CALL ME SNAKE

I was doing a search on the web the other day and, by chance, came across an article of mine about Mars that ended up on the so-called "College Research" website (http://www.collegeresearch.us/). I have no idea how it ended up there and don't know if they went to the bother of purchasing the rights from the magazine in question (New Scientist). For a student looking for a nifty paper topic, my article was a relative bargain: You could read it and other "essays" for just $9.99, as part of a 1-month membership, or $19.99 for a 3-month membership. But if you want to purchase a pre-written term paper, you'll have to shell out some big bucks. "The Rise of Muslim Science and Astronomy," for example, will set you back $136, payable by credit card or online check. And 'custom-written" term papers, penned by their staff of professional writers, can be even more costly--up to $50 per page on a rush basis.

None of this was possible, of course, when I was a college student. Nobody spent hundreds of dollars buying illicit term papers; instead we spent hundreds of dollars buying illicit drugs. And if we wanted to cheat on our assignments, we had to do it the way our parents did it, and their parents before them: good old-fashioned plagiarism. Best of all, the cost was free.

While rollerblading along the Charles River on Sunday, a friend and I came across a sinkhole in the middle of the street (Memorial Drive) that was a foot-and-a-half deep. An unsuspecting runner could easily break a leg, or worse, were he or she to land in it inadvertently. When I got home later that afternoon, I called the Cambridge Department of Public Works to report on the problem, which I considered to be my civic duty. I was told to call the state but was not given a phone number. I looked up the Massachusetts Department of Conservation and Recreation in the phonebook and dialed the main number. They were closed until Monday. Before starting work the next day, I called back and was given a different number to call, in a separate district. After finally getting through to someone there, I was told to call the "Charles District" at yet another number. That person, in turn, gave me a different number to call, which I did, phoning in the facts. And that's the end of my involvement in this matter. But sometimes it's surprising how hard--and time-consuming and exhausting--it can be to do the so-called "right thing." It's no wonder that many people don't bother.

Today we're introducing a new feature here at Call Me Snake--Capsule Movie Reviews. Rather than try to explain the concept, which is difficult to put into words, I'll just launch right in.

"Chumscrubber": It's no "Thumbsucker."

"Fat Girl": A dull, tawdry tale punctuated by senseless violence at the end.

"Little Miss Sunshine": 100 minutes of inspired lunacy.

"Blackballed: The Bobby Dukes Story": I've never seen this, and probably never will. Still you gotta' love a movie about paintball? (Reminds me of "Men with Brushes," the movie about curling I never saw but heard about thanks to Dr. Max.)

"Winter Solstice": Like "The Squid and the Whale," another story about a broken family, but less hopeless, which is to say more hopeful...

"Short Cuts": Often imitated, this 1993 effort still sets the standard for the "multiple character/intersecting plot" picture.

"Syriana": Don’t watch this when you are tired and nodding off. You’ll come away thinking it doesn’t make any sense, and you just may be right.

"The Matador": Ole'!

I stayed home from a weekend trip to Maine, despite advice to the contrary from Ray of Car Talk (and subsequent advice from Guttersnake), in the hopes of catching up on some work and catching up on some sleep. Last night, I stayed up late watching a crummy movie on DVD, but with the kids gone I figured I could finally sleep in. No such luck. At 6:59 a.m., I got a call from a well-meaning neighbor who found our cat, Sunshine, wandering the hood, as is her custom (she's an outdoor cat, for ____'s sake!). This person was hanging on to Sunshine in case she was lost. Which meant I had to dress and retrieve the wayward feline right then and there from a nearby park. And all hopes of sleeping in were dashed, as were any hopes of making inroads on my prodigious sleep deficit. When it comes to sleep, I never get a break. Which probably makes me the biggest sucker in town.

Yesterday was a day filled with good news. First, the doctor told my daughter that her fractured arm was "all better." She's now safe to take part in any of a number of dangerous or reckless (i.e., limb-threatening) activities.

Second I took our car to the Good News Garage (yes it really does exist!) to have it looked over, as I haven't kept up with the prescribed maintenance schedule, and was relieved to discover it only needed about $600 dollars worth of fixes to be in tip-top shape. Normally I wouldn't consider spending $600, which I don't have, good news, but I was expecting the tally to be much worse.

I spoke briefly with Ray from Car Talk (and co-star of the movie, "Cars") who truly is a great guy--someone with a knack for making you feel good, even as you're draining your wallet. He encouraged me to go to Maine with my family this weekend, and his argument was so persuasive, I almost took his advice. But at the last minute I decided to stick with my original plan: stay home and do nothing.

Coincidentally, I flipped the radio on for a few minutes this morning and Car Talk was on. One of the brothers (I think it was Tom) posed the following question, which I found especially relevant during my quiet weekend at home: "When you're doing nothing, how do you know when you're finished?"

Many of you might think the tooth fairy job is pretty straightforward: You go to the pillow of the boy or girl in question, grab the tooth, and leave behind some financial renumeration ($1 is still the going rate from what I've heard). But when people are shifting around from bed to bed, it can get pretty complicated. Which is why my daughter felt the tooth fairy could use some help. The other night she tacked this note onto her bedroom door:

Dear Tooth Fairy -- Our friend Jerry from California is sleeping in my bed. I'm sleeping in P__'s bed at the end of the hall. I'll be the one along the edge of the bed. P__ is along the wall. Please don't give the money to her.

Armed with this instructive missive, the tooth fairy was able to successfully complete his/her job. And you thought it was all just magic?

A couple of decades ago, there was a lot of talk about how men and women weren't all that different. ("Anything you can do I can do better...") But we all know there are fundamental, unalterable differences that nothing, not even political correctness, can change. For my money, this point was graphically illustrated tonight by two people--a man and a woman--carrying placards, and wearing blank (placid? blissful?) looks on their faces, as they walked along Mass. Ave. in Harvard Square. The woman's placard read: "Jesus Loves You!" The man's read: "Jesus or Hell!"

To hear the Boston Globe describe it, youths are running wild, and unclothed, in the streets Brattleboro, Vermont, where public nudity is perfectly legal. "What began as a lark or an ode to youthful exubrance has now turned into a municipal quandary," writes the New England paper of record (my second favorite source of information after Parade magazine, of course). Some adults in the community, including business proprietors, have been offended by the brazen displays of undress. It has reached the point where local businesses might be tempted to purchase one of my all-time favorite (and bestselling) bumper stickers: "No shirt, no shoes, no pants, no service." While legislators are now contemplating a ban on public nudity, I suspect the youthful practice will ultimately attract more tourists and "sightseers" to the town than would normally flock there, in which case town officials might want to make public nudity not just permissable but mandatory. The state's license plates, taking a cue from New Hampshire, might then read: "Clothes free or die."

If you were an up-and-coming antique Shanghai furniture establishment trying to make your mark on the U.S. market, what would you do? If you were smart, like Jun He Antique Furniture, and wanted to reach the largest possible audience, you'd post a comment on the Call Me Snake, advertising your wares (antique chinese furniture of Ming & Qing style, copy antique furniture, wood carving, windows and screens, orient hardware, accessory, painting, Lighting & Lamp.) Which is just what Jun He Antique Furniture did. Other Chinese furniture outlets have also found the Call Me Snake comment box to be a most convivial (and rewarding) home. If you have any furniture to unload (stolen goods accepted), you could do worse than posting cryptic messages on Call Me Snake.

In late-August, when most people are on vacation and circulation, as a result, is down, one must do what one has to do. In that case, it means invoking the term "flying squirrels," which inevitably brings in a lot of stragglers through Google. My article on this subject, which has been chronicled extensively in these pages, is moving closer toward publication. After a quick touchup last week--needed more "color," snappier quotes, plus a sharper focus, plus a revamped structure with a different beginning, middle, and end--the article is now in the fact-checking stage and, with any luck, will appear in print before the year's end. A year-and-a-half from first submitting a story to its eventual publication may seem like a long time to those unfamiliar with the usual twists and turns of the publishing trade. And it is, admittedly, a long time for the typical puff piece with a short shelf life. But for a rich, timeless subject like flying squirrels--creatures that began developing their gliding skills some 20 million years ago--a year-and-a-half is a mere blink of the eye.