CALL ME SNAKE

The other day someone asked me if I was going to see the movie BEOWULF. But he pronounced it as BEE-uh-wulf and I thought he was referring to “THE BEE MOVIE.”

“That sounds like it might be fun,” I said. “I’m planning to bring my five-year-old to it.”

He looked at me like I was depraved and only later did I figure out why.

Yesterday I met with a prominent mathematician (a number theorist) to discuss my book, which involves math and string theory and vice versa. Early on in our conversation, when I confessed to not being up on certain math concepts, he said: “I think you’re going to have a hard time writing this book.” We talked some more and before long reached another of those junctures where I did not know what I should have known and he mentioned again, “I think you’re going to have a hard time writing this book.” I shrugged it off, we continued our conversation, and before long I hit another tough spot and he interjected, once again, with the familiar refrain. Well, three times a charm, as they say, and this time I believed him: I AM going to have a hard time writing this book.

Time to pop the champagne bottles. I’ve just written the first four sections of my book–the writing of which is frequently compared to the scaling of Mount Everest. (Sir Edmund, if I’m not mistaken, used to speak of this often.) Four out of 20, that’s not bad right? Except they’re all really short, not full chapters, just ancillary material–kind of like bookends. So it’s really only about 5% of the total word count I’m supposed to supply. Still 5% isn’t so bad right? It just means I have 95% left to go. But wait a minute, 95%? Holy shit, that’s a lot. Umm, never mind. I guess you can put the corks back in for now. Can’t get em back in? Well, sorry, I guess the next one’s on me.

None of this would have happened if hadn’t been in such a hurry to get back from work. I left my family in New Hampshire on Friday so that I could try to make some headway on my book. That brought me back to Cambridge in time for my Friday evening handball game during which I messed up my shoulder royally, and it’s been pretty much nonfunctional (dysfunctional?) ever since. Looking back on it now with the benefit of hindsight, maybe I should have stayed with my family.

There is somewhat of a silver lining, albeit a slim one. My foot has been bothering since I did something to it during a handball game in July more than four-and-a-half months ago. But ever since I blew out my shoulder, I haven’t noticed my foot at all. Which is why I’m calling it the best cure ever for aching feet.

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone, which means another trip to my inlaws in New Hampshire. Every time I make the drive, I count a different number of Mr. Mike’s–gas stations/snack bars/oases–along the way. A year ago I could have sworn I saw three of them between Boston and my destination in the Granite State. Sometimes I’ve seen two. But this time, I only saw one–despite some serious looking, as serious as you can do while driving without ending up wrapped around a tree. The only thing that’s predictable about this thing with Mr. Mike’s is that it’s never predictable: Every time I go I see a different number of them. Are my eyes playing tricks on me? Are these franchises popping in and out of existence like particles in the quantum vacuum? Or is somebody up there (a.k.a. “the Big Guy”) playing games with me? Tune in next Thanksgiving for the continued chronicles of the “Mystery of Mr. Mike’s.”

It’s Monday which means–you guessed it–it’s time for Freaky Friday! Last week I wrote about a report that studied the question of why Danes are so happy. Moments later, I received an email from a friend of mine in Copenhagen who has not seen my blog and whom I hadn’t spoke with for at least two years. There’s only one word for that kind of thing–You guessed it: “Freaky.”

My last post about the showdown between Yellow and Orange gave the misleading impression that the Harvard-Yale game took place here in Cambridge (or technically in Boston if you want to be that way), when in fact the game was played in New Haven. How did this happen? You could blame it on the editors. But the fact is, the game was supposed to be held in Cambridge and at the time I reported it as such, I was correct. However, in an attempt to embarrass me, my enemies at Harvard and Yale changed the venue at the last minute. I still stand by the correctness of my previous post, which was 110% accurate when posted, but now–in light of the recent sleight-of-hand by the Ivy League tricksters–I felt a correction and clarification was necessary. Hence the above account.

Is this mistake–if you are wont to call it that–a blemish on Call Me Snake’s otherwise perfect record? I think not. If anything, the fact that Harvard and Yale changed their game plans strictly to humiliate this blog shows the growing importance of Call Me Snake.

To the rest of the world, tomorrow is November 17. But here in Cambridge, it’s the day of the “Big Game,” and I’m not talking about the Harvard-Yale game. I’m talking about the battle between Orange and Yellow in the Cambridge Youth Soccer under-10 girls league. Our team, the undefeated Orange, will face off (a mixed metaphor?) against the Yellow (whose only loss came at our hands) in the final game of the season. The outcome will determine whether Orange is truly number one, as we’ve been telling ourselves (and the rest of the world) all year, or merely tied for first place. I’m sure the suspense is killing you but it will all be decided in less than 24 hours. Find something (I’m happy to offer puzzles from my Sudoku backup piles) to occupy yourself with until then.

[EDITOR's note: First off, I have nothing against Danes. A good friend of mine, in fact, is Danish. Her ex-husband is a great guy and her nephew, who stayed with us for the better part of a week, was fine company as well. Moreover, I had a grand time when I visited Copenhagen 25 or so years ago. No complaints whatsoever. That said, I'm still going to report on a study that questions the levels of self-satisfaction enjoyed by Danes. Why? Because, as Bela Lugosi once said (repeatedly): "THE STORY MUST BE TOLD."]

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Why are Danes so smug?

The high levels of contentment enjoyed by Danes has long been a source of mystery. Denmark has ranked first for more than 30 years in European surveys of satisfaction. The country also ranked first in the latest World Map of Happiness. But what are they so happy about? That question was explored in the recent British Medical Journal study, “Why Danes are smug.”

The study, led by University of Southern Denmark scholar Kaare Christensen, considered a host of hypotheses, starting with hair color. But the researchers quickly dismissed the “blondes have more fun” theory by noting that Sweden has a higher prevalence of blondes than Denmark.

Nor does the answer lie in Danish cuisine, which they charitably describe as “unmemorable.”

The climate is no picnic either, with Danes enjoying fewer hours of sunshine a year than dreary London.

Denmark has the highest marriage rate in Europe, which might account for the general wellbeing were it not for the almost equally high divorce rate.

Danes rate their health as good, yet by objective standards it’s “mediocre.”

Ultimately, the authors were left with two explanations: Denmark’s victory over Germany in the 1992 European soccer championships, they suggest, “provided the biggest boost to the Danish psyche” in more than 900 years. Second, Danes maintain “consistently low expectations” and are “pleasantly surprised” to find that everything is not “getting more rotten in the state of Denmark.”

I just saw the movie “Away From Her” on DVD and, as the title suggests, I was blown away. It is definitely not a “feel-good” movie as the subject is Alzheimer’s. But I can’t recall having seen a more moving and poignant picture in years. It is especially impressive that such a trenchant movie about aging was written and directed by a relative youngster, Sarah Polley. I’m going to give this one five stars out of four on the Snake-ometer.

It’s Saturday which means–you guessed it–that’s it’s time for Freaky Friday, back once again by popular demand. Yesterday I met a string theorist from Madison at Darwin’s, a local coffee shop. I’ve met there with several other string theorists and unbeknownst to the owners (whom I know) Darwin’s is becoming the string theory capitol of the coffee world. I ran into a local at the establishment yesterday who I hadn’t seen for a couple of years. In fact, the last time I saw him at Darwin’s, I was there with another physicist who happened to be the former advisor of the Madison guy which, if you ask me, is pretty darn freaky. A veritable mindf_ _ _ er. Hence the awarding (according?) of “Freaky Friday” status.

I hope you enjoyed the latest installment of Freaky Friday. See you next Saturday (or Sunday or Monday) for the uncut, remixed, director’s club version of the same. Until then, “stay freaky.”

The other night, the local TV weatherman (Harvey Leonard) crossed the line in trying to scare us about the cold weather that was moving in. He showed us a map that went all the way up to the North Pole where temperatures, not surprisingly, were about 0. I’m no meteorologist but since when does the temperature of the North Pole have anything to do with the temperature of lowly Boston?

I’m sure the clerk at the courtesy desk at Whole Foods must think I’m nuts. Earlier today I exchanged some cans of cat food that my cat didn’t like (fish flavor) for one she prefers (beef liver). Then I was back again tonight, a couple minutes before closing (10 p.m.), to exchange some cereals (I got the wrong variety of brown rice crisps,”original,” when I was supposed to get gluten free. That was my second encounter with the same clerk. A minute later, I took my credit slip, the correct cereal, and a few other items to the cashier where I realized I didn’t have my wallet. Fortunately I had a few dollars, enough to complete the purchase (minus a few items). But then I started to panic, thinking I might have lost my wallet there earlier this afternoon. So at 10:00 I showed up at the courtesy line a third time. I’m sure the woman was thinking I was either trying to hit on her–although approaching it in a dubious way–or, more likely, that I was a certifiable nutjob. I can’t blame her as I was starting to think the same–the “nutjob” option as opposed to the “hitting on her” option.

Fortunately, I found my wallet at home, which was a great relief as I had lost my wallet just two weeks ago and had finally replaced all the cards and various forms of ID. If I’d actually lost two wallets in two weeks, I wouldn’t have waited for them to commit me. I’d have voluntarily checked myself in.

Fortunately the Italian publishing industry has not been in contact with my plumber, who offered a rather dismal prognosis for my opus-in-progress on string theory. Two publishers there are vying for the Italian language rights to the book, despite the fact that I have yet to write a word of it. Publishers in other languages such as German and French are being much more cautious. They’d prefer to see something in print before making any such commitments. That bothers me since I’ve rarely made “Freedom Fries” jokes and have long since stopped taking potshots at Germans. Still it makes me love the Italians for their sheer recklessness. Now the pressure is on me to actually deliver something. And if I do, my next stop will be the Italian Riviera, baby! Or maybe the Amalfi Coast or Sicily. Somebody’s got to reward this country for its misplaced confidence in me.

My plumber who (this being Cambridge) likes to keep abreast of science let me know that a book about string theory will not sell. Most people have never heard of string theory and if they have, they couldn’t tell you the first thing about it,” he said. “You can forget about ever getting on the New York Times bestseller list.”

“You may be right,” I replied. “In which case, you can forget about ever getting paid by me.”

It’s bad enough when PARADE prints its annual “What People Earn” article and I can get depressed about how little I earn compared to, say, Oprah or Howard Stern. But the Boston Globe had an item yesterday on the richest dead people that was even worse. Elvis, for example, earned $49 million last year even though he’s long gone. And nine others, all deceased, earned anywhere between $6 million and $44 million which by my calculus, is a good year, dead or alive. And here I am slaving away for peanuts (Speaking of “Peanuts,” Charles Schulz by the way earned $35 million), while these dead guys and gals (Marilyn Monroe, $7 million) are raking it in. Hardly makes it seem worthwhile. On the other hand, you can’t play volleyball when you’re dead.