CALL ME SNAKE

Well folks, old-what's-his-name is finally gonna' give y'all a break and take off for a week to parts unknown--to a land of sun and enchantment and hard-to-find internet connections. Which means Call Me Snake is taking a little hiatus. Or perhaps I should say siesta.

On another note: I had my dates mixed up and missed the 2d anniversary of that little blog known as Call Me Snake. I can't believe I've been doing this for two years. I never planned on doing this in the first place. I guess you could say, to quote Bill Clinton, that I did it "for the worst possible reason--just because I could." Because all it took was 3 easy steps--or maybe, in my case, 10 difficult steps, but let's not nitpick here. This is a time of celebration. Anyway, I experimented one night because I could and two years later, I'm still experimenting. I suppose because I can.

As I said before, I never figured on doing this for so long. But I must be getting something out of it right? It is fun, I think. At least I tell myself that at times when I'm not doing all the things I'm supposed to be doing. And it's nice to have a place to put down those ridiculous thoughts that maybe, just maybe, nobody else in the world is having--not because they're so brilliant but rather because they're inane in a uniquely, idiosyncratically peculiar way. Well, all right, it has been fun. And if that's the case, it's mainly because of you--the incisive comments I never figured on getting and the many brilliant entries to the many ridiculous contests we've held over the years: bumper stickers, epitaphs, Rocky Balboa quotes, and the like. I'm going to stop being a curmudgeon long enough to say thanks for hanging in there with me during those months of entries about Antoine Walker, plus my mad ravings about coupons and Solaris and Whole Foods and 7-11 (which I still haven't sat down in front of, tempting as it may be). Adios amigos, as they say in the land where I'm going; see y'all in a week or so.

Last month, our readers met "the Hitcher"--a well-dressed man, sporting a big smile and a necktie, trying to thumb a ride on a quiet residential street (Ellery Street, to be precise). Today, exactly one month later, I saw the hitcher again. Evidently he had some success in the intervening weeks and had made his way from mid-Cambridge over to the MIT area (Sidney Street, to be precise). He was still sporting that same smile and necktie, but now I'm starting to wonder whether I was wrong about the "well-dressed" part. Maybe the guy is not as prosperous as I had originally thought, which makes sense because then he'd be hailing a cab, right?

Today, as was the case last month, he was hitching on a dubious street, one that ran no more than a mile in its entirety, and I couldn't imagine he'd have any luck. Who would pick up a guy like that on a street like that that essentially went nowhere? (Sorry to the people who live or work there; it does go somewhere. But, I think you'll agree, it does not exactly offer the most expeditious ticket to the open road.) After watching him for a minute, I ducked into the bank and then the Star Market. Fifteen minutes later, when I came back to the corner to retrieve my bike, there was no sign of him. I wonder where we'll see the next appearance of our favorite new character, The Hitcher, who is perhaps coming soon to your very own street.

At the risk of sounding like a hypocrite, I'll start out by saying I'm not a big fan of having kids play games on the computer. That said (and this is the part where I might start sounding like a hypocrite), my 4-and-a-half-year-old daughter has spent a little bit of time at the Barbie.com site, of late, checking out the various amusements to be had there. But here's my gripe: When she signs in--and she has a lovely name--Barbie.com denies her access, saying something like: "You just used a naughty word. Wouldn't you like to try again and use your real name?" But there's nothing wrong with her name and it's not close --phonetically or spellingly -- to anything I can think of that sounds "naughty." Which has left me furious, impugning my young daughter's good name like that, almost to the point of wanting to file some kind of grievance. But against whom (Barbie.com? the webmaster? Mattel?) and for what (calling my daugher's name "naughty"? libel? harrassment?). Well, I guess you can see the quandary I'm in, which is partly of my own doing. For if I'd stuck to my guns and kept the kids away from sites like Barbie.com & PBSkids, none of this would have happened.

Last month (11/21/06), here in these very pages, I wrote about the guy in Jamaica Plain (a part of Boston, in case you're not from around heah) who strung up 250,000 Christmas tree lights on his castle-like abode. Tonight, being Christmas night, I checked it out first hand with my family. I have to admit, it is quite a spectacle. I didn't count the lights, but there's one heck of a lot of firepower coming out of that house, like a little bit of Las Vegas in an otherwise quiet residential neighborhood. A friend of mine (a JPite) said it's probably visible from space. Maybe this will be the tipoff the ET's need to finally find us (sorry about the split infinitive, but as you can see I am getting carried away).

If you missed the light show this year, don't worry. The homeowner, Dominic Luberto, is planning to string up 500,000 lights next year. It's only a matter of time, I figure, before he hits a million points of light, thereby putting the first President George Bush's measly "thousand points of light" to shame. (The man clearly lacked "the vision thing.") At that point, we can kiss optical astronomy goodbye, expect, perhaps, on the far side of the moon. which is why the second President George Bush is trying to get us back on the moon--the same moon that John F. Kennedy (a Democrat) got us too first, the same moon whose dark side Pink Floyd sang about so movingly. By then--i.e., the millionth bulb--the ET's will have surely found us, for better or worse, and we'll find out what the expression, "To Serve Man," is all about.

I hope I have not been too digressive here. My main point, in case it got lost in the parentheticals, is this: Keep up the good work, Mr. Luberto. I support everything you're doing to support global warming, just so long as you don't stick me with the electric bill. (A friend of mine named Al, who's made a bundle on global warming, will gladly pay it.)

My brother-in-law took a nasty spill on his bicyle today, hitting a patch of ice and falling hard. He ended up getting a number of stitches. It reminded me of a bad fall I had as a teenager that sent me to the hospital, with half my skin scraped off. I've gotten hit by cars several times as well, which is never a good idea. The older you get, the harder the pavement feels. I got "doored" a couple of years ago a block from my home, and that felt none too good. I think my right shoulder's still smarting from the impact with the door and my left shoulder's still smarting from the impact with the street.

But a year or so ago -- not to make my brother-in-law feel worse -- I actually had a good fall, one that you might even call fun. Here's the story: I was riding at night on a bike path through Danehy Park in Cambridge (on my way to the movies), when I hit a patch of "black ice." I was moving pretty fast and, as a result, things started happening pretty fast as well. My bike slid out from under me and I hit the ice at a pretty good clip, sliding smoothly for 20 to 30 feet until I gradually came to a stop. I got up and rode off, no worse for the wear. That's the kind of fall that bikers dream about. I'd never challenge Lance Armstrong to any kind of road race, but in all his vast cycling experience, I doubt he's ever had a better fall than that. (If you're listening Lance, and think you can top that, by all means speak up. Otherwise, I'm going to claim victory, at least in this one odd category of cycling competition.)

Maybe I should just come out and say my life is pathetic, but I'm still riding high from last Sunday's early-morning coup when my newspaper arrived with not one but two copies of my all-time favorite magazine, PARADE. (As I often say: "I like it 'cause it's real.") Last Sunday's version--or I should say versions--had a picture of Beyonce' on the cover, next to the caption: "Beautiful Beyonce' worries: Does he love me for me?" I must confess that I haven't gotten beyond the cover yet, but if I were forced to answer the question today, right now, based on what I know, I'd be inclined to say "no." On the other hand, if I don't love her for her, who do I love her for? Certainly not for my wife. Or kids. So, I guess I'd have to say "yes" after all. I don't know anything about this gal's singing--evidently she's quite a talent--but I can say she is persuasive. Though not persuasive enough to make me want to see "Dream Girls."

It's time to announce the winner of our First First Annual Let No Man (or Woman) Write My Epitaph contest. And the winner is (drumroll please) ..... ME! Sorry, I couldn't resist saying that. But in this case, I've just earned honorable mention for my epitaph: "I COULDA' BEEN SOMEBODY." The real winner, as usual, is Gatemouth for: "IF YOU LIVED HERE YOU'D BE DEAD NOW." I'd like to thank all the other contestants whose entries earned them a runner's up prize (to be determined). Save any new ideas for the next epitaph contest, which could become a daily occurrence. Until then, this is one Snake signing off from sweepstakes central.

I haven't seen "Rocky Balboa" and, though I'm not a prayin' man, I do pray for the strength to avoid seeing it and thereby not succumb to the lowest common denominator or lower (if there is anything lower than the lowest common denominator, which as I recall from grade school math is getting down there). Some movies are great fodder for jokes, and this appears to be one of them. Here's what I've heard so far: From DAVID LETTERMAN last night (a paraphrase): "This movie is doing so well, they're going to make a Rocky 7 and in it Rocky gets a hip replacement." On Fresh Air [NPR], David Edelstein said: "You have to halve your IQ to enjoy this movie. And you want to halve your IQ." From Rolling Stone: "there is much to cringe at here." The Village Voice: "patently, even proudly, absurd." L.A. Times: "a film for gluttons for punishment."

If you have any comments to add, please speak up. Maybe we'll turn it into a joke contest as advertised (perhaps falsely) in the title above. And speaking to you here, from this special segment of At the Movies, the balcony is now closed. I hope you enjoyed this halve as much as I did. Please put your motion sickness bags, well, wherever you think they ought to be put...

A few days ago, I came across a familiar face in the Boston Globe--the judge who presided over my wedding quite a few years back. He's an extremely nice guy--a friend of a close friend--and cast an aura of good will over the entire proceedings. But the article in the newspaper concerned another matter altogether: The same judge was now presiding over a case in which a Boston-area man was charged with murdering his wife and young daughter. I then realized, though it's obvious if you think about it, that this man (as with other judges in criminal courts) has to hear, in vivid detail, about some of the most heinous acts that man perpetrates against his fellow man. (I trust I won't be accused of being sexist in this instance.) Not only must he hear about this stuff, he must follow it in exacting detail so that he can later render what is supposed to be a fair and informed judgment. I don't believe he does many weddings, but I can see that he might want to take on a few, every now and then, to offset some of the horrible things he has to think about in a typical work week.

This idea comes courtesy of "Fletch" (a friend of mine who's full name will remain anonymous). "Why not have a contest for best epitaph (actually seen, hypothetical, etc.) or 'what I want my epitaph to be,'" he suggests. "My personal favorite: 'See, I told you I was sick.'"

I already told you mine: "Not his best effort." Old Roses submitted: "Excuse me while I compost." Turd Blossom needed time to think about an epitaph but did offer the following epithet: "F___ you, Rummy!" If anyone else wants to speak up, this is your chance. Though hopefully not your last chance.