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.

In our occasional series here at Call Me Snake (swiftly becoming one of our most popular features), we like to reprint noteworthy quotes from movie reviews. I recently had the good fortune of coming across these quotes from reviews of “The Transporter,” while also having the even better fortune of not seeing the movie itself. Here’s what Entertainment Weekly had to say about said picture: “… it’s like the worst movie Jean-Claude Van Damme never made.” TV Guide topped that with the following gem: “It takes perverse genius to make an action film this stupid.”

Well that’s it for this week’s installment of Great Movie Review Quotes. I hope you enjoyed it as much as we did. (Our focus groups tell us you did. And that’s all the thanks we need.) Until the next installment, this is Call Me Snake reporting live from the fair city of Cambridge. Good night and good luck.

Much has been said, of late, about the inner game of volleyball. (It is, after all, the main subject of a number of celebrated blogs.) But what of the outer game of volleyball? Today I went rollerblading (I refuse to say “inline skating”) along the Charles River to Boston’s premier outdoor volleyball hangout–a place I’ve played off and on for nearly 30 years. I was saddened to see just two nets up on such a beautiful day, whereas some years ago there would easily have been a dozen nets or more. Why the precipitate (I’m told through New Yorker fact-checking circles that that is the correct word, not the commonly misused precipitous) dropoff? In a word, geese. In two words, Canadian geese, which have taken over the riverfront, leaving it largely covered in fowl (as well as foul) excrement. The only players left standing are a hardy lot and, apparently, a macho lot. As I bladed by, I saw one guy score on a short “dump” shot. “He hit like a woman,” one of his opponents complained from the other side of the net. “Yeah,” the opponent’s doubles partner agreed. “My grandmother who’s dead, bless her soul, hits harder than him.” This was not, I admit, a great display of sportsmanship, but as the hour of this writing is now late, I’ll leave that topic for another post.

I read somewhere that Ben and Jennifer have settled here in Cambridge, at least temporarily, because it’s a place they can live without being stalked by the dreaded paparazzi. I can respect that. But privacy is a two-way street, and Jennifer needs to respect my privacy as well. Last week, before I left on my second trip (or was it my third? I lose count.), I could swear I saw her at my gym and maybe at the pool–swimming beside me in the very next lane, in fact. If it’s just one time, you can call it an accident. But the next day, I saw her again in my favorite Harvard Square chocolate establishment. Once again, I was just minding my own business, trying to get through this complicated routine called life. Two times might still be considered a fluke, albeit it an extremely flukey one. But if it happens again, it’s a clearcut case of stalking. In which case, I might have to take out a restraining order. I don’t like being stalked by anyone, even by a beautiful, statuesque Hollywood starlet temporarily slumming in my hometown (which, by the way, won’t last once winter sets in).

After being away for several days, following another week AWOL, Old Roses admonished me for missing the Brangelina breakup story. (Is it true? I realize I should be telling you that, as your #1 source of news, but even snakes have to rest sometime–even when their movie happens to be the #1 movie in America today.) To make amends, I want to report on this report tonight, broadcast on my local evening news at 11, which I caught shortly after returning from my latest junket.

As Channel 4 news reported, JonBenet Ramsey’s father found the latest round of coverage concerning the arrest of John Mark Karr so “sickening” that he was considering leaving the country. Without pause, the reporter continued: “For 24-hour coverage of the latest developments in the JonBenet Ramsey murder case, tune in to wbz.com.” (Is it just me or could it be that newsman kind of missed the point?)

After a brief flurry of activity, Call Me Snake is going back on vacation. Family vacation. You know the drill. We’ll be back again soon with fabulous stories and the latest gossip about Hollywood stars and starlets. Stay tuned.

For some reason, while driving back from Vermont (a 4-hour-plus ordeal), I came up with countless sensational ideas for this blog. I don’t drive much and perhaps the practice is more stimulating than I thought. I’ve long since forgotten all those ideas, of course, but am left with this one–a trifling one at that. It used to be, you were always wondering how far you had to go on the highway. Mileage signs were few and far between. But heading south on Interstate 93 in New Hampshire, the mileage signs come fast and furious–several per mile, often separated by just 0.2 miles. We’ve gone from famine to feast. And if you ask me, that’s just too much information.

Speaking of too much information, why do sports reporters now dwell on pitch counts in baseball. They used to tell us how many runs a pitcher allowed, how many strikeouts, walks, and wild pitches. Now they invariable tell us the number of pitches a pitcher threw. Do we need to know this? Is it essential knowledge for the baseball fandom? If you ask me, once again I’d have to say: That’s just too much information.

I’ve just returned from a week of rustication in rural northern Vermont, a land where intersections are rare and internet connections even rarer. On the way back, after having paid considerably for the rental of a lakefront home, I asked my four-year-old what her favorite part of the trip was, expecting to hear about the time we went kayaking together or climbing a mountain. Instead she said: “I liked it when I took my clothes off and put on daddy’s shirt.” Which just goes to show you, you never know. But it also makes me wonder: Why did we spend all that money, piling onto an already substantial debt, for the lakefront rental, when a striptease at home would have sufficed?

Hi folks — back in town with lots on my mind. Here’s the first of what I hope will be a number of short missives: Those (damn) conservatives love to rail about the “liberal press,” “media bias,” and the like. This morning, in NPR’s so-called “news analysis,” Cokie Roberts discussed Republican plans to turn (once again) the terrorist threat to their advantage. Instead of calling Dick Cheney’s argument that Ned Lamont’s victory will promote terrorism the load of crap that it is, Roberts gave credence to that inane (insane?) remark, saying that this issue could indeed hurt the Democrats who are traditionally viewed as “weak on defense.” How’s that for world-class news analysis? (Note to NPR: Why not cut out the middleman and hire Dick Cheney outright?) And how’s that for liberal bias in the media? I’m not what you’d call a praying man, but God help us if it were any less liberal.

There’s nothing like leaving on a high note. My post on the “first practical use for sudoku” was featured on the “Improbable Research” website (see link on right), which puts me (it) in some pretty heady company. Speaking of heady company, I’m off for a week of fission’ and other forms of rustication in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont with my wife’s family. Sixteen people (half of which are spirited children), all sharing the same house, should make for a relaxing time. The “Kingdom,” as some of us call it, is wild country. A good place for bears but not especially convivial for cell phones and high-speed internet connections. So this might be my last post for a good stretch, say a half-fortnight or so, unless I can find myself some sort of electronic “hitching post,” a weird (or wired) coffeehouse, or whatever they call them in those parts. If we don’t talk fur awhile, y’all have yourselves one heckuva week. I’m sure I will.

A Happy Day? I’m sure you’re wondering, where’s the edge? Where’s the twist? Where’s the irony? But there is none. Today is my daughter’s birthday party, which is a happy event in itself. But yesterday, I took her to the doctor’s office to have her fractured arm checked out. For weeks, during the hottest part of the summer, the poor girl has, with little complaint, been wearing the modern-day equivalent of a cast, unable to swim or do most activities other than walking. The doctor removed the cast, saying she doesn’t need it anymore. I was amazed at how happy I felt during the rest of the day. I could barely contain myself. I felt so good, in fact, that it made me wonder whether I’m depressed most of the time. I felt so good, in fact, that I didn’t mind losing two handball games to my regular partner, someone I tend to beat, more often than not. So I guess there MUST be something wrong with me. But I don’t care; I still feel good.

For more than a year now, my wife has wondered why I’m devoting so much of my waking hours to sudoku. Unlike handball–which has provided me with a steady stream of sprained, dislocated, and fractured fingers–sudoku seems to afford no tangible consequences. But all that changed yesterday. I ventured into my bedroom in the afternoon, surprised to see the door closed. When I got inside, I saw the reason for the closure: An oversized wasp was buzzing around frantically, eager to escape so as to terrorize my children, their playmates, and our babysitter downstairs. The incensed creature made a play at me and I needed something with which to defend myself. The first thing I grabbed was my only sudoku book (which I’m saving for airplanes). One swat of that paperback volume stunned the wasp; I gently wrapped it in a kleenex and sent it outside, dazed and confused, but otherwise intact. So you see, ladies and gentlemen, there are practical uses for sudoku after all. It just takes time to find them.

If you turn your back for a second, you never know what will find its way to your doorstep or your email inbox. Just yesterday I received this dispatch from an editor (with whom I’m on a first-name basis)–a request to write an entry for an encyclopedia of note–which I’m reprinting (almost verbatim) because I think it may offer insights (or at least a rare glimpse) into the world of publishing that many people outside that world may not appreciate. As to what those insights may be, I can’t say. They may lie, as with beauty and other attributes, in the eye of the beholder. Anyway, here’s that strange message I got by email in the wee hours of last night:

“O.K. Charlie ____ [a friend] is doing it, now can I get you to write for free? Actually you’ll get access to the world history encyclopedia online, all 21 volumes. Probably a safer source to glance at than wikipedia though one never knows. The thing is they have a topic open on twentieth century theories of cosmology, 1945-present, or something like that. Only 600 words plus a 150 word sidebar. you could probably write them while reading Dr. Doolittle to ____ [daughter]. Then your whole family could while away the hours enjoying an online encyclopedia set. They can amaze their friends with fun facts. Memorize all the presidents’ names. And so on and so forth. I won’t be offended, though, if you don’t want to….”

Can I afford to do this, write for free? Absolutely not. Will I do it? Probably. Why? Because I like to help out a friend in need, especially when I can do that and read Dr. Doolittle at the same time. Also, I am, and always have been, a sucker for the offhand pitch.

Today we’re introducing a new feature here at Call Me Snake called “Website of the Day.” In this feature, which promises to be one of the most popular features we’ve ever introduced here at Call Me Snake, we will discuss a different website every day of the week (except on my beach volleyball days or handball days). I caught wind of the following site from a friend in Africa who sent me this cryptic note, along with a link (http://www.healer-cz.com/): “Now you can heal your friends without their permission.” The site, operated by “natural healer” Ivan Gellner, describes Gellner’s gift for “distance or extrasensory healing. The healing is done without the patient’s cooperation and if needed even without the patient’s knowledge.” The good news is that you might be healed right now, as we speak, without even knowing it. So there’s a comforting thought in the otherwise harsh, canine-ingest-canine world we call home.