CALL ME SNAKE

“I always knew I’d bounce back.” That’s what I said years ago, when things were looking bleak. But wait a minute. I just saw that same line emblazoned on the cover of PARADE (my favorite magazine, in case you haven’t guessed; I like it ‘cause it’s real). And that’s not my picture to the left the quote. It’s Vanessa Williams! And she’s saying those same inspirational words about bouncing back that I know so well.

Not only did she hog the cover, she’s telling my story–you know the one, about the fall from grace, the staring into the abyss, but never quite giving up on yourself, even when everyone else has, including your mother and pet gerbil. Until you rise up again. And walk on all fours. And triumph! Well, that’s me all over again (though I haven’t yet reached the triumph part–still stuck in the quadruped perambulation phase, if truth be told).

And, apparently, that’s Vanessa’s heartwarming saga, as well. In fact, I think I could embrace–not just Vanessa Williams, who, apart from being kind of hot, is, I’m pretty sure, married, and so, come to think of it, am I… No, what I meant to say is that I could embrace–and embody and personify and actualize (if that’s the right word)–practically every cover quote, every rousing, heartfelt tale the magazine has run, or thought of running, or decided against running, in its incredible, inimitable, indomitable history:

“Suddenly my world was ripped asunder.”

“I was so low, my head hit the floor on the way up.”

“It hurt so bad, I would’ve cried, if only I knew how.”

“I’ve known pain.”

“I’ve known sorrow.”

“I’ve known rivers…”

“I got tired of being a used dishrag.”

“I got tired of being used.”

“I got tired.”

“I decided to live my life rather than let life live me.”

“Deep down, I always knew there was a road back. If not a through road, at least a cul-de-sac.”

“I thought I’d never love again.”

“She taught me how to love again.”

“He taught me how to love again.”

“They taught me how to love again.”

“It taught me how to love again.”

“After the 10th cheeseburger, I finally realized I had to look within.”

“The whole time, the truth lay right in front of me, staring me in the butt.”

“If only I’d opened my eyes!”

“If only I’d closed my eyes!”

“The answer was not in a bottle. Nor in a vial. Nor in a bag of COOL RANCH Flavored Tortilla Chips.”

“It was as if I’d been in a decades-long fog…”

“And then, when I least expected it, the clouds lifted. And–for the first time in years, it seemed–the chance of precipitation dropped below 50 percent.”

“Years later, in the middle of the weather forecast, I finally got the wake-up call I needed.”

“In the end, all I needed was a good kick in the ass.”

“In the end, all I needed was a swift kick in the rear.”

“In the end, all I needed was a firm kick in the behind.”

“In the end, all I needed was a well-placed kick to the gluteus maximus.”

“It came from a place I never knew existed…”

“There was only one way to go, and I’d already been down.”

“I got on my feet and, literally, willed myself up.”

“Drawing on reserves of strength I thought I never had…”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned (and, in fact, there’ve been many), it’s this: ‘NEVER GIVE UP! NEVER GIVE UP! NEVER GIVE UP!’ (Sorry, did I repeat myself?)”

***************************************************

Well, that’s my life in a nutshell. Played out, for the whole world to see, on the cover of PARADE Magazine. It’s been one heckuva ride, and I thank you all for your indulgence. Now can I please have some privacy?

For years, I’ve heard my friends talking about their trips to Tuscany and about all the marvelous things they ingested and imbibed during their seemingly nonstop food orgies. I backpacked through Italy a few times in my teens but, like most youths on the $5-a-day regimen, I skipped restaurants in favor of bread, cheese, and the occasional a piece of fruit. And since then, of course, Italy has become much more expensive than it used to be.

Well, after all these years, I finally made it back to Tuscany last night. In my dreams. What a disappointment that proved to be. I can’t even dream right. it seems. Instead of feasting, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to afford the sure-to-be considerable bills and would, instead, ruin everyone’s trip with my budgetary concerns. To paraphrase Annie Lennox: “Cheap Dreams (Are Made of These).”

Now that I’ve gone and done it and become a soccer coach, I found that one scene in the indy film “Lonesome Jim” really resonated with me. The Jim character, played by Casey Affleck, took over coaching his nieces’ basketball team after his brother got into a car wreck. At the start of one practice, Jim–a depressed, low-energy sort–says to the girls: “I don’t have anything to tell you today. So just do whatever you want.” Then he sits down on the bench without another word. I can’t wait to try that approach next week when our team meets for its regular practice session/scrimmage.

There’s one other particularly memorable exchange in the movie. Jim asks his uncle if he has a girlfriend. “No, I use hookers,” the uncle replies. “They’re cheaper.”

Here’s a development, reported in the Boston Globe two days ago, that I find even more worrisome than someone piloting an aircraft while sleeping: More and more hunters are doing their hunting in suburban Boston, rather than traveling out to the wilderness, as was done in the past. The thought of rifle-toting hunters wandering around Greater Boston in search of quarry is unsettling to say the least, and there could certainly be a good movie in it somewhere. All I can say is that I’m glad I don’t live in the suburbs. And even if I did live in the suburbs, I’m glad I’m not a member of the local cross-country running team. If you are such a person, I’d recommend wearing orange (I hope that’s the right color!) and perhaps taking up a new hobby. Like prayer.

The holiday season is upon us. I know this for a fact because a fast-moving blizzard just dumped 10 inches of snow on my driveway. It’s not my driveway, actually. It belongs to my neighbor (almost 94); I’m just the lucky guy who gets to shovel it. But getting back to what I was saying, I know the holiday season is upon us because I’ve just received my first “non-invitation” to a holiday party this year. Some friends of mine, who’ve hosted a New Year’s party for many years running, were not able to do so this time. (Something about a puppy…) So instead we were informed that there would not be a party this year.

I like this idea so much, I can’t wait to start sending out non-invitations myself. In fact, I’m certain that before long, non-invitations will become more popular than proper invitations.

Have you received one yet? Don’t be dismayed if you do. Think of it, instead, as a badge of honor. A rite of passage. Your first fledgeling step into the realm of high society.

Today we’re introducing a new feature here at Call Me Snake. We like introducing new features here at Call Me Snake, as “new features” tend to rank very high in our focus groups and informal polling, as well as in casual conversations with “the man on the street” (say, for example, on his way to get junk food in the mid-afternoon). I think it’s fair to say that introducing new features is one of the things that Call Me Snake does best. It may even be our forte’.

Anyway, getting back to our new feature which is called “Flotsam&Jetsam,” in case you haven’t already guessed. The name is pretty self-explanatory, it seems to me. Rather than try to belabor the obvious, I think we should just get on it with it and all will be clear very soon if it’s not already so.

First, I want to say a word about my cat “Sunshine,” who is the one who is not missing. (That one, the missing one I mean, is called “Moonshine.” One reader already has complained about the names. In my defense, and in defense of the cats, I can say they were named by girls who at the time were just 2- and 5-years-old. But is such a defense really necessary? What’s so bad about “Sunshine” and “Moonshine,” apart from the fact that Moonshine is AWOL and possibly dead?)

Anyway, about our cat “Sunshine”–she is, I think, a pretty extraordinary creature. This evening, for example, I was doing a puzzle. I should say I was doing a puzzle that our younger girl (now 3) had dumped on the living room floor before being dragged, kicking & screaming, up to her bedroom for our unfailingly pleasant bedtime ritual. Sunshine took a particular interest in this puzzle and seemed to want to help. (She is a curious creature, in addition to being “pretty extraordinary,” and gets up on the counter when I wash the dishes. She seems to want to help with this chore, as well.) The last piece in the puzzle was a cat, and Sunshine came up and looked at it closely, and seemed to sniff it. Or maybe she was just sniffing my hand that might have had some weird scent on it, not that I intentionally go around applying weird scents.

Well, that’s all I have to say on this subject. And that, not coincidentally, brings us to the end of the first installment of our new feature, “Flotsam & Jetsam.” I hope you’ve all enjoyed it as much as the rest of us here at “Call Me Snake” have.

Just what we all needed–a new way to waste time. A couple of weeks ago, two friends independently told me about Sudoku, the number puzzle that, unbeknownst to me, seems to have taken this country by storm. I had never heard of it and was surprised to see it had been in the Boston Globe all along, as well as in a free Boston paper I never looked at. What’s more, my favorite bookstore (Harvard Bookstore–don’t get me wrong, I never went to Harvard) has four Sudoku books at the front register where the hottest-selling (QUALITY) paperbacks (not Grisham) reside. So now, in addition to wasting a half hour each day on this blog (give or take), I now also waste a half hour (give or take) on the daily Sudoku offering in the Boston Globe and/or in the lesser rag. That’s already an hour out of the day and last I heard each day has only 24 hours. (Can somebody please fix this? Write a letter to your Congressman. Send an email on moveon.org. Or do something!)

It’s possible that not so long ago, I once had a life. But now I’m so busy wasting time, filling the day with one time-killing activity after the next–on top of work, childcare, sock drawer rearrangements, etc.–that I don’t have time to think back that far. I’ve got to fill those boxes with numbers: nine boxes, nine numbers, no duplicates per row or column… You get the picture.

Here’s something that gets me a little toasted. (I’m not sure if that’s the right adjective, but it seems appropriate under the circumstances, as you shall see, so please hold off on the jeers and catcalls.) I often stop in at that high-priced grocery story I’m always ranting about (Whole Foods) after dropping my daughter off (by bike, never by car!) at school in the hopes of getting a muffin. And they’re almost always burnt to a crisp. There’s a trendy coffee shop around the corner (the “1369,” it’s called), which is my backup choice, and it’s usually the same story. Their muffins too are dark brown, if not char-black, around the edges. What’s going on with this? Where are they getting the bakers these days? I don’t mind an occasional burnt one; that’s gonna happen. But mostly burnt, most of the time? Come on! It just don’t make sense. Maybe if our president spent last time chopping wood, or whatever it is he does when he’s not riding his mountain bike–maybe, just maybe, the federal government would be better prepared to address this burning issue. (And please, spare me those tired “state’s rights” arguments about how this is a local matter.)

Don’t get me wrong. I like sports as much as the next fellow, maybe more. But some sports are just well, they’re just not for me. Take wife carrying, for instance, which evidently is popular in Finland and in Bethel, Maine, as well, where the North American Wife Carrying Championship is held each year. This is no knock on my wife but with my back being what it is, maybe I’d be better off playing poker. But then again I heard the actor James Woods recently had surgery from nerve damage that occurred from resting his elbow on the gaming table for too long. So let’s cross that sport off my list as well. Extreme Video Game Playing is another one I’ll try to avoid. In August, a 28-year-old South Korean man died after playing “World of Warcraft,” an online video game, for 50 straight hours without eating or sleeping. Which leaves me with camel racing–the one sport I figured was sure to be safe. Guess what? I figured wrong. Camel racing, it turns out, is dangerous, particularly to boys (OK, I’m a few years beyond that category), who suffer (all too frequently) arm, leg, and head injuries, sometimes resulting in death. So I’m not sure where that leaves me. I suppose there’s always volleyball, but I’ve already said too much about volleyball–what with this being a volleyball blog and all. Maybe I’ll just work on my “inner game” for awhile and think about it.

You know I’m getting desperate (for material, fame, or even just a little attention) when I have to resort to the Monthly Blogging Bumper Sticker Sweepstakes, but a new month is upon us and so is another sweepstakes. Any entry, of course, is welcome. However, for those who need a little prodding, I can suggest a format you might use along the following lines: I’m a genius! I can blog and ____ at the same time. Here are a few examples:

I’m a genius! I can blog and chew gum at the same time.

I’m a genius! I can blog and watch TV at the same time.

I’m a genius! I can blog and sleep at the same time.

I’m a genius! I can blog and have a heartfelt conversation with you at the same time.

Please do not feel constrained by this suggestion. Surprise me, and more importantly yourself, with your own creativity. I know you can do it. After all, you’re a genius!

Although some mothers embrace the term, I always found the “soccer mom” label somewhat derogatory. I vowed to never go there, which for me should have been easy since I’m not a mom. But guess what happened? I became the next worst thing: a soccer dad. It happened for the first time this morning–my daughter went to her first youth soccer league practice and scrimmage. And I was one of those guys shuffling around on the sidelines, with absolutely nothing to do, for an hour and a half. Couldn’t they get through all of what they do in an hour? Then us parents wouldn’t have to worry about bringing a snack and beverage for all those needy (greedy?) kids. But hey, I’m not going to complain. (That wouldn’t be like me.) I’m glad my girl has discovered soccer at the ripe old age of six, which is quite a few years earlier than her old man (even when he was a boy) did. And despite my recent change of status, I can still look down my nose at the rest of the soccer moms. My daughter and rode our bikes to the field while they all piled into their SUVs.

This has been a good week for me, mail-wise, apart from the fact that no checks have arrived while several new bills have been added to the pile that threatens to overrun my office. Earlier this week, I received an advanced copy of one science magazine for which I had the cover story and, to my surprise, it read pretty well. That rarely happens after an untold number of editing rounds.

Today, an advanced copy of another magazine–a fierce rival of the first–arrived with another feature article of mine in it, and it looked great with all the graphics, though I was disappointed it wasn’t the cover story. (All right, I shouldn’t be so greedy.”) I read the article just as soon as it arrived, as I know how things can pile up. To my surprise, this one read pretty well too, except for one problem. Or actually two problems: To save space, the word “that” was removed from two sentences. Afterwards, the sentences read poorly, little snags in an another seamless tapestry. Two minor rough spots in an 8-page article shouldn’t be enough to ruin your day–unless you happen to be a fastidious stickler like me, that is. Or should I say–with the “that” removed to save space–”a fastidious stickler like me is.”

Turd Blossom, my trusted advisor, asked whether I’d follow up on my success with cosmic strings (see “A [Long Overdue?] Pat on the Back,” September 14, 2005) by writing a monograph about string cheeses. I told him that I hadn’t yet decided upon a second act but I knew that whatever I did, it had to be big. In that regard, string cheeses surely qualify.

Upon reflection, however, I’ve decided to modify that last statement somewhat. String cheeses, in physical terms, are not as big as cosmic strings–the former are typically measured in inches, whereas the latter, which may span the entire universe, are measured in megaparsecs or billions of light-years. However, string cheeses are still much bigger in a financial sense. Despite the vast potential of cosmic strings, no one has yet figured out how to make any money out of them. There’s got to be a way, and you can be sure that, as we speak, some of the best minds in the world are working on that very problem.

I won’t start complaining about cell phones again because, frankly, everyone has them now and the last time I made similar remarks I took a lot of flak. (“It’s hard, it’s hard…”) So instead I’m going to talk about cell phone ringers or, more specifically, cell phone music selections. I was at my daughter’s swimming class a couple of weeks ago and a mother sat on a bench nearby, wearing a pretty low-cut outfit. When her cell phone rang, it was the music for “Sex and the City.” What was the message there? I’m a slut? (Pardon my French.) One guy had the “Sopranos” theme music on his phone. OK, I get it. “Don’t fu..ug with me.” No problem, “fuh-get-aboud-dit…”

One day, I suppose, I’ll succumb and get my own cell phone. Hasn’t happened yet, but I do have a VCR and answering machine, things I held off on for years, and eventually a cell phone will follow. What music should I pick? That’s a tough one but, for now, I’m leaning toward the “Get Smart” theme song, for those of you who are old enough to remember: “Duh-di-dah-dah, duh–di-dah-dah…” And I’m walking along feeling great, until the door gets me right in the nose…

My oldest daughter, who just turned six a short while back (about which we’ll be hearing more soon), is adding to her vocabulary every day. Of course I’m proud of her. Today’s new word is “shit,” which I’m pretty sure she picked up from me, say, for example, when I drop a hot iron (or “flatiron”) on my toe and that sort of thing. It is kind of jarring to hear a six-year-old use the word, and I’m not proud of my role in that part of her education, yet I am pleased that she’s using “shit” appropriately, say, for example, when she drops a hot iron (or “flatiiron”) on my toe. At that moment, the universe is in perfect harmony, the stars are aligned, and we both speak as one.

My house is besieged, not surprisingly, with houseflies. They’re not a terrible nuisance, since they don’t bite, but their buzzing drives me crazy and I cannot rest until I drive them out, dead or alive. A friend who visited over the weekend told me he feels the same. When a fly has the temerity to enter his castle, he said, he goes into “full attack mode.” I cannot help but picture this quiet, mild-mannered guy dressed in full body armor and equipped with night vision goggles and an arsenal of weapons worthy of Arnold in his earlier, pre-governor days.

The insects never rest and as “The Hellstrom Chronicles” sagely predicted, ultimately they’re going to win the war. In the spring, the ants launch repeated assaults on the fortress. For most of the summer, we’ve been plagued with moths that have a particular fondness for Wheaties. And now it’s those infernal houseflies. I’m constantly chasing them around with a rolled up newspaper (low-tech, I admit). It’s a miracle I have any time to actually read the paper which is supposedly what we spend hundreds of dollars each year on. Maybe I should save my money and invest in a few good flyswatters.

I was passing through Harvard Square today, trying to get my kid to camp (late, as usual), when I was accosted by a man bearing a placard that read: “YOU MUST CONVERT TO BORN AGAIN CHRISTIAN OR YOU WILL BURN IN HELL.” I thanked him for the information and told him I’d try to keep it in mind.

Sorry to mention it again, but people can’t apologize often enough in my opinion–”sorry about the torture,” “sorry about the assault and battery with intent to call,” and “sorry about going postal” being just the latest uses of this magic word. If he wants my opinion, and there’s every indication that he does, Jude Law ought to look his fiancee straight in the eye and make a clean breast of it (sorry about the pun but I couldn’t resist). If he takes her hand and casually remarks, “Sorry about the affair with the nanny,” I don’t see how Sienna Miller (or any woman in her right mind, for that matter) would hold it against him. Rest assured that Jude is fully prepared to put the whole sordid affair behind him, even though the nanny is better looking and generally more understanding, if Sienna is willing to look at the big picture for a change and not get sidetracked by scandal-mongering tabloids and blogs. To sum it up, Jude, in case I’m being too Obscure (even for a Thomas Hardy aficionado like yourself), all it will take to make things right are just seven words, none having more than two syllables. And it all starts with the word “sorry.”

It’s been more than 10 years, but today I finally cut the chord with AOL–a relationship that extends back to the early days of the Clinton era (if indeed there was a Clinton era, which may depend on what you mean by “was”). I really hadn’t been using AOL for more than a year, as I now get my email by other means, but I will miss the “content.” (That, not surprisingly, is another word I hate. Not long ago, practically everything was considered content and no one needed a special word to call attention to that fact.) I’ll miss, for example, today’s Entertainment News with headlines like “Sandra Bullock weds tattooed biker.” The article goes on to describe Bullock’s marriage to Jesse James, the founder of West Coast Choppers, who claims to be a distant relative of his even more famous namesake. “The pair arrived in a red monster truck with James driving,” the article recounts. William Shatner and Metallica lead singer James Hetfield attended the event, it continues, though I’m not sure whether the “event” in question pertains to the wedding or the red monster truck exhibition. But the point is, that’s why I’ll miss AOL. For all the trashy, shallow news I try to avoid by listening to NPR.

Well, goodbye, old friend. Please don’t let any old slob use my screen name. And as for my password, that’s going to stay our little secret, right?

Something’s happened to me. I’ve become a person I hate. Perhaps that’s putting it too strongly. But it is fair to say that I’ve become a person for whom I used to hold little regard. I spent the past weekend in the beautiful White Mountains of New Hampshire. Did I go hiking or mountain climbing or whitewater kayaking like I used to? No. I went to Story Land and rode on Dr. Geyser’s Remarkable Raft Ride, went on the Slipshod Safari Tour, and then took Cinderella’s Pumpkin Coach up the lane to Cinderella’s Castle.

The next day, I did get into the White Mountains, but instead of hiking, I sat on my rear and took the chairlift up Attitash (I call it “Attitush”) Mountain, and when I got to the top, I sat on my rear again and slid down the longest Alpine Slide in North America. It was so much fun, I did it twice.

The saddest part of this whole story is that I actually enjoyed myself so much. I had fun with my wife and young girls riding the Whirling Whales and Bamboo Chutes. It would have been nice to have climbed a mountain or two, or to have gone swimming in a river rather than in the Storybook Resort Pool, but hey, you can’t do everything.

And so it’s happened–a gradual process to be sure, evolutionary or devolutionary, depending on your point of view. Either way, I’ve become a person I used to thumb my nose at. And now I thumb my nose at that other guy–a self-righteous prick who doesn’t know what he’s missing.

After being suspended and mysteriously reinstated to the Funny Humor Writing WebRing on countless occasions, even more than I’ve chronicled here, I got the following news this morning: “The RingMaster of the ‘Funny Humor Writing WebRing’ has deleted your site from the Ring. The site was deleted due to the reasons cited below by the RingMaster.”

No reasons were cited and I’m forced to conclude that my humor is not funny. Or if it is funny, it’s just not funny enough. There’s something ominous about the word “deleted” that I do not like. There’s a permanence to it, an almost irrevocable nature, that seemingly wipes out my blog as if it never existed. Or if it did exist, that very existence is now deemed a mistake that has since been rectified.

Well, that’s the latest update. I have also been suspended from several other so-called “humorous” webrings during the past week, but I’m used to that by now and consider it hardly worth mentioning. I can take the occasional suspension in stride. But deletion, that’s another matter altogether. All other things being equal, I’d rather not be deleted.

P.S. I have promised on several occasions to explain what a webring is. Don’t worry, I have not forgotten my pledge (how could I forget with all the “helpful” reminders I receive?) and I’ll be sure to get around to that next time. Assuming there is a next time. Assuming I’m still in a webring, if only a “moderately amusing” one.

I forgot to mention a new category in the sweepstakes: Politically-Incorrect Bumper Stickers. Here are the first three entries in what will prove to be, I’m sure, a heated competition:

I brake for Republicans.

I brake for rednecks.

I brake for idiots.

Don’t get caught in the post-Independence Day rush; send your entries in without delay. The rewards, though hard to describe, are immense.

If you blog, you could be putting more than your reputation for, say, “funny humor” on the line; you could be putting your job on the line. Just ask “NB,” a former Harvard University administrative coordinator who was fired for linking her work email with her personal blog, where she trashed her supervisors for being anal retentive control freaks, among other shortcomings. Wow! That’s a wake-up call. As a self-employed person who’s put a lot of self-deprecating material on this blog (far worse than what NB said, by the way), I could be fired any day now. Henceforth, I’m going to be more careful about what I say about myself and will try to accentuate the positive, assuming that leaves me enough to write about.

In that vein, I’d like to point out that, overall, it has been great working for myself. Although we’ve had our differences over the years, for the most part, we’ve managed to set those differences aside and focus on our common goals. Please disregard any negative comments I might have made about my employer. Instead, I’d like to stress that, once you get beyond his many faults, he’s really a tremendous guy with several distinctive attributes. If you give me a few days, I could even tell you what those attributes are.

I’d like to announce the first annual Independence Day Bumper Sticker Sweepstakes, which follows the overwhelming success of last month’s bumper sticker sweepstakes (see “Blogger on Board,” June 8, 2005 and “And the Winner Is…,” June 13, 2005). The first two entries come from my successful (sorry to keep using that same word over and over, but our language offers few substitutes) POLITICALLY CORRECT (PC) bumper sticker line:

1. “Every man for his or herself”

2. “I’m not drunk. I’m just tired.”

Please send in your entries without delay. Winners will be picked by an impartial panel of judges (me); rest assured that good ideas will be exploited for financial gain.

You turn off your computer for a few days and head off to the North Woods, and you never know what will turn up when get back. Somehow during my absence, a University of Chicago graduate student got hold of this blog and included me as part of his survey of bloggers, which seems to go after the question that philosophers have been debating since the Stone Ages: Why do people blog? Is it for fame, spiritual fulfillment, the endorsement dollars, or the thrill of seeing your name in print, even if it isn’t your real name, just a bogus “handle” picked at random for no good reason?

Well, since this was for a good cause–an advanced degree–I answered truthfully and put it all out there, so to speak. The exercise of trying to explain in 20 different ways just why it is I blog, has got me wondering: Just why do I blog? How much longer will this bad habit persist? And will I ever succeed in shaking it? For answers to those and other (equally trenchant) questions, we’ll have to wait for Adam from the University of Chicago to finish his dissertation. Which means the rest of you laggards need to fill out your surveys.

If all is quiet on the Snake front, it’s fer a good reason: I’m goin’ squirrel huntin’ in the wild woods of Northern Maine–a place that ain’t seen the likes of computers, let alone the internet. I’m not actually squirrel huntin’ but more like lookin’. I’ll be watching northern flying squirrels glide through the air with a weatherman from up there, or thereabouts, who’s a flying squirrel fanatic in his spare time–that is when he’s not tracking hailstorms, blizzards, and Arctic depressions. (As for the latter, I think I have me one of those.) As for why I’m going squirrel huntin’–or lookin’, if you want to be a stickler–that’s all stuff we can go into at some point in the future when we know each other better. I don’t feel like talkin’ ’bout that now, nor do I want to say how many siblings I have or discuss past relationships–healthy, co-dependent, and deviant. I’m just not ready to “go there”, and frankly I’m not sure you are neither. So y’all have a good time over the next few days and when I get back, we’ll have ourselves a little sit-down and look at my slides, which promise to be spectacular.

Over ‘n out — Snake.

Every summer, the show-offs of my town open their gardens for gawkers to visit, document, and emulate. Many yards in my block are part of the “Secret Gardens of Cambridge” tour, save for our yard which has never made the cut. (Not for want of trying, but asphalt gardens just don’t seem to cut it around here.) Someone grafitti-ized a sign advertising the tour by writing “FOR YUPPIE SCUM.” I don’t know about you, but I find the term “yuppie scum” pejorative. And when the prefix “die” is attached to it, the whole expression sounds almost hostile. Which is a shame since I consider the garden tour a quaint tradition–and a rather innocent one at that. On the plus side, it takes a lot of riffraff off the streets and puts them in my neighbors’ yards where they belong. (For the record: I’m no “yuppie.” I’d like to be, and have even take up some of the affectations, but I just can’t afford it.)

Sorry. I tried to make things right with that last post, but fear I just made them worse. I was trying to express one man’s opinion. But now I’m not sure which man’s opinion that was. Surely not mine. I must remember not to post things in the middle of the night when I’m not thinking straight. (Or in the middle of the day when I’m not thinking straight, for that matter.) That must be the explanation for an otherwise inexplicable entry in what had been a perfectly lighthearted blog–an exemplar, in fact, of the “moderately amusing” genre.

Adieu, gentle readers. I shall be going away for a long time. It has been fun, but as a famous comedian once said, “I really must be going.”

It was bad enough when my membership to the Funny Humor Writing WebRing was suspended. I rationalized that one by saying I was happy to write something that qualified as “humor.” It didn’t have to be “funny humor.” But now that my membership in the Humor WebRing has just been suspended, that line of argument isn’t holding up so well. For now, I’m pinning all my hopes on the “Moderately Amusing WebRing.” If I get bounced out of that one, I might have to rethink this whole proposition and find a new hook to hang my hat on. Volleyball anyone?

I understand string theory quite well, save for a few nuances like: what are strings, branes, fluxes, moduli, and vacua? Yet, deep down, I’ve always felt that my understanding wasn’t quite complete. Yesterday I spoke with one of the world’s leading string theorists who told me “string theory is not a complete theory.” So I guess I’m not alone in feeling that my understanding of this so-called “theory of everything” is not complete. In fact, I’m in very good company.