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.

I saw it on a Seinfeld episode exactly nine years ago when it aired. I laughed at the time and then promptly forgot all about. So you can imagine my surprise to read in today’s Boston Globe that Festivus, the holiday celebrated by George Costanza and his parents, is rising in popularity. Rising from what, I wonder. I never thought anyone did it. But if you check Google and type in “Festivus,” you’ll get more than 1.5 million hits. There’s even a book on the subject, if you can believe that (of course you can), written by someone who went on to become a New Yorker staff writer. So Festivus, in addition to all its other virtues–its inclusiveness, its democratic spirit–is also, it seems, a good path to career advancement.

I mysteriously found a large envelope stuffed in my mailbox this morning, which is puzzling since it’s Sunday. The envelope was big enough that I can’t imagine I wouldn’t have seen it in yesterday’s mail. The return address had the cryptic name, “Hurlock Fulfillment Center.” I had no idea what was inside the envelope, but the word “Fulfillment” got my interest and I opened it without pause. The envelope contained three copies of the journal Nature, all printed about five or so months ago. I have no idea why it was sent to me or who might have sent it. (The elusive Mr. Hurlock?) But I still have the feeling that it’s important and perhaps the mystery will be solved when I read the contents of the more than 261 combined pages, if only I can find my specs…

We visited some friends last night, one of whom is an artist moving from realistic paintings toward abstraction. Her seven-year-old son is puzzled by the transformation in her work and recently commented on a human figure in one of her paintings that was lacking eyes, ears, and a nose. “You’re really not making your best effort,” he told his mom. And I’m sure the same could be said about this or any of a number of my posts. In fact, maybe that will be my epitaph (if I’m fortunate enough to merit one when the time comes): “Not his best effort.”

It’s Donald Rumsfeld’s last day in office, and we’re supposed to feel weepy? He was a pompous, arrogant fool who, unfortunately, happened to be in a position of great power. Like many of his peers in the Bush administration, he will rank among the worst ever to hold his post. (The same, of course, could be said for the president, vice president, and many others currently running this country into the ground. Or worse.) At the risk of repeating myself, I’d like to say farewell in my own words (whose else would they be?): “Goodbye and good riddance.”

Last night my wife proudly announced that one of her New Year’s resolutions was to become more involved in our daughter’s elementary school. She had been moved by an email sent yesterday by the principal noting that not enough parents were volunteering for essential tasks. “That’s kind of sad, don’t you think?” she asked.

“It is sad,” I agreed. “I saw that email but didn’t bother to read it.” I’m not ordinarily so callous but I’ve been a bit, shall we say, “overextended” lately.

The exchange reminded me of a conversation I had with my father many years ago when he was attempting to impart a life lesson on a callow youth. Son, he said, do you know the difference between ignorance and apathy? To which I replied: “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

Last weekend, at a kid’s 7th birthday party, I met a nice guy–the father of another 7-year-old–who’s married with children but in an “open relationship.” Maybe that’s more common these days than I suppose, but it strikes me as a real blast from the past, something I used to run across more 20 or 30 years ago. In fact, I can’t remember hearing about an open marriage since the 1980s (though I certainly have heard about infidelities). For some guys, I can imagine that an open arrangement might seem like the best of both worlds. But to me it just seems too risky. I can imagine all kinds of things that could go wrong, especially with children in the picture. Which is why I’ve never broached the subject with my wife and probably never will…

As I’ve said many times before, you never know what the day will bring. Yesterday, out of the blue, I got a call from someone I’d never talked to on the phone before–someone I hadn’t seen in about 20 years and barely remembered, a roommate of a friend I’m barely in touch with anymore. The caller had come across some articles I’d written more than a dozen years ago for the science journal Nature about the now-deceased Harvard psychiatrist John Mack and his research into the UFO abduction phenomenon. The caller asked if I was still involved in that issue (I am not) and whether I had been writing from personal experience (I was not). She had belatedly come to believe she had been abducted long ago, perhaps as a child while living near a now-defunct radio telescope once used in the search for extraterrestrial intelligence. She wasn’t suffering too badly at the moment but still believed “they had played with the wiring in my head” and was wondering if I knew anyone who treated such conditions. I politely told her I had no idea about that sort of thing and wished her luck. I was sorry I couldn’t help but, honestly, what could I do?

Meanwhile, as I sit here near my phone, typing away, I wonder who will call today? What unexpected thing, good or bad, will happen? I suppose the only thing to be done is to wait and see how, at the end of the day, it all plays out.

I had never specifically checked it before, but I found out a couple of days ago that this blog, Call Me Snake, was rated 706,770 by Technorati, presumably in terms of number of links (“13 links from 5 blogs”). Curious about that whole thing, I rechecked again today and saw that I had slipped to 871, 835 (11 links from four blogs). While that is a marked decline on three consecutive days (what happened to the missing link [or links]?), I haven’t started panicking yet. On the contrary, I’m trying to look on the bright side. But that’s not easy. The best I can come up with so far is that my blog is still in the top one million. For now…

I was listening to the “classics” on WBOS the other night, as the NPR station had a lecture on and I was trying to work. The DJ said it was going to be in the 50s tomorrow, after several days of frigid weather. “There’s always that one guy out there in shorts and a T-shirt and sandals,” he added. I don’t know about his reliability on other matters, but in this instance that DJ was dead-on. In fact, I know just what he means. Because I’m that guy.

I just spoke with an old friend tonight, Jungle Jerk, who I’ve known for almost 20 years. And most of the time that I’ve known him, I’ve been trying to write his profile. One finally appeared in print in 2000, after nearly a dozen years of trying. But that’s not what I want to talk about here. I want to talk about his blog, which is called “Jungle Jerk” (see link at right). He started his blog more than a year-and-a-half ago with an initial post of just 10 words. But those words were well chosen. Almost perfect, you might say. He never knew how to top that, and never tried. In the 20 months of the blog’s existence, there has only been just one post. Just 10 words.

You’ve got to admire that–or at least I do–that kind of terseness, part of a long tradition of Yankee brevity. The guy knew what he wanted to say and said it, without wasting any extra breath or extra syllables. In other words, he went in style. He went out on top. We could all learn from his example, including the humble author of this screed, who has been known to ramble on, from time to time, to little avail…

“I always knew I’d bounce back.” That’s what I said years ago, when things were looking bleak. But wait a minute. I just saw that same line emblazoned on the cover of PARADE (my favorite magazine, in case you haven’t guessed; I like it ‘cause it’s real). And that’s not my picture to the left the quote. It’s Vanessa Williams! And she’s saying those same inspirational words about bouncing back that I know so well.

Not only did she hog the cover, she’s telling my story–you know the one, about the fall from grace, the staring into the abyss, but never quite giving up on yourself, even when everyone else has, including your mother and pet gerbil. Until you rise up again. And walk on all fours. And triumph! Well, that’s me all over again (though I haven’t yet reached the triumph part–still stuck in the quadruped perambulation phase, if truth be told).

And, apparently, that’s Vanessa’s heartwarming saga, as well. In fact, I think I could embrace–not just Vanessa Williams, who, apart from being kind of hot, is, I’m pretty sure, married, and so, come to think of it, am I… No, what I meant to say is that I could embrace–and embody and personify and actualize (if that’s the right word)–practically every cover quote, every rousing, heartfelt tale the magazine has run, or thought of running, or decided against running, in its incredible, inimitable, indomitable history:

“Suddenly my world was ripped asunder.”

“I was so low, my head hit the floor on the way up.”

“It hurt so bad, I would’ve cried, if only I knew how.”

“I’ve known pain.”

“I’ve known sorrow.”

“I’ve known rivers…”

“I got tired of being a used dishrag.”

“I got tired of being used.”

“I got tired.”

“I decided to live my life rather than let life live me.”

“Deep down, I always knew there was a road back. If not a through road, at least a cul-de-sac.”

“I thought I’d never love again.”

“She taught me how to love again.”

“He taught me how to love again.”

“They taught me how to love again.”

“It taught me how to love again.”

“After the 10th cheeseburger, I finally realized I had to look within.”

“The whole time, the truth lay right in front of me, staring me in the butt.”

“If only I’d opened my eyes!”

“If only I’d closed my eyes!”

“The answer was not in a bottle. Nor in a vial. Nor in a bag of COOL RANCH Flavored Tortilla Chips.”

“It was as if I’d been in a decades-long fog…”

“And then, when I least expected it, the clouds lifted. And–for the first time in years, it seemed–the chance of precipitation dropped below 50 percent.”

“Years later, in the middle of the weather forecast, I finally got the wake-up call I needed.”

“In the end, all I needed was a good kick in the ass.”

“In the end, all I needed was a swift kick in the rear.”

“In the end, all I needed was a firm kick in the behind.”

“In the end, all I needed was a well-placed kick to the gluteus maximus.”

“It came from a place I never knew existed…”

“There was only one way to go, and I’d already been down.”

“I got on my feet and, literally, willed myself up.”

“Drawing on reserves of strength I thought I never had…”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned (and, in fact, there’ve been many), it’s this: ‘NEVER GIVE UP! NEVER GIVE UP! NEVER GIVE UP!’ (Sorry, did I repeat myself?)”

***************************************************

Well, that’s my life in a nutshell. Played out, for the whole world to see, on the cover of PARADE Magazine. It’s been one heckuva ride, and I thank you all for your indulgence. Now can I please have some privacy?

EDITOR’S NOTE: In a recent post entitled “None Of My Business,” I submitted that it was kind of sad to hear that a young celebrity star, just 20 years old, was in AA. Gatemouth riposted with his usual dead-on commentary, which I’m reprinting in full. As usual, his sage remarks speak for themselves:

GATEMOUTH SPEAKS: Shouldn’t all 20 year olds be in AA? I mean, let’s face it, the average blood-alcohol level of ANY 20 year old is well above the legal limit. Anyway, I don’t know which is sadder–that all these young actors and actresses self-destruct, or that they’re not allowed to make the same mistakes most teens and twenties make without it turning into national news. I’m sure I wouldn’t like Lindsay Lohan right now, if I had to deal with her on a daily basis. But I’m also sure I didn’t behave any better when I was her age. (Though I had a lot less money and a lot fewer people wanting to sleep with me.)

EDITOR’S REBUTTAL: I agree with all of the foregoing, ESPECIALLY the last sentence about fewer people wanting to sleep with him than with that young starlet, her “recovery” notwithstanding.

Don’t worry citizens, Congress is looking out for your best interests. Lawmakers are now debating whether “pretexting”–fraudulently obtaining and selling people’s phone records–should be illegal. Two things about that strike me as odd, one being that the practice–involving lies, deception, and fraud–is still permissible under federal law. The second is that Congress would actually have to debate about it. Internet entrepreneurs and scam artists need not panic, however. If the proposed legislation passes, they can still go after utility records and other confidential material with impunity.

For weeks, there has been great anticipation, fueled by endless media speculation, about the Iraq Study Group, whose findings were released today. There’s always been the hope that “daddy,” in the form of James Baker, would step in and save the day–and clean up the mess created by Bush and his cronies.

But wait a minute! Wasn’t Baker the person who got us in this mess in the first place? Didn’t he serve as the big bully who put the fix on in the Supreme Court that helped get W (his friend’s son) into the White House when the results of the 2000 election were in dispute? He used intimidation and tough-guy tactics to thrust the unqualified Bush into the presidency. Now we’re seeing the results of those actions. And now Baker has been called in to clean up the mess.

A jet-setting friend of mine is flying in from Paris to fly to Acapulco to fly back to New Hampshire (huh? what’s wrong with this picture?) for a New Year’s Eve party. The host of that party, a movie producer, is going to share a $500,000 bottle of wine purchased from the Screaming Eagle vineyard in Napa Valley. It seems hard to believe that someone could spend so much on a bottle of wine, especially to someone like me–someone who can still appreciate a $10 bottle of Spanish wine (when I’m not appreciating a $1 bottle of Bud).

I can almost picture the scene: As midnight approaches, the bumbling sommelier (a Peter Sellers type?) survives a number of near misses, only to drop the bottle, which shatters into a million pieces at the exact moment the clock strikes 12. It sounds like a comedy that needs to be made. Does anybody know a movie producer–preferably someone who enjoys a good bottle of wine?

Some months ago, I wrote about the boost I received by virtue of sending an entry to a prestigious magazine, one of our most distinguished. Although I knew it would probably be rejected–the odds, based on pure statistics, were against me–until I was notified as such, I could always hope. Well, the word from “on high” came yesterday, and the verdict was a polite thumb’s down: “Dear Mr. ___, We’re sorry to say that your piece, “_______,” isn’t right for us, despite its evident merit. Thank you for allowing us to consider your work. Best regards…”

Looking on the bright side, there’s not much to go on here expect those two words, standing out like beacons of truth: “evident merit.” Not to be a nitpicker, but I always thought the expression was “obvious merit.” But maybe it wasn’t “obvious” to them, only “evident.” And what was “evident” to me was that despite it’s undeniable “merit,” they still didn’t like it.

It’s time for Bush to cease and desist with his stupid pronouncements on Iraq, about how we’ve got to stay and finish the job, etc. No one is listening to him anymore. He’s like a kid at school who’s desperate to get someone, anyone, to pay attention to him. The more he’s ignored, the louder he gets. But this man, our esteemed president, has absolutely zero credibility, especially after his erstwhile sage Rummy admitted our strategy in Iraq was a disaster and after Kofi Annan said the obvious: that the people in Iraq are worse off today–as a result of the actions of George W. Bush and friends–than they were under that ruthless dictator, Saddam Hussein.

I don’t claim to know the girl at all. I just saw a couple of her movies with my older daughter–”Parent Trap” and “Freaky Friday”–so it was somewhat depressing to learn that the winsome kid from those movies is now 20 and in AA. To me, it seems kind of sad for someone that young to be in AA. But I suppose it would be even sadder for someone with a drinking problem not to be in AA. And that’s about all I have to say on a subject about which I really shouldn’t be saying anything.

For years, I’ve heard my friends talking about their trips to Tuscany and about all the marvelous things they ingested and imbibed during their seemingly nonstop food orgies. I backpacked through Italy a few times in my teens but, like most youths on the $5-a-day regimen, I skipped restaurants in favor of bread, cheese, and the occasional a piece of fruit. And since then, of course, Italy has become much more expensive than it used to be.

Well, after all these years, I finally made it back to Tuscany last night. In my dreams. What a disappointment that proved to be. I can’t even dream right. it seems. Instead of feasting, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to afford the sure-to-be considerable bills and would, instead, ruin everyone’s trip with my budgetary concerns. To paraphrase Annie Lennox: “Cheap Dreams (Are Made of These).”

Many people missed it–well-meaning people who, unlike me, do not read between the lines. But there has been a major policy shift in Iraq. We are no longer “staying the course.” Which is not to say we’re going to “cut and run.” Forget it. That ain’t gonna’ happen. Let me repeat: We’re not gonna’ cut and run. But we’re not gonna’ stay the course either. Instead, says Bush, we’re gonna’ be “flexible.” Although this shift was introduced with little fanfare, it ought to be regarded as a major development in the history of humankind, especially for people who favor policies lacking in excessive rigidity.

On another note, Bush promised that we’ll stay in Iraq as long as “they” want us there. I forgot to ask, who among the Iraqis really want us there? Reading between the lines, once again, I’m forced to conclude that what he meant to say was that we’ll stay in Iraq for as long as the puppet government we installed there wants us to stay. Which begs another question: Who’s pulling the strings, the puppet or the puppeteer?