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.

Kids. You gotta love their enthusiasm, their joie de vivre. They speak their minds without holding back. No dissembling, no deceit. Take yesterday, for instance. I said goodbye to the “wee ones” and closed the door, leaving them in the hands of their capable babysitter. A minute later, I came back into the house because I’d forgotten my wallet. My older daughter looked up in surprise and asked in a challenging tone: “What are you doing here?”

Last week, after a six-week hiatus that I formally refer to as the “Lost without Lost” period, ABC aired two consecutive 1-hour episodes of its hit TV drama. The first, called “Lost Revelations” I believe, was a recap that, according to the Globe TV critic, was “only for obsessives and addicts.” I skipped that figuring I’m not as bad off as all that. But I was interrupted during last night’s episode–one of those kids acting up or maybe it was the cat–and missed the final few minutes. I could have just let it go but instead I took the extreme measure of sending an email to someone I thought (correctly) might have seen it. He told me I didn’t miss anything: “They just went back to the beach.”

That bit of information–that “they” went back to the beach–hardly seems worth reporting here (although the bar is set pretty low) or anywhere for that matter. I only bring it up because a normal person probably would have “let it go.” Am I becoming an obsessive and addict–the kind of person the Globe critic Matthew Gilbert referred to? I hope not, though I fear this could represent another low point for a person who, until recently, claimed not to watch TV at all. What new depths might I descend to? Only time–and additional TV viewing–will tell.

A story in today’s paper,”Prosecutor says dominatrix’s call to 911 too late,” is the topic of this conversation. (I call it a “conversation,” rather than essay, article, etc., because of the interactive nature of the blogging medium. I’m not writing this; we all are.) According to the AP news story, “a prosecutor said yesterday that a dominatrix waited too long to call for help as a client died of a heart attack during a bondage session.” The incident took place in Quincy, Massachusetts, where some of my closest relatives hail from.

I bring up this story only because I’m confused by what the prosecutor, Robert Nelson, meant by her (the dominatrix, that is) being “late” on that call for help. Was she supposed to call 911 before or after dismembering her deceased client with a hacksaw and dividing the remains into 8 trash bags which were later dumped behind a restaurant in Augusta, Maine? Sorry for all the gory details, but I’m still not sure what Nelson meant by “late.” If I have any appointments with him, I’ll definitely make a point of being punctual.

I’ve now got a new condition which I just learned about thanks to the labors of scientists at Harvard University. By looking at the brains of sleeping rats, these researchers found that some animals are both asleep and awake at the same time. Some nights, I’m just like those rats. My dreams get stuck in tedious, neverending loops. The story line bogs down and my brain keeps processing the same information, or working through the same problem, turning it over and over in my mind, without making any headway. I wake up feeling exhausted–probably a lot like those rats feel. What you call this syndrome–half awake or half asleep–depends on whether you’re a glass half full person or not.

From Thursday through Saturday, people in the Boston area got a real break–three straight days of temperatures in the 50s, right in the middle of January, the coldest part of the year. I didn’t have much time to take advantage of it, but I still like being able to go around in shorts and a T-shirt, bicycling to and from my girls’ schools or stopping by Whole Foods to complain about the prices. I recently went to Mexico, where I enjoyed a week of warm sunny weather. But that was expected; it was part of the package and anything less would have been a disappointment. This winter thaw, on the other hand, was an unexpected gift and for that reason almost more delightful.

Unfortunately, it all came to an end late on Saturday night when the temperatures began to plummet and the precipitation went from rain to sleet to snow. Ironically, perhaps, this was about the same time the fortunes of the New England Patriots began to go South. (That expression again; my sincere apologies to any Southerners in the audience.) What does that mean? To me, it signifies the end to the dreamworld existence that the Patriots have afforded their fans over the past few years. The team could do anything, it seemed, and always came through when it mattered. Except for that fateful Saturday night, when the dream team became all too mortal in Denver. At the same time, the dream weather we’d been experiencing gave way to the harsh realities of winter in New England. The windchill factor is now 0, or thereabouts–the normal order of things. Life goes on–albeit with a few extra layers to help us endure.

My team, the New England Patriots, stumbled last night in Denver, ending their string of 10 straight playoff victories. It was disappointing to watch, but the Patriots still went out like, well like Patriots. Despite several big errors and one crucial bad call by the officials, they still kept battling back. Until, of course, time ran out on the season and their dreams (and mine) of a third straight Super Bowl.

So I too can reclaim my life once again, going back to all the things I do in the off season, which, as best I recall, consists of killing time until the fall returns and a new football season is upon us. Don’t despair: We can and will get through this.

My last post about feet drew such a response that I’ve decided to stick with a winner. For some reason, people are eager to talk about their feet and I’m going to oblige them. There’s another reason, of course, and the cynics among you might say I have an ulterior motive. Strange as it may be, this subject binds me to an unlikely person, Vice President Dick Cheney. Allow me to explain: I’m no fan of Cheney, as some of you might have noticed, because he’s mean, evil, and, um, seems to be dyspeptic. (Maybe the last one’s not his fault; maybe he too has a condition.) But I’m surprised to say that I’ve suddenly become much more sympathetic to our Vice President now that I’ve learned that he suffers from tendinitis that causes occasional pain in the left heel. I have that too and know how unpleasant it can be (especially for people like Cheney and me who are diehard volleyball fanatics).

I’m thinking of starting a support group for men plagued by that ailment and he’ll be the first on my list. I’ve always worried that we (Cheney and I) wouldn’t have much to talk about if left alone. I feared those “awkward pauses” and steely silences. But now I’m feeling much more confident, because this ailment (left-heel tendinitis) gives us an inexhaustible reservoir to draw on. You might want to try it on Cheney sometime too, say if you’re stuck with him in an elevator. Or on a subway car. Or traveling incognito in coach. No matter what the situtation, feet problems, in my experience, are the perfect icebreaker. If it works for Dick and me, it can work for you too.

There’s something strange going on. Very strange. In the last three movies I’ve seen, somebody gets stabbed in the foot. I hope I’m not spoiling things for others who haven’t yet seen these movies but if you think you might see them, STOP READING NOW! Two nights ago, I saw “History of Violence” at a theater in Harvard Square and Viggo Mortensen took one in the foot. The last movie I saw in a theater, Ice Harvest, John Cusack got the same treatment. And in True Romance, an older movie I recently rented, James Gandolfini got foot-stabbed too, this time by Patricia Arquette, star of The Medium. That’s three consecutive movies and three consecutive blood-splattered feet. What are the odds? And what are the movie gods–if such entities exist–trying to tell me?

I’m not sure, but for now I’m wearing steel-plated construction boots around the clock, 24/7, even when I sleep. I sleep better at night, knowing my feet are safe, even though the boots are uncomfortable as hell and keep me awake all night. The good thing about that is I’m not getting woken up by my cat every morning. And if American Airlines wants to call me at 6 a.m. about some missing bag, I don’t mind. They can go right ahead for all I care.

I racked my brains trying to solve a sudoku puzzle in the Boston Globe Magazine last month. To no avail. I couldn’t get it done. I was stuck and frustrated. Why was this happening to me, an incipient sudoku master?

The answer came in the Globe two days later: “CORRECTION: Because of a transcription error, the Sudoku puzzle in the Globe Magazine on Sunday omitted the numeral 3 from the end of row 8 in column 9, making it impossible to correctly solve the puzzle.”

Well, thanks for the clarification, albeit belated. So I’m not a complete fool, though that, of course, is debatable, because anyone with half a wit would have given up long before I did. The fact is, I wasted a lot of time trying to solve an insoluble puzzle–precious time I could have wasted in many other ways.

I’m sure some of you may be worried that my erstwhile volleyball blog is rapidly devolving into a sudoku blog. I have nothing to say on that subject other than to paraphrase Coach Belichick (or was it Coach Parcells, his former mentor?): “It is what it is.” (Or, as the football geniuses would have it: “You are what you are.” Which is, of course, merely another take on Popeye’s most famous utterance.) The main point–or take-home message, if you will–is this: I have no idea what kind of blog this is (other than self-important and longwinded). It surprises me all the time. And I have no idea what it will come up with next. If you have even a modicum of curiosity, please stay tuned.

Not to sound like a crybaby, but some guys never catch a break. It’s true I skimp a little on sleep, which I shouldn’t do (NOTE TO MYSELF: SLEEP MORE!), but then events on top of that always conspire to rob me of even that stingy quantity of sleep. For example, on the way back from Mexico, two bags got lost between Miami and Boston. The airlines woke me up on two successive mornings, calling at an indecently early hour, to inform me that one of my missing bags would be delivered THREE HOURS LATER!!! I suppose there’s nothing unusual in the fact that my kids can (and do) wake me at any time of the night. But now our cat is getting into the act. She’s taken to clawing on my door early in the morning when she wants to go outside for her daily rounds. She only does this on my door. Not on the kids’ door. Why? Because she knows I’m a soft touch, as well as a light sleeper, who will always accommodate her. I’m a cat enabler, in other words, and am paying the price for it every morning that I’m not otherwise being woken up by the American Airlines baggage handling department. Not to sound like a crybaby, but some guys never catch a break.

We’re only a week or so into 2006, and I’m already hopelessly behind. First I came back from Mexico to a pile of newspapers and magazines which meant an immediate backlog of 7 sudoku puzzles, not to mention all the papers and magazines I still have to plow through. Then there were all the bills I was supposed to pay before the trip but still haven’t gotten around to. And then there are all the movies I’m supposed to see but haven’t found time for yet. And all the TV shows I didn’t watch now that I officially “watch” TV, even though I rarely have time to do so.

It’s all very disquieting for a person like me who used to stay on top of things. But that proud tradition–staying on top of things–is now a thing of the past, it seems. So I’d better get used to the future which, so far as I can tell, will consist of catching up on all the things from the past that were never attended to in the present.

If that makes sense to you, please explain it to me one day when I have a moment to listen. But I’m afraid now isn’t the best time.

With the way things are in this country, I’ve found it hard to embrace “patriotism,” at least as commonly defined. I generally try to avoid that word. But it’s hard to forget it altogether, now that my hometown team, the New England Patriots, are vying for their third consecutive Super Bowl and fourth in the last five years. Last night’s crushing 28-3 victory over Jacksonville brings them one step closer to achieving that goal. For a fan, even a part-time one like myself, it’s hard not to love this team which has overcome its share of adversity–including the loss of its offensive and defensive coordinators, an assortment of injuries, and the stroke suffered by Tedy Bruschi, the heart and soul of the defense, that seemed almost certain to be career-ending.

The resounding triumph over the Jaguars gives the Patriots 10 straight playoff wins (an NFL record) and the look of a champion, once again. The team has played heroically this year, especially during the second half of the season, and is living up to its name. Were it not for my advanced age, diminutive size, and lack of athletic talent, it’s almost enough to make me want to be a Patriot, which is something I’ve never aspired to during the past half decade or so known as the Bush era.

I had the pleasure–and indeed honor–of stopping off at Miami International Airport during both legs of my recent “South of the Border” excursion. I don’t have time to describe all the wonderful things I experienced during my Miami stopovers, but I can tell you I felt extremely safe. When you enter the line for the x-ray scanning machines, you are required to show your boarding pass and picture ID. When you get to the front of the line, so to speak, you show them both again. Then you pass through the scanners and, a few feet and a few seconds later, you show them again. That’s three times in the same line–three times in the course of a couple of minutes. I was getting repetitive motion syndrome from pulling out my documents and stuffing them back in my pocket so often. Why that’s supposed to be more secure I don’t know. The thing I especially don’t get is that you show your ID immediately before passing through the x-ray machine and then again immediately upon coming out a few seconds later. What’s supposed to happen in the interim? The only thing I can think of is that you might have lost your boarding pass and/or wallet amidst all that pointless back and forth. Then you’ll have all the time in the world to experience Miami International, though perhaps not the resources with which to fully enjoy it.

For awhile, it looked like Bush was going to wimp out and abide by the anti-torture provisions he claimed to endorse. But not to worry. Bush will do nothing of the sort. He’s set the best legal minds in the country to the task of finding loopholes in the bill he signed last week ostensibly banning torture. That bill, too, will do nothing of the sort, since Bush and his helpers have no intention of abiding by the statutes advanced by John McCain. (McCain, in case you hadn’t heard, is “weak” on torture. [Or maybe I should say "soft."] And “abiding,” in case you hadn’t heard, is for “losers.”)

2005 ended with a bang. While I was “South of the Border,” unable to defend myself from the usual attempts at character assassination, an astute reader, who goes by the moniker “Arnold S.” (sound like anyone you know?), called me a “self-important, longwinded dork,” as well as a “twit” and a “moron.” At least he agrees with my wife on the last one. The other terms, so far as I know, are firsts for me–personal bests, you might say. I’ve never heard the word twit applied in my direction and the longer expression, SILWD, has a nice ring to it.

I’m inclined to agree with Arnold S., seeing as how he seems to be quite an expert on the subject. He’s also shown himself to be a shrewd judge of character, given his fondness for W. and his merry band of friends. So, in conclusion, I’d like to say–in self-important, longwinded fashion–that fiscal year 2005 ended on a very nice note for me personally, as well as fiscally. (I can’t speak for the rest of you though, lord knows, I try.) I can only hope for equally good treatment in 2006.