thing.

Batten down the hatches. Assume the defensive (“duck and cover”) posture we practiced in grade school, with hands covering ears, eyes closed, and heads tucked beneath the desks. This blog is under attack. Earlier today, a disgruntled commentator, whose political barometer veers to the right of center, called me “pantywaste” (and made some other untoward comments regarding my posterior). That’s the first time I’ve heard the term “pantywaste”–certainly the first time such an appellation has been ascribed to me–and it has, needless to say, left me rather shaken. All in all, this has to be considered a low point in an otherwise meteoric blog-writing career. I’m not sure how to react, or exactly what I feel, but the word “soiled” does come to mind.

It’s no wonder I’m such a big success. Take a good look at my family, or even a fleeting glance, and one fact will inexorably leap out at you: I come from a long line of success stories. My brother, for instance, has just come out with a book–a REAL BOOK, mind you, not some comic book or harlequin romance. And this volume–the subject of which presently escapes me–surely has some heft to it. One of my cousins in Nashville recently participated in the world championships of Rock, Paper, and Scissors. Although he did not win the event, nor take home any prize money for his poor relatives, he said it was an honor, nevertheless, just being in the same room as those other remarkable athletes. Meanwhile, two other cousins have made quite a name for themselves in Hollywood (that’s Hollywood, California, NOT Florida, you wise guys). Offhand, I couldn’t tell you exactly what they’ve done there in Hollywood, California, but make no mistake: They’ve definitely made a name for themselves. The list goes on and on. I won’t bore you with all the details, but suffice it to say: If you want to see how I got to where I am today, you need look no farther (further?) than my own family

By now, we’ve all heard more than we can stomach about road rage. Blog rage, I predict, will be the next fad. A large number of bloggers, it seems, are seething with anger, which can pour out at the slightest provocation. This became evident last January, when Harvard hosted a blogging and journalism conference, to which only a select number of bloggers were invited. Those who were left out of the proceedings expressed their dismay in vitriolic terms, to say the least. And the controversy–over nothing, really, when you get right down to it–raged on, by means of dyspeptic comments, long after the event was over. “Why are so many bloggers angry?” asked my editor–the one editing my article on blogging, in fact. The answer is simple: There are 8 million bloggers (and by now that number may be 9 million or 10 million, but let’s stick with 8 million for the sake of argument), and no one gives a damn about 7.999 million of them. That makes for a lot of people whose stuff is not being read, and they’re mad as hell about it. These people don’t get invited on Charlie Rose or to elite conferences at Harvard, and they’re mad as hell about that too. Why aren’t they being read? The answer again is simple: It’s a lot easier to write a pile of crap and post it on the internet than it is to read someone else’s pile of crap posted on the internet. This I believe.

In a comment to a previous posting (I’ll be damned if I can remember which), one trenchant observer called my entry “a veiled call for help.” That was not too far from the truth. But now I’m pulling the veil off altogether in a flat-out, unvarnished plea: HEY, I NEED SOME HELP HERE! One of the things that convinced me to try out this blogging business was talk of it being a new form of “participatory” media. A blogging expert told me that the old model of one-way communications (i.e., an esteemed author speaking to faceless millions) was out the window. From here on in, she said, it’s a two-way street. That promise has failed to materialize. Sure a few people kick in their two cents worth every now and then, but to quote my old classics professor from college: The occasional two cents doth not a two-way street make. You folks out there–slackers I’m tempted to say–have to start fulfilling your end of the bargain. I can’t do it alone anymore. So come on: Stop all your productive activities, get down on your butts, and start typing.

During times when I’ve posted numerous items, some people will tell me: “You’ve really been productive lately.” It’s nice of them to say that, but the fact is, they’ve got it all wrong. When I’m putting a lot of stuff up on this blog, it means I’m not doing my real work or fulfilling my obligations as an ostensibly caring and responsible parent. In other words, I’m just goofing off. Take right now, for instance. What I should be doing, instead of typing this worthless palaver, is trying to figure out how to distinguish D and F cosmic superstrings from ordinary cosmic strings. Or finding ways to explain the intricacies of inflationary cosmology (including all the braneworld variations) to the average shmoe on the street. But here I sit, typing away, at a time when any normal person would be sleeping. Who cares if no one’s reading at the other end? It doesn’t matter to me, and it surely doesn’t matter to them.

My session last week–in which I mentioned the Patriots in writing without becoming obsessed or otherwise bent out of shape-went so well that my therapist has recommended another go-around. That was a great confidence booster, as you can imagine. So here I am, ready for another “Patriots Update.” The only problem is, there’s no news to report: I’ve scoured the papers, wire services, websites and found nothing. Zip. Nada. So the question now is how best to proceed. After the progress last week, no one (least of all me) wants to see any “backsliding.” It’s a dilemma all right, and I’m not sure the news blackout is going to break any time soon. I may have to report on the Red Sox, who are getting plenty of ink now that Spring Training has started up again. My therapist, however, isn’t sure this will be an effective substitute because the “emotional valence is all off,” as she puts it. So there we are, which just might possibly be nowhere. I’ll get back to you when I have something to report, even if–as in this case–it proves to be nothing.

Maybe it’s just me, but it drives me crazy every time a TV or radio journalist mentions the prelude to the Iraq war, because they invariably (inexorably, inevitably) say: “the run-up to the war in Iraq.” Until a few years ago, no one used the term in this country. Now it’s become mandatory, even though the term is ill-defined and possibly even vague. I realize that the powers that be at NPR and network news don’t always do what I say, but I’m still offering the following suggestion: Maybe these journalists, in the privacy of their own homes (perhaps in the bathroom, with the door closed and exhaust fan running) could try to describe our mad rush to war in other ways, just to see if it’s possible. Who knows? They just might find another way of putting it–for variety’s sake, if for no other reason. These terms go in and out of fashion and eventually “run-up” will fall out of favor. Remember back in the 90s when everyone in the media was using the word “parse,” nonstop, after Clinton denied having sex with “that woman” and also raised one of the greatest philosophical questions ever uttered by a living president (as opposed to a dead president): “What do you mean by ‘is’?” Most of us had never parsed before, and suddenly we were parsing everything. Well parse had its 15 minutes and maybe more, but now, thankfully, it’s all over. One day, run-up too will run down, and it can’t come soon enough for me.

Some pundits and academics have dismissed bloggers as a bunch of guys (and gals) who sit around in their pajamas pontificating. The “pajamahadeen” (sp?), they’ve been called. I, for one, resent that characterization. I’ve never once blogged (if, indeed, that’s what I’m doing here) in my pajamas. Personally, I prefer to blog in the nude, which adds a certain rawness and freshness to the prose, don’t you think? Some blogging experts have touted the “transparency” of this new form of participatory media. What’s more transparent than naked blogging–with no layers of clothing (and deceit) separating the writer from the reader? I recommend it to others, of both the male and female persuasions, in this burgeoning field. At the very least, it could lead to a popular T-shirt, which of course (as with the other T-shirts of its kind) runs contrary to the whole idea I’m trying to establish here. But when have we ever demanded consistency in our T-shirt philosophizing?

For the past week or so, I’ve felt sorry for Bill Clinton having to travel all over to tsunami-ravaged regions of Southeast Asia with George H.W. Bush–a has-been who even his own son has given short shrift in favor of the more politically-influential (even from the grave) Ronald Reagan. Is this Clinton’s destiny–a steady parade of photo ops with the over-the-hill gang? But I’ve stopped worrying about Bill ever since hearing an NPR story about how he and George senior are becoming great friends. I’ve never been to Southeast Asia but have heard stories of what goes on there: Traveling in that part of the world, I gather, can create strange bedfellows.

For those of you keeping track, as well as for those who are not, it’s been more than a week since I’ve uttered the word “Patriots” in these pages, following the strict orders of my Wellness Facilitator. Now that I’m “over the hump,” as she puts it, the time has come to reintroduce the term gradually to my vernacular. “Go slow at first,” she cautioned. “Mention a few facts. Nothing too involving. And above all, keep things dispassionate.” With that advice in mind, I offer a few facts that I have uncovered in the published literature. (Like most bloggers, I rarely do what is called “original reporting.” My reporting is almost exclusively “unoriginal”–that is when I am reporting and not editorializing or opinionating. [I think that's a word. And if it's not in Webster's yet, it will be soon.]) The tight ends coach Jeff Davidson is leaving the team to join the Cleveland Browns as an offensive line coach. Davidson called the move “a dream come true.” I’d like to say more, but in keeping with the best available medical counsel, I’d better sign off for now. Until next time…

Anyone who saw Charlie Rose last night (personally I don’t watch the show) will have little doubt that bloggers–at least the most celebrated ones–are a rather smug, self-important bunch. Last night, four well-known bloggers had a grand old time, chewing the fat, pontificating, and sounding, well, self-important. They betrayed not a scintilla (sp?) of doubt that they were, in this bold exercise, in this ridiculous-sounding place called the blogosphere, irrevocably changing the world as we know it. Assuming they’re right, are they changing the world for the better or worse? So far as most of us are concerned, it’s hard to say. For them, it’s clearly for the better, as it’s hard to beat having a job you can do in your pajamas.

Read this headline in yesterday’s newspaper: “N.H. WOMAN KILLS DAUGHTER, HERSELF. DEPRESSION WAS FACTOR, OFFICIALS SAY.” Leave it to the American press to cut through the haze and give you the story behind the story. This I believe.

In Cambridge, Mass., where I live, you never know what you’ll hear on the street. Why just the other day, I overheard this conversation a few blocks from Harvard Square. “Hey, where you coming from?” asked a pedestrian we’ll henceforth refer to as Man One. (Please don’t call him “Chief.”) “Tufts,” replied the other, a cyclist who shall forever be called Man Two. “What’d you do there?” asked the first individual of the male persuasion. “Talked to some cosmologists,” replied the second, also of male extract. “Where do YOU go for that?” [AUTHOR'S NOTE: Though you may doubt the authenticity of this transcript, exchanges like this are commonplace in Cambridge. "Heard it on the street"-type reporting is notoriously unreliable, but in this case I am certain of recording the dialog verbatim--exactly as it happened--despite the fallibility of memory, etc. How can I be so sure? Well, I guess it's time for a small confession: I am Man Two.]

Going back to that discussion we had the other day about life being hard, jobs being hard, etc., I’m reminded of a quote from “The Friends of Eddie Coyle.” Well, it’s not really a quote, since I can’t find the book. Consider it more of a paraphrase: “Life is hard, especially if you’re stupid.” I’m not talking about anyone in particular, of course, especially not anyone who talked about how hard it was to tell some mother his son died in a pointless war and then complained about how hard it was “to love her as best I could.” No, this has nothing to do with that. Please put that idea out of your heads. I was just thinking of a passage from a book. Nothing more. The other thing you’re suggesting is shameless and contemptible. And way beneath me.

I recently spoke with a well-known journalist–a book author and editor of an influential weekly magazine–who had this to say about bloggers: “The overall sense I get of bloggers … is that they’re a bunch of whiny, self-involved people.” I’d like to make a few points in response: First, I do not whine. I complain–sometimes excessively, sometimes obsessively, sometimes incessantly–but I never whine. As for the other part of his assessment, I can’t see why a fellow can’t speak his mind every now and then without being called “self-involved.” But maybe this guy is right. In that case, I have a small confession to make: I’m not a blogger. This is just something I do on the side. For fun. Like a hobby. It’s not who I am. So any way you slice it, I’m in the clear. As for the rest of you self-involved whiners, well, that’s another story altogether now, isn’t it?

Stop the presses. Or rather, start them. I will be published again! I have this on the highest authority. I submitted my “class notes” entry for the next issue of my (still unnamed) college alumni magazine and received email verification that my submission was received. Although I was not explicitly told that my update would be published, it’s part of an unspoken agreement we have: So long as I keep contributing to my alma mater, they will keep publishing my class notes, even though I have been getting long-winded (some critics say “flatulent”) of late. It’s true, I can’t restrict myself to the two to three lines allotted in the postcards they send, which is why I’ve found the electronic form, with attached PDF files, much more convenient. The good news is that so long as the quid pro quo is undisturbed and the dollars keep flowing (“follow the money, follow the money,” as Woodstein kept saying, ad nauseum, to the point of delirium), I have a regular writing “gig,” with my biannual entries coming out twice a year. I hope that last bit wasn’t redundant but I just wanted to call attention to the fact that I’m now virtually–or one step away at most–a “columnist,” something even Dave Barry can’t claim anymore. If anyone attacks me for that statement, and impugns my character, I will have to call them a calumnist. But I’d rather not get into name calling now on what is, by all counts (accounts?), the happiest of occasions.

I’ve gone for nearly five days without mentioning a certain football team by name. My doctor considers it significant progress, urging me to “keep up the good work.” I appreciate the encouragement though I find the sentiment a bit trite. He means well, I’m sure. Not a bad guy, even though he plays his cards pretty close to the vest. Or is it chest? And vest or chest, what exactly does that mean? Personally, I’m glad to be on the road to “wellness.” There is a void in my life that is hard to fill but that, everyone tells me, must come from within, not from without. I’ve relinquished control of the remote control and my hand feels naked, aimless, devoid of a clear purpose. It, too, must find something to do with itself. Perhaps I shall take up piano again. I’ve let that go, but Hanon’s keyboard exercises are always a wonderful tonic. Or maybe piano isn’t the thing at all. Maybe what I really ought to do is get out of the house. It’s not easy–and that may be the only thing on which I agree with our current president–but the off-season was never supposed to be easy, was it? Basketball’s not what it used to be. That’s certainly true for Celtics’ fans. Still I think I can speak for the league in general on this point, including David Stern in a candid moment–say if he thought the microphone was off and no one was listening (a’ la “we’ll start the bombing in five minutes”). The hockey season may be permanently on ice. (I admit I never used to watch hockey games, but I resent the fact that I now don’t even have the choice.) And spring training is still two months away. “W,” for the first time in your life, you are right: It’s not easy. Yet in that realization, I hope, may lie the kernel of renewal and personal growth. People have expressed concern in various ways, sometimes in the form of seemingly hostile blog comments, sometimes in the form of spam or telephone solicitations. I just want to let them–and all the other well-wishers–know that I’ve turned the corner and am on the road back. My only question now is: Back to what?

Many people out there in the “blogosphere” seem obsessed with one question: Why do you do this? (Brief clarification and upfront apology to sensitive readers, if this sounds too blunt: By “you,” I mean ME, not YOU.) I could answer it the way Bill Clinton replied to a similar question: “I did it for the worst possible reason–because I could.” Although that would be true, technically speaking, I doubt it would satisfy my burgeoning readership (whom I cherish, though at times find burdensome–a weighty charge that places constant pressure on my time, energy, and attention). So let me give you the full story. Many months ago, an editor of a prestigious magazine (I won’t mention the name, though any sane person would be honored to see his or her words in it) asked me to consider writing a feature article about blogging. “Does that sound interesting?” she asked. “Yes,” I riposted cagily, “in the sense that I would be writing about something I never thought could possibly be interesting.” In the course of writing that “piece” (a technical term in the journalistic trade that I won’t try to define for a lay audience), I spoke to several people, including one real live blogger. She told me about a website I could go to and set up a blog in three easy steps. Best of all, it was free. At the time, I thought, nah. Not for me. I’m way too busy. And besides, it’s a complete waste of time. But later that night, I got curious. I went to this site (i.e., blog.com) and was off and running after a painful hour or so. Later I realized this was not the site she’d sent me to, but by then it was too late: I was already in too deep to back out. It was free, though, like the site she’d recommended, so at least I didn’t have to dip into my children’s educational IRAs for a second time that week. But getting back to that original question, after a discussion that was fascinating though admittedly digressive, I won’t just say: “because I could.” The more precise answer would be (and this is a response Clinton could have truthfully used as well): “because I could afford it.”

My personal space organizer (doesn’t everyone have one?) informs me that I’ve developed an “unnatural and unhealthy attachment” to the Patriots. I need to step back from that, she says, and experience “gradual reentry” into my own life as Snake. Though the Patriot victories of late (almost too many to count) have indeed been rousing, she concedes, I need to try to find some small triumphs and if not a full-fledged triumph, even a positive moment or two that I can call my own. That will restore some “balance” that has been sorely lacking during the long, inexorable march to “Destination Dynasty.” I’d love to take some time now to discuss some of those small triumphs, or even large ones, or failing that even a positive moment or two. Rest assured: Those will be the subject of innumerable postings in the future, an activity that will undoubtedly occupy my time, and writing, over the course of many months. But first I need to read today’s Globe (“have you read the Globe today?”), which has a special section on yesterday’s victory parade through downtown Boston. I was unable to attend–though my therapist and other sticklers might say I CHOSE not to attend–and the guilt is killing me. I hope the Patriots and their legions of fans will forgive a small lapse in an otherwise stellar and unwavering record.

I know it’s been said before, by me as well as by others, but this time it truly was a team effort. A lot of people are involved in bringing home a championship, especially in a sport like football, especially when it involves my team. Many of these people are on the sidelines. Many more still are not even on the sidelines, but they’re helping out as best they can, making contributions here and there, behind the scenes–little things that add up in the final reckoning to that “Big W” we’ve all dreamed of. In all fairness, I can’t claim more credit than the players themselves, or even the coaches, but I like to think I still did my share, watching part of the game, when I could, once the kids finished watching parts one and two of “The Adventures of Ralph S. Mouse” and gave me permission to check out the half-time show for a few minutes while they put on their “jammies.” (It seems I picked the wrong year for that. Say what you will about Paul McCartney–the good Beatle, the nice Beatle, the kind Beatle, what have you. He’s no Janet Jackson.) What I’m trying to say here, amidst all these ceaseless interruptions, is that we’re all in this together. It was, as I’ve mentioned before, a team effort and we got the desired result for that very same reason. I think I’ll stop now, lest I repeat myself. But before I do, I’d like to thank the fans who stood by us–even on days when the mercury dipped below 70F. You’re a classy bunch and arguably among the better pro football fans to be found anywhere in New England, dead or alive. I’d love to see all of you tomorrow morning at the victory celebration in downtown Boston, but Tuesday is a day I set aside for kicking back. Kind of a “down time” for me. I’d like to make an exception in this case, but I owe to myself–a person whom I still admire greatly–to respect that special time and not start chipping away at it, for one reason or another, until before you know it there’s little left and the whole glorious concept has eroded away. And then Tuesday mornings will become like every other morning (which they are in fact, though that’s contrary to the point I’m trying to make, which is another thing that has suddenly escaped me). Not to worry, I’m a bounceback man. Always have been. Always will. I’ll soon recover my stride, as if nothing’s happened. Without skipping a beat. Hitting the ground running. At which point, I’ll be back on track. Until then, please bear with me. Just a minor technical glitch, I assure you. Nothing out of the ordinary; happens all the time. This too shall pass. (Not a bad line; has a nice ring. I’ll bring it up with Tom Brady, who has a nice ring too.) Now where were we?

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: I feel a little self-conscious ascribing the word "author" to myself, but what the heck. I am published, dammitall(sp?). My notes (quarterly update) have appeared once again in the alumni magazine from my college, an unnamed "small liberal arts college in New England." (I can hear the wheels turning from all the people out there trying to guess the identity of said institution. I'll try not to give any hints save for one: It's not a "mental institution," as they used to be called. Without further ado, here's my contribution to "Notes from alums" in the Winter 2005 issue of _____ magazine.....] Sorry if my prose seems more labored than usual, but I’m suffering from writer’s block–that age-old affliction–and am not myself these days. Which begs the question: If I’m not myself, who is? And more to the point, who am I if not myself? I have a lot of questions and few answers, which should put me in good stead for my upcoming appearance on Jeopardy! As for the writer’s block, not to worry. My healer is convinced the situation is temporary. I should be back in top form by the next issue of _____ magazine, assuming the potions work as promised. On another front, I am in close contact with several _____ (college) alums whose names I cannot divulge, as I promised to keep our associations strictly confidential. But rest assured, they’re all doing well and prospering. Except for the ones that are struggling and beset with various difficulties and hardships that I won’t go into here, as this is a forum for success stories like myself (which just may be the subject of my next entry, come to think of it). [SECOND AUTHOR'S NOTE: The last sentence did not appear in the published version of this "essay" (I don't think that's too exalted a term); I just added it here as an afterthought, against my better judgment...]

[AUTHORS NOTE: The following paragraph, believe it or not, was actually published, appearing in a recent issue of a college alumni newsletter. I'd rather not name the school but I will say it is a small liberal arts college in New England. There, I've probably given it away. In any case, I was asked to inform people of any "noteworthy new developments." It was not easy, trying to cram an outsized, bursting-at-the-seams life (in more ways than one, including my Big-and-Tall E-Z Fit jeans) into a postcard-sized space, but here goes. I realize that most of you did not attend this "small liberal arts college in New England," so I'll try to keep the "in" jokes and other obscure references to a minimum. As I see it, that's the least I can do for my faithful blog readership without whom none of this would have been possible....] ***************************************************************************************** Business is exploding on all fronts, but that’s life in the pressure cooker of the bumper sticker trade. I’ve already secured screen rights to my forthcoming (i.e., soon-to-be-written) autobiography: “Bedtime for Bumpers.” If all my “ducks” come through, my company, “Bumpers Unlimited, Limited,” may soon crack the Fortune 500. We’ve recently introduced several new lines, including the ever-popular “four-letter word” series, as in “love is not a four-letter word,” etc., as well as the “mean people suck” series. To wit: “mean people are dirty low-down, guttersnakes that insult and demean kind and tolerant people like me.” Our new product line, “Crib Stickers,” is taking off, headed by the perennial favorite: “To chickens, talk is cheep.” My latest spinoff, “Code Orange,” is tapping the lucrative “what to do when the terrorists are out” market. “Code Orange” lingerie has already created a major stir in the undergarment industry. There’s not much time for soul searching given my 25/8 schedule, but I occasionally wonder about my priorities. I hope that, upon reviewing my life, historians won’t say: “There’s a guy who didn’t spend enough time playing volleyball.”

My Tedy Bruschi suffered a terrible fate at the hands of my two-year-old, who has always been a little rough around the edges. (As well as rough around the front, back, sides, top, and bottom.) Decapitation is not too strong a term to describe what happened to my bobblehead Tedy doll. Which leaves me in a veritable pickle: The stores are all sold out. And I’ve got a full tank of gas already in my car so I can’t get a Bobblehead Tedy at the local Exxon, assuming they have any left (which is doubtful, since he was named to the Pro Bowl this week, though people should not have needed that to realize he’s the real deal, despite his travails with alcohol, which when you think of it, might make him even more than real deal than ever). (Sorry about the long parenthetical. I’ve got to stop speaking that way, indirectly, in asides and digressions, with everything hidden behind parentheses and nothing upfront, in the open, for all to see, warts and all…) So can somebody please loan me a Tedy, ASAP? I’ll pay a good price, if necessary, though I don’t support extortion as a general rule. I need to field a full team for my practice sessions, which is why Bobblehead T.B., a lynchpin of my defensive schemes, is so crucial. With all the players lined up, I test out different plays and formations, sending the best ideas on to Coach Belichick. I can’t say for certain that he uses them, but a few moves during actual games sure look familiar to me. While I’m thinking of it, I’d like to take this opportunity to give Philly the heads up: I’ve got a few doozies lined up for Super Sunday. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Caveat puntor.