CALL ME SNAKE

I never met Red Auerbach and, if truth be told, never spent that much time thinking about him. But now that he’s gone, and I’ve read all the stories, it’s clear to me that we’ve lost a unique individual whose death may signal the end of an era. My sense is that true “characters” like Red are few and far between. Moreoever, they may be the product of a previous generation, as I don’t think that characters like Red are likely to emerge from my peers–a group sometimes referred to as “boomers.” Why is that? I don’t know. Maybe every generation romanticizes the past. And to some extent, that may be true. But I also think part of the explanation lies in the fact that the post-World War II crowd has, for the most part, had it too easy. You’ve got to be tough to be a true character–seen some really hard times–and most of us these days just aren’t tough enough.

Plus the times have changed as well. After drafting Kevin McHale, Red picked him up from the airport, drove him to the Celtics’ office, and gave him a couple of minutes to sign his contract so that he would not be late for practice. McHale signed as told, without taking time to read the fineprint. For better or worse, that would never happen today.

So goodbye Red. It’s a shame I never got to know you. And perhaps an even greater shame that there may not be another one like you.

There’s an intriguing headline today on the front page of Metro, “The world’s largest global newspaper,” that reads: “Man may have cut up father.” To my (admittedly simpleminded) way of thinking, that headline raises more questions than answers. Did the reporter not bother to find out whether the man in question did, in fact, cut up his father? Or did the suspect simply not remember, which is the kind of thing that could easily happen when it comes to dismembering family members: “I might have cut him up. Or maybe not… What day we talkin’ ?” That’s not a direct transcript, of course, but you could see how confusion could arise in a case like this, especially on a busy weekend with lots going on. Stayed tuned. We’ll have more to say on this incisive topic as news reports, and body parts, trickle in.

I whined about it last night, fearing the worst. So just how badly did it go? Everyone says this annual ritual–evidently a tremendous boon to agriculture–is great cause you get “an extra hour of sleep.” Too bad they didn’t tell my cat that, because she woke me up at 4 a.m. rather than at 5 a.m. Ditto with my daughter, who woke me at 6 a.m. rather than at 7 a.m. So much for that much ballyhooed extra hour of sleep. The defense rests (if only I could, if only I could…).

In about half an hour, we–as dutiful citizens–are supposed to turn our clocks back one hour. (While you’re at it, why not replace the batteries on your smoke detectors?) This time around, we gain an hour. It’s often described as some great gift, but to me it’s almost a burden. Because unless you’re doing something really memorable, this great gift that only comes around once a year is going to waste. You’re not supposed to spend it catching up on your work and on your blog, as I did. You’re supposed to do something special, something really grand. But I couldn’t think of anything special to do, and have never thought of anything “really grand,” so here I am wasting my time and yours complaining about that extra hour, granted by the powers that be, which was, once again, put to no good use.

But an hour goes by pretty quick, and before we know it, it will all be over. We’ll just pick up our dreary lives, or spectacular lives, at the moment we left off, carrying on as if it never happened.

In an interview earlier this week, Dick Cheney admitted that “for a while there, I was criticized for being the vice president of torture. We don’t torture. That’s not what we’re involved in.” Perhaps he was responding to a post that appeared in Call Me Snake on October 15, 2005 entitled “Vice President of Torture.” Former CIA director Stansfield Turner called Cheney “vice president for torture” in an interview two days later (October 17, 2005) and a week after that, the Washington Post ran an editorial entitled “Vice President for Torture.” So it appears, in refering to the “vice president OF torture” label (as opposed to the “vice president FOR torture” label), Cheney was responding to, and denying, the most serious charge of all–that leveled against him here at Call Me Snake.

With mid-term elections fast approaching, beleaguered Republicans are getting the kind of help you can’t pay for, the kind of help you might just as soon do without: The charismatic Dick Cheney, the embodiment of all that is good and pure, is hitting the stump on their behalf. These are dark times–Cheney says, in so many words–and we need evil people in office. These people, I can personally attest, are evil.

Meanwhile, the Prince of Darkness is also spreading the usual allotment of fear and loathing. If Republicans lose control of Congress, Cheney warns, folks like Barney Frank will soon head powerful committees, “and I don’t need to tell you what kind of legislation would come.” Sorry Dick, what exactly are you saying here? Do you mean “gay legislation”?

This just found its way to my desk. Now I’m trying to help it find its way to yours: A study by Purdue civil engineer Fred Mannering indicates that auto safety, paradoxically, declined from 1992 to 1996 during the same period that airbags and antilock braking systems were introduced. The reason, Mannering claims, is the “offset hypothesis”–namely that when people feel like their car is safer, they’ll drive in a riskier manner. Mannering not only supports this hypothesis through his academic writings and statistical analyses, he also supports it in his daily life: “When I’m driving the MG,” he says, “I definitely make a special effort not to tailgate or accelerate quickly when roads are slick because I don’t have the antilock brakes, traction control and the other advanced safety features of my newer car.”

The latest issue of the Annals of Improbable Research (September-October 2006 edition) features an article entitled “Chicken Chicken Chicken” that is, I’m sure, unlike any other you’ve read. The only words in the entire article are “chicken” and “chickens,” though the text also has numbers, charts, graphs, and equations. The inspired piece, written by Doug Zongker (formerly at the University of Washington), has already won two awards–”Best Paper” and “Best Paper on Chickens”–at the prestigious 2002 Potentially Computer Science Conference held in Seattle. If you have a chance to peruse the article, which is also available on Zongker’s website, you’ll see the awards are well deserved.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: In anticipation of my erstwhile favorite holiday, I dashed off this little ditty, which aired (in edited form) on a California, NPR-affiliate radio station...] Lobbing eggs has long been considered an innocent pastime–a Halloween tradition that ranks right up there with the pie-in-your-face of TV’s Golden Era. But wait, cautions J. M. Durnian of the Royal Liverpool University Hospital in England. An egg is about the size of a squash ball and packs considerably more heft, meaning that this seemingly harmless prank could result in serious eye damage. Indeed, between November 2004 and December 2005, Durnian and colleagues at the hospital’s eye unit identified 13 patients with “ocular injuries” due to “assault with a raw egg.” In all cases, the eggs were thrown by strangers. Twelve of these hapless patients suffered at least temporary declines in vision. Eight sustained significant injuries–including tears and bruising of the retina–and one required major surgery to recover.

The problem, alas, is not confined to England. Ocular trauma as a result of airborne eggs has also been reported in Ireland, Scotland, and the United States. Egg-in-the-eye attacks may be underreported, the Liverpool researchers claim, as their unit does not handle childhood injuries. “We expect the younger members of our community to do much of the egg throwing,” they write, “but their targets may be the older population.” Regardless of who’s at the receiving end, the message is clear. If you see an egg sailing towards you, calmly, coolly, keep three words in mind: Duck and cover.

With Barack Obama’s recent admission that he is contemplating a run for the presidency in 2008, several questions come to mind: Is America ready for an African-American president? (I hope so.) Is Obama ready for that exalted office after less than two years in the U.S. Senate? Is America ready for a candidate who has not even completed a single term in the Senate? And more importantly, is America ready for a president who is several years my junior?

Today we’re introducing a new feature here at Call Me Snake, which is one of the best things we do here at Call Me Snake. The new feature, as the title suggests, is called “Tip of the Week.” The idea behind Tip of the Week is fairly simple and can be summed up in four words: tip of the week. In other words, we highlight something of note due to occur in the upcoming week.

This week’s tip comes from the “TV Week” section of today’s Boston Sunday Globe. Although I do not watch TV, save for the odd moment, here and there, between changing channels, I faithfully read “TV Week,” which is a kind of poor man’s TV Guide. Here’s a description of the movie “Horror Express” (1972) scheduled for next Saturday at 12 noon: “Victorian scientists fight a missing-link monster making zombies on a trans-Siberia train.” (If this movie is half as good as the above summary, it’s a masterpiece.)

EDITOR’S OPENING REMARKS: Many have written about the perils of sudoku addiction, but none perhaps so succinctly, eloquently, or convincingly as Gatemouth in his response to Fletch’s attack on me (henceforth referred to as the “Sunday morning massacre”) for “ruining his life,” such as it is. So, once again, I’m going to relinquish the reins and hand over the “conch” to Gatemouth, who will ably take us through the ins and outs of this frightening new problem.

GATEMOUTH: Fletch, the real key to becoming addicted to Sudoku is to get the electronic version on your computer. Then, as soon as you finish one game, you can start another. I was totally addicted (as your son so astutely predicted) for about six months. Then I had to take the damn thing off my computer or risk becoming the most sedentary, unproductive person on the planet (besides George Bush, that is).

EDITOR’S CLOSING COMMENTARY: In conclusion, I should like to say, heretowith, that I agree wholeheartedly with the spirit, if not the tenor, of Gatemouth’s remarks. Yes, sudoku addiction is a real problem. I know this not from my own personal involvement with the game–the situation here, I’m pleased to admit, is under control, I repeat, under control–but rather from my day job as a tireless student of human nature, a subject I study with great relish when I’m not working on number puzzles from Metro, the Globe, and other sources. (With pen, always with pen.) Sorry, I’ve got to go: I’m just about to close out another little 9 x 9 box, and I don’t want to make a mistake. Because once you do make a mistake, it’s hard to get back on track, and your life as you once knew it–so promising, it seemed–is, for all intents and purposes, over.

Unlike some of my peers, I’m man enough to admit when I’m wrong. I have said a few uncharitable things about the free newspaper Metro, which I only get for sudoku, without realizing that it is–according to an unimpeachable source, the Metro itself–”the world’s largest global newspaper, with more than 18.5 million daily readers in 93 major cities in 21 countries.” Which puts its total circulation well above the New York Times, USA Today, International Herald Tribune, and several other dailies put together. I had no idea and thought it was just a throwaway rag. So I was wrong to say the paper was best used as something to put muddy boots on. Or to wrap fish in. Or to use for cleaning car windshields when you’re really hard up. I was wrong. And I’m man enough to admit it.

The scariest movies these days are not the knockoff horror flicks like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre prequel or the Grudge sequel, both of which are supposed to be execrable. But rather they are two documentaries: Deliver Us From Evil (about child-molesting Catholic priests) and Jesus Camp (about terror-inducing evangelical Christian zealots trying to “break the power of the devil in this nation”). My two cents worth, as always, should be taken with a large grain of salt, as I haven’t seen any of the movies mentioned. While the first two are just garbage, I may even skip the last two “quality” films, as I probably don’t have the stomach for them. Bring on those chainsaw-wielding maniacs from Texas, if you must. That I can take no problem.

As I always say, you never know what will come in over the air waves (or digital electronic waves)–the following job posting, which I received this morning, being a case in point: “I am in immediate need of retaining the services of a ghost writer/researcher to assist me in writing a weekly health newsletterand various other health and nutrition writings. Best case for us would be an experienced health and nutrition writer who is skilled at taking complex information and effectively communicating it to lay people while still interesting to practitioners. Working knowledge of the Bible a plus.”

In the race for Massachusetts governor, Kerry Healey is attacking Deval Patrick’s efforts as a lawyer for the NAACP Legal Defense Fund. “He [Patrick] made a pattern of taking the side of the offender rather than protecting the victims, and we think those are the wrong priorities for the next governor,” claimed Healey spokesman, Tim O’Brien.

Well, d-u-h… Patrick was working as a defense attorney for people desperately in need of legal representation. Of course “he made a pattern of taking the side of the offender.” That was his job. And it’s an important job at that. Indeed, our entire justice system depends on it. But saying that would not make for much of an “attack ad,” nor would it do much to advance Healey’s cause, now would it? Which brings to mind another question: What exactly is Healey’s cause?

[EDITOR'S NOTE: Sometimes you wonder whether it's worth it, whether your blog is a total waste of time or whether, somewhere and somehow, it's making a difference. I've often thought of pulling the plug on this particular experiment and have come close on many occasions. But then there are those little reminders that come along, like this note from an anonymous friend called "Fletch," that let you know your blog is having an impact, for better or worse. Without further ado, I shall now turn the "conch" over to Fletch, who explains in dramatic fashion how his life has been touched by Call Me Snake. It's a heartwarming tale, full of wit and perspicacity, as you shall see...]

FLETCH SPEAKS: Things are deteriorating rapidly around here, and it’s clearly your fault (or at least not mine). First, this blog stuff has put a real dent in my daily routine.  Here I am, this very minute, at “work,” and what am I doing? Then, last night, under circumstances that are not interesting enough to deserve full disclosure, I find myself at a parent-teenager event, and what appears on the dinner table to fill the conversational void?  A Sudoku puzzle.  That’s right, I’d never encountered one before, only heard about them you-know-where (which I peruse during my time at “work” - see where we’re headed?).  Never one to turn down a challenge, I unleash my considerable puzzle-solving acumen on the unsuspecting piece of paper (using the only writing implement within range - a Bic ballpoint).  I become totally absorbed in the thing, shutting out virtually everything else (parallels are abounding here).

Well, you (or at least a novice such as I) shouldn’t attempt one of those things in pen.  So, I grabbed a couple of blank ones (just in case), and, at about 7:30, headed home - where we have a stash of sharp pencils with good erasers - expecting to knock the punk off in a few minutes or so before finishing the last few items on the weekend “To Do” list and picking up the Sunday NY Times to remind me of life outside my diurnal grind.  (At this point please remember the correspondence about sleep deprivation).

At about 9:30, I near the conclusion, but, as a result of sloppiness in the last few squares, I blow it.  About this time my wife comes over and says she’s heading to bed.  “OK, I just made a little mistake with this puzzle, I’ll be there soon,” say I.  I decide to start over, not exactly being able to retrace my steps.  One teen heads to bed, then another.  At 11:15, my quest ends with a perfect puzzle.  My son, who has been up doing practice SAT tests, chuckles at my obsession. This conversation ensues:

Son:  “Did you finish?”

Dad: “Yes, finally.  My blogger friend is into these, so I wanted to give it a try.”

Son: “Oh, so is this something you’ll become obsessed about over the next six months instead of doing what you’re supposed to do?”

Dad, with slightly raised eyebrows:  “Like what?”  [Now, the astute reader who shares a home with teenagers of this age will wonder at the wisdom of a father asking a question like this of such a teenager.  I must admit, after letting that one escape I went into sort of an intellectual "batten down the hatches" mode - what excuse can I offer, other than that it was way past my bedtime, and I was flush with the confidence that comes only from working a Sudoku puzzle in less than four hours.]

Son, after a momentary pause:  “Buying a car for the girls [his twin sisters who turn 16 in a month].”

Now, I was relieved that the response was so “trivial,” and won’t launch into an essay on “entitlement” (although such an essay is well deserved). I mumbled some half-responsive comment like “I’m still thinking about it,” and ambled off to bed.  (As an aside, I don’t think I’ll do Sudoku before bed again - it didn’t exactly help me drift off to sleep).

Anyway, I was all set to write and complain to you that the blog and Sudoku have ruined my life.  But then - if my life consists of supplying (or funding) transportation to teenagers - THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!!!

(EDITOR’S NOTE: The last two “Thank you’s,” along with the additional exclamation points, were added by the editor for emphasis. Well, that’s it for this week’s episode. Stay tuned for the next installment of our popular new feature, “Fletch to Snake: You’re Ruining My Life!” Until then, the balcony is closed.)

(EDITOR’S NOTE: The response to yesterday’s post on “Handball in the Media” was so great that we felt compelled to “stick with a winner, as it were, which is why this erstwhile volleyball blog is on the verge of becoming a handball blog.) THEY DON’T MAKE MOVIES LIKE THEY USED TO. I say that because I just finished watching “Next Stop, Greenwich Village,” which came out exactly 30 years ago. It’s not an especially great movie, and is perhaps most notable for featuring supporting performances by a young Christopher Walken and an even younger Jeff Goldblum. I can’t even say I liked the picture but it did have an unbelievably moving ending. And that’s got to count for something, right?

Without giving too much away, the movie concludes with the hero (played by Lenny Baker) leaving his old Brooklyn neighborhood to embark on a new, and potentially promising, career. The idea, it seems, was to end on a high note, a note of hope, and what better way to convey that than by showing a group of kids playing handball on the streets of Brooklyn? The scene only lasts a minute, and possibly a good deal less than a minute, yet its impact will stay with you forever.

The message, at least to me, is obvious. It’s OK to start a move with volleyball, as in “Top Gun,” where the volleyball scene came pretty early on, if memory serves correct. But if you want to leave ‘em laughing, or even crying, you could do worse than ending with handball. It worked for Paul Mazursky, and maybe it could work for you too.

(Editor’s Note: The following is part of a recurring series–and a popular one at that–on “Handball in the Media.”) I know I’ve said I don’t watch TV, but last night I did happen to catch a few minutes of the new series, “Six Degrees,” which I mention here only because a shadowy figure who appeared on the show last night, known as “The Puncher,” was holding a handball and tossing it in the air before accosting a man on the sidewalk and doing what you’d expect a “Puncher” to do–punching. I worry that this could give handball a bad name. On the other hand, the people the Puncher punched were evidently rats, jerks, or miscreants, so maybe it gives handball a good name. It’s a tough call that, at this early juncture, could swing either way. I suppose time will tell as to how this episode will affect the reputation, and future, of the sport we know and love so well.

What you are about to read is all true. I got it from the highest authority in journalism, the Metro, the free paper they give out near subways which I only get for sudoku. Still, as I was clipping the puzzle page, I couldn’t help noticing an item on the next page about ‘THE BRAZILIAN BUTT FILL.” What on Earth is that, I wondered? Then I found out it’s a buttock augmentation procedure for women (or men, why not?, it’s still a free country, the last I heard) who want their jeans to “hug their curves a’ la Beyonce’.” I’m not sold on this surgical technique yet–need some time to wrap my head around it (around Beyonce’s butt), so to speak–but it’s good to know it’s out there in case I do come around. In fact, I think it should be a comfort to all our bottoms to know that if you need help filling your pants, medical science is ready and willing to step into the breach.

Now that I’ve gone and done it and become a soccer coach, I found that one scene in the indy film “Lonesome Jim” really resonated with me. The Jim character, played by Casey Affleck, took over coaching his nieces’ basketball team after his brother got into a car wreck. At the start of one practice, Jim–a depressed, low-energy sort–says to the girls: “I don’t have anything to tell you today. So just do whatever you want.” Then he sits down on the bench without another word. I can’t wait to try that approach next week when our team meets for its regular practice session/scrimmage.

There’s one other particularly memorable exchange in the movie. Jim asks his uncle if he has a girlfriend. “No, I use hookers,” the uncle replies. “They’re cheaper.”

Denny Hastert has laid down the law: Any members of his staff who knew about Mark Foley’s questionable email habits and covered it up would lose their jobs. That’s simple enough, though it does raise just one question: Technically speaking, is Denny Hastert a member of Denny Hastert’s staff?

In the soccer league that I coach in, we’re always supposed to be supportive of the children. If they come out of the game, the first thing you’re supposed to say is “Good job!” And then, maybe you could say something like: “Remember the time you did ___? Do you think things might have gone better if you did ___ instead?”

I sometimes wonder whether that same approach might work with our fearless (peerless?) leader, George W. Bush. There are certainly countless situations where one could have asked him: “Do you think things might have gone better if you did ___ instead of ___?”

Which brings me to the latest situation with North Korea. I’m not up enough on the situation as I should be. Clearly, U.S. negotiation efforts aimed at dissuading North Korea from pursuing their nuclear ambitions have not gone well, if early indications of a nuclear test are confirmed. I have no doubt there was a better way to go, though again I do not pretend to have all the answers here. The main thing that bothers me now is that I heard some reporter on NPR saying that North Korea’s nuclear weapons should give President Bush “a badly-needed bump in the polls.” I’m sorry, but this one is tough to swallow, even if it is true. Why should the world’s loss–and North Korea’s acquisition of nuclear weapons–be a gain for Bush, whose negotiations have led to exactly the thing that everyone in the world, except North Korea, hoped to avoid? And if what the NPR reporter said is true, he’s obligated to say more and explain the warped reasoning behind it, rather than just putting it out there, as if it’s obvious this is Bush’s finest hour.

If you ask me, the opposite is true. Bush and his cohorts have done everything in their powers to make the world a more dangerous place. The latest development–even if this time the Bush cabal is not directly involved–is just another huge step in that direction. As for that “bump in the polls,” I too would like to see a big bump, right out of office.

I raced to the phone last week, tripping over a scooter and two rollerskates on the way there, to be greeted with this message: “Please wait. An attendant will be right with you… Please wait. An attendant will be right with you…” What an opportunity–unsolicited, granted, which could make it all the better. Maybe this was my chance to wish for anything I desired. Maybe the attendant had every intention of attending to my needs. And wants. Maybe this was the genie I’d been hoping for since childhood. So what did I do? I hung up.

That reckless, thoughtless act has haunted me ever since. Reflecting on the whole incident, which was over and done with in less than 30 seconds, I’m starting to think that may well have been a once-in-a-lifetime shot. Since then, of course, that attendant (i.e., MY ATTENDANT) has not called back. And given my rudeness, he probably never will.

(EDITOR’S NOTE: The following transcript was recorded last night–Thursday, October 5th–and reproduced here, thanks to the miracle of the internet (thanks Al!), for your viewing pleasure. A shortened, edited version can be found on Nature.com.) While respectable folks are in Sweden, attending the real thing, I’m here at Harvard for the low-rent alternative, waiting for the Ig Nobel Prize Ceremony to begin. It’s the first Thursday in October, which is when the Igs are always held, and historic Sanders Theatre is packed–the anticipation, so thick, it could be cut with a scalpel by those two men in white labcoats, just before they cart you off to the looney bin. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Time for a deep breath.

Looking about the hall, as spitballs and paper airplanes fly through the air, I feel a bit sheepish amidst a crowd of innocents who have no idea what’s in store for them. This is the 16th Ig Nobel ceremony, and I hold the dubious distinction of having witnessed every single one–an attendance record perhaps only matched by the event’s organizer, Marc Abrahams, and his mother. I know it’s nothing to brag about. Maybe someday I’ll get a life. But until I do, I’ll sit back and enjoy the Igs.

7:26 Some people are dancing onstage to Franz Liszt, which is OK with me. But right now, I’ve got pencils to sharpen. This year, there’s no press kit with all the answers. No “cheat sheet.” This year, in other words, I’m going to have to earn it.

7:31 A Harvard official tells us about “new security regulations” regarding paper airplanes. But the crowd pays him no mind. As if to drive the point home, an airplane suddenly dive-bombs into my head.

7:35 Kees Moeliker, a 2003 Ig winner for reporting on the first case of homosexual necrophilia in the mallard duck, is at the podium with a woman, evidently his wife, saying he just got married. “And this is our honeymoon!” The crowd eats it up.

7:38-8:05 The Nobel laureates muster their courage and enter the lion’s den. They’re followed by the Ig Nobel laureates, the King and Queen of Swedish meatballs, and various “Ignitaries.” The theme of this year’s show is “Inertia,” which means that “Lawyers For and Against Intertia” will be parading by any minute now.

8:08 Finally, the first Ig Prize is presented in Ornithology for investigations into why woodpeckers don’t get headaches. Ivan Schwab of the University of California, Davis, accepts the prize donning a woodpecker headdress.

8:15 Kuwaiti researchers, Wasmia Al-Houty and Faten Al-Mussalam, receive the Nutrition Prize for showing that dung beetles are finicky eaters, preferring horse dung to the camel and sheep alternative.

8:20 There’s a noisy bunch of students behind me, chanting and heckling nonstop. I join in, shouting “Gerard Depardieu!” It feels liberating.

8:25 In his “24/7” lecture on dark matter and dark energy, Frank Wilczek of MIT sums up the universe in seven words: “What you see isn’t what you get.”

8:35 Daniel Oppenheimer of Princeton earns the Literature Prize for his paper on the needless use of long words. “Conciseness is interpreted as intelligence,” he notes in his acceptance speech. “So, thank you.”

8:42 University of Tennessee scholar Francis Fesmire, the first person to terminate hiccups through digital rectal massage, captures the Medicine Prize. He claims his son consoled him about winning an Ig Nobel Prize rather than a regular Nobel. “It’s like winning a Darwin,” the son told him, “and you don’t have to die.”

8:52 The crowd behind me keeps up the catcalls, shouting “intertia” at every turn. A born follower, I shout too. And when they throw things, I throw too. Sometimes their antics strike me as sophomoric. Then I realize they really are sophomores. So that’s their excuse, but what’s mine?

9:06 I must have dropped off. All the Ig laureates are in the middle of the stage with those other laureates for some kind of lovefest. The photographers go crazy.

9:11 Marc Abrahams calls it a night, setting off a mass exodus. I pack up my pencils and follow the herd.

9:17 Standing outside, as I unlock my bike, I reflect on what I’ve just seen and wonder what next year will bring. Will I be sitting in the peanut gallery once again, with the “Children of Paradise”? Or I will be onstage, front and center, pocketing my first Ig Nobel? I quietly prepare an acceptance speech, just in case.

“Solaris,” the 1972 sci-fi classic, directed by Andrei Tarkovsky and based on a novel by Stanislaw Lem, has clearly seen better days. Earlier this week, I saw a copy of the video sitting near a subway entrance in Central Square, where some of the most destitute, most down-and-out people of Cambridge parade by, day and night. I pass by that spot on the way to my daughter’s elementary school, and one day later and the day after that, the video was still there in the exact same spot, apparently untouched.

In some ways, the movie is controversial. Although it still has a cult following in some quarters, other viewers find it unbearably tedious–”like watching paint fade,” as one friend described it to me. Love it or hate it, people used to get passionate about the film. But now, it seems, the prevailing response to Solaris is one of indifference. Is that something to be concerned about? It depends on how you feel about watching paint fade.

Much has already been written or said about the Mark Foley situation, and I have nothing to add except, perhaps, a few small remarks. First off, isn’t it interesting how–at the first sign of trouble these days–people check themselves into an alcohol rehab facility? Admitting alcoholism (or drug addiction or sex addiction), it seems, is invariably the first line of defense. Second (just a question): Would Foley be in as much trouble today if the pages he harassed happened to be girls rather than boys? Would the NPR reporters still have called his instant messages (which I have yet to see) “disgusting” or would they merely be considered “offensive”? Third, he sure picked a good time to “come out,” now didn’t he? Almost enough to give coming out a bad name. Fourth, credit Foley with a P.R. coup on the priest molestation charge. You can be sure that Foley’s record/background will be gone over with a fine-tooth comb. But claiming that a priest molested you is one allegation that can never, ever be disproved. A brilliant stroke. (By the way, does anyone know his publicist? I might need to hire that genius someday.)

Were it not for a new study in the November 2006 issue of the American Journal of Preventative Medicine, we never would have guessed: People who regularly go hiking, biking, or walking on trails specifically designated for such purposes are twice as likely to meet their recommended exercise requirements than people who do not (and presumably prefer to get their exercise while planted on a couch, watching TV). Now there’s a shocker. Let’s chalk up another victory for modern medical science. The wonders never cease.

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” the old saw goes. And given that, according to the latest polls, Deval Patrick now sports a 25 percentage point lead over Kerry Healey in the governor’s race in Massachusetts, Patrick supporters have to think things are going well for their guy. (He’s my guy too.) But still, I’ve got to question the ad campaign that portray Patrick as a soft-spoken, mild-mannered, latter-day Mister Rogers. Patrick claims he can take on the entrenched gang of meat-eaters that rules the State House, but the ads suggest he may not be ready to take on a Brownie troop.

Lest I sound like a hypocrite, I want to reiterate my strong (undying) support for Patrick (and equally strong aversion to his Republican opponent). That said, Healey has claimed he’s “not tough enough,” and the ads he’s running suggest she might be right. I’d say it’s time for a new ad campaign–something punchier and snappier–so that we can get away from the Casper Milquetoast image that has filled the airwaves for too long. It’s time to meet the Governator.

In the Coen brothers’ classic, “Barton Fink,” the movie studio boss (played by Michael Lerner) wants Fink (played by John Turturro) to write the script for a wrestling picture with “that Barton Fink feel.” Near the end, when Lerner is disappointed with script, to say the least, he turns to Turturro and shouts: “YOU THINK YOU’RE THE ONLY WRITER IN TOWN WHO CAN GIVE ME THAT BARTON FINK FEEL?”

Now I’m starting to think I’m not the only writer in town who can deliver that Call Me Snake feel. No less an authority than Zardoz claimed my last post–which was Celebrity Guest-written by Gatemouth and an anonymous person named “Fletch”–was one of the best ever to appear in this space. The good news is that it was, in his opinion, a superior bit of writing. The bad news is that it was written by surrogates, which means I’m entirely replaceable. The good news there is that I could take a rest and no one would notice. The bad news is that no one would notice. Or maybe they would notice and tell me not to hurry back. “Take your time,” I can imagine them saying. “Everything’s fine. In fact, better than fine. In fact, better than ever.”