CALL ME SNAKE

I saw the President last night on the TV news, talking about war, Iran, the economy, etc. He was as inarticulate as usual and came off, again per usual, as amazingly dimwitted. When asked whether he hadn’t received enough credit for the economy, he said in his typical fumbling manner: “Well, you see, our nation is at war. And war is, uh, well, it’s a negative…” And there you have it from the highest authority. Who needs Tolstoy to expound on war and peace when we have our own, in-House poet/philosopher?

The Scooter Libby trial is a sideshow, receiving scant attention compared to what it deserves. This is just another example of Bush, Cheney, and their cronies getting away with murder. For this trial is about much more than whether one of Cheney’s underlings leaked the name of a CIA operative. It’s about the lies the Bush administration resorted to to get this country into a disastrous, ruinous war–with Bush, Cheney, and Karl Rove’s fingerprints all over this deception. As such, the crime under consideration goes way behind what Libby did or did not say to a handful of celebrity journalists.

Have I mentioned before that I love PARADE? I can’t say enough good things about it. The latest issue of my favorite magazine–with the words “What you can learn from TV docs” emblazoned on the cover–would have the impressionable reader believe that we can all stop going to our physicians and instead watch medical shows like Grey’s Anatomy, Scrubs, or MASH reruns. The next issue of the weekly journal, I expect, will tell us that watching TV is good for you, especially if you eat junk food at the same time.

No, the above words are not three of my New Year’s resolutions, which I’ve already gone on record as saying I do not abide by. They are the words of my youngish daughter, who volunteered that advice when I told her I’d be spending more than a year working on the book I just started.

There is perhaps no greater honor in the blogosphere than to be granted a Celebrity Guest Column spot in Call Me Snake. Today I am pleased to announce that that honor goes to none other than myself, aka Snake, aka the Cambridge Guy, aka a Cambridge Kind of Guy. In response to notes by Windfall Woman and Turd Blossom re. John Kerry’s decision to pull out of contention for the 2008 race and questions about my own plans for elective office, I said the following (subject, of course, to editing): “You’re right, WFW. The whole Democratic Party is heaving a collective sigh of relief. Thanks for the note, TB. I’m not going to rule out anything. Nor am I going to rule in anything. In other words, I’m not ready to rule at this juncture. I’m going to spend some time with my family, talking and thinking (who ever thought with his family? Me, that’s who!), but not deciding. And definitely not ruling–in, out, or otherwise.”

As for the comments of Marco Polo (aka “Time Warp”), I had this to say: “Actually, ‘Time Warp,’ you’re half right: KERRY LOST TO W AFTER W LOST TO GORE.”

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Casting all false modesty aside, this is an example–a template if you will–of what an exchange in the blogosphere could and might look like if we all applied ourselves. Thanks, as always for your support. I could not have done it without you. I’d also like to thank my mother and father, without whom I could not have done it either…)

After much deliberation and soul searching, carefully weighing the pros and cons, John Kerry made a wise and considered judgment in deciding not to run for president in 2008. And that is exactly the kind of judgment we’d like to see from our presidents, though on that front we’ve witnessed precious little of late.

James Webb was effective last night in his Democratic response to George Bush’s State of the Union address. He said that he and other members of his family, as well as soldiers across the U.S. and over the generations, have enlisted in the military because they love their country. But they must trust that their leaders will exercise wisdom and not enter or start wars recklessly. On that score, which is a huge one, Bush has failed miserably. He and his cohorts lied repeatedly to get us into a needless war that has led to the deaths of thousands of American soldiers and 10 to 100 times more dead Iraqis. This is not just an example of flawed foreign policy; it’s an act of criminal misguidance of the highest proportions.

A friend of mine who’s a tough critic and a generally well-read fellow told me that yesterday’s post was “brilliant,” my “best ever.” It took me a minute to remember that the post he was referring to was one (related to George Bush and Groundhog Day) that I didn’t write at all, that I merely reprinted. One could, I suppose, take that as a backhanded compliment. But I prefer to think of it as a tribute to my editorial judgment. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. (Did I mention I have a fragile ego? The words “YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!” are still reverberating inside my cranium, 15 years after Jack Nicholson first uttered them. But enough sputtering, enough Tuesday morning quarterbacking. I got a nice compliment, and let’s leave it at that.)

I’m not normally in the habit of reprinting stuff that gets forwarded around, all over the internet. But as the title suggests, this bears repeating: This year, both Groundhog Day and the State of the Union address occur on the same day. As Air America Radio pointed out, “It is an ironic juxtaposition of events: one involves a meaningless ritual in which we look to a creature of little intelligence for prognostication while the other involves a groundhog.” (EDITOR’S NOTE: Thanks go out to Ken, one of my famous Nashville cousins, for this one.)

We here in New England are so used to seeing Tom Brady and the Patriots pull off last second victories that there was a lingering sense of disbelief after yesterday’s game, in which the Patriots lost to the Colts by four points. I, too, was taken aback by the defeat and felt personally at a loss for the rest of the night. But life goes on, they say. They also say, “Get over it,” and I feel like I’m in the process of doing so. Regardless of the outcome, it was a close, hard-fought game and my team made a great effort, playing like true Patriots–not the kind of false Patriots defined by Bush and Cheney, which means just agreeing with whatever dangerous nonsense they choose to inflict on us and the world. But this is about sports, not politics, and I’d rather not sully the conversation by saying any more about those two scary men.

A friendly reader–and a celebrated blogger in her own right–recently asked whether I considered myself “metrosexual,” a term I hadn’t heard of before. When she described it–involving a slavish adherence to fashion and the like–I knew it was not me. The antithesis, in fact. What handball player with any self respect would call himself metrosexual?

That was the end of the story until yesterday, when I came across something written by a cosmologist I’ve talked with before, who used to be in Chicago. He spoke of his neighborhood there, saying “I was truly in my yuppie-metrosexual element.” That word again. I’d never seen it before in my life and now it had reared its ugly head twice in two days. Whereas I recoiled from the suggestion, this guy seemed to embrace the term, without any trace of embarrassment. Which shows that you don’t necessarily know someone, just because you’ve talked a few times about the birth, evolution, and end of the universe. And he doesn’t know a thing about me, since I was the guy asking the questions, saying little and revealing even less. On many issues of politics, I know we agree. But when it comes to that one 11-letter word, we’re worlds apart.

Yesterday, I had a long conversation with a “prominent New York literary agent” (is there any other kind?) about my book proposal. He let me know that the proposal was fine as that sort of thing goes, and even contained stretches of excellent writing, but he was looking for something bigger, grander, more inspired. “Dare to be great!” he implored.

That’s fine advice, and I really have no quarrel with it. But what if that’s not you? What if you’re not cut out for greatness? (My name, in case you haven’t noticed, is not Muhammad Ali.) What if you’re more of a middling, middle-of-the-road kind of person? What then? That is exactly the dilemma I face today as a pore over the shambles of my adequate, perfunctory, humdrum book synopsis.

I’d like to lay to rest any rumors about Jodie Foster and me. In its stead, I’m going to offer something rare in this realm (i.e., the blogosphere): the truth. I did not speak with Jodie yesterday, but I did have the good fortune to speak with the astronomer that Jodie portrayed in the movie Contact. She’s an incredibly engaging scientist–even more intelligent than the character depicted in the movie based on Carl Sagan’s novel. So while I didn’t connect with any movie stars yesterday, I got something even better–a fascinating conversation with one of the top stars from the world of astronomy.

Maybe it shouldn’t bother me. But as a person of modest means who makes an annual contribution to my local NPR station, it bothered me to learn that some NPR reporters earn more than $300,000 a year (and I’m not talking about some of the biggest name windbags/fatheads; who knows what they make?) Those salaries are not astronomical compared to the TV network news anchors, I suppose, but when they tell us: “Your contributions help bring us NPR, and coverage like that does not come cheap,” I had no idea until now (upon reading Alex Beam’s column in yesterday’s Boston Globe) exactly what they meant by “not cheap.” I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t call $300,000 a year “cheap,” and I have to assume that quite a few NPR reporters/commentators make that and more. I don’t want these people to starve. Many of them do an excellent job and some, like those covering the war in Iraq, put themselves in harm’s way. Still, to me, the revelations about those cushy salaries took some of the luster off so-called “public radio.”

I must confess, with some embarrassment, that I don’t know who Jessica Alba is. I believe she’s been in some movies but might be famous for something else. Yet I also know we share something special, Jessica and I, a deep, dark secret. According to Elle Magazine (which I’ve never read), she’s “guilty of wearing too many sweatsuits.” I’m guilty of that too, though our reasons for doing so are opposite. Alba claims it’s because she works “such long hours [doing what I still don't know] that I want to be in my pajamas.” My excuse is that I work at home and, as a result, can wear anything I want. Though to keep me in line, my wife forbids me from wearing sweatpants when I take my kids to and from school and generally go out in public, except for the gym or soccer or other sporting events. That leads to a lot of changing in the course of a day, as you can imagine.

CALL ME SNAKE is proud to announce A NEW CONTEST–”THE YOU KNOW YOU’RE BORING WHEN…” CONTEST. The idea is simple enough and rather than try to explain the obvious, a few examples should make it all pretty darn clear. So without further ado, here are those examples I promised not too long ago:

YOU KNOW YOU’RE BORING WHEN you get dishwashing gloves for your birthday.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE BORING WHEN you get dishwashing gloves for your birthday and think it’s the best gift you’ve ever had.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE BORING WHEN your greatest ambition in life is “zeroing out”–i.e., purchasing items with coupons and or rebates (in-store only!) for zero cents (and preferably even less less).

YOU KNOW YOU’RE BORING WHEN you recount your bill-paying travails from the night before to all who will listen, mainly your cat.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE BORING WHEN your wife and kids have no trouble adding to the list.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE BORING WHEN no one ever contradicts you by saying: “Hey wait, you’re not boring. You’re actually kind of interesting.”

I know it’s been said before, but let me say it again lest we forget: Journalists are sheep. When Bush and company started using the term weapons of mass destruction (or WMDs) to justify the invasion of Iraq four years ago, all the journalists started using it as if they’d been saying WMD all their lives. The term, of course, is fundamentally hypocritical: It refers to other people’s weapons, which are bad, whereas ours are instruments of good.

Then there was the “run-up” to the Iraq War, the only war I know of that had a run-up. Everyone used that term, without exception, and they still do. Run-up conveys a sense of excitement, as if we’re off on some grand adventure, rather than embarking on one of the worst foreign policy disasters in U.S. history, which it surely is.

Now Bush has introduced the term “surge” into common parlance, and the dutiful journalists are following suit. A surge, again, sounds dynamic and exciting, though it’s no different from the many deadly escalations witnessed in Vietnam, which simply raised the number of American corpses and, indeed, boosted the body counts on all sides.

Here’s a challenge to journalists: Let’s start using our own language for a change, rather than embracing the euphemisms (“collateral damage” being another notable example) spoonfed to us by the powers that be. Maybe that’s too radical, as I’m proposing that people start thinking for themselves.

At times like these, as I cast about for an idea to put in my daily posting, it is worth considering the sage words of Jungle Jerk (see link on right): “If you don’t think too good, don’t think too much.” I’m going to take a liberty here and add a line (because I can; because it’s fun; and maybe because it’s my calling). Besides, I’m sure Monsieur Jerk (a close friend) will not mind: “If you don’t think too much, don’t say too much.” And that’s all I have to say on the subject, just enough but not too much.

Sorry to hit a guy while he’s down but right now George Bush makes quite a tempting target. And, frankly, I’m not strong enough to resist. The other day, I heard a story on NPR about “No Child Left Behind,” the brilliant program introduced by the Bush Administration. The reporter interviewed a principal from a beleaguered Baltimore school, asking her how “No Child Left Behind” had helped. She talked about all the ambitious goals that had been set for the school–all the targets and all the tests–and how poorly the school had fared. Because the program does not offer one iota of assistance. It just sets goals that are unrealistic for struggling urban schools who are then left to fend for themselves. And that, in a nutshell, is the legacy of the self-professed “education president.” So I’ve got a proposal: How about a more accurate name for the program, something alone the lines of “No Child Left Untested”? That would be less hypocritical and show the program for what it is: no help for the needy.

I’d like to make an important announcement. And since this is my blog, and I hold the “conch” so to speak, that’s just what I’m going to do: The “Nun Bun”–a pastry bearing a close resemblance to Mother Teresa–is still missing after it was stolen more than a year ago from the Bongo Java coffee shop in Nashville. An anonymous letter with a picture resembling the famed Nun Bun (but possibly a fake) was sent from Philadelphia in May. That was the last tip and otherwise the trail has gone stone cold. “I don’t know who would do this or why,” said the coffee shop’s owner. “We just want her back.” (Editorial confession: I made up that last quote but know the owner personally and am sure he would embrace that statement as if it were his own.)

Wesley Autrey, the New York subway hero, who lay on top of a man stricken by a seizure as a train passed overhead, said he “just did what anyone would have done in that situation.” I personally am skeptical. I think that Autrey did something that only one in 10 million people would have done. In other words, he did something that nobody else in New York City would have done had they been in the same situation, standing there on that same subway platform with two young children in tow. It’s remarkable to think about.

That said, a friend of mine engaged in some heroics of his own yesterday, though perhaps not on a scale rivaling Autrey’s feat. My friend was hit by another car in Cambridge and heard a girl in that car yelling: “Let me out!” My friend (call him S.) chased after the other car and cut him off in front of the Starbucks on the corner of Mass. Ave. and Shepard Street. He then got out and asked the girl if she was OK and if she wanted to get out of the car. She said she was fine. The driver, a man, could have shot my friend dead were he so inclined. Fortunately, he was not the trigger-happy type. Nor was he Dick Cheney on the quail range. As a result, my friend emerged unscathed from this potentially violent situation. Like Autrey, he didn’t stop to think about it. He just drove his car like a wild man in pursuit of a possible perp. For a few moments, in other words, he acted just like a cop.

Last night, I got together with an old friend who just got back from a weeklong trip to Mexico. There he stayed with a man (as well as this man’s family) in a villa near the Pacific. The host’s claim to fame: He supplied Bill Clinton with the cigar that Clinton, in turn, used while fondling M. Lewinsky. In other words, I myself, personally, talked with the guy who met the guy who provided said cigar that probed some private areas of her anatomy. In that sense, I came close to a rather sordid chapter in history–perhaps closer than I wanted to come. The fact is, I don’t even like cigars. But I still don’t want to think about where this particular cigar (or cigars, if there were indeed cigars) went. Or why. Let’s not go there, OK?

I’ve never been big on New Year’s resolutions. They’ve always seemed phony to me. And contrived. (Though that may be the same thing.) But I have no problem making resolutions for this blog. In fact, I believe there is not enough of that sort of thing in the blogosphere. What then shall I resolve for Call Me Snake? One thing I’d like to see is more openness. More transparency (which again might be the same thing.) Flubberwinkle complained, for example, that our bumper sticker contests and other competitions seemed to be “rigged.” That was sobering to hear and led to much soul-searching. You can be sure we’re all working very hard to address that issue. To give you an idea, one strategy we’re batting around is to bar any family members of Call Me Snake from winning these contests. (Being a runner’s up or earning honorable mention, however, would still be allowed.) There are any of a number of things I could resolve for Call Me Snake. Rest assured that I am exploring various possibilities as we speak. I should have these policies ready shortly–just in time for 2008.

I’ve been gone a week, though it seems longer, “fishing” as it were. But now I’m back and it’s time to catch up. Not only was I not working last week, or contributing to public discourse through the forum known as “Call Me Snake,” I also fell way behind on my TV viewing. Upon returning tonight, I caught my favorite show, “The Office.” During one of the “commercial breaks,” they aired an ad for a new horror movie called “The Hitcher” that will open on January 19. That’s 15 days away–actually 14 days away now–and I don’t think I can wait that long. Not that the movie looks good. Quite the contrary. But still, 15 days is a long time, especially after watching a few scenes of the hitcher terrorizing the typical teenager or 20-something couple in the relentless fashion demanded by this genre. Now that we’ve gotten a taste of that, can we wait two whole weeks? And if we do, miraculously, manage to get through those two long, arduous weeks of waiting, who in his right mind will bother to see the movie?