CALL ME SNAKE

I'll be taking it easy tonight, nursing my sore toe. (I think it's a bunion; it hurts like hell and that's pretty much where things stand. Or sit. That's my state of the bunion address. Stay tuned as my opponents try to cut my bunion down to size.) In view of my situation, with volleyball out of the question, you might think it would be a good night to catch up on TV, even for a guy who barely (rarely) watches anything. But many of the stations are devoting a couple of hours to some other guy talking about his bunion, or actually the "union," I think he calls it. The guy is "very pleased with the direction the nation has taken under his watch," according to White House spokesperson Scott McClellan.

But that's not how I see things. Of course, I've got a bunion which may jaundice my impression. The guy is also supposed to talk about "alternative energy sources," which sounds like a real joke given that this guy doesn't have any energy policy. Well, actually, that's not fair. He does have an energy policy: He let's the oil companies do whatever they want. In fact, under his policy they get to tell us what to do.

No, I think I'm going to skip his state of the bunion address. Instead, I'll prop my foot up on a pillow and watch a Frontline show about Al Qaeda, which should be more informative (and accurate) than anything this guy has to say about how well things are going in Iraq. Then I'm going to watch a DVD I picked up from the library called "Helter Skelter." It's about another guy--a fellow by the name of Charles Manson.

Calling someone a maggot is about the worst thing you can call him. (Or perhaps, in deference to our female readers, I should say "the worst thing you can call him or HER.") But that's really unfair. Not only to the person you're calling a maggot but to maggots themselves. There are thousands of species of maggot (fly larvae), and they are among them most maligned creatures on the face of the Earth.

But wait a minute. Maggots are good, as was recently explained to me by a friend who works for Boston Emergency Medical Services (EMS), because they "clean out necrotic tissue," as he put it. He's right: It's called "maggot therapy" or Maggot Debridement Therapy (MDT), if you want to get technical--"the medical use of live maggots to clean non-healing wounds," according to the website of the Maggot Therapy Project at the University of California, Irvine. "Medicinal maggots have three actions: 1) they debride (clean) wounds by dissolving the dead (necrotic), infected tissue; 2) they disinfect the wound, by killing bacteria; and 3) they stimulate wound healing. Historically, maggots have been known for centuries to help heal wounds. Many military surgeons noted that soldiers whose wounds became infested with maggots did better --- and had a much lower mortality rate --- than did soldiers with similar wounds not infested..."

So you see, my friend's right. Maggots are good. And the next time you're thinking of calling someone a maggot, take a second to reflect. Then choose your words wisely. Are you trying to insult this person, or praise him? Or her? (Again, we don't want to slight any women readers who might also be called maggots from time to time.)

Boston is famous for its bad drivers, even more so than for its Baked Beans, Red Sox, and Celtics. There was even a book that came out a while ago about the classic bad driving maneuvers such as the Boston Guillotine, the Somerville Pancake, the Charlestown Garrote, etc. I've bicycled in this city for 30 years and have seen 'em all.

On the streets, that is. But today I got it on the aisles of Whole Foods. A doddering old guy, who looked like an Emeritus classics professor at Harvard, cut me off at the cash register line, thrusting his cart in front of him and almost taking my head off in the process. He acted calm and collected--in classic Boston drivers' textbook fashion--as if he had no clue about what had just transpired.

I've known for sometime that on the streets of Boston it's constant warfare. The battle evidently has moved inside to cushier surroundings, but make no mistake: the moves are equally ruthless. And be on guard for mild-mannered academics of retirement age behind the wheels of a shopping cart.

By now, many of you may have heard about the man from Hopkinton, Mass. who evidently fled the country soon after his wife and young daughter were shot to death, and went back to his native England where he refuses to cooperate with the police. I have no idea whether this man, whom Massachusetts authorities call a "person of interest," had anything to do with the terrible crimes that occurred in his home. But his behavior since those horrific acts--including his apparent unwillingness to go home for the funerals--has done nothing to quell suspicion.

Is it a crime to act guilty even if you may not have committed the crimes you are suspected of? Some clues may come from The Stranger by Albert Camus. That guy (Mersault) was condemned for not crying at his mother's funeral. This guy won't even attend the funeral--perhaps out of fear that he, like Mersault, would not be able to muster any tears.

I've long been intrigued by the "Archives of Useless Research," a 5.7-cubic-foot assortment of papers, collected from 1900-1989, that now sit in the MIT Institute Archives. Housed within numerous cartons are such neglected treatises as: "The world of staraeognology" by William H. Davis; "Perspicuous demonstration of the practical utility of adequate knowledge" by Jacob Fresch (1925); "Maps have their limitations" by Richard Edes Harrson(1943); "The Riddle of the Universe - solved" (1935); "Perpetual motion, at last and powerful!" by Capt. Kidd; and "This world is flat" by Archibald Robertson (1961).

In the course of investigating this odd collection, I discovered that the Institute Archives also include four cartons of materials relating to an alternative energy study that I worked on several decades ago for an environmental organization with roots at MIT. It was considerred to be an important study when it came out, and I believe Ralph Nader made a fairly recent (and positive) reference to the work (though one might say he was predisposed to like its findings). The conclusions, moreover, are as pertinent today as they were 25 years ago when the book was published. Yet it is old and long forgotten. Who's to say it's any less useless than "The Riddle of the Universe - solved"?

For months, I insisted that I didn't "watch" TV. Then I "came out," admitting that I occasionally watch a little, say while doing the dishes or sorting socks, etc. Now, in the latest twist, I have recently entered a deal with a major TV production company to devise a one- or two-hour documentary program that relates in some way to the universe. I'd like to say more but I don't want anyone else (internet pirates?) to steal the idea. In fact, I think I've already said too much. (Forget that I mentioned the "universe" and, instead, let me put it like this: "it relates in some way to something." There, I think that's sufficiently vague.)

Does this latest admission make me a sellout? You bet. I only wish there was more of me to sell.

Unlike most people, who have nothing good to say about the Post Office, I had a fine time in the post office earlier today (or yesterday if you want to be a stickler about the 12 p.m. midnight rule). Yes, the line was long, and yes, the price of a stamp has gone up by 2 cents, and yes, we should send our radioactive waste to the postal service and let them "lose" it for us, but I'm not complaining. Quite the contrary. I tried out a new machine--or at least new for me--which I thought would just weigh my oversized envelope. Not only could I weigh it but also buy a stamp for the exact amount, which was charged to my credit card. I stuck the paid postage sticker onto the envelope, deposited it in the convenient drop slot, and was out of there in two minutes, with nothing but positive feelings about my postal experience.

All Hail the Chief! Karl Rove is back, explaining in his forthright, belligerent manner (as only he can do) why illegal eavesdropping on American citizens is not only permissable but is, in fact, the moral thing to do. If Al Qaeda is talking in our country, we want to hear what they say, he notes. So anyone wishing to contact Al Qaeda (AQ) "sleepers" living within our shores is encouraged to make the call. "AQ phone home," Rove says, and he and his friends are sure to be listening.

Contrition is for wussies, Rove has consistently advised his protege, W, which is why he has taken such an aggressive stance in defending one of the Administration's most recent criminal activities. As we all know, Rove has been keeping a low profile for several months due to his possible involvement in another criminal activity--revealing the identity of a CIA spy.

But not to worry, Karl is back with a vengeance, and the media is eating it up. Now that he's in the limelight again, Rove's schedule for public appearances is bursting. He was last seen practicing with White House choir for a performance of "Rendition!"--a show tune adapted from the "Fiddler on the Roof" classic, "Tradition!" Entertainment sources say a Carnegie Hall appearance for Rove's "White House Singers" is "not out of the question."

At a dinner party last night, my three-year-old daughter and her friend were playing hide-and-seek. According to the well-established ground rules, I was to wait 60 seconds before going upstairs to find them. Halfway up the spiral staircase, my daughter called down to me: "Just so you know, dad, we'll be in the bathtub."

I know I'm supposed to like Elvis, if not love Elvis, because everyone is supposed to. It's been the "in" thing for as long as I can remember. But "The Pelvis" never did it for me. I never liked the music and now that I learned he was a big admirer of Richard Nixon--and even volunteered to help Nixon fight illicit drug use (a strange choice for a pill-popping junkie or perhaps I should say two pill-popping junkies)--I like him even less as a person. So I must confess that I sympathized with the woman in Australia charged with stabbing her boyfriend with a scissors because he wouldn't stop playing the Presley hit, "Burning Love," over and over again. I'm just glad I wasn't put in that same situation. I'd like to think I wouldn't have reacted the same way, but until you're put into a situation like that, you never know.