CALL ME SNAKE

I don’t claim to understand it and never did. But today I found out that my memberships in the Humor WebRing and Funny Humor Writing WebRing were magically reinstated–perhaps a result of all the complaining I’ve been doing of late. In any case, I’m back to being humorous and funny again–important traits for any aspiring comedian. So I guess I’d better keep on doing what I’ve been doing. In other words, expect more of the same. As my pappy always said: “If it ain’t fixed, break it!”

I was heartened by a recent “news analysis” piece in the Boston Globe that showed how Bush’s domestic agenda is foundering, with the “mandate” he claimed last year now appearing thin to nonexistent. Upon reflection, I’ve realized the situation is, at best, a “good news/bad news” thing. The bad news, of course, is that we’re stuck for 3-plus more years (can’t wait for the “Lame Duck” era to set in!) with a leader hellbent on ruining the country as quickly as possible. The good news is that he’s fairly inept, which means there’s still some hope for the rest of us.

It was bad enough when my membership to the Funny Humor Writing WebRing was suspended. I rationalized that one by saying I was happy to write something that qualified as “humor.” It didn’t have to be “funny humor.” But now that my membership in the Humor WebRing has just been suspended, that line of argument isn’t holding up so well. For now, I’m pinning all my hopes on the “Moderately Amusing WebRing.” If I get bounced out of that one, I might have to rethink this whole proposition and find a new hook to hang my hat on. Volleyball anyone?

Tomorrow we’re celebrating my youngest daughter’s third birthday. That should be a joyous occasion, right? You go out and buy a bunch of presents, wrap them up, and then what happens? You give them to all the other freeloading, moocher kids who come to the party, leaving with far more than they brought. That’s the “goodie bag” concept that has turned every birthday party into a nightmare for parents. When I was a kid, admittedly a few years back, you were lucky to get a piece of cake at a party–that is if you didn’t misbehave. You never left with a bag full of presents. And these days, one present will not do for those greedy kids. No you need a well-rounded assortment of crap to keep them from screaming bloody murder.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. Parents everywhere can heed my call and unite: Let’s put an end to this foolish practice and restore some sanity to birthday celebrations. It may be too late to restore sanity to this particular parent–what with the event less than 24 hours away and the pressure mounting beyond belief–but I’m thinking of all the other parents out there, and future parents down the road, who might be spared this most inhumane form of punishment.

How’s this for bad luck? You’re engaged to one of the richest girls in America. Then a band of leftist revolutionary cultists busts into your apartment, beats you up, and kidnaps your fiance. Then she’s brainwashed and falls in love with one of her captors. Losing your girl to a guy named “Cujo” must be particularly hard to take. She’s with this cult for nearly two years, during which time you see her on TV brandishing a rifle and robbing banks. Then she’s captured and spends another almost two years in jail. When your gal emerges from that nightmare, she ends up marrying her bodyguard. All this happened to Steven Weed 30-some years ago. He came ever so close to having it made, when it all went south on him–in the most spectacular way.

(Source: “Guerilla: The Taking of Patty Heart,” which aired on PBS two nights ago.)

I understand string theory quite well, save for a few nuances like: what are strings, branes, fluxes, moduli, and vacua? Yet, deep down, I’ve always felt that my understanding wasn’t quite complete. Yesterday I spoke with one of the world’s leading string theorists who told me “string theory is not a complete theory.” So I guess I’m not alone in feeling that my understanding of this so-called “theory of everything” is not complete. In fact, I’m in very good company.

New WebRing mail almost always contain bad news, and today was no exception. “Your site in the Funny Humor Writing WebRing has been suspended,” read the latest note. Then, to drive the point home, in case I was not only unfunny but thick, it repeated: “The RingMaestra of the ‘Funny Humor Writing WebRing’ has suspended your site.” But I get the point and am now starting to worry about whether critics like Burt–who I’ve dismissed as a bunch of malcontent wannabes who wouldn’t know funny if it reached up and bit them in the heinie (hey that’s a good one; have to use it sometime!)–might be onto something after all. My membership in the “Moderately Amusing WebRing” is still intact and, for now, I hope to keep things at least at that level. If I can’t continue to meet that lofty standard, the “Not Funny Humor Writing WebRing” awaits me. I’m sure Burt will be happy to write me a strong recommendation. Any other volunteers?

Jim O’Brien has my dream job. Yesterday, the Philadelphia 76ers organization fired O’Brien, who had been the team’s head coach, and he’ll now get $12 million over the next three years for doing absolutely nothing. Now that’s a job I’m perfectly qualified for. And it’s something I could do at least as well as O’Brien and probably better on account of my experience. So how come he’s sitting pretty there in Philly, doing what we professionals call “bubkis,” while I’m over here scrounging for a living? Hardly seems fair when put in those terms. The situation, moreover, raises an obvious question: How come I don’t get jobs like that?

Don’t look now but “CALL ME SNAKE” has cracked the “Most Highly Rated” blog list at Blogarama, currently sitting at 92. This is an accomplishment that should not be sneezed at (though it could reasonably be sneered at or scoffed at). With your help, we made the top 100 in this hotly-contested category. I’m not sure how many blogs, in total, were vying for this title but I’m pretty sure there are at least 92. All in all this accolade, combined with my uncredited contributions to a recent “Miss Conduct” column (see “MY 15 MINUTES” earlier today), have made this an amazing, dizzying day. I should be on Cloud 9 right now, taking it all in, were it not for the fact that I’m a perpetual worrier. I’m already thinking about tomorrow, wondering how in god’s name I’ll ever top today.

Maybe you wouldn’t call it earth-shattering, but a question I asked “Miss Conduct” (the witty and urbane etiquette columnist for the Boston Globe Magazine) was addressed in last week’s issue. I got a very polite note back from her letting me know it was a “good f_ _ _ ing question,” though I knew that already. (I was pretty darn proud of it, realizing I finally had something worthwhile to ask Miss Conduct after having read her column for weeks, straining to come up with a decent query). I was assured that my question would be answered in a column she had already prepared on a similar topic–namely whether to ask people who you’re pretty sure don’t have jobs what they do for work when they ask you the same. (Boy, do I hate that question!) She said to “ask the f _ _ _ away,” so long as you do it in a thoughtful and respectful manner–a caveat that could be applied to most etiquette-related matters when you get right down to it, save for those special occasions when you’re obliged to be boorish and inappropriate. Interestingly, the last time I was in a social situation (three or four years ago), I followed the letter of her instructions–”asking the f _ _ _ away,” so to speak–so it’s good to know that my instincts, as always, are right on the mark.

It happened again. Another friend, who was back in the States after spending nearly two years in China, got wind of my blog and was so disheartened by that unexpected development that he flew back to China on the first plane he could catch–traveling an even greater distance than that traveled by the friend I drove to Africa last week. Which is all encouraging news to me. The more I keep writing, the more my friends are going to keep dispersing all over the world. In the end, that’s got to be good both for them (the old “travel can be so broadening” principle) and for the world at large. Call it a “win-win”–another unexpected byproduct of “CALL ME SNAKE.” And just remember, you heard it here first.

An MIT professor (I won’t name names) has just won a big award. Not the Nobel Prize, which many people think he’ll eventually get, but a more exclusive honor: winner of the messiest office in Boston. I’ve visited his office many times, and the level of disarray is indeed impressive. However, I should point out that the term “messy” is subjective. Several times during our talks, a paper or report will come up, and he’ll reach down into the piles that cover his floor and pull out the document within seconds. I doubt people who pride themselves on their neat filing systems could do any better.

On a superficial level, I suppose, he deserves the award. But a mess, like many other abstractions, lies in the eyes of the beholder. Where others see pure chaos, this distinguished scholar sees perfect order. It’s all a matter of perspective.

Sometimes science yields results that are hard to fathom, even for so-called “students of science” like myself. Consider this new study from Wake Forest University, the results of which were announced earlier this week with the following headline: “STUDENTS WHO GET DRUNK WEEKLY HAVE HIGHER RISK OF INJURIES.” The study showed, in fact, that these students were three times more likely to get hurt than students who were not successful in getting drunk on a weekly basis. Members of the once-a-week group were also more likely to suffer injuries from falls and automobile accidents than members of the “controlled [drinking] group.” All of these results fly in the face of reason, defying our intuition and cherished beliefs. Yet, in the end, that’s what science is all about.

Many of you have heard how my membership in the “Funny Humor Writing WebRing” was recently suspended. (See, for example, “SUSPENDED!”, which was posted on May 3, 2005.) I know I promised to explain what a “WebRing” was, but I still can’t tell you other than to say it’s related to something called the “world wide web” (www), which is a word I’m sure you’ll hear more about in coming years.

Yesterday, I received good news: My membership in the “Funny Humor Writing WebRing” has been activated again. I’m no longer considered just “Moderately Amusing” (the name of another webring to which I belong) but actually “funny.” So if you’re not laughing, this time you can’t blame the writer.

Embattled Harvard University president Lawrence Summers has made at least 100 apologies since January 14, when he suggested that the dominance of men in science and math may be due to innate differences. (The actual term he used was “intrinsic aptitude.”) But now that summer is approaching, Summers has grown tired of apologizing. Instead, he’s trying to put that controversy to rest, pledging to spend $50 million in the next decade to improve the situation for women on campus. However, if the “provocative” assertion he has since recanted was, in fact, correct, one has to wonder whether $50 million will be enough.

A lot of people think bloggers are worthless sods who sit around on their asses, contributing nothing of utility. For the most part, that characterization is accurate. There are exceptions, however, the following story being a case in point.

I’d fallen out of touch with a good friend (at least we used to be good friends; more on that later), mentioning in an email that I’d started blogging during the intervening months. I didn’t hear anything from him until several more months had passed, which was surprising since he’d normally been a prompt respondent. Finally, a note came two days ago. He said he’d been so thrown by my message that he didn’t know what to say. He’d always looked askance on blogging, considering it a form of “mind vomit” and was amazed that I–someone he used to look up to (don’t ask me why; I never told him to)–would engage in such a worthless pasttime. In any case, he was leaving in a few days for East Africa, where he’d be for many months, working as a public health specialist in the fight against the AIDS epidemic. He did not say that my blogging had exactly prompted him to leave the continent, but reading between the lines I was left with no other interpretation. Which is a roundabout way of saying that CALL ME SNAKE is anything but worthless. If it helped drive this man to East Africa, and if his presence there helps to save at least one live, how could anyone consider my blog anything less than a godsend?

This morning, I was working on my bike (did I mention my love of cycling, one of the many things “W” and I share?) when it happened–my first, face-to-face encounter with the paperboy. (The “paperboy,” by the way, is a grown man, so another term would be appropriate. “News delivery professional”–NDP for short–seems to have become the industry standard of late.) The tension was palpable; you could have cut it with a dull butter knife. I have not tipped my NDP as often as he would have liked, as the tip envelopes arrive, without fail, every single week–more faithfully, I might add, than the arrival of the papers themselves. I believe in tipping during the “holiday season” but not in mid-May. (“Armed Forces Day” is not what I mean by the holiday season.) My frugality has created the situation I’m currently facing with my NDP, including the aforementioned delivery problems.

He handed the paper to me but took a moment (at least it seemed to me) before letting go. In that moment, which lasted an eternity, I thought of running upstairs, grabbing my checkbook, and handing over the entire balance (no great sum) to him. But then he was off, shouting “have a good day!” Taken aback by his exuberance, I was temporarily at a loss for words. “Same to you!” I called out, as he climbed into his car. “Come back around Christmas!”

I didn’t think I had anything in common with George W. Bush. When he stopped drinking and started running, I stopped running and started drinking. For the longest time it seemed like we couldn’t agree on anything. But now I realize we have something in common, a bond that may never be broken: Neither of us likes to be bothered by “current events” when we’re out riding on our bicycles. When I go pedaling, you can be sure that no one is going to hound me about the latest developments on the domestic or international scene, and the same is true, apparently, with “W.” Last Wednesday, when the White House and Capitol buildings were evacuated, and his own wife was taken to a “safe” location, owing to the wayward flight path of a Pennsylvania pilot, “W” was not informed. Why? Because he was out riding bikes with an old high school friend. That’s the kind of reasoning that I, for one, respect, even if many thought our country was facing its gravest security threat since 9/11. The man was riding his bike. Enough said.

Today, we start a new feature here at CALL ME SNAKE–the “Featured Blog Posting of the Week.” This week’s award goes to “The First Two Rules of the Fight Club,” which can be found in “THAT ONE BLOG” (see link on right). In this satiric tour-de-farce, the author (DrMax) deftly skewers the macho bravado of the Fight Club code to great comic effect. It is must reading for every Fight Club member and to those of you thinking of joining Fight Clubs in your homes, schools, churches, and temples. Check it out. And remember: You heard it here first.

A name is more than just an arbitrary label. It shapes your life and, to a large extent, your occupation. If you don’t believe me, just see the latest issue of the Annals of Improbable Research where you’ll find a fascinating article on the “Name Number” for geology and other professions written by an award-winning journalist. (I can already anticipate the question: No, I did not write this fascinating article. It was written by Kevin Krajick, who has won several journalism awards, including one that he won twice, which still counts as two awards, even though it’s the same one.) In this article, Krajick refers to “Nominative Determinism”–the fact that many people’s names are “spookily related” to their profession. This, of course, is the very same phenomenon I just described a few sentences ago. (The similarity is “spooky,” if not uncanny.) Here are some examples that Krajick cited: Forrest Hall and Robert Forrest in the field of forestry; Vernon Byrd and John Wingfield in ornithology; Kathleen Weathers and John Weatherly in meteorology; and Ken Drinkwater and Andrew Fountain in oceanography/hydrology. To this list, I’d like to add some additional names: Albert Einstein, genius, and Eugene Shoemaker, geologist.

This article graced the pages of the “Daily Express,” a morning “mid-market” newspaper in the UK: “Husband who tried to kill wife is lecturer in ethics.” Sounds like this scholar must have delivered some pretty interesting lectures, chock full of the complexities of human nature. All I can say is that I’m glad I didn’t fail his course.

[SOURCE: Annals of Improbable Research, March/April 2005]

There’s no getting around the fact that things are awfully competitive these days. Now two-year-olds have to be interviewed before gaining admittance to preschool. And yesterday, a Cambridge friend told me her dog Phoebe had to be interviewed by two miniature poodles before she could get a lease for an apartment she was hoping to rent. I don’t have an exact transcript of their “conversation,” but evidently Phoebe did well. She didn’t eat either of the poodles, and my friend got her lease. But it makes you wonder as to what’s coming next. Lawnchair interviews?

It’s amazing what will turn up in your email–things that can change your life. Today, for example, I found out about an incredible opportunity (once in a lifetime would be an understatement!) to write and edit a training manual for hot tub technicians–300 to 400 pages worth. It’s fair to say that by the end of that process, you’d have a better-than-average grasp of the mildew and fungal challenges facing the spa, hot tub, and recreational water industry. The requirements for a job like this, needless to say, are exacting. Among other chores, the writer/editor will need to “correct information, inconsistencies, etc.” I think I’d be up for the first two items on that list, but I am worried about the “etc.,” which could become a veritable Pandora’s box. You also need to be able to receive email on a 24/7 basis. On that front, I’m already ahead of the game, having long ago shifted to the 25/8 schedule. So if things get quiet from this end for awhile, you’ll know where to find me — sitting in a hot tub, laptop in hand, correcting inconsistencies, etc.

Today, we start a new feature here at CALL ME SNAKE — the “Featured Blog Title of the Week.” (Critics point out that we start a lot of new features here at CALL ME SNAKE that are never seen again, but I say to ignore those naysayers who see only the hole of the donuts, rather than the center.) This week’s “Featured Blog Title of the Week” is “Mindless Blather,’ http://jamiesmindlessblather.blogspot.com/. My review of this title will be brief, owing to the fact that I have a “meeting” scheduled any second now, plus the fact that I don’t have a lot to say other than this: “Great title. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Of course, a title as great as “Mindless Blather” can be a blessing, as well as a curse. The plus side is obvious. The hard part, of course, is living up to (or down to) a title like that. Can the author, Jamie Dawn, pull it off? Read and see.

There’s an old saying around these parts: It ain’t over ’til it’s over. It ain’t over until the slightly overweight lady–whose best efforts to follow the South Beach diet have somehow gone North–sings. Well, I got news for you folks: She’s singing now, belting out a frightful round of blues, and as for that other matter, how can I break it to you: IT’S OVER. Our once high-flying Celts are now disgraced, after having shamed themselves in game 7 at home. The season is finished, and Antoine Walker (who received entirely too much attention in these pages) was the best Celtic player on the court last night in what may have been his last game in the Green.

Although the outcome is sad in one sense, the good news (always looking for the bright side!) is that I now have my life back and am aggressively seeking new ways of wasting time. I’m already frittering away about as many hours as possible blogging and am looking to supplement that with entirely new forms of nonproductive activities. If you have any hobbies that are prodigious time-wasters with no apparent redeeming value or “upside” (as it’s now called), by all means get in touch. I’m at my wit’s end at the moment, trying to fill the void in a life that is lacking at least one substantial void to round out an otherwise full portfolio. I have no interest in philately, but am open to philanthropy (particularly at the receiving end!), philomathy (driven to learn useless things!), phillumeny (matchbox labels are sexy!), and philogyny (love to hear more!).

If my prose seems a bit more stilted than usual, there’s a reason and it’s rather embarrassing. I’ve searched all over town but still can’t find men’s “briefs” (a euphemism for underwear) in my size. For some strange reason, there seems to be a run on 34-inch-waist briefs throughout the fair city of Cambridge. So I was forced to take desperate measures and purchase 32-inch-waist briefs–a size I haven’t worn since high school. Sorry to say it’s made me crabby as all get-out. Sometimes I feel as if I can’t even think straight, what with those snug briefs clamping down on me at all times, without a moments curcease. Plus my writing has become “uptight,” according to several people who follow my work. I visit the stores regularly–hoping, praying for a long-needed respite. The clerks, who’ve gotten to know me pretty well by this time, have promised that 34-inch-waist briefs will be back on the shelves soon, at which point my prose will open up accordingly. Please bear with me during this awkward, constricted phase.

I’ve been putting a lot of stuff up lately and need a break. (I think I’m getting punch drunk–guilty of “writing while white.”) I’m hoping no one will mind if I take the night off. No objections? Great. You are a compassionate bunch of people. And wise too, for you realize that if you give me a bit of rest, I’m only going to come back stronger and write my derriere off the next day. (Pardon my French.) And everyone will be the better for it, save for my derriere, which will have been written off.

Jungle Jerk contacted me today, perhaps in response to my post yesterday about his blog, but he didn’t threaten to kill me, or break any fingers, or poison my pet chihuahua, so all in all I have to consider the conversation a success. As I said, he’s a man of few words and has only posted 10 words TOTAL in the two weeks since his blog (creatively named “Jungle Jerk”) came into existence. But he assured me there was more to come. “What?” I asked. “Pictures and stories,” he replied.

In case you’re keeping track, those 3 words (“Pictures and stories”), plus the original 10, bring his total word count to 13. Yet those 13 words say more than many contemporary novels, although that’s not saying much…

Since he started his blog two weeks ago, Jungle Jerk has posted only 10 words–perhaps a record in blog concision–but what a handful of words they are! At the risk of repeating myself, I will repeat myself and reprint those 10 words: “If you don’t think too good, don’t think too much.” I think there’s a lesson in that for all of us, but I promise not to give it too much thought.

Here’s a screenplay for you: A devoted father and all-around funnyman (picture Roberto Benigni for the part), in an attempt to keep his son (a fanatical Celtics fan, perhaps with some sort of terminal illness) happy, pretends his beloved team is going to beat the Pacers in Indianapolis. To add to the drama, he describes in vivid fashion how Paul Pierce (his son’s favorite player, who visits often in the hospital, never forgetting to bring a little something for the nurses) gets ejected from the game with just seconds left in regulation for stiff-arming Jamaal Tinsley–a boneheaded move that puts a virtual rookie named Kendrick Perkins, who hasn’t been on the court all night, at the free throw line to make the two most important shots of his life. And he misses both! Yet the Celtics make a brave defensive stand, sending the game into overtime, during which they triumph despite the absence of their star Pierce. What’s more, Antoine Walker, who missed countless layups in regulation, and might have had some tough questions to answer, instead comes up with several clutch plays in overtime to seal the Celtics’ victory and send the series back to Boston for game 7. The boy goes to sleep happy–dying blissfully in his slumber as he dreams of the Celtics winning their first NBA championship since 1986–while the father is carted off by the Nazis to meet his doom.

This movie can’t miss: It will be a big hit, a veritable chartbuster at the box office, and, despite some controversy (which is good for the bottom line!), a critical success as well. Benigni, moreover will capture two Academy Awards–for best director and best actor–and surely would have captured a third, for Best Foreign Film, had the movie not been filmed at Massachusetts General Hospital. I will not win an Oscar for best original screenplay, but the nomination will be enough to secure my place in the Academy and ensure an endless supply of free, crappy movies for the rest of my life—that is, until I, too, am carted off by the Nazis to meet my doom…

When will people tire of articles about Siberian salmon fishing in Outer Mongolia? There is surely no shortage of articles on the topic and apparently no dimunition of interest on the part of the reading public. The latest entry in this crowded field appears in the current issue (Spring 2005) of Tufts Magazine–a journal I don’t normally read except for the fact that a close acquaintance of mine wrote a profile of the cosmologist (NOT cosmetologist) Alexander Vilenkin in that very same issue (a fascinating subject though the treatment seemed a bit choppy to me). The salmon story (“Down to Earth” by the magazine’s Editor in Chief Laura Ferguson) is an excellent contribution to this burgeoning oeuvre, though I for one am hankering for something a bit different: Is anyone out there–a latter-day Richard Brautigan perhaps–working on a piece about “Trout Fishing in Mongolia”? Now that’s something I’m dying to read.

This is supposed to be funny or at least moderately amusing, as my membership in the “Moderately Amusing Webring” attests. But the Celtics just dropped a close one to the Pacers–a real heartbreaker–and I can’t find any humor in it. Usually, I can lighten things up with a joke about rock, paper, and scissors, or roofball, or something ridiculous like that (apologies to my relatives who engage in those alleged “sports”), but not right now. My feelings are too raw. For those looking for cheap laughs, sorry to disappoint. For those out for aimless kicks ahd perhaps a little uplift, you’ve come to the wrong place. On the other hand, if you’re a hurtin’ Celtics fan who wants to commiserate, brother (or sister or potted plant), I know how you feel…

My career as a blogger, which looked so promising just a day ago, received a terrible blow this morning. My site on the “Funny Humor Writing WebRing” was suspended. The “ringmaster” cited various technical reasons for this decision — have to bring my SSNB code up to a “full pass rating” and make sure my site code is “in a good placement within the HTML code of your joining website page”–but I suspect the true reason is that it just wasn’t funny enough. Perhaps I shot too high. Perhaps I overreached. I should have applied to the plain old “Humor Writing WebRing,” but instead I had to go for the “Funny Humor Writing WebRing.” What a setback. What a slap in the face. And it had all looked so promising just a day ago…

I went to Albuquerque in my mind–where do you go to get away?–and found the “trip” refreshing, even better than my private Idaho. Now I’m back and ready to serve you with the relaunched, bigger and better blog my readership has demanded. (They are getting rather pushy.) As a proud member of half a dozen or more web rings (I’ll explain what those are later when I get the hang of it), my responsibilities have grown exponentially. While I had been working on a 24/7 basis to keep pace with demand, that will no longer get the job down. I have therefore shifted to a 25 hours a day, 8 days a week schedule. I hope the good old 25/8 will suffice, but with the way things are going, I suspect we’ll be seeing a 26/9 shift before too long.

Taking a cue from Jennifer Carol Wilbanks–the runaway bride from Duluth, Georgia, who took a cue from Julia Roberts (or at least one of her famous screen impersonations)–I’m off to Albuquerque, which is where I go when pressure from this blog gets too intense. Don’t waste money on a search party (and the catering that entails), because I’m going to disappear for awhile, and will not pay for all that fuss and bother when I resurface for my next posting. Y’all take care, y’hear?

Sorry, I slacked off during game three, when the Pacers embarrassed us. I was distracted (sorting socks, etc.) and listless (after a grueling day of channel surfing) and totally lacking in emotion, which never gets the job done in the playoffs. The result was sobering, and a veritable kick in the pants. The playoffs are a time to step it up a notch (or preferably three), and I brought some of that vaunted “playoff intensity” to the couch for game four, when we blew them out of Conseco Fieldhouse. They’re coming to our house for game five, and you can be sure that, this time, we’ll be ready and waiting. I’ll provide the dip.