CALL ME SNAKE

I think I blew my last post about Richard Dawkins. What I think he actually said was that some religious types claimed that without god, the universe would have no meaning. Dawkins replied: “The universe doesn’t owe us meaning.” Sorry about the last post. That was “my bad,” as they say. And I promise it will never happen again. (Or at least it won’t happen again today.)

My last sperm bank offering stirred up so much interest, I felt it was important to run an update without delay. So here it is, just a few days late, though I’m sorry to say that there is no news to report. The one thing I can mention is that some PR flak(???) responded to my post, saying that the Cambridge branch of California Cryobank was a “good neighbor” that always paid its rent on time. The implication was clear: I am not a good neighbor (debatable, as we shall see) and I don’t always pay my rent on time (true). As for my neighborliness, it depends on who you ask. If you ask the homeowner to our right, he’d probably say I’m an excellent neighbor. The people on the left, I’m sure, would vote for the sperm bank. So it looks like a toss up. In matters like this, according to an age-old convention, a tie goes to the sperm.

I’ve heard about Richard Dawkins for a long time but had never actually heard him speak until a couple of days ago when he was interviewed by Terri Gross on “Fresh Air.” The author of, most recently, “The God Delusion,” Dawkins makes a very compelling case and I wouldn’t want to debate him. Fortunately, we seem to agree so I don’t have to debate him. I can, instead, let Richard do the talking for me on matters related science, religion, and evolution. He said that some religious folks could not handle the idea of a godless universe because it wouldn’t make any sense to them. People very much want an explanation, Dawkins says, “but the universe doesn’t owe us an explanation,” which strikes me as a very astute comment.

Dawkins hosted a TV show in Britain about religion called “The Root of All Evil.” He tried to change the title of the show because he doesn’t believe religion is the root of all evil. “It’s the root of a good deal of evil, as I’ve explained, but that wouldn’t be a great name for TV show.”

 

How low the mighty have fallen. Although the Boston Celtics are still, I believe, the most “storied” franchise in NBA history, this season–which finds them sitting squarely in the cellar–has been largely irrelevant. Nothing exemplifies that better than last night’s TV news at 11 on Channel 5 here in Boston, which featured the birth of Nomar Garciaparra’s twin girls ahead of the Celtics’ solid victory over a solid Orlando squad. Nomar has not been on the Red Sox for years, yet the editorial powers deemed his newly-born children a more important “sports” story. At the risk of repeating myself, I have to say: How low the mighty have fallen.

At some time or other, we all wonder what we are put on this earth for. I think about that all the time and did not have the answer until today. The answer came unexpectedly, as usually happens with great revelations, and in this case it arrived via email. I found the email this morning after dropping my daughter (quite literally) at her preschool. (Fortunately, she has cat-like reflexes and did not land on her head.) The message came from a friend who recounted the conversation she’d had this morning with her five-year-old daughter. This is a direct transcript of the exchange between the two characters, henceforth referred to as “daughter” and “mother.” Not a single word has been changed, altered, or misspelled.

daughter: Steve sure is a great bike rider.

mother: Yes, he is.

daughter: He’s a natural!

mother: Yes, I guess he is.

daughter: You know, everyone is good at something.

mother: That’s right.

daughter: And with Steve, it’s definitely bike riding!

mother: Absolutely.

For some reason my local library has a large collection of westerns on DVD. As this is a genre I follow, every few months I watch one. Last night I saw “3:10 to Yuma,” a rather taut 1957 film starring Glenn Ford that’s like “High Noon” with a twist. I was surprised to see a story credit by Elmore Leonard who has had an amazingly productive career–and is still turning out books 50 years later. I have read a large number of his crime novels and a few westerns like Hombre though I didn’t expect to see his name on this film. But this isn’t a bad story credit to have because it isn’t a bad story. It seems rather conventional for most of the going but takes an unexpected turn near the end. So I recommend it, if you go in for this sort of thing, and afterwards you might want to curl up with a cozy little book like “Killshot.”

I realize that if columnists did not butt into other people’s affairs, they might not have much to talk about. Still I think that Joan Vennochi’s column in yesterday’s Boston Globe (March 25, 2007) went too far in suggesting that John Edwards should pull the plug on his presidential campaign and focus, instead, on being “a husband.” The decision that John and Elizabeth Edwards have made is an intensely private one, despite the fact that for obvious reasons it had to be made public. I don’t claim to know any more about it than Vennochi or the other pundits casting their two cents worth, but I still believe there’s something to be said for going forward with one’s plans, carrying on in the face of disease if that’s at all possible, rather than making the disease, itself, the focus of life. If that’s what John and Elizabeth Edwards had in mind, I applaud their decision. If they pressed forward for other reasons, I applaud that choice as well. It’s theirs to make.

My column in the local paper, The Cambridge Chronicle, has recently taken a turn–and not for the better. I can tell by the reaction of John, a long-time Cambridge resident and former teacher who now works the front desk at the Cambridge Y. “I liked your column,” he used to say when I came to the gym. Sometimes, if he was talking to someone else when I entered the premises, he’d point to me and say: “He writes a column for the Chronicle,” which almost made me embarrassed. Now I’m getting embarrassed for a different reason.

A couple of weeks ago when I came in John said: “Your column wasn’t too bad this week. Not too many mistakes.” Yesterday the reaction was even worse: “Your columns are getting longer and longer,” he said. “Like verbal diarrhea.”

So that’s the trajectory. I started out like Jimmy Cagney in WHITE HEAT: “On top of the world, ma!” And since then it’s been a steady descent to the bottom. Which is why people always say: “Enjoy it while it lasts.” What can I say? It’s been a brief thrill ride. I enjoyed my 15 minutes. But now the motion sickness is starting to get to me.

A week or so ago, Scarlett Johansson graced the cover of PARADE Magazine, with a memorable quote beside her mug shot. (They’re always memorable, which is one of the many reasons I love the magazine and would not mind being stranded on a desert island if PARADE came once a week.) “I think I look like a boy” is what Johansson said (that might not be an exact quote, but it’s pretty darn close). I showed the cover to a friend who I know has the hots for the actress in question though she’s never done much for me personally. (I liked “Ghost World” and that’s about it.) “What do you think?” I asked him.

“What do I think?” he replied, staring at the cover with lust. “I think I’m a homosexual.”

Some years ago, a friend of mine (Jungle Jerk, in fact) went on a kayaking trip up in Alaska and almost got trapped in an ice field near the mouth of a glacier. That experience (his, not mine) left a lingering impression in my mind. I never thought I’d see something like that right here on the Charles River near Harvard Square, and I didn’t exactly though I saw something that came sort of close. It was a week or two ago. I was biking along the river to make an appointment in Watertown. We were having a bit of a thaw after a cold spell, and the ice on the river was starting to break up. Somewhere between the “Quentin Compson” bridge (aka JFK Street) and the Eliot Bridge, I saw a man in a small skiff stuck in the middle of the river, completely surrounded by ice–not your typical scene on the Charles.

An hour or so later, on my way back from Watertown, the man was still stuck in the ice but he’d made some minor progress toward Harvard Square. I thought of calling the Coast Guard but decided this wouldn’t qualify as “coast,” being several miles from Boston Harbor. Also there was a steady stream of runners and bikers going by so I never figured the guy was in great peril.

But I was still curious. As I had to pick up my daughter at preschool an hour later, I took the river route on my bike to check up on the man’s progress, even though it was a slight detour. There was no sign of him, so I gather he made it through the ice to a safe harbor of some sort–presumably one of the nearby rowing docks. Or else, instead of Charley on the MTA we’ve got “Charley on the Charles” out there, somewhere, still picking his way through the ice.

Some years ago, a friend of mine (Jungle Jerk, in fact) went on a kayaking trip up in Alaska and almost got trapped in an ice field near the mouth of a glacier. That experience (his, not mine) left a lingering impression in my mind. I never thought I’d see something like that right here on the Charles River near Harvard Square, and I didn’t exactly though I saw something that came sort of close. It was a week or so ago. I was biking along the river to make an appointment in Watertown. We were having a bit of a thaw after a cold spell, and the ice on the river was starting to break up. Somewhere between the “Quentin Compson” bridge (aka JFK Street) and the Eliot Street bridge, I saw a man in a small skiff stuck in the middle of the river, completely surrounded by ice–not your typical scene on the Charles.

An hour or so later, on my way back from Watertown, the man was still stuck in the ice but he’d made some minor progress toward Harvard Square. I thought of calling the Coast Guard but decided this wouldn’t qualify as “coast,” being several miles from Boston Harbor. I had to pick up my daughter at preschool an hour later, and I took the river route on my bike to check up on the man’s progress. There was no sign of him, so I gather he made it through the ice to a safe harbor of some sort–presumably one of the nearby rowing docks. Or else, instead of Charley on the MTA we’ve got “Charley on the Charles” out there, somewhere, still picking his way through the ice.

Some years ago, a friend of mine (Jungle Jerk, in fact) went on a kayak trip up in Alaska and almost got trapped in an ice field near the mouth of a glacier. That experience (his, not mine) left a lingering impression in my mind. I never thought I’d see something like that right here on the Charles River near Harvard Square, and I didn’t exactly though I saw something that came sort of close. It was a week or so ago. I was biking along the river to make an appointment in Watertown. We were having a bit of a thaw after a cold spell and the ice on the river was starting to break up. Somewhere between the “Quentin Compson” bridge (aka JFK Street) and the Eliot Street bridge, I saw a man in a small skiff stuck in the middle of the river, completely surrounded by ice–not your typical scene on the Charles.

An hour or so later, on my way back from Watertown, the man was still stuck in the ice but he’d made some minor progress toward Harvard Square. I thought of calling the Coast Guard but decided this wouldn’t qualify as “coast,” being several miles from Boston Harbor. I had to pick up my daughter at preschool a little later in the afternoon and I took the river route on my bike, which was a bit out of the way. There was no sign of the man. I guess he made it through the ice to a safe harbor of some sort. Or else, instead of Charley on the MTA we’ve got “Charley on the Charles” out there, somewhere, still picking his way through the ice.

I’ve written a lot about the new Rocky movie and, being a responsible (sometimes) journalist–as in sometimes a journalist and sometimes responsible–I decided it might be worth taking a look at the picture I’ve written so much about. Well I’ve done that and have gotta say: What an inspired piece of filmmaking! I’m so inspired, in fact, that I’ve decided to take over the series from Stallone who says he’s absolutely, positively done playing rope-a-dope.

I’ve already discussed my plans for ROCKY 7 [in a post dated February 23, 2007, as well as with Stallone personally], but I’ve since laid plans for a multi-picture deal. (That’s the breaking news aspect of this late-breaking story.) Here’s the “story arc” I have in mind:

ROCKY 7: An underweight middle-aged man, inspired by the Rocky Balboa story, decides he wants to be the next heavyweight champion of the world. Of course, he gets his ass kicked. Down but not quite out, as they say…

ROCKY 8: That same middle-aged man, now a year older and hopefully wiser, dedoubles his efforts and, miraculously, captures the heavyweight crown. It’s the greatest upset since, well, I’ve run clears out of similes. Or metaphors. Or analogies. Or whatever…

ROCKY 9: Our hero is not getting any younger but he’s definitely getting softer. Since winning the crown, he’s taken to eating expensive French cheese and artichoke dip, developing a bit of a paunch along the way. In his return to the ring, he is completely humiliated by a younger, bigger, stronger opponent. He hangs up the gloves and opens a used book store, where his ass gets kicked once again–only this time by a faltering economy and illiterate public.

So that’s the basic story line. I’ve already started my training and just need a few investors. You wanna a piece o’ me? You want in?

Several years ago, a video store called Videosmith–which was located between Harvard and Central squares, right near where I live–closed up shop. The store had a devoted following, mainly because the people who worked there were extremely knowledgeable and extremely nice. The sign was taken down and a new business moved in. But this business kept a low profile to say the least. It had no sign whatsoever and gave no indication, from the outside at least, as to the nature of its business.

The establishment is, in fact, called “California Cryobank,” with other branches in Palo Alto and Los Angeles. They are very selective in their donors. It’s even harder to get into than Harvard Law School, according to Harvard professor Michael Sandel. You need to be 5′9″ or taller, 19 to 38 years old, in good health, and attending an elite college or university or possessing an undergraduate or graduate degree from said institution. The ideal donor is six-feet tall, with brown eyes, blond hair, and dimples. Donors receive $75 a pop and up to $900 a month plus some perks like movie passes. Sandel, for one, is wary of operations like this which he says smacks of “eugenics because they make children the product of deliberate design.” I have some moral qualms about it myself but wouldn’t get through the doors in any case. I’m not sure my college would qualify as “elite.” I have no dimples. And the age limit would also pose a problem, despite the fact that I–like everybody else–look younger than my years. So no free movie passes for this guy.

Looking at it from a neighborhood perspective, we traded in a friendly neighborhood video store for a friendly neighborhood sperm bank. A sign of the times, perhaps. But I can’t see how we came out ahead on that deal.

Apologies, apologies. Over the past few days, I’ve been using a new feature on blog.com called “preview” (actually it’s not new at all, just new to me) and as a result I ended up saving several posts as drafts without ever putting them online. I just realized today that they’d never been “published,” and several them, dated over the past few days, went online just now. Sorry to hit people with so much at once. So many words. So little to say.

Everyone knows TV news is a joke, which makes the new ad run by ABC seem kind of pathetic. “What has made World News Tonight with Charles Gibson the number one news show on television?” the ad asks. “I don’t know,” I say to my TV set. “Cause they suck a little bit less than the others?”

You can learn interesting things from the statistics provided by your friendly blog server (blog.com in my case). For instance, you can find out how people get to your blog. For example, in Google searches that led people to Call Me Snake, “Brazilian butt fill” was one of the leading search terms, closely followed by “butt fill” and “Beyonce’s butt.” The moral of the story of the story is clear: If you’d like to boost circulation, use the word butt more often! It’s worked wonders for me, and it can give your blog the “kick in the ass” it needs.

In describing the environmental writer Bill McKibben, an article in today’s Boston Globe called him “a youthful-looking 46.” I have nothing against the guy and have never met him in person but judging from the pictures provided in the paper, he looks more or less like someone who’s 46. In other words, he looks his age. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Yet for some reason reporters always feel obligated to describe everyone as “youthful-looking” or “looking younger than the years.” Of course, if everyone looks younger than their years, they actually look their age. So maybe we can finally stop this entrenched pattern of age deflation. Maybe people can start looking their age for a change. This I believe.

I’d like to make you thing perfectly clear: This blog is not, nor never has been, for sale. And Celebrity Guest Comments are not for sale either. On the other hand, there’s nothing wrong with reprinting the comment of a reader who has some kind things to say about a particular blogger, even though it took some encouragement for him to say those kind things–especially after his initial words were less than flattering (with talk of “a new low for this blog” and other such remarks). With that preamble, I’d like to hand the mike over to today’s Celebrity Guest Comment written by none other than Gatemouth himself. I could try to explain his statement about Winona Ryder for those who did not see the original text, but I think that’s unnecessary since Gatemouth is more than capable of speaking for himself, especially when he speaks so favorably of your humble narrator. So Gatemouth, the balcony is now open. And the “conch” is now yours.

GATEMOUTH SPEAKS: Okay, since I have (or at least used to have) the total hots for Winona, I’m going to revise my comments, in hopes that I will get the aforementioned Celebrity Guest Comment and end up in the same room as Winona (where we can comfort each other and practice shoplifting our clothes). Here goes:

Some of your readers are getting in a pucker over this toilet-paper issue, Snake, but I, for one, applaud you for exposing the dirty nether-parts of this toilet paper scam and wiping the truth clean once and for all. The link between money and feces was established long ago by Freud himself, but for Charmin’ to exploit our neurotic instincts simply to make a buck, to force wipers into the “comfort versus savings” corner, is capitalism run amuck.

Of course, we should never lose sight of toilet’s ultimate purpose–to clean our butts–and, personally, I think using cheap toilet paper is like using Dick Cheney to wipe your ass: it rubs you the wrong way and, in the end, you’re dirtier than when you started.

Nevertheless, I bow to you, Snake, for looking into the bowl darkly and opening our eyes to the muddy nature of this issue. We must all speak the truth when it comes to paper! (EDITOR’S NOTE: I revised the last sentence, which is well within my rights as “the decider.”) And we should always strive to be excellent to one another. (EDITOR’S NOTE: This sentence, which was excellent to begin with, was made even better by some deft editing.)

CONCLUDING COMMENTARY BY THE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF, HISSELF: That last sentence is truly inspiring. In fact, if more people come to know what Gatemouth has said here–about us all being “excellent” to each other and all that–we may soon forget what Rodney King ever said. In fact, let me be the first: RODNEY WHO?

After years of maintaining my independence, I’ve gone and done something I thought I’d never do–I’ve joined a group blog. It’s called the “Cambridge Blog” [http://blogs.townonline.com/cambridge/], an adjunct to “The Cambridge Chronicle” newspaper. I’m a columnist for the Chronicle and was asked by the editor to contribute to the blog as well. Yesterday I posted my first entry, as an introduction of sorts, which the editor had suggested would be a good way to start. The title of my entry–”Who am I? Why am I here?”–was taken from 1992 vice presidential candidate James Stockwell, who posed the questions in a televised debate. My discussion got rather longwinded–perhaps too longwinded for some readers.

In a comment, one reader submitted a joke that answered the second of the questions posed by Stockwell and, 15 years later, by me: It starts with a man who suspected his wife of cheating on him. He went home early one day. He looked in the bedroom and did not find anyone. He looked in the kitchen and did not find anyone. He looked in the bathroom and saw no one. Then he opened the shower curtain and saw a man standing there. He asked the man “What are you doing here?” The man replied, “Everyone’s got to be somewhere.”

That, in a nutshell, is as good an explanation for this blog, Call Me Snake, as I can muster. It also explains, in five words or less, why I’ve switched over “to the other side,” though my visits there may be infrequent.

You know I’m desperate for laughs when I invoke the term “flying squirrels” (which has long been known as a sure-fire crowd-pleaser). But if ever there was such a time, this is one. Yesterday, I was trying to get a copy of the article I wrote about flying squirrels in an emailable form. (I have the print version already.) Searching on the web, I found the story on a website called “GOLIATH — KNOWLEDGE ON DEMAND.” Here’s the catch: I had to pay them $4.95 to see a copy of MY article. Can you believe the nerve? What a system! (Or as they say in French, “quel system!” And if they don’t say that in French, they sure ought to. But don’t get me started…) On these shores, it seems, everyone can get a piece of the action, even some unknown third party that is, seemingly, buying up my collected works and selling them to the highest bidder. Is that what makes this country great, or what?

NPR reporter Ari Shapiro has a helpful suggestion for Attorney General Alberto Gonzales: He could serve Bush better by keeping some distance from his boss. It’s a nice tip, yet it flies in the face of Gonzales’ longstanding role as Bush’s henchman or, as the Washington Post put it: “Bush’s enabler.” Gonzales was the in-house counsel to Bush both in Texas, when Bush was governor, and in the White House before taking his current job. He has endeavored to redefine torture to suit the administration’s purposes and handled other dirty work as needed. Maybe Shapiro’s advice was on the mark, but it’s not going to change business as usual in the Department of Justice which, under Gonzales’ helm, has become a Travesty of Justice.

If you ask me (and even if you don’t), there’s something kind of funny about this new line of toilet paper, “Charmin Basic.” What strikes me as weird is that the name suggests you can try to do things on the cheap (with an economical wipe) or do it in style with the premium (ultrasoft, ultra thick, toilet-clogging) blend. The Basic product line, I suppose, will hold a certain appeal to the frugal-minded, a group that I, unfortunately, am forced to subscribe to. Others, more prosperous or more indulgent, will probably spare no expense when it comes to their precious rear ends. (Why accept second best? Why risk chafing? Why give your bottom any more abuse than it needs? These are the questions I’d probably ask myself were I to join the ruling class.)

Two years ago, I wrote a post called “I HATE SNARKY,” which expressed my strong dislike for said adjective. “Call me a stick-in-the-mud, call me a curmudgeon, call me a jabbernow, but I hate the word ’snarky,’” I argued in April 2005. “I don’t know what it means and don’t want to know, though I sense it’s popular in ‘cyber’ circles…”

Well that was then and this is now. And now, in 2007, I still hate the term though I don’t think about it much. But I was reminded of it earlier this week when, out of the blue, I received a comment to that 2005 post from a “Random Internet Person” from Sacramento. His comment (I think it’s a him, though maybe I’m wrong) was good enough to warrant a coveted “Celebrity Guest Comment.” So Random Internet Person, whoever you may be, the balcony is now open. And the “conch” is now yours.

RANDOM INTERNET PERSON speaks: “You are way ahead of me. I have been hating this word only since about the middle of 2006. That’s when it seems to have burst on to the scene here in Sacramento. Mostly it’s on blogs, but it’s found its way into the newspaper.

“Mostly, I’ve found that, in the papers, it is used by the “society-type” reporters. The ones that report on the bar scene, the restaurant scene and the local media scene. I get the sense that they are very conscious of their own use of the word and that they congratulate themselves for being so hip when they throw it into a column. Sometimes I think that they sit around and create whole stories just so they can fit in that word.”

In a desperate attempt to appeal to the idiot wing of the country, former Massachusetts governor (and did I mention presidential aspirant?) Mitt Romney has declared war on France–or at least a war of values, ill-conceived as they may be. The gist of Romney’s foreign policy seems to be “blame it on the French.” First of all, how dare those smug Europeans question the wisdom of George Bush’s war on Iraq? Now, some years later, after having had the chance to see how well things have gone for us (and for the Iraqis) over there in that beacon of democracy known as Iraq, I bet the French are feeling rather foolish. And if they had the opportunity, I’m sure they’d vote for you Mitt, as well as voting in support of Bush’s initial war plan. Well, it’s time to make amends. How about a round of “Freedom Fries” on the house?

Let’s face it: We live in a vague time in the history of the planet; there’s nothing distinctive about it, nothing that stands out. Just a general mushiness that pervades most human conduct as well. The other day, for example, I asked a friend if he wanted to join me for a movie at a particular time and place. “That’s not supposed to be too bad,” he said.

“It got pretty good reviews from what I saw,” I replied.

“Yeah, I noticed that too,” he agreed.

And then nothing–no reference whatsoever to my invitation, which might sound odd except for the fact that it seems to be the norm rather than the exception these days. “How about if we leave it open?” I suggested. Again there was no response. “OK fine. Let’s just leave it open…”

I needed my credit card statement for tax accounting purposes and not having a fax machine, I asked the company to fax it to a nearby photocopy place. I called the establishment twice to see if the fax had arrived. It had not, so I asked the copy guy if he could give me a call when the fax arrives. “That’s not a service we provide,” he informed me. “We don’t operate as an extended office for people.”

“Fine,” I said. “Can you take a letter?”

The response has been overwhelming, the consensus inarguable: My post of two days ago, which lacked a single word or punctuation mark, was my best ever. (Or, as I subsequently put it, the greatest post ever posted since Post Toasties.) “An exemplar of concision!” wrote one astute reader. “Hear, hear,” another chimed in. “Finally a post that is not just so many wasted syllables strung together.” Evidently I’ve learned well from my blogger friend Jungle Jerk, who’s shown us that sometimes you can say a lot by saying a little. In other words, sometimes more is less, and nothing speaks volumes.

On one of the NPR interview shows, novelist Jim Harrison said (this may not be an exact quote): “You only have a limited number of meal in your life, so why not eat well?” I had never thought of it exactly that way before–i.e., that we go through life with a meal ticket, of sorts, that has only a certain number of punch holes. When cast in that light, what Harrison said makes perfect sense.

On the other hand, of course, you could say that for just about everything you do in life, in which case the notion seems somewhat dangerous. Because in every aspect of existence, you’re likely to fall a bit short. Soon, every meal–and every night’s sleep–would become a disappointment rather than a pleasure. Which is why I tend to set the bar a little lower. And for me (in contrast to Harrison) that (bar-lowering tendency) extends to writing as well.

I’d like to apologize for the last post. I’ve been pretty busy lately, and I’m trying to make the posts shorter and shorter, perhaps following in the footsteps of my blogger hero, Jungle Jerk (see link on right). But I have to admit that the last one–with zero words–went too far. I shall try in the future to ensure that my posts have at least one word. And if it is just one word, I promise to make it a good one.

I was listening to the news yesterday on NPR, cursing at the latest accounts of American deaths in Iraq. What a waste, I thought. “We haven’t accomplished anything over there and cannot accomplish anything.”

My wife, however, disagreed, arguing that we have indeed accomplished something. “We’ve ruined a country.”

They say Hollywood is built on tinsel and dreams. I don’t know about tinsel but I can vouch for dreams. In my dream last night, my wife chided me for not doing enough to sell my most recent screenplay. Soon thereafter, one of my high-powered Hollywood cousins was patiently reading through the script (and “patient” is not part of his vocabulary), ostensibly helping me with the “subtext.” Next I ran into a producer who told me: “I really like the new rewrite. You’ll be hearing back from me again soon.” That made me feel good for a moment, until I woke up and realized I had no idea who that producer was nor how to contact her. I did remember one detail about the “rewrite” though: Without my input, the story had been transposed from its original setting, Kansas City, to New Orleans.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The original version of this piece, which was posted here sometime last year, was “perfect,” according to a friend who not only happens to be a tough critic, he’s also a writer, editor, and publisher. So with that in mind, the temptation was too great to just leave well enough alone. No, I had to go in and try to muck it up. Herewith are my efforts in that regard:

I live in an intellectual town: Beneath every rock, as the saying goes, you’ll find an aspiring novelist, philosopher, or poet crawling around. When I ask a salesperson about futons, somehow the conversation invariably comes around to Proust. The gardeners I meet tend to be frustrated writers, though none more frustrated than me. Our main contractor is an artist, bumper-sticker maker, and political pamphleter, who just does carpentry on the side. Even my drain-cleaning guy dispenses life lessons as handily as he wields a snake. “We could learn a lot from tree roots,” he tells me as he reams the insides of our drain pipe. “Like John Paul Jones [or Rocky Balboa, for that matter], they never give up. If there’s an opening, or a weak point, they find it. If not, they keep poking around until they create one.”

No one looks forward to having bed bugs. For my money, it’s the best cure for sleep yet devised. Nevertheless, when we came down with this affliction last year, when it was all the rage, I thought that this time I was finally going to get the straight dope–as in firebombing our home with an arsenal of deadly toxins–rather than yet more discourse on the latest epistemological quandary. The first professional I discussed the matter with came straight to the point, asking me where my tenants were from. When I said Peru, which was the case at the time, he said: “Oh boy, have you ever got ‘em! So here’s what we can do for you…” He laid out the full battle plan, starting with his brand of “shock and awe” and proceeding to the occupation and nation-building phases.

“Don’t you want to look first, just to be sure?” I asked.

“What’s the point?” he replied. “These critters are hard to see. And in the end, we’re still going to do the same thing. So why not save some time and money?

Though his argument made perfect sense, I sought a second opinion to be safe. After some digging, I found the “exterminator of the stars”–a man reportedly with “Cambridge ties,” though the way he put it made it sound like “mob ties.” The Harvard School of Public Health may have written the book on bed bugs, but when they have bug infestation problems, who they gonna’ call? This bugbuster, that’s who. I called him too. He promised to “get to the root of my problem.”

A few days later, he arrived at my doorstep with a notebook in hand. On our tour of the premises, he looked under beds, mattresses, pillows, and linen, chuckling to himself as he took notes. Finally we arrived in the master bedroom. After a cursory glance, he asked,

“Does your wife sleep on this side of the bed?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “Why do you ask?”

“Men always sleep by the door,” he said. “It’s been that way since the Stone Age. Women and children slept in back of the cave, while men guarded the entrance.”

“Fine,” I said,” but what does this have to do with bed bugs?”

He looked at me incredulously, as if bed bugs were the farthest thing from his mind. “I have no idea what’s making you itch, but I promise you it’s not bed bugs.” My problems were deeper, he added. Much deeper. Although my girls were still young, he warned me what I’d be facing a decade from now. “The way I see it, all your troubles have to do with men,” he explained. “You’ll have three women, all of them menstruating. Plus your wife will be dealing with menopause. Then you’ll have your own mental health to deal with. So eventually, all your women problems will actually revolve around men, at which point you won’t be worrying about bugs at all.”

And then, 50 minutes after his arrival, our session was over as quickly as it began, with the bug situation apparently solved. I wrote out the check for $125, suggesting that perhaps we’d do the next “inspection” while I lay down on the couch. The way I see it, we all could use a good “debugging” every now and then.

I had to leave my car at the garage yesterday. Before handing over the keys to a mechanic, I removed an old corn muffin from the seat where my daughter had left it days (weeks?) ago. “Where can I throw this out?” I asked. The mechanic suggested that, rather than throw it out, I could leave the muffin remnants near a snowbank where birds were likely to eat it. Almost on cue, a seagull swooped down in less than a minute and, also in less than a minute, scooped up the scattered crumbs. I’ve never seen a more graphic example of the efficiency of nature. If only humans could follow suit and curtail their wasteful ways.