CALL ME SNAKE

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?

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?

The other day my hygienist told me I had plaque buildup on one side of my mouth and stains on the other (but no plaque), which she found “puzzling” to say the least. That’s either TOO MUCH INFORMATION or the makings of a good dental mystery. Which reminds me, with all the successful medical TV shows, why not a dental TV show? With the backstage drama of dentists, hygienests, orthodontists, and oral surgeons rubbing elbows, quite literally, with a host of quirky patients–the slutty soccer mom, the seductive soccer dad, Delta Dental plan members of every stripe, the co-pays (1st and 2d party), and the pay-as-you-goers, all of which is sure to add up to a steamy mix. (I realize that’s not a proper sentence but, uh, who cares?) I’ve even got a good title I’ll put out there, free of charge, which will pretty much on its own guarantee a surefire hit: THE DENTAL OFFICE. Better yet, I promise to tune in just as soon as some enterprising “creator” (or should I say “decider”) gets off his or her butt and makes this show. David Kelly, Aaron Sorkin, Steven Bochco? I’m talkin’ to ya.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I haven’t seen “Rocky Balboa” and, though I’m not a prayin’ man, I do pray for the strength to avoid seeing it and thereby not succumb to the lowest common denominator or lower (if there is anything lower than the lowest common denominator, which as I recall from grade school math is getting down there). Some movies are great fodder for jokes, and this appears to be one of them. Here’s what I’ve heard so far: From DAVID LETTERMAN last night (a paraphrase): “This movie is doing so well, they’re going to make a Rocky 7 and in it Rocky gets a hip replacement.” On Fresh Air [NPR], David Edelstein said: “You have to halve your IQ to enjoy this movie. And you want to halve your IQ.” From Rolling Stone: “there is much to cringe at here.” The Village Voice: “patently, even proudly, absurd.” L.A. Times: “a film for gluttons for punishment.”

If you have any comments to add, please speak up. Maybe we’ll turn it into a joke contest as advertised (perhaps falsely) in the title above. And speaking to you here, from this special segment of At the Movies, the balcony is now closed. I hope you enjoyed this halve as much as I did. Please put your motion sickness bags, well, wherever you think they ought to be put…

I just spoke with an old friend tonight, Jungle Jerk, who I’ve known for almost 20 years. And most of the time that I’ve known him, I’ve been trying to write his profile. One finally appeared in print in 2000, after nearly a dozen years of trying. But that’s not what I want to talk about here. I want to talk about his blog, which is called “Jungle Jerk” (see link at right). He started his blog more than a year-and-a-half ago with an initial post of just 10 words. But those words were well chosen. Almost perfect, you might say. He never knew how to top that, and never tried. In the 20 months of the blog’s existence, there has only been just one post. Just 10 words.

You’ve got to admire that–or at least I do–that kind of terseness, part of a long tradition of Yankee brevity. The guy knew what he wanted to say and said it, without wasting any extra breath or extra syllables. In other words, he went in style. He went out on top. We could all learn from his example, including the humble author of this screed, who has been known to ramble on, from time to time, to little avail…

Today we’re introducing a new feature called “Movie Ads You’re Not Likely to See.” This feature, sure to be one of our most popular, is pretty self-explanatory, as you shall see. Without further ado, here’s the first installment:

PSYCHO: “a moving family drama about a son and his undying love for his mother.”

I’m having wrist troubles lately (BORING), which has cut into my sudoku time. But I trained myself to do the puzzles with my right hand (I normally write with the left), and it’s working out fine. I shouldn’t make too big a deal of it, though, as I know a Boston area artist who lost the use of his right arm, as a result of a stroke, and had to learn to paint with his left. He even had a showing in Boston of his “Left Hand Work” last year, and it was spectacular. My right-handed sudoku triumphs pale by comparison.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: Sometimes you wonder whether it's worth it, whether your blog is a total waste of time or whether, somewhere and somehow, it's making a difference. I've often thought of pulling the plug on this particular experiment and have come close on many occasions. But then there are those little reminders that come along, like this note from an anonymous friend called "Fletch," that let you know your blog is having an impact, for better or worse. Without further ado, I shall now turn the "conch" over to Fletch, who explains in dramatic fashion how his life has been touched by Call Me Snake. It's a heartwarming tale, full of wit and perspicacity, as you shall see...]

FLETCH SPEAKS: Things are deteriorating rapidly around here, and it’s clearly your fault (or at least not mine). First, this blog stuff has put a real dent in my daily routine.  Here I am, this very minute, at “work,” and what am I doing? Then, last night, under circumstances that are not interesting enough to deserve full disclosure, I find myself at a parent-teenager event, and what appears on the dinner table to fill the conversational void?  A Sudoku puzzle.  That’s right, I’d never encountered one before, only heard about them you-know-where (which I peruse during my time at “work” - see where we’re headed?).  Never one to turn down a challenge, I unleash my considerable puzzle-solving acumen on the unsuspecting piece of paper (using the only writing implement within range - a Bic ballpoint).  I become totally absorbed in the thing, shutting out virtually everything else (parallels are abounding here).

Well, you (or at least a novice such as I) shouldn’t attempt one of those things in pen.  So, I grabbed a couple of blank ones (just in case), and, at about 7:30, headed home - where we have a stash of sharp pencils with good erasers - expecting to knock the punk off in a few minutes or so before finishing the last few items on the weekend “To Do” list and picking up the Sunday NY Times to remind me of life outside my diurnal grind.  (At this point please remember the correspondence about sleep deprivation).

At about 9:30, I near the conclusion, but, as a result of sloppiness in the last few squares, I blow it.  About this time my wife comes over and says she’s heading to bed.  “OK, I just made a little mistake with this puzzle, I’ll be there soon,” say I.  I decide to start over, not exactly being able to retrace my steps.  One teen heads to bed, then another.  At 11:15, my quest ends with a perfect puzzle.  My son, who has been up doing practice SAT tests, chuckles at my obsession. This conversation ensues:

Son:  “Did you finish?”

Dad: “Yes, finally.  My blogger friend is into these, so I wanted to give it a try.”

Son: “Oh, so is this something you’ll become obsessed about over the next six months instead of doing what you’re supposed to do?”

Dad, with slightly raised eyebrows:  “Like what?”  [Now, the astute reader who shares a home with teenagers of this age will wonder at the wisdom of a father asking a question like this of such a teenager.  I must admit, after letting that one escape I went into sort of an intellectual "batten down the hatches" mode - what excuse can I offer, other than that it was way past my bedtime, and I was flush with the confidence that comes only from working a Sudoku puzzle in less than four hours.]

Son, after a momentary pause:  “Buying a car for the girls [his twin sisters who turn 16 in a month].”

Now, I was relieved that the response was so “trivial,” and won’t launch into an essay on “entitlement” (although such an essay is well deserved). I mumbled some half-responsive comment like “I’m still thinking about it,” and ambled off to bed.  (As an aside, I don’t think I’ll do Sudoku before bed again - it didn’t exactly help me drift off to sleep).

Anyway, I was all set to write and complain to you that the blog and Sudoku have ruined my life.  But then - if my life consists of supplying (or funding) transportation to teenagers - THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!!!

(EDITOR’S NOTE: The last two “Thank you’s,” along with the additional exclamation points, were added by the editor for emphasis. Well, that’s it for this week’s episode. Stay tuned for the next installment of our popular new feature, “Fletch to Snake: You’re Ruining My Life!” Until then, the balcony is closed.)

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

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

In our occasional series here at Call Me Snake (swiftly becoming one of our most popular features), we like to reprint noteworthy quotes from movie reviews. I recently had the good fortune of coming across these quotes from reviews of “The Transporter,” while also having the even better fortune of not seeing the movie itself. Here’s what Entertainment Weekly had to say about said picture: “… it’s like the worst movie Jean-Claude Van Damme never made.” TV Guide topped that with the following gem: “It takes perverse genius to make an action film this stupid.”

Well that’s it for this week’s installment of Great Movie Review Quotes. I hope you enjoyed it as much as we did. (Our focus groups tell us you did. And that’s all the thanks we need.) Until the next installment, this is Call Me Snake reporting live from the fair city of Cambridge. Good night and good luck.

There’s nothing like leaving on a high note. My post on the “first practical use for sudoku” was featured on the “Improbable Research” website (see link on right), which puts me (it) in some pretty heady company. Speaking of heady company, I’m off for a week of fission’ and other forms of rustication in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont with my wife’s family. Sixteen people (half of which are spirited children), all sharing the same house, should make for a relaxing time. The “Kingdom,” as some of us call it, is wild country. A good place for bears but not especially convivial for cell phones and high-speed internet connections. So this might be my last post for a good stretch, say a half-fortnight or so, unless I can find myself some sort of electronic “hitching post,” a weird (or wired) coffeehouse, or whatever they call them in those parts. If we don’t talk fur awhile, y’all have yourselves one heckuva week. I’m sure I will.

Here’s a nifty website you’re all dying to visit, or will be dying to visit now that you’ve heard about it. Called “Ned Wright’s Javascript Cosmology Calculator” (http://www.astro.ucla.edu/~wright/CosmoCalc.html), you type in a redshift (z), and it automatically converts that to the age of the universe in gigayears, depending on the assumptions made re. the Hubble constant, omega-mass, and omega-vacuum. In other words, it’s indispensable. Upon visiting the site and seeing for yourself what I’m talking about here, you’ll wonder how you got through life without it. But now you don’t have to. Consider this your “Helpful Hint” for the day.

Of the many features we run on Call Me Snake (too many to enumerate), “Celebrity Guest Comment” is surely one of the most popular for it gives a chance for everyone to dream that someday their insightful comment will be showcased in this high-profile manner, for all the world to see. Today’s Guest Comment comes from a man who needs no introduction, the all-time bumper sticker competition winner (after me). Yes, that’s right, Gatemouth. So take it away, Gatemouth. You have the “conch,” as they say. [Editor's note: This comment is reprinted verbatim, in its entirety. All mistakes--errors of fact, syntax, grammar, and punctuation--are the responsibility of Gatemouth, not me.]

GATEMOUTH SPEAKS: Come on, Snake, you can’t blame the Republicans for the Big Dig. After all, Romney wasn’t even governor when the Big Dig was started. There was Swift before him, and Cellucci before Swift, and Weld before Cellucci…

Oh wait. They were all Republican governors, weren’t they? But I’ll bet the Democrats’ projects were just as bad. Like the Bourne Bridge, the Sagamore, the Cape Cod Canal, the Sumner and Callahan tunnels . . . Oh, wait. None of those fell apart, did they?

All right, but the Democrats’ national projects have been complete disasters, right? Didn’t Hoover Dam collapse two days after it was finished? Didn’t all those National Parks turn into desert wastelands as soon as the last cabins were built? Didn’t the Apollo space program result in the total annihilation of most of Florida? And WWII, we lost that, right?

No? All of those things were successful? Hoover Dam is still standing? We landed on the Moon several times?! We won WWII?

But the Republicans have been better engineers overall, I’m sure. I mean, SDI–that’s been a huge success, right? Keeping us safe night and day. And the B-1 Bomber, started by Nixon, cancelled by Carter (because of niggling problems like the planes crashing), then revived by Reagan. That’s going to go down in history as one of the great technological innovations. And you can’t tell me that the Bush administration didn’t have every detail of reconstruction mapped out when they started the war in Iraq.

What? 20 years and billions of dollars later SDI still doesn’t do anything? The B-1 bomber was outdated before it ever hit the assembly line? Iraq has less power, water, buildings, jobs, and schools than before the war started?

Jeez, maybe there is a difference between Republicans and Democrats after all. Who’d a thunk it?

[Editor's note: Well, that's our Celebrity Guest Comment for today. Until next time, the Celebrity Guest Comment box is closed.]

Everyone knows about the exciting part of volleyball: the awesome spikes, the tremendous digs, and fabulous dives. But a lot goes into setting up the games that makes those more celebrated aspects possible–a lot of hard work behind the scenes, scheming, maneuvering, arranging… Take yesterday, for example. I spent the better part of my “work day” trying to get four people to meet at a park by the river in the evening. I was not setting up some kind of anonymous sex tryst. No, this was something far more exciting: volleyball doubles. But getting it done took a lot of correspondence, considerable back and forth, and a good deal of luck. In the end, it all hinged on a sick child. Or two sick children, actually. Allow me to explain.

I had three players lined up, raring to go. But we needed a fourth, given that the name of the game is two-on-two. (You do the math.) I pinned my hopes on one of our regulars, but she had to bow out because her son was sick and needed attending to. Another guy, a neighbor, wanted to play but his wife had made arrangements for them to hang out with another family that night. It looked like we were sunk. Then, after I’d given up all hope, the neighbor called back and said that their friends couldn’t come over to their house after all because one of their kids got sick. Which meant he was free to play after all. In the end, it happened (the game, I mean, not shit), and it was beautiful. All we needed to secure our fourth player was one more sick kid, which balanced off the other sick kid who had been working against our getting a fourth. It’s complicated, I admit, far more complicated than most people realize. Which is why most people don’t play volleyball doubles. They watch it on TV.

I’m no Francophile, nor do I have anything against Brazil. I know several nice people who come from that fine country–some of my best friends, you might say. Still yesterday I was relieved (perhaps even ecstatic) that France beat Brazil in the World Cup, this from a person who has yet to watch a minute of World Cup action. Allow me to explain: Two weeks ago, coming back from the beach, my family and I got caught in a horrible gridlock, stuck in a virtual standstill for almost an hour, on Route 1A south. We finally stopped at a roadside establishment for some victuals where I inquired about the cause of the backup. “Brazil won their World Cup game,” the hostess explained.

In our town, when Brazil wins (even an early-round game), hundreds (or maybe thousands) of fans drive around in their cars, honking their horns, and tying up traffic all over the city. Yesterday, before going to the beach, I checked the World Cup schedule and found that Brazil was scheduled to play France at 3 p.m., meaning that if we left the beach at our customary time, around 5:30 or 6, we were likely to get slammed again. But all was quiet. And the trip that took nearly two hours two weeks ago took less than half an hour yesterday. Last night, when I watched the 11 o’clock news, I found out why: France won the game, 1-0, and, as a result, traffic flowed freely on the Boston roadways. Which is why I said it above and shall say it again: Viva la France!

I’ve done my part in promoting Parade Magazine in these pages. Now it’s time for Parade to do something for me like, for instance, putting me on the cover. I’d be delighted to tell James Brady, Dotson Rader, or some other trusted scribe my inspirational story: about how I graduated from a prestigious public high school with great promise as my class’ sole “Dartmouth Book Award” winner and then how I squandered my talent and seemingly accomplished nothing for years–lost in a miasma of indecision and unfulfilled expectations–only to find fulfillment later (when all had written me off, especially myself [more on that later!]) through family, work, and, most importantly, blogging. (Note to James, Dotson, or one of the editors of Parade: Please leave a comment in the box below to arrange an interview. I’m happy to speak with you anytime, except during my scheduled volleyball or handball games, or during reruns of “The Office,” or during my daily sudoku break, or during what has traditionally come to be called in our household “Daddy’s time.” Apart from the aforementioned obligations, and a few others I forgot to mention, I’ll be glad to meet with you anytime. Please let me know when the photographers are coming so that I’ll be sure to make my bed.)

(Author’s Note: To avoid charges of plagiarism, I’d like to say, upfront, that I got this from my #1 source of news, “Personality Parade” in the one magazine I’d most like to have on a desert island, “Parade,” assuming, of course, I hadn’t “Lost” my subscription.) When asked about his interests, the male model and Halle Berry companion Gabriel Aubry mentioned tanning. “If you’re tan,” as Aubry wisely noted, “you can’t go wrong.” Even readers of this blog who are not male models (assuming there are any–either readers or readers who are not male models) might still find a kernel of truth, and perhaps some inspirational words to live by, in Aubry’s sage remark. And let us all say, “Thank you, Parade.” Where would we go for important news without you?