CALL ME SNAKE

From what I know (which is essentially nothing), Netflix is a well-run company: You order the movies online and they arrive in the mail precisely on schedule. Yet I think Netflix is emblematic of a worrisome trend in this great land–people doing their shopping by computer (amazon.com being another example), without getting out to see and interact with other people. Eventually, this has to take a toll on our society, to the extent there is any society left.

That said, I must make a painful confession: I subscribe to NetFlix, despite the fact that I think it’s part (admittedly a small part) of what’s wrong with America. How did this come about? I got sucked in with a free one-month offer. By the end of the first month, I hadn’t had time to watch the free movies, so I ended up paying for one month. By the time that month had elapsed, I still hadn’t finished watching the movies. So it continues. But this month I vow to turn the movies in before the due date, whether I watch them or not, so that I can do my part in saving America, assuming it’s not too late. If it is too late, I apologize for my role in contributing to this sad decline.

I’m back from Caribou, Maine–the land of foxes and moose and flying squirrels. I learned a lot about the area from my taxi driver, Bryan, who talked about hunting (he hates “trophy hunters”), feeding the poor with road kill, and other issues I rarely consider from my urban perspective. According to Bryan, people from the city often have a hard time dealing with the sprawling vistas to be had in Caribou, which is unusual in its sense of openness for the East. Caribou is about as far north as you can get in the Northeast, close to the 47th parallel (i.e., Duluth, Minnesota) though Bryan suggested it had the same latitude as Fairbanks, Alaska, which was true give or take a few thousand miles.

My other “tour guide,” so to speak, was Mark, a weatherman who advised me of a safe “moose speed limit”–40 mph or less during the evening. Mark has a fondness for small rodents, especially the northern flying squirrels that inhabit the spruce forest surrounding his home. I had the chance to watch a number of these friendly furry critters sail through the air. They don’t fly–no flapping of wings, no thrust generated, and so forth–but they surely glide, deftly navigating through trees and brush. Steering is accomplished by moving their tail and legs. Their preferred mode of transport is pretty simple: Starting from a lofty perch on one tree, they glide slightly “downhill” to another tree, quickly scramble up, and then glide to another tree; they rest in hidden nooks that offer protection from owls and other predators. I watched the squirrels for hours with Mark and his wife, as we downed beers and swatted mosquitoes–a pleasant way to spend an evening, even with the mosquitoes.

In an effort to rally support for a counterinsurgency struggle in Iraq that is going from bad to worse, our Fearless Leader admonished the crowd yesterday not to “forget the lessons of 9/11.” I’m just curious, which lessons of 9/11 was he referring to: An administration that repeatedly failed to heed reports of an imminent attack by Al Quaeda? A Commander-in-Chief who, after being informed of the attack, chose to continue a reading session with gradeschoolers in Florida? A President who went into hiding immediately after the attack and did not show up in New York City until several days had elapsed? For me, these are the lessons that immediately spring to mind. I’m just wondering what “W” was thinking about, or perhaps that’s the wrong verb…

You turn off your computer for a few days and head off to the North Woods, and you never know what will turn up when get back. Somehow during my absence, a University of Chicago graduate student got hold of this blog and included me as part of his survey of bloggers, which seems to go after the question that philosophers have been debating since the Stone Ages: Why do people blog? Is it for fame, spiritual fulfillment, the endorsement dollars, or the thrill of seeing your name in print, even if it isn’t your real name, just a bogus “handle” picked at random for no good reason?

Well, since this was for a good cause–an advanced degree–I answered truthfully and put it all out there, so to speak. The exercise of trying to explain in 20 different ways just why it is I blog, has got me wondering: Just why do I blog? How much longer will this bad habit persist? And will I ever succeed in shaking it? For answers to those and other (equally trenchant) questions, we’ll have to wait for Adam from the University of Chicago to finish his dissertation. Which means the rest of you laggards need to fill out your surveys.

If all is quiet on the Snake front, it’s fer a good reason: I’m goin’ squirrel huntin’ in the wild woods of Northern Maine–a place that ain’t seen the likes of computers, let alone the internet. I’m not actually squirrel huntin’ but more like lookin’. I’ll be watching northern flying squirrels glide through the air with a weatherman from up there, or thereabouts, who’s a flying squirrel fanatic in his spare time–that is when he’s not tracking hailstorms, blizzards, and Arctic depressions. (As for the latter, I think I have me one of those.) As for why I’m going squirrel huntin’–or lookin’, if you want to be a stickler–that’s all stuff we can go into at some point in the future when we know each other better. I don’t feel like talkin’ ’bout that now, nor do I want to say how many siblings I have or discuss past relationships–healthy, co-dependent, and deviant. I’m just not ready to “go there”, and frankly I’m not sure you are neither. So y’all have a good time over the next few days and when I get back, we’ll have ourselves a little sit-down and look at my slides, which promise to be spectacular.

Over ‘n out — Snake.

It is, perhaps, the most commonly used word that is not a word. I’m talking about “nother” or perhaps “nuther” (I’m not sure of the exact spelling since it’s not in any dictionary yet, though it will, I’m sure, be in all of them soon after this post), as in “I want a whole nother one” (as in ice cream cone, candy bar, etc.). I can’t tell you how many times a day I hear people say that–especially people of the youngish vintage–so it’s clear, to me at least, that the time has come for a whole nother word. And if I have any say on the matter, you’ll soon be able to look that up in your Funk and Wagnalls–at which point we’ll clarify that little spelling matter I mentioned earlier, as well as usage issues and the like.

Our so-called governor, who has spent his entire term in office campaigning for the presidency, finally came out of the closet, so to speak, and admitted that he is testing the waters for a 2008 presidential bid. But even when Mitt (Mr. Romney to you) admitted the obvious, he still did not say it flat out, in plain English. No, he had to continue his annoying, cutesy evasions by saying, “If someone said, well the governor’s testing national waters, that’s a fair characterization.”

So now we have it: It would be a “fair characterization” to say that “Mister Mittster” (see June 4, 2005 post of the same name) is “testing national waters.” (What by the way are “national waters”? Does Poland Springs qualify, or is it too parochial?) People in the state of Massachusetts, who’ve seen little of Romney, are not at all surprised by this half-baked admission. He’s spent most of his time as governor vying for the spotlight in 49 other states–that is when he’s not getting his hair done or otherwise preening. His main job, so far as I can tell, has been to travel as far from the Commonwealth as possible, advocating for the opposite of what his constituency favors. In that regard, he’s similar to Bush whose extreme views (if indeed he actually has views) are far out of step with the American public. So while I’m inclined to write off Mitt’s chances, W. has shown that anything is possible in this great nation and, if you believe, and I mean truly believe, your worst nightmares may come true.

Much was written in the 1990s–and I personally shoulder part of the blame–about the four million miles of public roads that cover our nation with asphalt. What a terrible thing, we all said. All those roads. All those damned roads…

But when I see TV ads today (not that I watch TV, and especially not the ads), it’s hard to find a car that actually follows a road. Instead, they’re all driving up mountainsides, or smashing their way through jungles, or splashing across wetlands, in a full-frontal, all-out assault on the environment. I used to think all those roads were a tragedy–cursing those poor chaps in the blacktop industry–but now I wish at least a few cars would stick to the pavement.

Next weekend, a friend of mine is getting married. Maybe I should call him an acquaintance, as we’re not close enough friends that I’m invited–or had any expectation of being invited–to this event. But it will be an event, nevertheless, as this guy has been a bachelor for 50 years and he’s made the most of that half century, if you know what I mean. I’ve often seen him in the company of women, but never with the same woman twice. Years ago, my wife used to work in a bar/restaurant, which had been a favorite hangout of this fellow, who was then a journalist and is now a celebrated author. In fact, she saw him on two different dates, with two different women, on the SAME night. He started hanging out in the next restaurant my wife worked at (though this was before we were married), and he started dating several of the waitresses there (though not her, so far as I know).

Now it seems he’s going to settle down and see what married life is all about. I’m not sure how easy or hard the adjustment will be for him. But I can say this: This guy shouldn’t be thinking of all those missed opportunities that occasionally haunt other married men, because he didn’t miss any.

Don’t get me wrong. The history of lynchings in the United States–nearly 5,000 occurring between 1882 and 1968–is a disgrace, and the Senate’s efforts to prevent passage of anti-lynching laws were unconscionable. But it troubles me that in this day and age we consider public apologies an appropriate solution to horrific practices like slavery or lynchings. I’m not sure what to propose instead, but the “sorries” ring hollow to me. There’s got to be more. If the Senate is determined to apologize for its criminal failings, fine. Just attach that apology to a resolution or bill that actually accomplishes something positive, redressing some of the injustices that have been inflicted over the years. That, at least, is one man’s opinion. Sorry if I couldn’t be more specific. For that you have my most sincere apology.

I suppose this is a banal observation that has, without a doubt, been discussed thousands of times before. Yet I’m still amazed at the number of people who seem to be talking on their phones ALL THE TIME–walking, shopping, driving, on the bus, trains, bicycles, you name it. Most people you see outside these days are talking on their phones, which was certainly not the case five years ago or even a few years ago. What I don’t get is how people have so much to say that they can and do spend hours–all day it seems–on the phone. Has the volume of essential and worthwhile discourse really gone up that much?

I don’t have a cell phone, which is probably obvious, but I don’t feel like I’m missing out on something, as if what I really want to do is spend more time on the phone. Unlike the rest of our glib society, I just don’t have that much to say.

I’ve been giving this Cheney thing some thought and have concluded that he is, without a doubt, an experienced liar. And a brazen liar. But not a particularly skillful liar. What’s holding him back from greatness–he has the poker face to be a splendid liar–is the brazenness or what perhaps might be better called arrogance. When he lies, he puts it right out there, defiantly, challenging the doubters to prove that he’s lying, confident in his power that they will not have the gumption to do so. If he were humbler and more casual, given his raw talent, he could prove to be one of the greatest all-time liars we’ve seen in the lower 48. But he’s got a lot of hard work ahead of him–starting with a reading assignment, “Lying” by Sissela Bok–as well as a lot of bad habits to break. Frankly, I’m not sure it’s in him. You really have to want to be great, and he may settle for “good enough,” which seems to have worked well for him all these years.

A couple of times a week, I go to the 7-11 in Central Square, Cambridge to buy milk. It’s a pretty bleak place; the lowest of the low camp out on the sidewalk, panhandling, intoxicated, and generally out of it. “Don’t lock your bike, buddy. We got it covered,” they always say. But I always lock it anyway. Perhaps they mean well, but if somebody made a play for my bike, do you really think they’d get up in time? Shopping there is a sobering experience. If I’m lucky, I’ll continue to be the guy buying the milk, not the guy sitting there on the sidewalk, or lying there on the sidewalk, with no place lower to fall.

I’m still reeling from this one. Dumbfounded. Paris Hilton, the celebrity hotel heiress has announced that she is retiring from public life. RETIRE? AT AGE 24? YOU CAN’T DO THAT! But Hilton vows that she will, in fact, do just that. Which is a shame since we’ve barely met. I never saw her TV shows, or her movies, but always figured I had that to fall back on if I never needed it. Now it seems that I may not have that. And for all of us who’ve comforted ourselves by saying, “We’ll always have Paris,” I have this to say: “Apparently not.”

Now we know what Tom Cruise’s public seduction of Katie Holmes is all about: Cruise is taking her to church with him. Cruise has pursued this romance in a high-profile manner. He might even want to marry the girl, as he told Entertainment Weekly he intends to propose. But no matter how long that relationship lasts, his church has a new member. And his church keeps its members.

I’ve been inundated with responses since we started the Great Blogging Bumper Sticker Sweepstakes a few days ago, but we finally sorted through the entries and narrowed the field. I’d now like to announce the winner: The winner is ….. ME! No actually, and this has never happened before, the 1st prize will be shared by me and Gatemouth for: “How’s my blogging? Call 1-800-WHO-CARES.” This was a collaboration in the truest sense of the word. I wrote the brilliant first sentence. Gatemouth followed up with the equally brilliant rejoinder. Amazingly, the two sentences fit together perfectly. Which makes me think, maybe Shakespeare was two people after all: Shake & Speare? Just a thought.

But back to the Sweepstakes. The 2nd prize goes to, you guessed it, ME AGAIN, for: “Stop me before I blog again.” This prize, too, is shared by Gatemouth, for his ominous-sounding: “First thing we do, let’s kill all the bloggers.”

I’d like to thank all the people who took time from their busy lives to send in their ideas. Keep it up, as you just may win the next Sweepstakes. Oh, I almost forgot to mention the prize: A free, lifetime subscription to Call Me Snake. Use it wisely.

Can you believe the words that come out of Dick Cheney’s mouth? (And he was supposed to be the smart one on the ticket.) That guy will say absolutely anything.The other day, he said the detainees in Guantanamo were “certifiable bad guys,” as if he’d met them all personally and could attest to their deficiencies in character. (William Bennett, perhaps, passed judgment on their amorality.) Cheney was “offended” by suggestions that the Guantanamo camp–where torture is readily acknowledged–is a gulag. And the ridiculous statements he’s made, too many to recount, justifying the invasion of Iraq and treatment of prisoners at Abu Ghraib, would be laughable, were it not for the tremendous loss of life and suffering that has occurred on all sides. Dick, I’ve got a proposition for you: Given that you’re supposedly a person of some responsibility, why don’t you think for a second before you go spouting off?

The depressing part, is that he and Karl Rove probably do think, a lot in fact, and the lies that come out of his mouth are calculated and scripted down to the last syllable. Worst of all, he not only gets away with this garbage, it actually works. So maybe all of us need to make a point of thinking before we open our ears.

Bush is outraged. Rummy is shocked and Cheney offended. Why? Because Amnesty International had the gall to use the word “gulag” when describing the detention center in Guantanamo Bay. Their simple ploy seems to have diverted attention from the prisoner abuses routinely going on at U.S. hands–holding people without charge, detaining them indefinitely, and even torturing them, if and when we see fit. For once, I’m going to have to take issue with Bush and his cronies. I’m more offended by the U.S. conduct in places like Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib than I am by Amnesty International’s word choice.

This is, I realize, supposed to be a humorous blog–a place where everyone knows your name, a place where you might even find “funny humor.” So this is the time I’m supposed to crack a joke to ease the tension and make everything feel all right. But I don’t think I can do that right now, because–to borrow a phrase from Burt, one of Call Me Snake’s most persistent (and persnickety) critics–”I’m not laughing.”

A couple of days ago, the Boston Globe ran a front-page story on John Kerry’s academic performance as a Yale undergraduate 40 years ago. His cumulative grade-point average was 76–in other words, a “C”–nearly identical to George W. Bush’s 77. There’s only one reason this is of any possible interest: Because “W” appears to be mentally challenged. That may seem to be an odd (and unfair) conclusion, since the recent spate of articles are about Kerry, not Bush. But the fact is, much has been made of W’s deficiencies in the area of mental acuity. The Kerry/Yale story was supposed to set the record straight by offering some balance.

To my (admittedly biased) mind, it accomplished just the opposite. In the real world, no one cares about how someone did at college four decades after the fact. In Kerry’s case, it seems entirely irrelevant–ancient history. He was, after all, asked to deliver the senior class oration (he spoke of Vietnam), whereas Bush was given responsibility for the cheerleading corps. And today, no one doubts that Kerry–despite his other faults (i.e., lack of charisma, spontaneity, failure to kiss enough babies, you name it)–knows what he’s talking about. On the other hand, at many times it seems as if Bush can barely READ his cue cards, let alone betray any hint of comprehending the words he utters.

Kerry has moved on from his days in college where academics were a low priority, whereas Bush seems not to have. In contrast to someone like Clinton, who was overprepared, Bush seems to pride himself on not taking the time to read reports or otherwise educate himself. He was a “good old boy” back in college, even though he was not necessarily “old” or “good,” and he’s a good old boy now (though I’d again take issue with the “good” part, while letting the “old” part stand). Unfortunately for people who show signs of consciousness, that good old boy somehow got himself a big office in the White House, while the other is left to pull his hair out (natural or not). It’s a strange turn of events, but rest assured, it has nothing to do with the grades they pulled in New Haven.

What a day! No sooner had I moved Jungle Jerk’s car, thinking I’d take a breather on the sofa, when the phone rang. It was another friend, Nick, calling to say that he’d been sent to Bangalore (that’s India, NOT Indiana, in case you’re wondering) to train some programmers on software packages he’d developed. Evidently, Blue Cross was moving its operations, plus all medical records, from an office in New York to Bangalore. “What kind of sense does that make?” I asked.

“It’s called GLOBALIZATION,” Nick explained. “That’s a word you’ll be hearing about one day.” He was not looking forward to packing but considered the trip a milestone of sorts. He’d worked on software for years, decades in fact, but had stayed exclusively in the U.S., save for a few brief stints in Canada. Now Nick was about to achieve the status he long dreamed of: world-class nerd.

I’m having a busy day, as well as a productive one. A friend–Jungle Jerk, in fact (we’re talking again after a long “cooling-off” period)–left his car on the street before he flew to Brazil, where presumably he’ll find a jungle or two that’s still intact, provided the forests have not been totally cleared, burned, paved over, or otherwise plundered. But this happens to be a special day in our neighborhood, what we call “street cleaning” day–a twice-a-month occurrence that causes untold anxiety among the residents on our block. After Beth, another friend who shares the driveway with us, left for work, I moved Jungle Jerk’s Taurus to the back of the driveway, just ahead of the tow trucks. Whew! That was close! Now I’d better rest. I don’t want to overdo it today. In fact, I’ve already done too much.

Did I mention my thriving blogging/bumper sticker business? Here are a few of my best-selling items: Blogger on Board, How’s My Blogging?, I’d Rather Be Blogging, and (the most popular) Stop Me Before I Blog Again!

I’ll take this opportunity to announce a new competition: The best blogging/bumper sticker title suggested by one of you lucky folks will receive prominent mention in “Call Me Snake.” I cannot pay you for the idea, but I promise that if I get rich on it, I shall be eternally grateful.

It’s true, I brag a lot about my family, but, hey, with a family like mine, what else can I do? I’m just being honest. My cousin Bob’s exploits in the high-profile sport of rock, paper&scissors made the front page of Nashville’s main daily. My cousin Bill’s exploits in Santa Monica’s intensely-competitive roofball scene were chronicled this spring in a famous blog, “Call Me Snake.” Meanwhile, my cousin Mike’s exploits on the basketball court, as player/coach of “The Old Fockers,” were featured last month in the Chicago newspaper, “The Week Behind.” Mike’s team was not just mediocre, it was stupendously bad. Under his stewardship, the Old Fockers lost one game by 67 points. Overall, he guided his team to a 0-10 record which was, according to the local paper, “the worst record in the history of the Holstein Park Adult Basketball League.” There’s no way you can pull something like that off just by luck. Maybe one game, or two games. But 10 straight? No, that takes talent. And a real Focker.

So that’s my family: Meet the Fockers. And if you’re playing basketball, by all means Beat the Fockers. Everyone else does.

I can’t afford eCards, so I’m offering a new, fee-based service — ERSATZ eCard messages right here on “Call Me Snake.” (If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.) I’m the first customer for this service on its “maiden voyage,” so to speak. Here’s the first of what I’m sure will prove to be many messages:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FRED! I put the message here so the whole world can see it. Don’t be bashful. The blogosphere is an international zone and your birthday deserves to be celebrated by people in all time zones, including those living across the International Date Line. Next time, maybe I’ll get my act together early enough to send you a Hallmark. But for now, this will have to do. Enjoy the honor of being the world’s first-ever ERSATZ eCARD recipient. And save a piece of cake for your bro’.

Every summer, the show-offs of my town open their gardens for gawkers to visit, document, and emulate. Many yards in my block are part of the “Secret Gardens of Cambridge” tour, save for our yard which has never made the cut. (Not for want of trying, but asphalt gardens just don’t seem to cut it around here.) Someone grafitti-ized a sign advertising the tour by writing “FOR YUPPIE SCUM.” I don’t know about you, but I find the term “yuppie scum” pejorative. And when the prefix “die” is attached to it, the whole expression sounds almost hostile. Which is a shame since I consider the garden tour a quaint tradition–and a rather innocent one at that. On the plus side, it takes a lot of riffraff off the streets and puts them in my neighbors’ yards where they belong. (For the record: I’m no “yuppie.” I’d like to be, and have even take up some of the affectations, but I just can’t afford it.)

I want to talk about a man whose name fits him like a glove–Mitt, the governor of the Bay State. (“Shake hands with the gov’nor,” as they say. No need to wash first.) When he ran for the U.S. Senate in 1994 and again for governor in 2002, Romney talked a pro-choice game, playing to the liberal-leaning Massachusetts electorate. But when he’s on the so-called “national stage,” barely able to conceal his ambition for Bush’s job, Romney talks an entirely different game. In a National Review cover story, which came out yesterday, Romney’s top political advisor said that Mitt was a “pro-life Mormon …. faking it as pro-choice friendly.”

Most of us knew that already, that the Mittster was, to quote Mayor Daley, a veritable “faker.” And a phony too. And a lousy governor who could care less about the state he’s supposed to “lead.” This is a guy who thinks he should be president just because he has as pretty good head of hair for a man of 57 and because he’s made a bundle selling paper clips and because he put on an ice capades show in Utah a few years back. You’d think the admission by Michael Murphy, Romney’s numero uno strategist, would hurt, showing the Mittenhead to be an opportunistic hypocrite. But in Republican circles, this brazen lie may only have enhanced his stature. In fact, I can see Karl Rove licking his chops, thinking: “H-m-m… Maybe I can work with this guy after all…”

Sorry. I tried to make things right with that last post, but fear I just made them worse. I was trying to express one man’s opinion. But now I’m not sure which man’s opinion that was. Surely not mine. I must remember not to post things in the middle of the night when I’m not thinking straight. (Or in the middle of the day when I’m not thinking straight, for that matter.) That must be the explanation for an otherwise inexplicable entry in what had been a perfectly lighthearted blog–an exemplar, in fact, of the “moderately amusing” genre.

Adieu, gentle readers. I shall be going away for a long time. It has been fun, but as a famous comedian once said, “I really must be going.”

Sorry. My post of a few days back (“Wrecking Crew,” May 30, 2005), in which I took some potshots at our Fearless Leader, was way out of line. I’ve realized, upon reflection, that it was unfair of me to criticize him, because as a marginally-employed individual, situated on the fringes of our society, I haven’t had to face the tough situations he has. For example, 3&3/4 years ago, when our nation was experiencing the greatest attack since Pearl Harbor (and an even greater attack than Pearl Harbor in terms of total casualties on our soil), I did not have to decide whether to respond to that situation immediately or to continue a reading session with schoolchildren in Sarasota, Florida. He bravely chose the latter option, despite the fact that some naysayers might question his priorities. But this was, after all, the “education president”–a person who honored his commitments, above all else. Similarly, I’ve never had to decide whether to abide by the Geneva Convention or to actively seek loopholes that would permit the maltreatment of prisoners (sorry, I mean “enemy combatants”). There are so many things I didn’t do–including having to decide whether or not to fulfill my obligations to the National Guard–that it’s clear I’m in absolutely no position to judge. And for that, I sincerely apologize–another practice, in addition to knee-jerk criticism, that has become all too common these days (see “Thanks for Nothing,” April 27, 2005).

You never know what will turn up via email. Yesterday, for reasons unknown to me, my cousin from Nashville (NOT the rock-paper-scissors champ, but still a talented guy in his own right) forwarded a letter from the Amazing Randi (a magician and noted skeptic) who claimed an item being sold on eBay had been stolen from him. The item in question was a 1983 letter written by Doug Henning (a magician and performer who died in 2000), thanking Randi for his “support and respect at a difficult time in his [Henning's] life and career.” Henning told Randi that he was working on a new levitation act that would blow everyone away. Randi did not know how the letter, which he treasured “highly,” came into the possession of the seller, the Spencer Company based in “beautiful downtown Burbank” in California, but says it must have been taken sometime after 1995. He had no idea what had become of it until he saw the item listed on eBay.

Bidding on this piece of “magical memorabilia” was fierce, reaching $680 yesterday afternoon. However, a few hours later, the seller cancelled the listing, cutting off all bids. There’s no explanation for why the Spencer Company abruptly terminated the auction. My theory is that the Amazing Randi, taking a page from Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ playbook, put a spell on them. But it’s likely we’ll never know what happened. It’s equally likely that no one–save for Randi and a few of his associates–actually cares.

Wouldn’t you know it? They tried to pin the “Deep Throat” rap on a 91-year-old retiree living in Santa Rosa, California who can barely talk, on account of a stroke he suffered, but it won’t wash. There’s somebody else who had the motive, access, and connections: ME. As for motive, I’m an avowed Nixon hater from way back. (I wasn’t born in 1952 when he made his famous “Checkers Speech,” but I still didn’t buy it.) As for access, it’s true I was just a high school student during most of the Watergate era, but I was always in the know–collecting information during recess and storing it away within the hidden recesses of my mind. As for connections, I’m a distant relative of Carl Bernstein–that is, if the latest copy of the Bernstein Family Tree is correct. Carl and I met at a Bat Mitzvah in the early 70s (cousin Mindy) and got along so well, we started meeting in parking lots to talk on “deep background,” which is how Carl put it. Sometimes he brought a friend along (I think his name was Woodard), who was a real chatterbox as I recall. I was planning on keeping this a secret, but now–with that publicity hound Felt grabbing all the glory–I’ve decided to step forward. My agent tells me the time for a major book and movie deal is “now or never.” Get ready Hollywood: The Snake is coming to town.