CALL ME SNAKE

The other day, in response to a post about sleep deprivation that I’m still hazy about, Gatemouth had this to say:

Don’t worry, Snake. Scientists have already identified the major cause of sleep deprivation: kids. The breakdown in kid-related sleep interruptions is as follows:

Midnight feedings - 13%

Diaper change - 6%

Bug in the room - 22%

Weird noise - 17%

Bad dreams - 26%

Out late w/friends and car - 16%

Luckily, the cure is pretty simple. You just ship the kids off to college.

CELEBRITY GUEST REBUTTAL (from an anonymous friend in Nashville [why does that burg keep coming up???] that we’ll call “Fletch”): Gatemouth has it right on the sleep thing.  To us, Snake, it seemed right about the time they were “self-sufficient” in terms of bathing themselves, having you read or tell them a bedtime story, tucking them in, etc. - about the time you begin to look forward to peaceful evenings of a couple of hours/minutes in the evening with your spouse before drifting off to sleep - is when they suddenly develop the ability to stay up later than you.  Then they want you to drive them places on Fri. and Sat. nights (and pick them up). Then come the cars.  It’s a conspiracy and yes, college is the antidote. 

SNAKE REPLIES: I’m still a bit dazed, I must confess, from the lack of sleep due to various causes (weird noise, bug in room, bad dreams, etc.), and thus did not follow these arguments as closely as I (AND YOU) might have liked. But at first glance it seems that everyone agrees that somehow, somewhere, the answer has something to do with college. This, I’m sure, is an important finding that deserves all the attention I’ve bestowed on it.

I subscribe to a ton of magazines, way more than I can keep up with, and they tend to pile up, just like those sudoku puzzles I clip from two newspapers every day. Last night, I forced myself to stay awake to work my way through the daunting pile of periodical literature. The last thing I read, struggling to keep my eyes open, was an article entitled: “Sleep Loss Affects More than the Brain.” It detailed a long litany of things that sleep deprivation can do to you: cognitive deficits, cardivascular risk, a weakened immune system, and so on and so forth. After awhile, with my eyelids growing heavier by the second, I couldn’t take it any more. “Who needs it?” I finally said. “I’m staying up to read this?”

We have a giant tree in our backyard (our side yard, actually, if you want to be a nitpicker). It’s a silver maple, by far the biggest tree in the neighborhood. Why am I telling you this? For no apparent reason, though it does relate to the story at hand. (And when I say “at hand,” I mean “at hand,” as we shall see…) The trees roots are extensive and voracious and our constantly finding their way into our drainpipe, which is why each fall, I’m visited by the friendly Rooter Man, who clears are drain–a messy job made especially messy due to our filthy, dirt-floor basement. The Rooter Man is indeed friendly, as I mentioned above, and a nice guy to boot. When he’s done snaking our drain and gathers his equipment and collects a check from me, he always holds his hand out to shake. The thing is, I know where that hand has just been. And Larry David–at least in his show–would have second thoughts, or third thoughts, about shaking that hand. I now give it some thought too, but never refuse the extended palm, despite the fact of where it’s been during the preceding half hour–a place I’d rather not dwell on. Or dwell in…

Years ago, decades ago in fact, long before there were blogs or I ever dreamed of becoming a blogger, a friend I knew from volleyball–let’s call him “H”–started calling me “Snake.” It was a nickname that stuck. With him, at least. No one else really used it. But when H. calls occasionally and I hear the familiar one-syllable greeting, “Snake,” I immediately know who it is. We’ve been out of touch for awhile, but we spoke over the phone last week (about volleyball, marriage, and kids, in that order), and I realized that, for what it’s worth, I owe the name of this blog to him. About 20 years ago, a friend of H’s (Phil) addressed me in casual conversation as Snake. I set him straight right off: “Listen friend,” I said, “no one calls me that. No one. Except H.”

Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez was wrong to have called our president, George W. Bush, “the devil.” Not only was that statement slanderous, it was unfair, misleading, and inaccurate. At this point, the only decent thing for Chavez to do would be to retract and disavow that characterization. At best, Bush may be the devil’s henchman, or front man, but he is definitely not the devil.

In more ways than one, this truly is the land of television. The typical U.S. home has more TV sets than people–2.73 versus 2.5. The average television in this country is turned on more than eight hours a day, more hours, in fact, than the average person sleeps. More than half the households in American have three or more TV sets. How do I know all these facts? I saw it on TV.

After Deval Patrick won last Tuesday’s primary, I felt, for the first time in a long while, the stirrings of something special–finally some excitement about a new face on the political scene, akin to the feeling I had when Bill Clinton was elected president in 1992. So far, Patrick seems to offer everything you’d want in a politician: He’s smart, thoughtful, charismatic, and nondoctrinaire. I think he’ll be able to dispose of his Republican opponent, Lieutenant Governor Kerry Healey, with little difficulty (a contest that a Globe columnist characterized as one of “hope vs. tax cuts”). Healy is offering the standard Republican formula, trying to cast Patrick as a “tax-and-spend” liberal, and I expect that by now that stratagem has worn thin. Healy also suffers from the taint of Romney–a governor whose slogan appears to be “Anywhere But Massachusetts.” Assuming Patrick does prevail over our Lieutenant Governor, he’ll then face an even bigger challenge, attempting to do what his former boss Clinton did not–measuring up to his great promise.

Earlier today, I heard Frank Rich, the New York Times columnist, on one of those NPR talk shows I have a hard time keeping straight. Rich was hawking his new book, “The Greatest Story Ever Sold: The Decline and Fall of Truth from 9/11 to Katrina,” and he had an interesting tale to tell about how we got into the war in Iraq. None of it, exactly, was stuff I hadn’t heard of before, or thought about myself, but for some reason today it really hit home. In 2002, Karl Rove convinced Bush to wage war on Iraq in order to help the Republicans in the mid-term elections. At the time, Bush didn’t have much going on anyway. He didn’t have much of an agenda and had even fewer ideas. But with a war going on, Rove argued, the country would rally behind the Republicans, the “war party.”

And here we are, three-and-a-half years after “shock and awe,” with thousands of American soldiers dead and a far greater (though unknown) number of dead Iraqis, locked in a pointless, though bloody, conflict, with no end in sight. All because Rove reasoned, and Bush and Cheney heartily agreed, that a war would serve Republican interests well. When you think about it, the whole thing is sickening. If that’s not a war crime, I don’t know what is.

Here’s another irony to consider: Clinton was pilloried, and almost hounded from office, for being less than forthcoming about a minor sexual dalliance; meanwhile these cold-blooded criminals, who started a senseless war for political gain, run free.

I got a disconcerting phone message the other day from my mother who was in Nashville with her brother and his family. She was with my cousin at the time and was laughing so hard she could scarcely talk. My cousin was laughing too. I could barely make out a word she said, but the bottom line was clear: She was having a “GREAT time,” and my cousin was an incredible host/tour guide and all-around good sport.

On one level, I was happy for her. You SHOULD have a good time when you travel these days since the getting there, with airports being what they are, can be a real pain. But maybe not THAT good a time. She never laughs like that when she’s around me. She never has that much fun. Which led to a sobering realization: I’m not that much fun. In fact, I’m a bit of a dullard when you get right down to it. So when it comes to rollicking good times, sidesplitting belly laughs, and all that, I can’t really compete with my younger, funnier, better-looking younger cousin. And I’d better not try. My only hope is to wait a long time before seeing my parents again so that the comparison won’t be so fresh in their minds. Maybe they’ll forget how good it was in Nashville and just go with the status quo.

Some friends of mine–let’s call them Henry & Catherine–are often taking so-called “urban adventures,” hopping on buses to different parts of the Boston area and then getting out and exploring. Yesterday, my family had some urban adventures of our own. And even though they were rather modest, as adventures go, when they happen, unexpectedly, in your own backyard, that makes them even more special. First we took a hike in the nearby Middlesex Fells because of its proximity and the fact that we dawdled for much of the morning and well into the afternoon and didn’t leave time to travel farther. But even though we’d been there many times before, this time we found a trail we hadn’t seen that afforded great views of the city and great rocks for climbing and scrambling. Off the beaten path as we were, we saw snakes, toad, and frogs. For the last stretch mile, we wandered around off the marked trails, bushwhacking through the wilds, and the kids loved it.

On the way home, we stopped off at a new playground in East Cambridge I’d just heard about the day before that had challenging–and almost entirely new–play structures for kids. Having spent thousands of hours in playgrounds over the past several years (and that’s no exaggeration), it was nice for me, and especially for the kids, to find everything new, as if they’d reinvented the wheel at this park. The formula, I’m sure, we’ll be repeated in the next generation of parks, but for now it’s still fresh.

So that’s it for the week’s “urban adventure.” For those of you expecting my usual cynicism and sarcasm, I apologize. But don’t worry, tomorrow is another day. And I can already feel the negativity and rancor starting to bubble up within.

George W. Bush, as everyone knows, is in his lame-duck term–a time when all presidents start thinking about their legacies. How will they be remembered? What did they bring to the world or take from it? It’s clear now that Bush’s number one priority is to trash the Geneva Convention and “push the envelope” when it comes to acceptable conduct for treating prisoners. Sorry, did I say prisoners? I meant to say “enemy combattants,” because in this Administration’s playbook, it’s OK to go tougher on them. It amazes me that Bush is so upfront about this agenda, constantly putting it ahead of all other issues, as if legalizing aggressive and abusive interrogations were the nation’s top priority. I’ll say this for our president: He doesn’t shy away from his flirtation with torture and try to sweep it under the rug; he puts it front and center for the whole world to see. And therein lies the rub. For while there’s little doubt as to what the Bush legacy will be, there is a more troublesome point to consider: As a result of his actions, and statements, and blatant disdain for international law, what will our legacy be?

E. POWER BIGGS WRITES: Hey Snark, This comment has nothing to do with your blog post, but that never stopped ZARDOZ so why should it stop me? Didja see the story in the Globe today about the shooting in Montreal? I was relieved to hear that the police said it was not terrorism. I’m sure the 19 people who were injured and the family of the person who was killed feel the same way. You’re a journalist so I hold you responsible for the rest of your ilk who let the authorities get away with uttering this bullshit.

AND SNAKE (aka “Snark”) REPLIES: Thanks for your comment, Biggs. Or must I call you Mr. Biggs? I’m glad you feel free to speak up on any topic, regardless of what I write about. Please feel free to fire away any time you’re so inclined. Under the circumstances, I suppose, I should say, “speak away,” rather than “fire away.” Now as to your point: Holding me accountable for all of journalism is quite an honor, in a sense, given that I’m actually a very marginal player (a “bit player,” you might say) in that hallowed field. (Writing about flying squirrels and the inner game of volleyball tends to do that to you.) No one would listen to me, even if I got up on a stump and made a fuss. Even if I was naked at the time. But, getting back to your point. If I’m reading it correctly, yes, you are right–there is a double-standard here. And it also illustrates how vague the term “terrorism” really is. If the gunman yelled “Allah is great!” before firing the shots, would that have made him a terrorist? (Probably so, in many quarters.) If he yelled, “Christ died for your sins!” before pulling the trigger, would that have made him a terrorist? (Probably not, in these parts; more likely he’d be called a “disturbed” or “deranged individual, perhaps with a misplaced Christ-identification complex.) I considered writing about the incident myself–about how what used to be a uniquely American form of violence, going “postal” in the schoolyard, has, unfortunately, caught on internationally–but I had the good sense to refrain. Until now.

Much ado about nothing, they said. “What, on Earth, are you babbling about Snake?” they also said, in response to my last cryptic post in which I apologized for something that, seemingly, no one knew about in the first place. Well, now’s the time to come clean–up to a point. A few nights ago, I had posted what I considered to be a funny entry about, well, I’d rather not say at the moment… The next morning, I pulled the plug on the entry, thinking I could expand it a bit and, who knows, maybe send it somewhere. To the New Yorker, for instance. Ya gotta think big, right? So I contacted a New Yorker writer I’ve talked with before (as a result of this blog, in fact), and he told me who to send it to and all that. So I printed it, tucked it in an envelope with the proper postage affixed, and put it in the mail.

For some reason, it’s a great feeling to put something like that in the mail. Despite the fact that all the other things I’ve sent to the New Yorker have come back in my self-addressed stamped envelope (SASE, for short, in this brutal business), until I hear from them–until my sorry-ass enclosed envelope makes its way back to me–there is hope that maybe this is the one. The moral of the story, I suppose, is that it’s great to always have something “in the mail” so to speak, something to pin your hopes on. They will be dashed, of course, in merciless fashion, but there’s always the next envelope, the next entry… To some, the message may be “hope springs eternal.” To others, no doubt, it’s “fools never learn.”

Sorry, I promised not to say sorry, but here I am saying it again. Yes, if you’re wondering, I pulled the last post, the one about… Well, actually, I’d rather not say. You see, I might have other uses for that post. I could tie my horse to it, for instance. Or tie something. Or untie something, as the case may be. In any case, I hope you didn’t grow too fond of that old post during the short while it was here (the “half-life of a fart,” as some have called it). Rest assured that a replacement will be found soon. And I promise it will be even better than the original. And that’s a promise you can take to the bank. (Just before it goes belly up. No, that’s a joke, and a sorry one at that. There, I went and sad that infernal word again! Sorry!)

Many years ago, an L.A. friend and I wrote a screenplay, a romantic comedy. While we were shopping the script, I contacted an accomplished (Academy Award-nominated) screenwriter I knew vaguely through college, to get advice on how to make a deal. Midway through our conversation, he said, “Sorry Steve, can I put you on hold? I’ve got Steven Spielberg on the other line.” I told him that was OK, we could talk later. I was used to that sort of thing, being told that Steven Spielberg was on the other line. Anyway, there was always tomorrow. Or the next day…

Looking back now, I can’t remember if we ever did have that follow-up conversation. I think not. In any case, a few years ago, Spielberg came out with a movie (a bomb, I gather) that was awfully close to our story–so much so that another friend told me: “How come Spielberg made your movie?”

I doubt that he did. A guy like that probably has no shortage of ideas, and even if he did, there’ll always be an endless supply of people trying to tell him THEIR idea (trying to make it HIS idea). Still, I can’t help going back to that phone conversation many years back, when both Spielberg and I were talking to the same guy. At the same time. Almost on the same line. In the end, of course, my movie was never made. Spielberg’s was and, speaking objectively, I’m sure it sucks. But it’s out there in video stores and mine just remains a stack of papers, sitting in a box, collecting dust. Of course, that’s what happens when the two Stevens go head to head. Because in Hollywood, there’s still only one. Well, maybe two if you count Soderbergh. (Sorry Steven Segall. Please don’t karate chop me, as I’m still smarting from the body blow the other Steven already dealt me.)

Mitt’s on the stump again. Rather than allowing the state to provide security for Iran’s former president, Mohammed Khatami, during a scheduled talk next week at Harvard University, as is customary and would seem prudent, Romney–a presidential aspirant playing to his party’s far right (which is about as far as you can go)–has vowed not to spend a dollar of taxpayer’s money “to support a terrorist.” The dean of Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government, which is hosting the September 11 event, claimed the school is standing by its decision to invite Khatami to speak. According to the Boston Globe, the dean said that “decisions on whether to invite political figures with troubling records are made on a case-by-case basis.” Speaking of “troubling records, it makes me wonder: What would the Kennedy School of Government do–and more importantly, what would that grandstanding Romney do–if George W. Bush was invited to speak at Harvard instead?

In a fascinating essay in last Sunday’s Boston Globe Magazine, MIT political scientist Stephen Meyer discussed America’s misguided war on mosquitoes, which is being played out in backyards throughout the country. According to Meyer, a standard bug zapper will kill more than 10,000 insects over the course of a summer, “but body counts reveal that fewer than a couple dozen of these will be mosquitoes or other biting insects.” The rest, almost 99.9%, consist of collateral damage or, as Meyer puts it, “harmless bugs of all kinds, including rare and endangered ones.” Pesticides and herbicides are equally indiscriminate in their killing. To me, this seems like the worst of American ingenuity–using technology in a wholly inefficient way, with little regard to its effectiveness or to the consequences–an approach that, unfortunately, seems all too common.

If you believe the P.R. campaign, you’d think Philip Morris actually wanted people to quit smoking. In recent advertisements, Philip Morris touts its QuitAssist program, as if that was the main thing the company did. Amidst this publicity blitz, they’ve been quietly increasing the nicotine yield per cigarette, as reported in last week’s Boston Globe. Between 1998 and 2004, according to a Massachusetts Department of Public Health study, the nicotine yield of two Philip Morris brands–Marlboro and Basic–went up 9% and 13% respectively. In that same period, the nicotine yield of other cigarettes, made by other manufacturers, went up by as much 20%. But the cigarette companies are not talking about how they’re boosting levels of this highly addictive chemical to get people hooked and keep them hooked for good. Instead they’re telling us about all they’re doing to help consumers–the same folks who shell out billions a year–break their addiction to cigarettes. Why don’t Philip Morris, R.J. Reynolds, and Lorillard just come out and say: “Thank you for smoking!”

I’m self-employed which, as many of you know, is just one step above being unemployed, and a small step at that. The other day, while our children were being tended to by our excellent but high-priced babysitter (who earns more per hour than I do), I came up to the house from my office to have lunch and ended up reading an article in the Boston Globe.

”You’re supposed to be working,” my 7-year-old daughter admonished me, upon entering the room. And so I was. We were paying that excellent babysitter a lot of money in the hopes that I could work and earn even more money–or at least enough to come out even–but there I was reading an article about new problems with the Big Dig. Or some other kind of new problems (of which there is no shortage). I forget. When what I was supposed to be doing was writing about supercomputer simulations of galactic mergers and the regulatory role of black holes on galaxy evolution. My daughter’s timely rebuke kept me in line, and soon I was back downstairs, diligently sitting at my computer while staring off blankly into space. Thinking of those new problems, and maybe some old problems as well…

With the recent (albeit controversial) demotion of Pluto to something less than full planetary status, Astronomy Magazine says the time has come for a new mnemonic device to help schoolchildren, as well as the rest of us, remember the now eight planets. Following Astronomy’s lead, Call Me Snake is also soliciting suggestions. To give you an idea of what we’re looking for, here’s one for starters:  Many varied examples mainly just suggest utter nonsense.

Here’s another: My vast experience may just show us nothing. 

Don’t delay. Please submit your entries today. The fate of the solar system, if not the universe, is at stake. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This just in from the Associated Press: While on vacation in Maine (note: how many articles about President Bush contain the word “vacation” in the first sentence???), George Bush went bicycling with three employees of the Cape-Able Bike Shop, ages 28 to 30, who were impressed with how fast Bush rode last weekend. “The president can really get it done,” commented the store’s service manager, Billy Vandervalk. When it comes to bike riding and brush clearing, evidently, the president does “get it done.” Too bad he doesn’t get it done on the things he’s actually hired to do. And it’s even worse when he does “get it done,” because what he does in such cases is invariably awful…

Which brings us to the latest ridiculous comment to emerge from the mouth of the windy Donald Rumsfeld, who compared critics of the Bush administration’s handling of the Iraq war to appeasers of Adolph Hitler. That’s a tough one to swallow, even for someone like myself who’s used to Rummy’s psychotic utterances. But if you think, as I do, that Bush and his lot are up to no good, just who are the appeasers: the critics of this misbegotten conflict or its unquestioning supporters?