CALL ME SNAKE

When I was in my 20s and early 30s, I used to throw big parties with a group of guys, one of whom is arguing a case before the U.S. Supreme Court today on global warming. I mention it because it shows how far this guy has gone–and how high his star has risen–since our youthful party days. And here I am, by contrast, at home, rather than in our nation’s capital, still eager to go to those parties, if only I got invited.

I recently helped a friend build a loom for our daughters’ preschool class. It was a fun project, partly because I got the chance to use a chisel for the first time. I don’t own such a tool, though my friend has a very well-stocked workbench. I used the chisel to etch out some 88 grooves in the two pieces of wood that comprised the loom. I liked the feel of that tool in my hand, its shape, weight, and sleek functionality. In fact, as I clutched the implement, I gained a better appreciation of the old saw (old hammer?): When you’re holding a chisel, every problem looks like a groove.

In about half an hour, we–as dutiful citizens–are supposed to turn our clocks back one hour. (While you’re at it, why not replace the batteries on your smoke detectors?) This time around, we gain an hour. It’s often described as some great gift, but to me it’s almost a burden. Because unless you’re doing something really memorable, this great gift that only comes around once a year is going to waste. You’re not supposed to spend it catching up on your work and on your blog, as I did. You’re supposed to do something special, something really grand. But I couldn’t think of anything special to do, and have never thought of anything “really grand,” so here I am wasting my time and yours complaining about that extra hour, granted by the powers that be, which was, once again, put to no good use.

But an hour goes by pretty quick, and before we know it, it will all be over. We’ll just pick up our dreary lives, or spectacular lives, at the moment we left off, carrying on as if it never happened.

In the Coen brothers’ classic, “Barton Fink,” the movie studio boss (played by Michael Lerner) wants Fink (played by John Turturro) to write the script for a wrestling picture with “that Barton Fink feel.” Near the end, when Lerner is disappointed with script, to say the least, he turns to Turturro and shouts: “YOU THINK YOU’RE THE ONLY WRITER IN TOWN WHO CAN GIVE ME THAT BARTON FINK FEEL?”

Now I’m starting to think I’m not the only writer in town who can deliver that Call Me Snake feel. No less an authority than Zardoz claimed my last post–which was Celebrity Guest-written by Gatemouth and an anonymous person named “Fletch”–was one of the best ever to appear in this space. The good news is that it was, in his opinion, a superior bit of writing. The bad news is that it was written by surrogates, which means I’m entirely replaceable. The good news there is that I could take a rest and no one would notice. The bad news is that no one would notice. Or maybe they would notice and tell me not to hurry back. “Take your time,” I can imagine them saying. “Everything’s fine. In fact, better than fine. In fact, better than ever.”

I’m self-employed which, as many of you know, is just one step above being unemployed, and a small step at that. The other day, while our children were being tended to by our excellent but high-priced babysitter (who earns more per hour than I do), I came up to the house from my office to have lunch and ended up reading an article in the Boston Globe.

”You’re supposed to be working,” my 7-year-old daughter admonished me, upon entering the room. And so I was. We were paying that excellent babysitter a lot of money in the hopes that I could work and earn even more money–or at least enough to come out even–but there I was reading an article about new problems with the Big Dig. Or some other kind of new problems (of which there is no shortage). I forget. When what I was supposed to be doing was writing about supercomputer simulations of galactic mergers and the regulatory role of black holes on galaxy evolution. My daughter’s timely rebuke kept me in line, and soon I was back downstairs, diligently sitting at my computer while staring off blankly into space. Thinking of those new problems, and maybe some old problems as well…

A friend asked me and others to join him later today on a march for immigration reform. People will meet at the Boston Common at 4 p.m. and then, after a few inspiring words no doubt, proceed to Copley Square. I support the cause and could use the exercise, but can’t go on account of “parent-related activities.” (I’ll spare you by not elaborating.) But the sad truth is, even if I were not tied up with said activities, I still would not go because, as I explained to my friend, “I’m not the marchin’ kind.”

I’ve never felt comfortable in large group events like that. Marches and protests have never been my thing. Yet I also realize that mass demonstrations may be helpful in this case, just as the protests were critical in ending the Vietnam War. For people wanting a voice in national and international affairs, the options are few. They can participate in rallies or write a letter to their Congressman or newspaper editor. Which is why I said that above: I’m not the marchin’ kind, but I oughta be…

I spent all afternoon talking about string theory, inflation, and the universe with a leading theoretical physicist, and I have to say it was one of the most enjoyable “work” days I’ve had in awhile. I usually have plenty to gripe about, but today there’s not much to say in the way of negativity. This was one of those days where I consider myself lucky to have such a fun job. Not that it’s always fun. And not that I’m always lucky. But for a few hours, at least, all was well in the world of work. (Lest the title mislead, I don’t have a proper “office,” and I was not in the one that I have, which might have been part of the fun.)

There was one funny thing about the afternoon (and I’m not going to start complaining after holding back and being so good), but this physicist did say on a few occasions that he worries that blogging could prove to be very bad for science–all the negative press that some scientists (like him) get in the blogosphere could provide fodder for the religious right and wrongheaded politicians. I didn’t mention that I have occasionally indulged in the aforementioned four-letter word (“b-l-o-g”). I just kept quiet. Not that I’ve ever said anything bad about him–or about science, for that matter–in these pages.

That’s not the first time this habit has come close to getting me in trouble. A couple of generals, as I mentioned before, didn’t talk to me on account of some questionable things I’ve written about the commander in chief, and that could have spelled trouble for my article had not others in the military talked to me. But we’re getting off track here: I had a day with few complaints, which is nice for a change. Will it last? Probably not, but let’s enjoy that warm fuzzy glow while it’s still hanging on. (Update[one minute later]: It’s already starting to fade.)

It doesn’t happen often in life, but it does happen. I’m talking about those times when a man needs to buckle down and buy a new belt. The one I’d been wearing for the past 15 or so years was wearing thin, fraying at the edges, and becoming somewhat of an embarrassment. So I needed to face up to this important, though easy to put off, task.

The Gap (product placement!) had an amazing sale, unloading their belts for $3.99 apiece. I took three. If I get 15 years out of each of them, I have to figure–even with the most optimistic actuarial assumptions–that I’m set for life, at least when it comes to belts. That, of course, raises the usual “good news/bad news” dichotomy–the good news being that after my $11.97 investment, I won’t need to purchase another belt in my life. The bad news is that I won’t need to purchase another belt in my life. And that is kind of scary, as it makes the whole mortality thing all them more imminent. And palpable.

Were I to do it all over again, I’d live my life in the present. And buy my belts one at a time.

My wife grew up in a city near Boston. The kids from her neighborhood were rather provincial, referring to outlying towns–that are sometimes called “the sticks”–by the disparaging term, “BF.” (I won’t say what BF stands for, but I will say the first part of the compound word is “bum.” The second part of that compound word is a four-letter-word that was not printable in the New Yorker until recently.) Well, I just got back from New Hampshire, where I celebrated Thanksgiving with my wife’s family in a “BF” kind of place–that is, if I were inclined to use such a term. My brother-in-law often points out homes for sale in his small village–one right across the street from their house, in fact–in an attempt to persuade us to move out there.

I think about it sometimes, wondering if could give up urban living and move to a more countrified setting–the kind of place (like the bar in Cheers) where everyone knows your name. I run into people I know from my neighborhood all the time, but they’re always busy and the conversations tend to last about 30 seconds or less. In their smalltown, I fear those same conversations could go on endlessly. Which gives me pause and makes me think I’m not ready for such a radical change in lifestyle and habitat. But one day, who knows, maybe I’ll be out there living with the rest of them folks in BF, wondering why it took me so long.

It happens to the best of us. Shopping in the overpriced grocery story that I frequent (yet can’t afford), it is possible–say while browsing through the produce department (a well-known pickup spot)–to have impure thoughts. The same kind of thoughts that former president Jimmy Carter (“I’ve looked on a lot of women with lust”) is now famous for, perhaps more famous than for anything he did as president. In some circles, Bill Clinton was considered a sleazeball for having “relations” with a White House aide (and wouldn’t we all like “aides” like that?), as he discussed world affairs over the telephone with other heads of state. When caught after the fact, Clinton explained his transgression this way: “I did it for the worst possible reason, because I could.” I, on the other hand, didn’t do it for the worst possible reason: because I couldn’t. Does that make me the better person?

“Write about something!” a friend of mine has admonished. I would be inclined to ignore him, were it not for the fact that he is one of the few people on Earth I know of who is still reading this blog. (I can’t get my wife to read it and my parents will only do so under extreme duress.) His advice certainly seems reasonable, were it not for the success of Seinfeld–perhaps the greatest sitcom that ever aired on primetime. They produced a show about nothing and made a fortune. So why should I write about something when I could just as easily–and more easily, in fact–write about nothing?

“Who am I? Why am I here?” Forgive me: I’m having a James Stockdale moment. And if you don’t know who James Stockdale is, I’ll forgive you, because he didn’t seem to know either. Stockdale, as some of you may recall, was famous for asking those two questions in the middle of a 1992 Vice Presidential debate where he represented his running mate Ross Perot. I laughed at the time, but now find myself uttering (muttering?) those very same questions. I guess you could say the joke’s on me. You see this blog is suffering from an identity crisis. Is it a volleyball blog or not? My profile, found at the right of this page, pretty much promises that. Yet my critics are quick to inform me that so far I’ve failed to deliver on that promise. It’s a shame, they say, because one of the things this world really needs is a good volleyball blog. And if this isn’t it, they’re going to look elsewhere. These questions have shaken me to the core. I will have more to say on this issue after a well-needed period of cogitation and ratiocination. If you don’t know what those words mean, please look them up in your Funk and Wagnalls. And by all means get back to me. I’m dying to know.

It’s no wonder I’m such a big success. Take a good look at my family, or even a fleeting glance, and one fact will inexorably leap out at you: I come from a long line of success stories. My brother, for instance, has just come out with a book–a REAL BOOK, mind you, not some comic book or harlequin romance. And this volume–the subject of which presently escapes me–surely has some heft to it. One of my cousins in Nashville recently participated in the world championships of Rock, Paper, and Scissors. Although he did not win the event, nor take home any prize money for his poor relatives, he said it was an honor, nevertheless, just being in the same room as those other remarkable athletes. Meanwhile, two other cousins have made quite a name for themselves in Hollywood (that’s Hollywood, California, NOT Florida, you wise guys). Offhand, I couldn’t tell you exactly what they’ve done there in Hollywood, California, but make no mistake: They’ve definitely made a name for themselves. The list goes on and on. I won’t bore you with all the details, but suffice it to say: If you want to see how I got to where I am today, you need look no farther (further?) than my own family