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.