CALL ME SNAKE

George Bush is busy packing because he’ll be flying later today from our nation’s capitol, in Crawford, Texas, to his vacation home on Pennsylvania Avenue. Fortunately, he’s got many able-bodied Secret Service agents to pack GORP (a “W” favorite, right up there with s’mores) and other heathful snacks, since you never know what you’ll get with airline food, even if you’re flying Air Force One. And don’t worry, they’ll be sure to bring the mountain bike.

I’m currently studying dark energy. You may have heard of it–the stuff that supposedly fills all space, constituting 70 to 80 percent of the matter and energy in the universe. One problem with dark energy is that nobody knows what it is. To learn more about its properties, astronomers are trying to determine the “equation of state parameter,” abbreviated as “w,” which describes how the energy density changes as the universe expands.

A cosmologist I know at MIT hates the focus on w and never uses the term. What’s more, he strongly encourages others to find alternative ways of saying it, apart from the longwinded “equation of state parameter.” I finally asked him why he dislikes the expression so much. “It reminds me of the president,” he said.

I caught a few seconds of an interview with Dick Cheney the other day. (To my friend, “CheneyLover,” this is your cue to chime in.) He said something to the effect that he took the VP job to be more than just a pretty face. And he wanted some responsibilities, he wanted to do more than just wait around as a stand-in in case something ever happened to the Commander-in-Chief. Well, how does running the country sound? Is that enough responsibility? If not, perhaps running the world would suit him better.

I’m just thinking out loud here, as usual. Please don’t read anything into it.

Call Me Snake took a break. We were shut down over the weekend for mysterious reasons. “Bandwidth Exceeded” was the message people got when they went to the site. (I know for a fact that at least one person, apart from myself, actually went to the site.) That made for boring reading and I’m sure my “hit count” dropped off over that two-to-three-day period. MarkoPolo suggested that I had pissed off the wrong people who had sabotaged my site, perhaps relating to the series of stories I recently deleted or maybe even antagonized someone in the government (sorry, did I say “torture?”). The explanation turned out to be far more mundane: I had, until now, a free subscription with blog.com and they decided the free ride was over; they wouldn’t activate my site until I coughed up some dough. “Bandwidth exceeded,” I guess means that I was getting too long-winded for a freebie member. I don’t normally give in to extortion (nor do I, as a general rule, negotiate with terrorists), but I decided to pay off, at least for now.

I had wondered whether I should use this interruption as a chance to get out from this blogging thing, but then I concluded I should make the decision myself, rather than have others make it for me. So I’m back in business. And now that I’ve paid the man, I can be as long-winded as I want. Expect some wordy posts for awhile, until I regain my award-winning gutter journalism stride.

I got an email today from the notorious MarkoPolo trying to figure out what’s up with Call Me Snake, as he tried to access the site to write a brilliant comment and instead got the message “bandwidth exceeded.” I tried too and was similarly blocked. Marko wonders whether I pissed off some people (related to a recent “case,” perhaps?) who decided to shut me down. Did somebody “fry your server,” he asked, or “set up a loop?” (whatever that means).

Or maybe, he surmised, I couldn’t take the heat so I got out of the kitchen. The following is submitted as a test during this dark period. Did I shut myself down without knowing it or have others stepped in to block Call Me Snake? If you can read this, we can be assured that freedom of speech still prevails (at least to some extent) on these shores, in which case more verbiage will follow.

In a recent comment, regarding the matter of certain improprieties allegedly committed at various libraries in this country, I was called a “member in good standing” of the “gutter press.” That stung a little though not too bad, and after awhile I came to like it. At least I’d finally reached some destination after nine months of blogging. (Some might point out that in nine months, people have been known to accomplish much more–giving birth to a sweet, innocent child, for instance. That is surely not the case here.)

Months ago, I was also called “liberal pantywaste (sic),” courtesy of the Comments section of this blog, but that one I kind of liked. It was novel and I’d never seen the expression used, or misused, in that particular way before. The thing that bothered me most in the recent attacks on my prose, and even my personhood itself, was when the critic referred to my “smarmy little posts.” My posts may be”little” at times, I agree, but to call them “smarmy” betrays a fundamental lack of understanding. Nor did I appreciate the word “sniggering” applied in this context. The definition of “snigger,” according to my dictionary (Oxford American), means to “snicker”–to emit a “sly giggle.” But I’m not a giggler, in any way, shape, or form, so this is clearly a case of mistaken identity. The defense rests.

There’s been a lot of spillage in our house of late and, accordingly, I’d like to announce a new feature at Call Me Snake called “The Things That Spilled.” This item will appear occasionally on this blog and, if demand is as high as I think it will be, it could become a daily feature. Yesterday was a “banner day,” as they say, so I’d like to start there since we’re not too far into Tuesday yet and I’m sure there’s a lot of good spillage yet to come.

Things That Spilled (August 22, 2005)

1. One trash bag filled with cat feces and kitty litter on the landing to our main (and only) entrance.

2. One small bottle of lemonade on the landing to our main (and only) entrance.

3. One glass of lemonade on the floor of our main (and only) kitchen.

4. One glass of milk on the floor of our main (and only) kitchen.

5. One glass of milk on the floor of our main (and only) kitchen.

6. One cup of water on the floor of our main (and only) kitchen.

7. One cup of lemonade on the floor of our main (and only) kitchen.

8. One cup of water on the floor of our upstairs bathroom.

9. One cup of water on the floor of the hallway leading to our upstairs bathroom.

10. One cup of water on the carpeted floor of our three-year-old’s bedroom.

Nothing else spilled until the next morning, thankfully.

As some might notice, though most will not, I have done something I’ve never done before at Call Me Snake: I’ve deleted a post. Not just one post, but seven–all of which were peripherally related to an individual who is now facing criminal charges. I never meant to “drag this person through the mud,” as I was charged with, or to add to his legal difficulties. It all started innocently enough–I was simply intrigued by a name. An idle post about that led to some comments from people in the know, which in turn led to inquiries from reporters at the New Yorker and other newspapers trying to find leads for their own investigations. Things kind of took off from there; I played along for fun, not thinking that for some people this was no joking matter.

I’m sure those who reacted most strongly to my posts have no idea what this blog is about and, in fact, I could not explain it in 200 words or less. But the point I’d like to make, in closing, is that I never meant to defame someone who, evidently, is widely loved and has done many good things in his community. If I unintentionally did so, I apologize. Rest assured that no harm was intended.

Our president interrupted his record-breaking vacation to defend the war in Iraq to the toughest audience he ever faced–15,000 VFW members in Salt Lake City, many of whom were so old they had no idea Bush had ever left his ranch in Crawford, Texas. El Presidente could have saved himself the trip and made the same case to Cindy Sheehan, who has camped outside his ranch for weeks, but he probably knew the argument would never fly, especially to a mother whose son had died fighting Bush’s war. Better to save the platitudes for a sympathetic, if doddering, crowd that had no idea what he was saying but could still clap on command. Which he did. A smart move for a guy whose mental acuity is constantly being challenged.

I blew it again last night, in my dream. There I was behind enemy lines–the enemy being the Nazis, who were always the bad guys when I was a kid, long before we knew about Al Quaeda–trying to do in those evildoers. A group of us needed to climb down a mountain and I forgot how to tie a bowline. I asked a friend who, disgusted by my ineptitude, just took off down the rocky face, leaving me standing there, alone and ineffectual, without harming the Nazi cause in the slightest. I woke up feeling worthless, though grateful that my father’s generation had taken care of a job I apparently was not up to.

When I was a youth, the saying used to be “Black is Beautiful,” not “Black is Republican.” But the headline on a front page story in today’s Boston Globe reads: “More young blacks ready to embrace GOP.” A picture of Adam Hunter of Somerset, N.J., adorns the front page, just below the headline.

I, for one, am skeptical of this story. There’s another picture on page 4, where the article continues, and it features, you guessed it, Adam Hunter of Somerset, N.J., which makes me think the Boston Globe had to go all the way to New Jersey to find a young black Republican since they couldn’t find one in Boston. Not only that, they couldn’t even find another young black Republican to take a picture of. So I’m not going to worry about what might otherwise be a worrisome trend. When they find two young black Republicans to write about, then I’ll start to worry.

My oldest daughter, who just turned six a short while back (about which we’ll be hearing more soon), is adding to her vocabulary every day. Of course I’m proud of her. Today’s new word is “shit,” which I’m pretty sure she picked up from me, say, for example, when I drop a hot iron (or “flatiron”) on my toe and that sort of thing. It is kind of jarring to hear a six-year-old use the word, and I’m not proud of my role in that part of her education, yet I am pleased that she’s using “shit” appropriately, say, for example, when she drops a hot iron (or “flatiiron”) on my toe. At that moment, the universe is in perfect harmony, the stars are aligned, and we both speak as one.

I was bicycling through Harvard Square this evening, which is nothing new. I’ve been doing it for more than a couple of decades. But something different happened this time. As I sped past Brattle Street, a young woman in her early 20’s yelled: “Hey Sexy!” The sad part of it is, I didn’t even look up, figuring she couldn’t possibly have been referring to me. And that, ladies and gents, is a sad but true “sign o’ the times,” to quote an old friend formerly known as Prince.

Amidst a heavy schedule of brush clearing and dirt biking, President Bush has set aside a few moments to engage in saber rattling (or do you say sabre rattling?), tossing the occasional threat Iran’s way on account of their “presistent nucular” activities. But after much deliberation with his biking buddies, Bush has decided not to launch an attack on Iran this month once he realized that would force him to cut short his record-shattering vacation on the ranch. So the people of Iran can breathe easy for the rest of August. However, after Labor Day, the president hints playfully, “all bets are off.”

Like most of my posts, this one was “inspired by” (a euphemism for stolen from) my good friend Dr. Max (see link on right). That obligation dispensed with, back to today’s headline: ‘GITMO DETAINEES FORCED TO WATCH GIGLI.’ Yes, it’s true, I’m not making this up. Enemy combatants at “Gitmo” are now forced to watch either Gigli or Jersey Girl as part of a new form of punishment (we won’t call it “torture”) that falls in a grey area of international law. (Human Rights Watch has yet to comment.) Detainees granted full “prisoner” status, and therefore subject to protection under the Geneva Convention, are allowed to see movies that don’t feature both Ben Affleck and JenLo. That’s all I have for now, but I promise to keep you informed as this late-breaking story unfolds. And now, back to Gigli.

A bunch of “kooks” are holding vigil outside Bush’s ranch in Crawford, Texas, upset, among other things, about their sons or daughters being killed in a senseless war in Iraq that has no end in sight. Cindy Sheehan and the other protestors feel strongly enough about their views to have traveled across the country to camp out in Bush’s front yard in the hopes of discussing their concerns with the president. But the Commander-in-Chief has made it perfectly clear that he will not meet with them, as he’s also in the midst of something he feels equally strongly about–vacation.

With constructive criticism from people like Burt, I’m doing bettter in my dreamlife. Take last night, for example. I wasn’t mugged for starters. Instead, I was approached by a punked-out woman (not to hard on the eyes, as they say), who asked me what I was doing for New Year’s Eve. Like a dummie, I immediately told her I was married and that was that. So, as you can see, I’m making some progress–avoiding dark catwalks in the middle of the night and the like–but I’ve still got a long ways to go.

I know I usually complain or gripe about things in this space but none of that today. I just spent the whole day–nine hours, in fact–on a beautiful beach north of Boston, playing volleyball and swimming. All in all, the perfect day. Yet that other side of me wonders (without complaining, as I promised I wouldn’t do that) why I only manage to do the things I like most just once a year, or maybe twice if I’m lucky. The answer, it seems, is that I live in goddam Boston (gotta’ love that town!). If I lived in Santa Monica or Venice, I could play volleyball on the beach–as well as run, swim, rollerblade, and bicycle–every day until I got sick of it and started cursing about goddam beach volleyball. Thankfully, I’m in Boston and will never live to see the day when I complain about too much beach volleyball.

I got mugged last night in my dream, which kind of sucks when you think about it. After all, there I was in my bed, in MY dream, after a long day (aren’t they all?), trying to relax and get a little rest in before the kids woke me up in the morning, if I wasn’t woken up first by the kittens trying to sneak into the bed (a problem cause I’m allergic) or the blarehorns announcing (starting at 7a.m.) a fantastic number of times how the streets are going to be cleaned several hours later. But getting back to the dream: I was walking on some kind of elevated catwalk alongside some crowded apartment buildings in New York City–the kind of setting in which chases often occur in crime movies. Anyway, I heard the sound of someone running behind me, so I stepped up my pace, not thinking it was anything to worry about. Bad move. The guy pulled a knife on me–the nerve, did I mention it was my dream?–and then took my wallet.

The whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth. The only good news is that my wallet was still there when I woke up an hour or so later to the sounds of City of Cambridge trucks terrorizing the neighborhood with dire warnings about street cleaning and imminent towings if you were unlucky enough to have parked on the even side of the street. Well, that’s it for now. Have a good night’s sleep everyone. And try not to get mugged.

[Author's note: I must confess, I got this from Dr. Max who may have gotten it by dishonorable means himself. That said, having given credit where credit is due, I can now state my case in good conscience.] Earlier this week, kids in Key Biscayne, Florida found a novel way of spending August. They’re back in school! “Beats the hell out of camp,” as they say. Proponents of the abbreviated summer (sorry Bruce Brown, the “Endless Summer” is over) claim they need the extra time to prepare students for all the standardized tests they must now face. Plus those damn kids forget too much in the summer.

If we’re worried that our kids might be getting dumber, it’s no wonder given the harebrained thinking that dominates education these days. Rather than taking on the important (though hard) job of figuring out how to improve the education of our children, unimaginative policymakers can’t come up with a better idea than making the school year longer. But if a nine-month school year didn’t get the job done, why will more of the same be any better?

And perhaps, as I hinted at in Dr. Max’s “That One Blog” (see link on right), we should just get rid of summer altogether. Why not extend spring and fall so that we now have just three seasons? My meteorologist friend from northern Maine–the same one who lives amidst northern flying squirrels (ha, ha)–has argued in print that the number of seasons is entirely arbitary; there’s nothing sacrosanct about having four seasons, though proprietors of a certain hotel chain might argue otherwise. Why not downsize it to three? Before long, kids won’t even know they’re missing anything. They’ll go through life without having an inkling that there once was summer.

My house is besieged, not surprisingly, with houseflies. They’re not a terrible nuisance, since they don’t bite, but their buzzing drives me crazy and I cannot rest until I drive them out, dead or alive. A friend who visited over the weekend told me he feels the same. When a fly has the temerity to enter his castle, he said, he goes into “full attack mode.” I cannot help but picture this quiet, mild-mannered guy dressed in full body armor and equipped with night vision goggles and an arsenal of weapons worthy of Arnold in his earlier, pre-governor days.

The insects never rest and as “The Hellstrom Chronicles” sagely predicted, ultimately they’re going to win the war. In the spring, the ants launch repeated assaults on the fortress. For most of the summer, we’ve been plagued with moths that have a particular fondness for Wheaties. And now it’s those infernal houseflies. I’m constantly chasing them around with a rolled up newspaper (low-tech, I admit). It’s a miracle I have any time to actually read the paper which is supposedly what we spend hundreds of dollars each year on. Maybe I should save my money and invest in a few good flyswatters.

If you experience frequent angry outbursts to the point that it adversely affects your performance on the job or at school or your relationships with friends–particularly overly-sensitive friends who don’t like the occasional sucker punch or head butt–you just might have the latest psychiatric ailment, “Intermittent Explosive Disorder.” The scientists who study this condition consider it a distinct, neurophysiological ailment and say the label can lead to better treatment. If this reduces the odds of my getting killed from road rage, I’d have to regard that as a step forward.

Yet the reactionary side of my has to wonder: Are psychiatric conditions such as Intermittent Explosive Disorder, so-called “Sexual Addiction,” Gambling Addiction, and the like merely covers for bad behavior? I’m all for helping people get better, especially people who might otherwise be inclined to do me in. But I don’t want to give license for individuals to act out in inappropriate and violent ways simply because some new psychiatric diagnosis now “explains” their substandard behavior.

I don’t know if this makes sense. I’m just thinking out loud, here. Maybe I’ve got a condition too, call it Online Processing of Half-Baked Ideas.

While perusing the offerings in the produce department of my high-priced grocery store, I happened upon a young, fit woman in tight bicycle shorts (are there any other kind?) and a fancy, European-style bicycle shirt. Despite the garb, I suspected she had not bicycled to the store as I had that day and do every day. She just looked a bit too well put together, too done up. Most people who cavort around town on bike (“real commuters,” as a friend used to call it) tend to be messier looking, more rumpled–a bit grittier, you might say. She struck me more as the weekend cyclist–the worst kind, in my opinion–those who drive first in their polluting vehicles before getting on a bike.

After purchasing my items, I went outside to unlock my bike. She pulled out of the parking lot at the same time in her Urban Assault Vehicle, almost running me over, with her expensive bike safely secured to the roof.

At a Chinese restaurant last night, where we celebrated my 6-year-old’s birthday, my mother-in-law mentioned, in passing, that the word “humongous” has fallen out of favor and is not used nearly as much as it was in the past, when it used to be “really big.” She asked if there was anything I could do about it. I told her I’d handle it (my standard response), and that’s what this post is all about.

“Humongous” has dropped off precipitously, if you believe her dire warnings (and I have no reason to doubt her; she also warned her daughter, to no avail, before our union was formalized, though that advice was sound, as always). Now it’s up to us to remedy the situation. Start using “humongous” as often as possible, even when it is clearly inappropriate, and tell others to do the same. Use it in posts, use it in comments, use it in staff meetings, in dinnertable conversations, in chat rooms, in classrooms. Wherever, whatever, it doesn’t matter; just spread the word. Humongous deserves better. It ought to be bigger than big–even bigger than enormous, and a tad larger than huge, if you ask me. If we all do our jobs, it will be.

In my last post, I indirectly admitted to being a “washed-up writer,” which I acknowledged might be the inevitable consequence of blogging. But I take that all back. I must have been suffering from temporary insanity. I’m not washed up at all, and to prove it you have to look no farther than the Summer 2005 (vol. 54, no. 3) issue of ScienceWriters (pp. 10-11) for my story, “Adventures in the Blogosphere.” Many readers, no doubt, have never heard of ScienceWriters. I can say, in its defense, that among science-writing journals, it’s right up there with the New Yorker. The key thing to focus on here, for those trying to discern a thread, is that I’m no longer a washed-up has-been. I’m merely a literary has-been OR a washed-up writer, but definitely NOT both.

Upon hearing about the site familiarly known as “Call Me Snake,” a friend (and now maybe a former friend) once asked me, “Is it true what they say–that when a writer starts blogging, that means he’s pretty much washed up?” I paused for a second to think about it and then replied: “Yes.”

And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for: I’m going to announce the winners in our latest, hotly-contested, BLOGGING BUMPER STICKER SWEEPSTAKES. This one was a real cliffhanger, with Gatemouth waiting until the last possible second to send in his (as usual) brilliant entries. So let the drums roll. Ladies and gentlmen, do I have your attention? Vanna, the envelope please… And the winner is …. ME!!!!!!! Sorry, I can’t resist doing that, especially since I am a winner, among many other winners, I should add.

Winner in the “HANDS-DOWN, FLAT-OUT BEST” category is me for my off-the-cuff entry: START BLOGGING AND STOP LIVING! Gatemouth captured the “Incoherence” prize for: BLOGGING — THE LAST REFUGE OF THE INCOHERENT. OldRoses wins the “Most Prolific” award for her many entries. OldRoses also took the “Funny Humor Writing” prize for: WILL BLOG FOR FOOD. Turd Blossom wins the “Most Creative Name” award, plus the “Spiritual” prize for: GOD IS MY CO-POSTER. And, finally, the winner in the “Most Likely to Spawn Sequels” category is (big surprise) ME!!! for the incoherent (the runner-up in that category as well): I WENT ONLINE TO BUY A T-SHIRT. ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY BLOG.

I want to thank all the participants. It’s fair to say this was, by far, the most successful competition yet. I, for one, will treasure my prizes always. I hope the other winner will value theirs as well. As for the losers, I can only offer the standard palliative: There’s always next week.

If you’re like me, you might be thinking how the summer is slipping away and how it might be nice to take a couple of days off. I hope to do that–take a couple of days off from work, go to the beach, and chill. That’s all I can afford to do, given the pressures of my job, the mortgage, etc. The President is another story, of course. It seems he’s got all the time in the world to spend–NOT WORKING. Bush has left for a 33-day hiatus on his ranch in Crawford, Texas. This President is taking vacations at a record-breaking pace. His idol, Ronald Reagan, is the previous record-holder for vacations: He spent 335 days at his ranch in Santa Barbara over the course of his presidency. “W” has learned well from his hero: He’s going to surpass that mark this August, doing in 4-and-a-half years what Reagan took a leisurely 8 years to do. Let me break that down further: Bush spends an average of 75 days EACH YEAR vacationing at his Texas ranch. And those aren’t the only vacations he takes, with other jaunts to Camp David, Maine, wherever, whatever, so long as it doesn’t involve a 4-letter word called work.

You might think that with all those responsibiities piling up, on top of all that time away, Bush might be inclined to work nights and weekends to catch up. But not this president, who’s nothing if not consistent. He hates working nights and weekends. So why am I busting my ass, when only my wife and kids notice it, while this guy can ruin this country, and possibly the whole world, just in his spare time?

Hold up there, folks. I’m not giving out free drinks. But I am writing to say that the judges are planning to announce the winners of the latest BLOGGING BUMPER STICKER SWEEPSTAKES, so this is the last chance to get in your entries. One of our readers, who is particularly “gifted” in this area (and I do not use that word lightly), hasn’t yet sent in any ideas, and this is a gentle reminder to him in case he is inclined to enter the high-pressure competition once again. Good luck to all who have the nerve to enter, as well as idle time on their hands that is begging to be wasted…

Just to show you this is not a one-way street, I will make up an entry on the spot, this very second (this is spontaneous folks; I wasn’t planning to do this!):

STOP LIVING AND START BLOGGING!

Earlier this year, I spent a lot of ink–way too much according to some readers (right Gatemouth?)– questioning the merits of the trade that brought Antoine to the Celtics. Now that the Celtics have sent Walker to the Heat in exchange for a whole lot of nothing–a bunch of players nobody’s ever heard of, plus a couple of 2d-round draft picks–it looks like my first take on the subject was on the mark. SO MAYBE I WAS RIGHT AFTER ALL…

AND MAYBE HE’S RIGHT TOO, he being Rafael Palmeiro, of course, when he said he did not “intentionally or knowingly” take steroids–a refinement of his earlier, more categorical denial under oath. I, for one, am inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Palmeiro actually believed Jose Canseco when Canseco said he was injecting him with “Kool-Aid.” Ballplayers, as we know, will do anything to get an edge, even if it means eating chicken every day (as recent Hall of Fame inductee Wade Boggs did) or even mainlining a popular summertime refreshment.

I picked up a video somewhere and put it in the machine without knowing what it was. (NOTE TO MYSELF: Gotta stop doing that.) Some strange stuff came on the screen–people experiencing bad hair days to say the least, along with a freaked-out, nerve-jangling soundtrack. Amidst all the screaming and commotion, I was able to discern a not-so-veiled threat: I, and everyone else unlucky enough to be in the house at the time, would soon contract a hideous fungal affliction that could not, in any way, be avoided. Sure enough, I did get an itchy red patch on my bicep within a day or so. My wife got one on her back, my oldest daughter got it on the forearm, and my youngest girl took one on the shoulder. It’s a scary sight–sufficient to induce terror at the kiddie day camps and parks we frequent–but we seem to be on the mend with the help of an arsenal of antifungal products. Fortunately, I got rid of that damned video too, passing it off to our best friends who live around the corner. But we’d better not get too relaxed. I understand a sequel is already circulating and there may be a third installment in the works. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya’.

I’m famous! Or perhaps I should say we’re famous, since this blog is a collaborative effort, with the whole being far less than the sum of its parts. In the “Blog Log” of yesterday’s Boston Globe (Sunday, July 31, 2005), Call Me Snake was the first blog mentioned. Getting notice like this should be a good thing, right? More people hear about the blog and hopefully more people read it?

But I tend to be a pessimist. And a worrier. And my worry is this: With all the fame and notoriety coming from the prominent mention in the Boston Globe (on page 6 of the City Weekly section, no less, below a letter about the poor health of sidewalk trees near the New England Medical Center), Call Me Snake might peak too quickly and then flame out in a blaze of glory. It’s happened to plenty of rock stars before (i.e., “this is the story of Johnny Rotten…”), and it could happen to this blog if I let success go to my head and succumb to all the groupies who now want a piece of me. I’ll try to be strong. I’ll try to resist. But better blogs than this have failed for the above reason, and who’s to say I’ll handle my celebrity more maturely than other stars have in the past? Time, it appears, will be the final arbiter. In the meantime, let’s all let out a big cheer. That’s right, slap yourselves on the back. You deserve it.