CALL ME SNAKE

The analysis presented moments ago (“Downsize This,” April 30, 2005) was flawed. When I Googled myself in March, I used my name and various aliases, but I forgot about the aliases in my most recent search. Correcting for that oversight, I got 2,620 results, a slight increase over the March tally. I still suffered a slight drop in “relevance,” however, going from 630 in March to 611 today. But I’m not going to let that bother me since relevance, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder. So long as I remain relevant to my mother and my children, I’m doing OK. On that score, I seem to be holding my own with my two-year-old, but my five-year-old has moved on and I fear my mother has done the same.

My tenant just got a job offer from Google today, which came in the form of a FedEx package. I accepted the package for her (though not the job) and that got me thinking of Google and how I hadn’t Googled myself for more than two months (see “Googlesize Me,” March 18, 2005). When I did so today, I received quite a shock: I’VE BEEN DOWNSIZED! In March, when I last went through this exercise, there were 2,600 results in all, 630 of which were deemed “most relevant.” Today, I got only 2,260 results–a paltry 515 of which earned “most relevant” status.

I should say, by way of protest, that I consider this classification scheme highly subjective. That said, I can’t explain my 13 percent drop in overall importance (as judged by raw statistics) and, more significantly, my 18 percent drop in “relevance.” I thought I was doing pretty well, keeping a reasonably high profile, but the numbers don’t lie: Apparently, I’ve passed my peak and entered the long decline that will continue until there’s no further to sink at which point I will have reached my final destination, that being rock bottom.

ON A MORE POSITIVE NOTE… For vanity cases who can’t bear to miss a single reference to themselves, Google has a new feature, “Google Alerts,” through which you can receive live updates via email every time you make it onto a new Google entry. Of course, the same technology could be used to inform you of every new listing on rutabagas, if that brand of turnip happens to be your main interest in life.

I’ve taken a big step into the unknown: I have joined a few, or maybe several, “web rings,” which supposedly brings “Call Me Snake,” the blog you know and cherish, into a larger community of (for want of a better term) blogdom. (I’ll explain exactly what a web ring is later when I figure it out. For now, let’s just say I don’t have a clue.) This could be good for reasons commonly cited: cross-fertilization, synergism, and cross-fertilization. It could be bad for reasons commonly cited: “guilt by association,” the “rotten apple” syndrome, and “guilt by association.” Time will tell. But for now, please bear with me during what may prove to be an interesting experiment–one, I might add, that may transport us to the stratospheric heights of creativity or, conversely, drag us all, kicking and screaming, down to the lowest rung of the blogosphere.

I’m an overachiever, even when it comes to wasting time. I was watching the Celtics game earlier tonight (they were getting their asses kicked by Indy), when who should call but my nemesis Jungle Jerk. I said I didn’t mind–and I didn’t–because I was already wasting time with the basketball game. Why not save time by wasting it with him as well? Then I got to thinking, why stop there? I started blogging with the game on and Jungle J. on speakerphone, thus achieving the elusive “threefer”–i.e., wasting time on three things at once, which is a personal best for me but, I now sense, just the beginning.

I don’t know about you but sometimes I need a little motivation to drop all my pressing responsibilities and start blogging. A sign I stick to my computer screen helps get me going: “There’s no time to waste. Start wasting time.”

File this under: “Isn’t our country great?” Lawmakers in Arizona are trying to pass a bill that will allow people to bring guns into bars. It’s a brilliant idea that will hopefully spread like wildfire (an apt simile?) to saloons throughout the land, conjuring up raucous, fun-filled scenes from movies like “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence.” I can’t heap enough praise on the wise legislators of the Grand Canyon State. At the risk of repeating myself, I can only say: “This is one heckuva country.”

“Write about something!” a friend of mine has admonished. I would be inclined to ignore him, were it not for the fact that he is one of the few people on Earth I know of who is still reading this blog. (I can’t get my wife to read it and my parents will only do so under extreme duress.) His advice certainly seems reasonable, were it not for the success of Seinfeld–perhaps the greatest sitcom that ever aired on primetime. They produced a show about nothing and made a fortune. So why should I write about something when I could just as easily–and more easily, in fact–write about nothing?

First our society went overboard on the “sorries,” with people thinking they could apologize for abominations like the Holocaust and slavery. Now we’re drowning in “thank you’s.” At the end of a TV show last night (a police drama, if you must know, though I don’t watch TV; it just happened to be on) an unseen announcer said: “Thanks for watching.” We are also thanked at the conclusion of every single TV news shows, though again I should stress that I don’t watch TV news, which in my town consists solely of “deadly fire” coverage and impending storms that threaten to end civilization as we know it. Why are they thanking us? Probably because the product they’re putting out stinks. Maybe if they put out some shows worth watching, we could thank them for a change.

There’s a new word circulating around these days, and I’d like to put a stop to it. Call me a stick-in-the-mud, call me a curmudgeon, call me a jabbernow, but I hate the word “snarky.” I don’t know what it means and don’t want to know, though I sense it’s popular in “cyber” circles. Even bloggers, whom I consider to be the last bastion of sanity, are using it. But that will soon end. I promise never to use the word again. Now it’s up to you to do your part. For starters, please don’t refer to this site as “Call Me Snark.”

By all rights, I should have missed last night’s Celtics game. My two-year-old had a late-afternoon nap, which kept her up until 11 p.m., so I should have been reading “Whingdingdilly” to her. Instead I made her watch the last quarter of the game with me, and it was painful to see the Celtics fritter away their lead and let the Pacers back into the series. Don’t get me wrong. I can handle defeat; everyone tells me it’s an inevitable part of life. I just can’t stand losing.

I was late in filing my Celtics playoff report, as I frankly admitted in an earlier post (“2005 NBA Playoff Report,” April 25, 2005). But before you castigate me too severely, I’d like to relate a little story: Just the other night, a friend told me about an accountant, a relative of his, who took more than three years to file the income tax forms for a client, who happened to be another relative of my friend. Viewed in that light, the cited “day and a half lag” in my reporting was not late at all. On the contrary, it was three years early.

Sorry I’m a day late in filing this report but my paperboy, with whom I’ve been squabbling, decided to take Sunday off, which means I did not find out until today that the Celtics won their first round game against the Pacers on Saturday night. A 36-hour delay is, I admit, inexcusable in the news business, especially in this era of instant gratification. But I should point out that “Call Me Snake” can never match the resources of a major news gathering organization such as FSNE. What we can offer–and where we excel, I believe–is in our thoughtful, trenchant analysis, in penetrating stories that get beneath the surface. That’s why people come to us. That’s what they’ve come to depend on, and that’s not going to change.

I just got an email message today from a nuclear physicist in Michigan State in response to questions I posed to him a year ago about the synthesis of heavy elements in the early universe by means of the “r process.” He answered the questions politely, and matter of factly, as if I had written to him just yesterday, rather than in APRIL 2004. Perhaps my letter took a roundabout route, traveling to him by way of Alpha Centauri. Maybe there is something to this “cyberspace” term after all. I don’t really have much more to say about the incident other than this: The whole thing strikes me as rather freaky.

Informed sources on the South Shore report that Plymouth Rock is back in its original spot. The only thing more mysterious than its sudden disappearance a few days ago was its equally sudden reappearance. Even more amazing is the fact that only a few people in the world realized it was missing. Though understandably pleased by this turn of events, the local Chamber of Commerce is taking a low-key stance, trying to pretend the whole thing never happened.

If my intuition is correct, the NBA playoffs are about to begin and this year the Celtics may be joining the party. I say “may be” because I’ve had a problem with my Boston Globe subscription, particularly at the delivery end. It seems I have not been tipping the paperboy (or “information delivery specialist,” as they now like to be called) as often and generously as he would like. (I receive a solicitiation envelope at least once a week!) With the information flow cut off, I’ve been forced to rely on what I hear on the street, and from the dribs and drabs I pick up from the postman and the like, I get the distinct sense that something is afoot.

There has been much wrangling over the deal that brought Antoine Walker back to the Celtics, and I admit that “Call Me Snake” has been dragged reluctantly into the fray. It’s now time to settle this issue once and for all. With the benefit of hindsight, it seems clear that Ainge’s deal was indeed “brilliant” and I was “wrong” to have suggested otherwise. Of course, the “genius” of that transaction may soon be called into question, depending on how the Celts fare in the postseason, and I may ultimately be proved “right” again. There is only one place on Earth where I am always right, and that is here on the blogosphere in that cozy little nook known as “Call Me Snake.”

Inspired by the Celebrity Guest Interviews featured on this blog, the famed artist/adventurer, Jungle Jerk, has started his own blog named, appropriately enough, “Jungle Jerk”–a link to which can be found at the right. He calls it: “A Happy Place–A place of comfort, a place I can go,” which certainly sounds appealing enough. The site is, at this early stage, very much a work in progress, yet the artist (not to be confused with “The Artist Formerly Known as Prince” now currently known as Prince) has, in just a few choice words, gotten off to a promising start: “If you don’t think too goood (sic), don’t think too much.” And the chorus responds: Amen.

This is a true story. I know those words precede many works of fiction, but in this case it really is true. A friend of mine’s grandmother recently died at the age of 96. Before she went, some emergency medical people questioned her at some point to see whether her faculties were intact. They asked her, among other questions, to name the current president. Practically on her deathbed, she replied: “Oy, that Bush!”

In keeping with our new content-upgrade policy (currently in beta testing), we have vowed to deliver only the news you absolutely need to read. Hence this briefing will be shorter than usual–an attempt to produce the “sound bites” that you, “the public,” have consistently clamored for. So without further ado, or additional hemming and hawing, or back-scratching or belly-aching, let’s get on with the news of the day, the news of note, the “essential news for a 25/8 society.” (What can I say? Life is so hectic for me that the old 24/7 just isn’t enough.) Something happened in Rome recently, but accounts are sketchy (mysterious doings, cloaked in secrecy, strange wardrobes, mystical incantations possibly of Latinate tongue…), so let’s leave that for now. (When you get right down to it, how important could it be?) The news out of Washington is equally vague. New York quiet, California as well. As for the Great Midland, little of great import has occurred there in many a year. And, from what I gather, most folks would like to keep it that way. Which is fine with me. You’ve just written yourself out of our next News Briefing. If you leave us alone, and promise not to blow up any public buildings or sneak off with any livestock, we’ll leave you alone. And that concludes this Important News Briefing. Any questions? NONE? NOT A ONE? Well that’s just fine. My response would have been “no comment” anyway.

I’ve been back from Nashville for several weeks now, but thoughts are still percolating in my head from that excursion, perhaps as a result of my recent jaunt to Plymouth, Mass. (“Travel can be so broadening…”) One of the things that has occurred to me is that during the whole time I was there, no one once said: “Y’all come back soon, y’hear?” I was really looking forward to hearing that turn of phrase and was disappointed when all was said and done and those words were not said and done.

What, if anything, does that mean? Perhaps they just don’t say that anymore, which would be a pity. The alternative, however, would be far worse from my point of view: Maybe they’all don’t want me to “come back soon, y’hear?”

I just got back from Plymouth, Massachusetts and have a rather disturbing announcement: Plymouth Rock is missing. Gone. Kaput. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there’s no cause for alarm. But while driving past Plymouth Harbor this morning, en route to Plimoth (sic) Plantation, I did not see Plymouth Rock. In the spot of ocean where I expected to see a rock, there was nothing. Well not actually nothing. There was seawater all right, but no sign of a rock. So I have to conclude it’s gone. Unless the tide was unusually high. Or it got shifted during the last Nor’easter. Or I was looking in the wrong spot (unlikely, as I am normally a dead-on marksman). The main thing is not to panic. I might be mistaken. Still, it’s best to keep our eyes open, in case it turns up in an unexpected spot. In the meantime, I’m out looking for a replacement. And I might just pop it in sometime soon, when no one else is looking. If I do it quick, under the cover of night, most folks wouldn’t even know it was missing in the first place.

The Atlantic Monthly Magazine, a Boston institution since its founding in 1857, is pulling up stakes and moving its editorial offices. Literary scholars and publishing industry insiders have expressed concern that the Atlantic would not be the same if it moved, say, to California. Though I am hardly a literary scholar nor a publishing “insider,” I agree that the Atlantic would not be the same on the West Coast: It would be the Pacific.

It was a good night: I had the kids in bed by 9 and after two stories (one in which Santa got stuck in the chimney), I ducked out in time to catch the last quarter of the Celtics game with my friend “B.G.,” who’s more knowledgeable about basketball than I am, since he’s actually played the sport. (I haven’t been on a basketball team since the age of 11, when I played with the Chicago-based “Spoilers,” who true to their name lost every single game.) B.G. showed me a column about squash–the sport rather than the whatever you call it (gourd?)–written by Steve Almond that appeared in this week’s Boston Phoenix. B.G. was a key figure in this story, though the author, who claims to have played squash with him for four years, called him Reverend Bubkis and sometimes just Rev. That’s news to me, since I’ve played volleyball with the same “strapping, six-foot-five beast of a man,” as Almond put it, for nearly 25 years, and in all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never once known him to be called “Reverend,” “Rev,” or “Bubkis,” though I have heard the monikers Big Al and Big Guy, in addition to the aforementioned B.G. It just goes to show ya: You think you know somebody, and then something like this has to happen–a shattering revelation that makes you question everything you know and reexamine everything that has happened, or that you think has happened, since an innocent era known as the 1980s.

I enjoyed the Almond column and agree with most things he said–especially the part about the squash ball being “very hard”–though I take issue with his characterization of squash as “the most macho game ever invented.” That’s because I know something Almond doesn’t know: Seven years ago, the man he calls “the good Rev” played two games of handball against a well-known blogger. After two games, his hands were a purplish, puffy mess and he vowed never to set foot on a handball court again–a promise he shows no signs of breaking. I think that pretty well squashes the squash theory and puts handball back on the macho deathsport pedestal where it belongs, one notch below badminton.

What’s up with Bush (aka “our fearless leader”) these days? Last night I watched the 11 o’clock news (I watch it for the three-act weather extravaganza, what else?) and saw Bush parading around with the Washington Nationals (when are they going to get it over with and start calling themselves the Reagans?). The night before he was doing publicity shots with the (MY) New England Patriots. What team will he be glomming (sp?) over tomorrow? And, more importantly, what happened to the “hard” job we hired him to finish? Doesn’t he have any countries to bomb? If not, the least he could do is try to find some way of making the world a more dangerous place. He owes that much to the majority of honest, hard-working Americans who did not vote him into office.

We try to be responsive to our consumers here at “Call Me Snake,” your leading source of news. It’s come to our attention that the “content” at this site has dropped off of late and is not up to its usually flawless standards. Rest assured that we take your concerns seriously. In fact, this problem is being addressed as we speak. You’ll be sure to notice a significant upgrade in the content very soon. Thanks, in advance, for your patience.

Yesterday, a friend emailed me an amusing item about the nomination of a new Pope. Modeled after the NCAA basketball championships, it had the Sweet Sistine, the Flagellant Four, and other clever touches. All in all, it was pretty funny, and very elaborate. Yet the whole exercise made we wonder: Who has time to waste on things like that when they could be wasting their time blogging?

Before the ads on the local TV news last night at 11, the announcer said as a teaser: “And now the secret Britney’s fans have been dying to hear…” Shameless promotion like that never works on me. I promptly turned my TV off, canceling my cable subscription in the process. After all, what could a guy like me, who has everything going for him, possibly care about her sexual preferences? Not that there’s anything wrong with it…

I’m a bit of a scholar, you might say, and I found this information after extensive digging in the Library of Congress archives, as well as by reading Parade Magazine yesterday. To quote Parade (lest anyone accuse me of misquoting Parade): “The government spent more than $40 million for the Whitewater and Monica Lewinsky investigations but only $15 million for the 9/11 Commission to examine the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001.” The facts in this case speak for themselves. I won’t belabor the obvious other than to say: This is one heck of a country.

When the numbers get big, scientists like me tend to approximate, so the following statistics should be considered “mostly true,” consistent with the “tag” below. The Red Sox lost to Toronto yesterday and are thus in the middle of what I estimate to be a one-game losing streak. The Celtics did the same, dropping a road game to the New Jersey Nets, who were led by a red-hot Vince (“what you have done for me lately, baby?”) Carter, which means, as best I can tell, a one-game losing streak for the beloved “C’s” as well. The team had won their two previous outings with Antoine Walker on the bench, recovering from an undisclosed injury, but lost yesterday’s contest with Walker back in action. Does that mean anything? You tell me. (And, oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention: Terry Francona’s symptoms stemmed from a situation that was “viral” rather than “cardiovascular” in nature, which comes as a relief to everyone but the heart surgeons at Mass General who thought they had a “live one.”) You win some, you lose some.

The Celtics are off until tomorrow, and the Red Sox haven’t played since we last spoke, which leaves me with absolutely nothing to talk about. Nothing, for those who love to “parse,” is short for “not a thing,” which sums it up pretty well. No news may or may not be good news, but it’s definitely nothing, or “not a thing” if you prefer the more longwinded phrasing. I could, of course, talk about Terry Francona, who’s now undergoing tests at Massachusetts General Hospital after experiencing “chest pains,” but I’d rather not go into someone else’s medical condition without an obvious payoff to my legions of readers. Why waste your time? (I don’t need an editor because I’m very hard on myself and am, in all honesty, the toughest editor you can find. If it doesn’t make me laugh–and I’m talking about a real belly laugh, not just a chortle or a guffaw–it won’t make the cut. “This isn’t funny,” I often find myself saying. Or, to put it in other terms, “I’m not laughing.” “Where’s the humor in someone else’s misfortunes?” is another query I put to myself. The point I’m trying to make here is simple: I don’t write unless I have something truly important to say. I’m too busy and–to give you the benefit of the doubt–you are too.)

But maybe there’s something wrong with me. Just because the Celtics or Red Sox have not played doesn’t mean there’s nothing else worth discussing. Perhaps, as many people have suggested, I should establish some sort of “inner life.” That’s an interesting idea, which I just might look into–that is if I ever find a moment where I have nothing of great significance to report on.

Writing in a confidential email note, my first “Celebrity Guest Interview” subject, Jungle Jerk, assailed my skills as a reporter, claiming to have been totally misrepresented by me. First, let it be known that I take such charges very seriously. Second, let it be known that I strenously and vehemently (violently?) disagree. I’m proud of those interviews, which were conducted under extremely adverse conditions with an interviewee who was nothing short of hostile. Given how unresponsive he was, it’s amazing how much “gold” I was able to squeeze out of those brief and tense exchanges.

If he thinks he can do any better, I’ll give him the opportunity to write his own post in this very blog. The public will then decide whose voice it prefers more. I’ll then decide personally how to respond to said mandate, either rejecting it out of hand or ignoring it altogether. So consider it a challenge, Mr. High-Falutin’ “J.J.” I’ve taken my glove off and ceremoniously slapped it across your check. Now the “glove” is on your shoe.

Don’t look now but there appear to be several new streaks in the making. The Boston Celtics have won two straight games without the services of their star power forward Antoine Walker, who’s recovering from a vague injury related to some sort of “puffiness.” I’m not sure what to make of it, if anything, but it’s out there and I thought I should have the decency to acknowledge it.

The Red Sox, meanwhile, have a one-game winning streak, after capturing the final game of their series against the “Evil Empire” (aka “Bronx Bombers” [aka the feared, dreaded, hated, "I Love New York" Yankees]).

As for my own personal streak–my so-called consecutive-day “right” or “wrong” streak–I’ve sort of lost track. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what I was “wrong” about, if I ever was wrong, but I’m now confident about be right, even if it pertains to being right about being wrong. There, glad we cleared that up. Shall we move on?

On the way back from his tour of the Colombian Amazon, Jungle Jerk paid an unexpected visit to “Call Me Snake” last night. We resumed the conversation that began more than two weeks ago, without missing a beat. It was almost as if we never stopped talking.

Snake: There’s one thing I’ve always wondered about–why do they call it a RAIN forest?

JJ: Because it rains a lot.

Snake: Yeah, I got that. But what about the forest part?

JJ: Well, uh, given the audience, I should have mentioned the fact that there are a lot of trees.

Snake: Interesting… That sort of makes sense. Is there anything else you care to say about it?

JJ: Not really. I’m kind of tired. I’ve been up since 5 a.m.

Snake: Our time or theirs? And if theirs, who are “they” anyway?

JJ: Well maybe it was 6 a.m. here, not 5 a.m. Either way, that’s still early in my book. Can I stop talking now?

Snake: Sure, that’s cool. I’ve run out of questions anyway.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: A full transcript of this conversation will soon be available on a dedicated website. The URL for this site will be posted so that interested parties can catch every word of this fascinating exchange.]

Our team, the Boston Celtics, were back in the thick of it tonight, playing an unnamed opponent in an unknown city. I was hoping to watch the game–as the kids went to bed at a reasonable hour for once, that is until one of them fell out, making a large, distracting thud overhead, causing me to miss a critical exchange in the police drama I was perusing–but instead I was forced to entertain an out-of-town visitor. The identity of that visitor, and the nature of his surprise visit, will be the subject of my next post.

Before we go there, a word about Antoine Walker, who was injured over the weekend and is out for several games. No news on his condition, though Coach Rivers did say in his last press conference that whatever part of his body that was injured is “still puffy.” That’s probably more details than you care to know, but we promise to forward information as it comes in. With Walker out of the lineup, the time has come to stop pinning the team’s fortunes and setbacks on one man and one man alone. I don’t know if my “wrong” streak is still on or off, but I have officially, permanently (at least for now) stopped counting. I’ve come to realize that an undue focus on a single player–even a player of Walkeresque proportions– is unhealthy for team chemistry. Therefore, I will stop doing that forthwith and promise to say no more on the subject until my next team update. I came to this decision on my own and am not responding to any pressure that might have been put on me by Danny Ainge or other members of the so-called “management team.” That’s all I can say while litigation is pending. I’ve already said too much.

Heard this on the streets of Nashville, Tennessee (2nd Avenue, the “Honky-Tonk district,” to be exact), as two shady characters engaged in what passes (around these parts) for learned discourse:

Man One (casual, though masking an obvious interest): Is he tall?

Man Two (barely audible, without looking up): Not so as you’d notice it.

I’d stake my life on the accuracy of that transcript, despite the errors that often creep into the reporting process. Why the certitude? Because I’m particularly fond of that turn of phrase, “not so as you’d notice it,” and hearing those words–especially when uttered correctly, with just the right level of indifference–snaps my nervous system into a heightened state of attention. I’d like to see that expression brought back into widespread usage. If you agree, and want to be part of the solution, rather than part of the problem, try using it at least once a day, in different contexts and among different people. With your help, and this shared vision to guide us, we can create a revolution in popular parlance that’s not been seen, or heard, since “where’s the beef?” Now that’s something everyone can get behind.

I went into a country-western shop on Broadway the other day, looking for cowboy (cowgirl?) outfits for the girls back home. I asked the clerk how late they’d be open. “Until I don’t feel like workin’ anymore,” she replied. I found that attitude refreshing and downright inspiring. As a matter of fact, I’m going to sign off right now. Why? “I don’t feel workin’ anymore.”

I’m back from the weddin,’ which was one classy affair and a rollickin’(sp?) good time to boot. My cousin and his wife did not rent a function hall like most normal people do. No, they do things their way, taking over an entire bridge in downtown Nashville and putting on a fireworks show for the whole city to enjoy. Once again, I was outdone by my younger, smarter, and more successful cousin. The justice of the peace introduced him as “the man who brought the sport of rock, paper, and scissors to Nashville.” He and his then bride-to-be even did a round of rock, paper, and scissors to determine who said their vows first, which may have been another first in Nashville and perhaps the world. I was flanked at the proceedings by yet another distinguished cousin–a Californian known as “the man who brought roofball to Santa Monica.” He has a fully-illuminated, regulation-size roofball court that meets all the specs set by the International Roofball Association (IRBA). He is, moreover, the neighborhood’s reigning roofball champ–this in a neighborhood that includes many former participants on Hollywood Squares. What can I say? It’s one heck of a talented family–downright intimidating in fact. I keep worrying that one day they’re going to realize I’m an imposter and throw me out. The way I figure it, there’s one way to ensure my place, both within this overachieving family and in the history books as well: I’m working hard (inspired by our hard-working president: “it’s hard…, it’s hard…”) to be “the man who brought world-class, competitive tiddlywinks to Boston.”