CALL ME SNAKE

I saw a friend walking to work today–a two-mile-plus trek from Porter Square to Kendall–and I accosted him, yelling: ‘GET A CAR! GET A CAR!” I now realize I was wrong to have done so, as I completely forgot about global warming when I launched into my tirade (verbal tongue-lashing?). Sorry about that.

It’s somewhat ironic that I’m writing this, as I use the term “chief” regularly. My kids are often asking, “Who’s chief?” And my friends’ kids often ask me: “Why do you call my dad chief?” That said, I was slightly put off after finishing some rounds of editing on an article when the editor said, via email, “thanks chief.” Though he seems like a nice enough guy, I wasn’t sure we’d established enough of a relationship–enough familiarity–to make that turn of phrase appropriate. But maybe I’m overanalyzing, which I’m wont to do. In fact some might consider this entire blog a case of overanalyzing. And underthinking.

A week or so ago I had an ill-advised post for which I took considerable (well-deserved) heat. I was hoping the thing would blow over but my friends at GOOGLE won’t cut me any slack. It’s the first thing that comes up under my name. I’m hoping to move on, put the whole thing behind me, but GOOGLE won’t let me. Come on guys, give me a break, please? As the Rodney once said: “Can’t we all get along?”

Snake took a big hit the other day and perhaps he had it coming to him. One woman skewered him about a sensitive (and possibly insensitive) post he wrote. Hers was a virtuoso riposte worthy of “Celebrity Guest Comment” status were it not so embarrassing for the editor-in-chief of CMS. It also seemed advisable not to bring any more attention to a post that was, from the outset, dubious at best. Later that same day, for different reasons, my wife called me an “ignoramus.” So you might call it a rough outing for the Snakester. On the other hand, looking on the bright side, the last time my wife used that term, she called me an “ignoramus moron.” By that standard, I could claim to have achieved a modest improvement.

There I was at midnight with a gallon of milk in each hand while I saw my artist friend hanging out in front of the best local pub, the Plough & Stars. That summed it up pretty well. He, hanging with his pals, with pints to look forward to and me laden down with 16 or so pounds of dairy products. Who might you think leads the more interesting life?

The memorial service for my uncle was a tremendously moving experience. I’ve known my uncle my whole life but learned a lot about him I didn’t know during the hour-and-a-half service. He’s an even more colorful character than I realized. I knew he was a great storyteller and heard many of the stories myself, but I also found out he was the kind of person who inspired stories and legends about him through the sheer force of his personality. People spoke quite eloquently about his life and recounted long humorous tales that were emotionally rare and totally captivating.

I couldn’t help wondering what kind of service might be held for me when I meet my end. I’m much duller than my uncle and doubt that people will carry on in the same fashion with equally fascinating stories. More likely, the remembrances will be rather brief: “He was a man of few words…” “He didn’t volunteer much…” “From the looks of it, he might have been intelligent but it was hard to tell…”

 

 

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.

Well folks, old-what’s-his-name is finally gonna’ give y’all a break and take off for a week to parts unknown–to a land of sun and enchantment and hard-to-find internet connections. Which means Call Me Snake is taking a little hiatus. Or perhaps I should say siesta.

On another note: I had my dates mixed up and missed the 2d anniversary of that little blog known as Call Me Snake. I can’t believe I’ve been doing this for two years. I never planned on doing this in the first place. I guess you could say, to quote Bill Clinton, that I did it “for the worst possible reason–just because I could.” Because all it took was 3 easy steps–or maybe, in my case, 10 difficult steps, but let’s not nitpick here. This is a time of celebration. Anyway, I experimented one night because I could and two years later, I’m still experimenting. I suppose because I can.

As I said before, I never figured on doing this for so long. But I must be getting something out of it right? It is fun, I think. At least I tell myself that at times when I’m not doing all the things I’m supposed to be doing. And it’s nice to have a place to put down those ridiculous thoughts that maybe, just maybe, nobody else in the world is having–not because they’re so brilliant but rather because they’re inane in a uniquely, idiosyncratically peculiar way. Well, all right, it has been fun. And if that’s the case, it’s mainly because of you–the incisive comments I never figured on getting and the many brilliant entries to the many ridiculous contests we’ve held over the years: bumper stickers, epitaphs, Rocky Balboa quotes, and the like. I’m going to stop being a curmudgeon long enough to say thanks for hanging in there with me during those months of entries about Antoine Walker, plus my mad ravings about coupons and Solaris and Whole Foods and 7-11 (which I still haven’t sat down in front of, tempting as it may be). Adios amigos, as they say in the land where I’m going; see y’all in a week or so.

This idea comes courtesy of “Fletch” (a friend of mine who’s full name will remain anonymous). “Why not have a contest for best epitaph (actually seen, hypothetical, etc.) or ‘what I want my epitaph to be,’” he suggests. “My personal favorite: ‘See, I told you I was sick.’”

I already told you mine: “Not his best effort.” Old Roses submitted: “Excuse me while I compost.” Turd Blossom needed time to think about an epitaph but did offer the following epithet: “F___ you, Rummy!” If anyone else wants to speak up, this is your chance. Though hopefully not your last chance.

(EDITOR’S NOTE: The response to yesterday’s post on “Handball in the Media” was so great that we felt compelled to “stick with a winner, as it were, which is why this erstwhile volleyball blog is on the verge of becoming a handball blog.) THEY DON’T MAKE MOVIES LIKE THEY USED TO. I say that because I just finished watching “Next Stop, Greenwich Village,” which came out exactly 30 years ago. It’s not an especially great movie, and is perhaps most notable for featuring supporting performances by a young Christopher Walken and an even younger Jeff Goldblum. I can’t even say I liked the picture but it did have an unbelievably moving ending. And that’s got to count for something, right?

Without giving too much away, the movie concludes with the hero (played by Lenny Baker) leaving his old Brooklyn neighborhood to embark on a new, and potentially promising, career. The idea, it seems, was to end on a high note, a note of hope, and what better way to convey that than by showing a group of kids playing handball on the streets of Brooklyn? The scene only lasts a minute, and possibly a good deal less than a minute, yet its impact will stay with you forever.

The message, at least to me, is obvious. It’s OK to start a move with volleyball, as in “Top Gun,” where the volleyball scene came pretty early on, if memory serves correct. But if you want to leave ‘em laughing, or even crying, you could do worse than ending with handball. It worked for Paul Mazursky, and maybe it could work for you too.

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.

Last week, I watched the movie “Prime,” which came out on DVD a few months ago. The movie (starring Uma Thurman and Meryl Streep) is OK, as contemporary romantic comedies go–nothing special, and certainly not worth writing about in a discriminating blog like this except for one thing: In the opening montage of New York City street scenes, handball was featured, which may be a movie first. At least I can’t recall seeing handball in a big commercial picture before. However, I only recommend the movie for the true handball aficionado since the handball shots–good as they were (and they were, indeed, outstanding)–lasted less than two seconds.

I didn’t realize, until lately, that blog.com tallies statistics like “pageviews per day.” For some strange reason, pageviews for Call Me Snake took off on Tuesday of this week, exceeding 130, nearly four times the number on Wednesday. I still can’t figure out what was going on Tuesday to account for this surge. The best explanation I can come up with has to do with volleyball, which is what I normally turn to when all other explanations fail. On Tuesday, you see, I played volleyball for the first time after a long hiatus. I’d taken a break from active play for about nine months to sharpen my inner game. Tuesday was the day for me to put all that good “inner” work to use in an “outer” game. (We did, in fact, play outside, as is our custom this time of year.) Somehow, I’m thinking, people must have known about that riverside game. Otherwise, I’m hard-pressed to explain Tuesday’s pageview explosion, which may otherwise remain a mystery for the ages…

We’ve gotten upwards of 9 inches of rain in the past few days–and double that in hardest-hit areas to the north. I know this from watching TV news, plus from meteorological experiments I’ve conducted on my deck with implements from my children’s play kitchen. On the news tonight, the weatherman on Channel 7 (I don’t know his name; they change so fast I can’t keep track of them) said we “NEEDED more than an inch of rain overnight to get more flooding,” as if “renewing the flooding,” as he put it, was a good thing. If your house if full of water and your furniture is floating away, it’s definitely not a good thing. But for TV weathermen, renewed flooding is a great thing–the best thing that could ever happen to them. It’s career-building stuff that puts them right at the top of the news, as the lead story of the day. And on those rare days when weather rules, we don’t even get to hear about where the biggest fire was. Come to think of it, I haven’t heard about any fires for days.

You try to make amends. You try to do the right thing. But fate has a way of lifting you up, ever so gently, and smashing you down on the pavement. Take yesterday, for example. I stopped in the morning at the place I love to hate, Whole Foods, after bicycling with my first grader to her school. As many people know (I’ve made my struggles all too public, some would say), I’m trying hard to break my scone “habit.” Muffins were on sale for 89 cents. It seemed like a great opportunity to try something different. But then fate stepped in as he (she?) always does. Every muffin was burnt–every last one. Not just slightly browned on the edges but black. (When I’ve mentioned this to the managers of this establishment before, they act surprised, as if they’ve never noticed. Yet it is a daily occurrence.) Curiously the scones are never burnt.  Which put me right back in the jackpot. No one said it’d be easy, and it ain’t.

I never promised you a bowl of cherries. The heart is a lonely hunter. Apples don’t grow on trees. (Actually they do but bear with me anyway.) And fate is a four-letter word.

In the Y locker room yesterday, a guy I’ll call “Courtesy Flush” complimented me on the flip-flops I was wearing. It was nice of him to say so, but he inadvertently hit upon a sore spot. You see, I never planned on wasting my $20 sandals on the locker room floor, making the dreary trip from the locker to shower to pool and back and then languishing 23 hours a day in a plastic bag with the rest of my gym stuff. I had big plans for those sandals. I planned on taking them out to see the world a bit. To explore. But I couldn’t find any $2 flip-flops anywhere in the winter, though Lord knows I tried. So I had to use my expensive ones for these mundane purposes. Which is a shame, because I had such big plans. We were going places, the two of us. And now we’re living out of a plastic bag.

Today’s first “Celebrity Guest Comment” was so successful, we’ve decided to do it again–this time from a member of our own ranks. That’s right, I’m talking about good ole’ Dr. Max of “That One Blog,” a satirist of Swiftian wit who needs no introduction. Which leaves me–as the person responsible for the introductions–with little to do. So take it away, Doc, as they say…

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Snake, I agree with your friend, Nashville Lawyer Guy. I remember being able to wander more when I was a kid, to goof off and explore. Now, like every parent, constant media stories have me living in fear of level 3 sex offenders behind every shrub. I want to keep my kids within view at all times. Thus the 8 gabillion parent organized activities that never give us a break from one another and just seem to produce more stress. I guess time travel back to the 1960’s is the only answer, not only would we have healthier families, gas prices would be a hell of a lot cheaper.

I got a scone the other morning at a Harvard Square establishment after dropping my daughter off at her preschool. I’d been going to the place (it actually was called “C’est Bon”; I added the “Si” for poetic reasons) for years, about once a week and sometimes more, especially during the past five years my girls have been at the aforementioned preschool. So I was surprised to notice a small sign indicating they would close on March 29, 2006, which happened the day I was there.

You might expect the usual sob story about another historic Harvard Square establishment biting the dust, but I can’t claim this place was “historic” in any grand sense. Nor can I protest its closing too forcefully, as it’s making way for a bagel place that, in turn, is making way for a restaurant that a friend is opening. So I’m not lamenting the demise of my scone hut but am, instead, using its passing as a chance to reflect on all the scones I’ve consumed from this place in the past five years. Somewhere between 300 to 400, I’d estimate. That’s a lot of fat, a lot of calories, and probably at least $500 spent on scones–$500 I could have just as easily given to panhandlers, to folks selling “Spare Change” (the homeless newspaper), or to the guy collecting for “Wheelchair Basketball.” Instead, I elected to gorge myself on (conservatively estimated) 150 pounds of raisin or blueberry scones.

The question now is will I use this momentous occasion as an opportunity to break my scone addiction or will I simply find another means of fueling the habit? It’s too early to say. For now I’ll guess we’ll just have to take it one scone at a time.

A few days ago, I went to a book signing at a local bookstore to celebrate the release of a friend’s novel. (It’s one of those things we do in Cambridge, in addition to eating quiche.) The book, called Anatopsis, is a science-fiction fantasy tale written for young adults. The author is a great guy, and I wish him all the luck in the world. But there’s one thing (or maybe two things) I wonder about: If his book–and the sequels likely to follow–become as popular as the Harry Potter series, will he be able to handle his success? And, more importantly, will I be able to handle his success?

Yesterday night, while shopping at the 7-11 (where else?), I impulsively purchased a “Mass Millions” lottery ticket upon seeing a sign saying the jackpot was on order of $250 million. In the hour before the numbers were drawn, I became incredibly generous, experiencing my own rare “windfall moment,” to borrow a phrase from Windfall Woman (see link at right). During that interval, I decided my wife could jettison her membership at our downtrodden YMCA (practically right next door to our downtrodden 7-11) and get a membership at the fancy Harvard Square health club we cannot afford–a place so extravagant, so decadent, that they give you two towels upon entering, even if you don’t want them. (Personally, I don’t feel comfortable in a place like that.) My older daughter was going to get a new Junie B. Jones “novel” and my younger daughter was going to get a new Kipper DVD (that’s Kipper the dog–her current fave who has recently overtaken her previous fave, Little Bear the bear).

Yes, I was going to do all these things and more–maybe even treat myself to a show–until reality came crashing down at 11:15 p.m. Not one of my numbers was right. (What are the odds of that?) And, all too quickly, I went back to being my usual penny-pinching self. I only hope my wife enjoyed that hour of fantasizing about the fancy gym that gives out two towels and has body lotion in the locker room. And hair dryers. It’s nice to dream.

I’m often chided for not writing enough about volleyball. I hope this post redresses that shortcoming, albeit in a small (short) way. In volleyball, we often talk of “kills,” which is short for kill shots–a hard spike that is not, or cannot be, returned. The one-sentence description of today’s CSI Miami (a show I never watch) refers to a dead body (or dead bodies) at a beach volleyball tournament, which, if you ask me, takes the kill shot notion one step too far. Like other professional sports, beach volleyball is a competitive business, and the contests can be hard-fought. All this is true even for occasional, non-professional players like myself. But when the corpses start piling up on the beaches, I’m going to think about taking up another sport–at which point Call Me Snake may no longer be the world’s only blog devoted to the inner game of volleyball.

I’ve long been intrigued by the “Archives of Useless Research,” a 5.7-cubic-foot assortment of papers, collected from 1900-1989, that now sit in the MIT Institute Archives. Housed within numerous cartons are such neglected treatises as: “The world of staraeognology” by William H. Davis; “Perspicuous demonstration of the practical utility of adequate knowledge” by Jacob Fresch (1925); “Maps have their limitations” by Richard Edes Harrson(1943); “The Riddle of the Universe - solved” (1935); “Perpetual motion, at last and powerful!” by Capt. Kidd; and “This world is flat” by Archibald Robertson (1961).

In the course of investigating this odd collection, I discovered that the Institute Archives also include four cartons of materials relating to an alternative energy study that I worked on several decades ago for an environmental organization with roots at MIT. It was considerred to be an important study when it came out, and I believe Ralph Nader made a fairly recent (and positive) reference to the work (though one might say he was predisposed to like its findings). The conclusions, moreover, are as pertinent today as they were 25 years ago when the book was published. Yet it is old and long forgotten. Who’s to say it’s any less useless than “The Riddle of the Universe - solved”?

Last week, after a six-week hiatus that I formally refer to as the “Lost without Lost” period, ABC aired two consecutive 1-hour episodes of its hit TV drama. The first, called “Lost Revelations” I believe, was a recap that, according to the Globe TV critic, was “only for obsessives and addicts.” I skipped that figuring I’m not as bad off as all that. But I was interrupted during last night’s episode–one of those kids acting up or maybe it was the cat–and missed the final few minutes. I could have just let it go but instead I took the extreme measure of sending an email to someone I thought (correctly) might have seen it. He told me I didn’t miss anything: “They just went back to the beach.”

That bit of information–that “they” went back to the beach–hardly seems worth reporting here (although the bar is set pretty low) or anywhere for that matter. I only bring it up because a normal person probably would have “let it go.” Am I becoming an obsessive and addict–the kind of person the Globe critic Matthew Gilbert referred to? I hope not, though I fear this could represent another low point for a person who, until recently, claimed not to watch TV at all. What new depths might I descend to? Only time–and additional TV viewing–will tell.

With the way things are in this country, I’ve found it hard to embrace “patriotism,” at least as commonly defined. I generally try to avoid that word. But it’s hard to forget it altogether, now that my hometown team, the New England Patriots, are vying for their third consecutive Super Bowl and fourth in the last five years. Last night’s crushing 28-3 victory over Jacksonville brings them one step closer to achieving that goal. For a fan, even a part-time one like myself, it’s hard not to love this team which has overcome its share of adversity–including the loss of its offensive and defensive coordinators, an assortment of injuries, and the stroke suffered by Tedy Bruschi, the heart and soul of the defense, that seemed almost certain to be career-ending.

The resounding triumph over the Jaguars gives the Patriots 10 straight playoff wins (an NFL record) and the look of a champion, once again. The team has played heroically this year, especially during the second half of the season, and is living up to its name. Were it not for my advanced age, diminutive size, and lack of athletic talent, it’s almost enough to make me want to be a Patriot, which is something I’ve never aspired to during the past half decade or so known as the Bush era.

2005 ended with a bang. While I was “South of the Border,” unable to defend myself from the usual attempts at character assassination, an astute reader, who goes by the moniker “Arnold S.” (sound like anyone you know?), called me a “self-important, longwinded dork,” as well as a “twit” and a “moron.” At least he agrees with my wife on the last one. The other terms, so far as I know, are firsts for me–personal bests, you might say. I’ve never heard the word twit applied in my direction and the longer expression, SILWD, has a nice ring to it.

I’m inclined to agree with Arnold S., seeing as how he seems to be quite an expert on the subject. He’s also shown himself to be a shrewd judge of character, given his fondness for W. and his merry band of friends. So, in conclusion, I’d like to say–in self-important, longwinded fashion–that fiscal year 2005 ended on a very nice note for me personally, as well as fiscally. (I can’t speak for the rest of you though, lord knows, I try.) I can only hope for equally good treatment in 2006.

On the subject of TV viewing, I’ve been nothing if not consistent: I do not watch TV. That has been my mantra. That has been my party line. And for the most part, it’s been true. But I can no longer, in good conscience, call myself a non-TV watcher. For me, the tipoff came last night when my wife mentioned something while the TV was on, and I said: “Can you tell me later? I’m trying to catch this ad…” I immediately realized what I’d said and with it came an even greater realization–namely that I had been living a lie. So I’d now like to set the record straight: I do watch TV. Rarely, of course. And only when I’m doing other things — like the dishes, putting away Tinker Toys, reading the paper, paying bills, and other mindless tasks to go alongside the mindless pablum served up on the screen. But watch I do, if only out of the corner of my eye, while talking on the phone and attending to my sudoku backlog.

Now that I’ve publicly outed myself, will I go from being a closeted, occasional TV watcher to a full-throttle, channel-surfing addict? I can’t really say. But I can tell you this: I tried like the devil to watch last night’s Barbara Walters special on “Heaven and How to Get There.” And I would have gone to Heaven if I could. It was not for lack of trying, but I couldn’t find the damn remote. So I stayed here in my personal hell instead. Or maybe it was limbo or whatever it is they call the place where my couch is now located.

Many astute readers were puzzled by the “Sneak Preview” I posted the other day about a supposedly new “TV pilot.” We’ve seen that show before, they said, earlier this year (or was it last?) on ABC in fact. Aren’t pilots supposed to be about new shows rather than about (pilfering) old shows?

Before answering, I want to thank all those people for asking such a good question. It truly was a good question, inspiring in fact, and I thank you (them) for it. In response, I’d like to say that, yes, it is customary when writing a TV pilot to do one for a new show rather than for an old one. Everyone, in fact, does it that way. But I like to do things differently. Which is why I decided to write a pilot for an old show. (That’s the way I always do it.) And judging from the response received to date, I think it’s fair to say that the new old show is superior to the old old show, though some will say I’m not setting the bar too high. (I, for one, however, liked the old old show, even though most viewers did not share my opinion. I also happen to like the new old show, even though most readers do not share my opinion. They killed off “Homicide,” I often say in moments like these, by way of suggesting that “they” don’t always know what they’re talking about. Or doing)

This will end my press conference; no further questions please. (Oh, you didn’t know that this was a “press conference” or that you could ask questions? Sorry, maybe you’re just going to have to get up earlier in the morning. [If I got up any earlier, I'd be waking up before I went to sleep. But that's another story altogether--a tale we'll save for another sleepless night...])

I checked my calendar, then I checked my shoe phone, then I checked my palm pilot (don’t have one but should), then I checked my blog archives, and it’s true: Call Me Snake has been in business (if you can call it “business”) for a year now. Actually a year and two days, give or take. My first post went up on December 3, 2004–a cerebral essay entitled “The ‘No Problem’ As It Relates to Contemporary Thought.” That one landed with a resounding thud, and I’ve changed the content a lot since then, made things shorter, snappier, and easier to read because that’s what the public likes, right? Shorter, snappier, easier to read?

Well, it’s been an evolutionary process. Sorry, did I say “evolutionary”? I meant to say it’s been a “controversial” process, and we’re teaching the controversy here and learning from it. And the world is a better place as a result. But I digress. (Note to myself: Stop disgressing!) The main point I wanted to make is that here I sit in the waning moments of 2005, thinking to myself: “Oh my god! I CAN’T BELIEVE I’VE WASTED A WHOLE YEAR!” Whatever was I thinking when I took up this bad habit? And more to the point, whatever was I NOT thinking?

No sorry, that came out all wrong. This is really meant to be a celebration. Like a birthday party–only without the cake, or candles, or gifts, or party favors, or any guests for that matter. Just me, sitting at my computer when I should be doing the dishes, thinking about the passage of time and this habit, blogging, that I never planned on taking up. And if I were a practical person, with a clear eye on the bottom line, I ought to give it up as quickly as I started which was, uh, well, pretty darn quick.

But I’m not very practical, when you get right down to it. Then there’s the fact that I actually like blogging. I like having a place to jot down the rare thought that occasionally pops into my head. It’s nice to have an outlet, ready and waiting, on the off chance that rare thought does pop into your head. Plus the unexpected feedback you may get–sometimes a kind word, sometimes a hostile word, sometimes an unintelligible word, but a dialog nevertheless. And a community that builds up gradually over incoherent exchanges like these.

It seems I’m rambling. (Note to myself: Stop rambling!) And becoming longwinded. (Stop that too!) So I think I’d better wrap things up here. In conclusion, I’d like to say to anyone who’s glanced at these pages, even for a second, over the past year and two days, give or take, thanks for putting up with me. And if you didn’t put up with me, well, thanks for that too.

It’s true I have, upon occasion, used this space to vent. To rant. And to gripe. Call me a nitpicker but I don’t like torture. Nor do I like waging wars for no good reasons and for a lot of bad reasons. But today I’m not going to complain. Despite the state of our country and the state of the world, I do have plenty to be thankful for–a healthy family, both in my immediate family and throughout most of my extended family too. Plus I have a roof over my head, at least for now, and plenty to eat. So on this day, for once, I’m going to put all the carping aside and focus, instead, on all the good things in life–like “beating the rain,” watching flying squirrels, and playing volleyball. Who knows? Maybe it will become a habit.

The returns are in and several readers, narrowminded ones at that, have complained about the so-called “Milk Post.” I was back to writing about “nothing” again, they claimed, after some encouraging signs that this blog might actually be about something. In truth, I was just reporting events as they happened. Sorry if it seemed like a step backward for some of you.

I suppose there is plenty of “something” to be writing about. I could, for instance, talk about Dick Cheney who claims that challenging the rationale used to get us into the Iraq conflict is “reprehensible”–more reprehensible, in his opinion, than dragging our country into a war that has killed untold thousands of people, including our own youth, in an effort that has, thus far, made the world a far more dangerous place.

But sometimes I prefer to write about nothing. The formula worked well for “Seinfeld.” So why can’t it work for “Call Me Snake”? My feeling is that the pressing news, the “cutting edge” stuff, has a short shelf life. After a couple of weeks, if not a couple of days, it’s hard to go back to it. Blogs about nothing, on the other hand, never get “dated,” because they were never timely to begin with. Perhaps I should remind you of an old saying that comes to mind: Nothing lasts forever. Which is why–all other things being equal–I choose nothing.

Yesterday’s trifle on Jungle Jerk’s failed run for city council stirred up more commentary (dare I say controversy?) than I anticipated–enough so that I’ve decided to take up the matter here in a follow-up post. First off, let me say that I employed some levity in writing yesterday’s entry that started this little discussion. It’s true that my friend (Jungle Jerk) had trepidations about winning the job he ran for (though did not “campaign” for), but he is also a smart, responsible person who would have taken the job seriously (and done well at it, I’m sure) had he won, though some schedule problems might have ensued. He wasn’t running just to see if he could win. He was asked to run by some locals who thought he’d do a good job. On the other hand, he didn’t expect to win and when it looked like he might, it gave him some pause (as in, “what have I gotten myself into?” and thinking about “recounts,” and the like…)

The episode may not amount to much, but it does suggest how “campaigns” might be different. As Dr. Max said: “A candidate who doesn’t campaign? Who states his views in a public debate and leaves it at that? How the hell did he lose?” Flubberwinkle (gotta love that name) also astutely argued: “The upside is that voters are turning towards candidates without image-makers, publicity photos and stunts. Could become a trend. (Let’s hope so.)”

All this is not to suggest that Gatemouth and zardoz did not argue astutely in their own right. But what if, as Flubberwinkle said, this approach to campaigning really became a trend? (This is more likely to happen, of course, if a candidate like Jungle Jerk actually wins, campaigning in the manner he did.) What if people didn’t spend tons of money on ads and on glossy literature and instead expressed their ideas in public forums, without going around hounding people on sideways or bombarding them with cheesy TV and radio messages? Wouldn’t that be refreshing? And not only refreshing but revolutionary because if this approach really took hold, maybe we could get the money out of politics and make our democracy democratic–something it has not been for a long time, if it ever was one.

Yesterday, I was too harsh on “LOUSED,” I mean “LOST.” An astute reader encouraged me to give the show a second chance, this time while putting down the dishrag. Other things she said leads me to believe she has extremely high credibility, so I’d like to take the extraordinary step of retracting my previous criticism and doing as she suggests. (Author’s note: It takes courage to admit it when you’ve made a mistake–something a lesser man might not have done, something our president seems to have a hard time with. But I don’t want to get all political here. We’re talking about a TV show, after all, and it’s not even reality TV. It’s the opposite of reality TV in that it purports to be ‘mythology TV.’ Well, that’s about all I have to say on this first point. Shall we move on then?)

As for the “Great Day,” I tried hard to live up to the pressure my 3-year-old put on me yesterday when she told me to have a great day. When I showed up at my weekly handball game at 5pm, my opponent (who is a fierce competitor known to emit loud screams in the middle of a point) asked me how my week had gone. He’s never asked me that before in the 8 years we’ve played together, which I found slightly odd in view of my daughter’s pronouncement earlier in the day. I told him I’d get back to him in an hour. After whipping him and one other player (we sometimes play ‘triples’) in the first game, I answered the question decisively: “It’s been an excellent week, thank you.”

And the rest of the week (and perhaps beyond) is already shaping up well. My three-year-old has promised to wake me up every morning with a song. With a start like that, how bad can a day be?

Some of you might be saying that for a guy who doesn’t watch TV, he sure watches a lot of TV. I can’t control what people say, even if they do spread falsehoods from time to time. The point I want to make is that I have been seeing a bit of “LOST” since this past summer–a time during which I’ve felt a bit lost myself. Now for a bit of explaining: I have not “watched” LOST in the same way that people who actually watch TV might watch it. I put the TV on and then get to work–doing dishes, paying bills, sorting my laundry, finishing my daily sudoku ritual (at which point I might be ready to engage in my daily seppuku ritual, if indeed it is possible to commit seppuku on a daily basis). The point is, I try to turn the TV on Wednesday nights between 9-10 p.m. EST, no matter where my attention lies.

I missed LOST the first time around and never had any intention of seeing it. But then a friend, who I assume to be a non-TV type since he is of a literary bent, told me it was “pretty interesting; you might want to check it out.” At that point, it was too late, so I waited for the summer rerun season and watched when I could. And, to my surprise, I agreed with him: It was pretty interesting. The other reason I trust this guy’s judgment is that I know he has good taste; he’s constantly telling me this blog is “outstanding,” which might be the only reason I persist in this folly.

But I digress. (Note to myself: Stop digressing!) As I was saying, then season two came around and I’m not so sure anymore. It seems to me, they’ve got all these people here on this island (if, in fact, it is an island. Everyone calls it an island, so maybe it is one, unless no one has gotten a good enough view of the perimeter to know whether it is or not.) But I digress again. (Note to myself: Stop digressing again!) As I was saying, they’ve got all these people on this island, or whatever it is, and they don’t know what to do with them. And no one seems to be going anywhere, except for the three who got off on one episode only to return in the next. (Maybe no one will ever go anywhere if the producers are determined to keep this series on the air as long as Friends, only by then no one on this show will be on speaking terms, let alone friends.)

Yet I digress a third time. (Note to myself: Stop digressing a third time!) As I was saying, another problem I’m having is that all the characters (whom I found generally intriguing/engaging the first time around) are really starting to get on my nerves. That Michael, for example, who had been generally sympathetic (despite a hotheaded streak) is now acting like a total idiot, yelling for his son every time he opens his mouth, and, in addition to being an idiot, has become a real jerk. Jack is getting hard to read, but seems pretty unpleasant most of the time. He’s getting moody–in an uninteresting way. Why spend an hour with a crabby guy? And Locke (Lock?) doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself when he’s not killing boars. Without a boar, he’s becoming a bit of a bore himself. And the worst kind of bore at that–a mystical one.

At the moment, this show, which got off to such a promising start in its first season, seems to be totally LOUSED. A few more nights like last night’s rerun, which I missed the first time around and that apparently had been my good fortune (it was incoherent and nothing of consequence happened), and I’ll have to reconsider this whole Wednesday night ritual. If I were smart, what I really ought to do is stop watching TV. Which is what I do best anyway.

In case anyone was still wondering, the GREAT BOSTON RED SOX BUMPER STICKER SWEEPSTAKES is officially over–with an emphasis placed on the first syllable of “sweepstakes,” as in “sweep.” The winner, once again, is …. ME for my entry, “THE FAT LADY SUNG,” but I’m not happy about it. The rains have already started, and many inches are supposed to fall before the weekend is over. And even more will rain down during the soggy week to come. By the end of it, Boston will be a veritable mudbath. And Ernest Lawrence Thayer certainly had it right when he wrote: “There is no joy in Mudville–Johnny Damon has struck out.”

The more I think about that contract I signed, giving the publisher rights to my work (or I should say works) “throughout the universe,” the more like a sap I feel. But then I think, “Hey wait a minute! Look on the bright side. You’ve always wanted to part of something bigger than yourself. This is your chance.” Welcome to the universe, in other words. It gives me kind of a cozy feeling.

At times when I get annoyed, feeling that the publisher overreached just a bit, I can always take comfort in the notion of a “multiverse”–the idea that our universe is but one in an endless number of universes. I’m not making this up: Multiple universes are an almost standard part of inflationary cosmology, as well as central to ideas related to the string theory “landscape.” (More on that later.) So if the theorists behind the multiverse concept are correct, that publisher only has rights to my work in one universe–one out of an infinite number. Looking at it in that light, they don’t have much. And I’m having the last laugh.

I just withdrew some money from the ATM and wrote it down in the “ledger” when I got home. To my surprise, my balance was off by $500 and the discrepancy (not surprisingly) was in the bank’s favor, meaning I had $500 less in the account than I thought. How could that be? I called the bank and after many frustrating dead ends on the convenient, easy-to-use telephone phone banking line, I finally managed to learn about recent activity on the account, which suggested I had failed to write down withdrawals three or four times in the last month. I’m usually scrupulous about that sort of thing (to the point of being called “anal,” though I personally despise the term), and I couldn’t understand how I’d made so many errors in a single month.

Then it dawned on me: Maybe it’s the Red Sox. They’re stumbling of late (still hanging onto 1st place, but just barely) and making tons of errors in the process. Last night Damon dropped one he should have had, Wells failed to cover first, and the shortstop Renteria (known as “Rent-an-Error” on local sports radio with his major-league-leading 29 errors) booted another–all of which contributed to an 8-7 loss to the Devil Rays on a night when the Yankees won with a “walkoff” (a first by rarely-used reserve Bubba Crosby), pulling to within a half game of the Sox. There’s no doubt about it: The errors are going around these days, and it’s even affected my bookkeeping. I need to talk to Terry Francona soon about shoring up that sagging defense, before I lose the home and end up on the streets–maybe in front of the 7-11 I keep talking about–with a tattered Red Sox hat providing my only shelter.

All my life I’ve had cheap, dimestore-variety sunglasses. As I kid I remember ad campaigns carrying on about: “Who’s the man behind the Foster Grants?” I always assumed they were expensive glasses, out of reach, but this summer Walgreen’s had a “buy one, get one free sale” so I decided to live out a childhood fantasy. They’re still cheap, dimestore glasses ($15 for the pair, with the sale) but just a bit more fashionable than the plastic ones I’m used to. My wife borrowed one of the pairs and lost them on the very first day. That left one pair of Foster Grants left–one chance to fulfill my dreams. I lost that pair too, before I ever wore them. How that happened, I can’t say. Maybe I should blame it on the cats. (More about them later.) So it seems I’m destined, forever, to live out the rest of my days in cheap plastic sunglasses. And I’ll never be that glamorous man behind the Foster Grants.

I realize, of course, that it is absurd to moan about lost sunglasses when tens to hundreds of thousands of people have lost their homes and all earthly possessions. However, by that standard I wouldn’t have anything to moan about. “Then don’t moan,” you might say. Which is a legitimate point, though it would leave me with little to talk about in this blog. I can’t restrict myself to happy thoughts as I tend to be a brooder, a glass half-empty kind of guy. I like to complain. No matter how well things are going, they could always be better…

So getting back to “loss,” and now I mean real loss, the world evidently lost a great musician a couple of days back–one CLARENCE “GATEMOUTH” BROWN–who died at the age of 81 in Orange, Texas, after having left his home in New Orleans to flee Katrina. Brown was a versatile musician–a guitarist and singer who played many other instruments, excelling in blues, jazz, Cajun music, American standards, and other forms. I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m not familiar with his work, as I’m more up on the bluesmen from Chicago, my hometown. From what I’ve read since Brown’s death, I absolutely should be familiar with his work. I’m writing this here, as a tribute of sorts, because of a frequent commenter (and regular bumper sticker contest winner) who goes by the moniker “Gatemouth.” I’ve always been curious where that name came from. I should have known. And now I do.

This month’s featured Blog Title of the Month is “Things I Wonder About” (see link on right), which has a simple but effective formula: The author, “OldRoses,” lists in serial fashion the things she wonders about. But there are things I wonder about too, and this one seems particularly timely (and would have been even more timely had I posted it a few minutes earlier, but what the heck. I’m not punching a clock here…) But getting back to the thing I wonder about–or, in fact, one of the many things I wonder about (as I have an inquisitive, or should I say inquiring, mind)–which is this: How come they call it Labor Day when hardly anyone works? I might even ask how come they don’t call it “Goof Off Day,” were it not for the fact that I think I know the answer to that one. (They don’t call me “Bright Boy” for nuthin’.) The answer being: Who’s going to give someone a paid day off from work for “Goof Off Day” or “Screw Around Day” or “Screw Around Month” for that matter, unless, of course, you have one of those no-show jobs like President of the United States?

I know I usually complain or gripe about things in this space but none of that today. I just spent the whole day–nine hours, in fact–on a beautiful beach north of Boston, playing volleyball and swimming. All in all, the perfect day. Yet that other side of me wonders (without complaining, as I promised I wouldn’t do that) why I only manage to do the things I like most just once a year, or maybe twice if I’m lucky. The answer, it seems, is that I live in goddam Boston (gotta’ love that town!). If I lived in Santa Monica or Venice, I could play volleyball on the beach–as well as run, swim, rollerblade, and bicycle–every day until I got sick of it and started cursing about goddam beach volleyball. Thankfully, I’m in Boston and will never live to see the day when I complain about too much beach volleyball.

I’ve heard grumblings in some quarters that this blog is too much about me. For once I’d like to put the focus on you. That’s right, YOU. Don’t look so surprised. This is a new me talking here. And the “How Are Ya’” blogs are soon to become a new feature at Call Me Snake. (We like to introduce “new features” here, and we do that all the time, though some might say we’ve been a little weak on the follow-up. But enough on that. Let’s get the focus back on you, where it belongs. Just where I said it would be…)

Dr. Max (see link on right), AFOCMS (which is a pithy acronym for A Friend Of Call Me Snake), often starts his posts with a rhetorical question: How is everbody doing? That strategy is so effective for him that I thought I’d try the same: How IS everbody doing? REALLY? You’re all fine? Well that’s great. Just great. Wish I could say the same. That things are great, I mean. But they’re not. Not that things are BAD. It’s not as bad as all that by any means. Basically, I’m fine. Just getting by. You know, one blog at a time and that sort of thing.

If I were one to complain, and I’m not, I might mention something about the weather. The heat part of it, that is. It sure can get to you, around here I mean, what with the temperature being what it is. And what it is is hot. Not to mention the humidity. And dewpoint and relative humidity and the rest of it. But don’t get me started. Like I said before, I”m not complaining and I ain’t bellyachin’ either.

Anyways, I’m glad to hear that everyone is doing so well. Keep it up, folks! You’re amazing–an inspiration to the rest of us. I’ve always said I couldn’t do it without you. I didn’t necessarily believe that, but I said it all the same. And now I think it might possibly be true.

The story line in “The Magnificent Ambersons,” the 1942 film classic by Orson Welles, revolves around George Amberson Minafer and how he gets his “comeuppance.” I’d always considered it an entertaining tale until I too–like bad boy Georgie before me–got my comeuppance.

It happened yesterday, when I was least expecting it. There I was, feeling smug and self-satisfied–having a great day in other words. The weather outside was perfect–a dry, sunny, and breezy 80 degrees. Though I was chained to my desk, writing about flying squirrels, I did not mind. Then I got some email, a new comment from blog.com. I opened it eagerly–a welcome distraction from my manuscript–expecting the usual laudatory remark. Instead I got–I got my comeuppance is what I got.

The writer Lisa let me know I was a callous cad badly in need of humility. My only hope, she said was volunteer work, preferably with children or homeless people. OK, well, I suppose everyone’s entitled to their opinions. I didn’t ask for it, but there it was. And frankly it bothered me. I’m sure we all could stand to do more in the way of volunteer work, but why was I, of all people, singled out for this public-service assignment, when I could think of plenty of others more in need of salvation?

Maybe it was a harmless prank sent by some kids out for a laugh. Or maybe this Lisa is for real–someone who stumbled upon my blog and felt a powerful urge to dress me down in public, on my home turf. I guess I’ll never know unless Lisa surfaces again and decides to explain why she reacted so strongly to words intended to be humorous or moderately amusing at the very least.

I suppose this is a banal observation that has, without a doubt, been discussed thousands of times before. Yet I’m still amazed at the number of people who seem to be talking on their phones ALL THE TIME–walking, shopping, driving, on the bus, trains, bicycles, you name it. Most people you see outside these days are talking on their phones, which was certainly not the case five years ago or even a few years ago. What I don’t get is how people have so much to say that they can and do spend hours–all day it seems–on the phone. Has the volume of essential and worthwhile discourse really gone up that much?

I don’t have a cell phone, which is probably obvious, but I don’t feel like I’m missing out on something, as if what I really want to do is spend more time on the phone. Unlike the rest of our glib society, I just don’t have that much to say.

I’ve been back from Nashville for several weeks now, but thoughts are still percolating in my head from that excursion, perhaps as a result of my recent jaunt to Plymouth, Mass. (“Travel can be so broadening…”) One of the things that has occurred to me is that during the whole time I was there, no one once said: “Y’all come back soon, y’hear?” I was really looking forward to hearing that turn of phrase and was disappointed when all was said and done and those words were not said and done.

What, if anything, does that mean? Perhaps they just don’t say that anymore, which would be a pity. The alternative, however, would be far worse from my point of view: Maybe they’all don’t want me to “come back soon, y’hear?”

Yesterday, a friend emailed me an amusing item about the nomination of a new Pope. Modeled after the NCAA basketball championships, it had the Sweet Sistine, the Flagellant Four, and other clever touches. All in all, it was pretty funny, and very elaborate. Yet the whole exercise made we wonder: Who has time to waste on things like that when they could be wasting their time blogging?

The Celtics are off until tomorrow, and the Red Sox haven’t played since we last spoke, which leaves me with absolutely nothing to talk about. Nothing, for those who love to “parse,” is short for “not a thing,” which sums it up pretty well. No news may or may not be good news, but it’s definitely nothing, or “not a thing” if you prefer the more longwinded phrasing. I could, of course, talk about Terry Francona, who’s now undergoing tests at Massachusetts General Hospital after experiencing “chest pains,” but I’d rather not go into someone else’s medical condition without an obvious payoff to my legions of readers. Why waste your time? (I don’t need an editor because I’m very hard on myself and am, in all honesty, the toughest editor you can find. If it doesn’t make me laugh–and I’m talking about a real belly laugh, not just a chortle or a guffaw–it won’t make the cut. “This isn’t funny,” I often find myself saying. Or, to put it in other terms, “I’m not laughing.” “Where’s the humor in someone else’s misfortunes?” is another query I put to myself. The point I’m trying to make here is simple: I don’t write unless I have something truly important to say. I’m too busy and–to give you the benefit of the doubt–you are too.)

But maybe there’s something wrong with me. Just because the Celtics or Red Sox have not played doesn’t mean there’s nothing else worth discussing. Perhaps, as many people have suggested, I should establish some sort of “inner life.” That’s an interesting idea, which I just might look into–that is if I ever find a moment where I have nothing of great significance to report on.