CALL ME SNAKE

“Mystic Pizza” was an important moment in film history, as it really launched the career of Julia Roberts. (The careers of Lili Taylor and Vincent D’Onofrio also got big boosts.) And now I’m an important part of that important moment in film history because on Wednesday I ate dinner at Mystic Pizza in Mystic, Connecticut. Julia Roberts evidently did well enough with that role that she’s no longer dishing out pizza there. The pizza itself was decent, and certainly cheesy enough, though nothing to write a cheesy screenplay about. I was also dismayed to learn that the movie was not shot at Mystic Pizza in Mystic at all but rather at a pizzeria in nearby Stonington, Connecticut. I couldn’t help wondering about that locations choice. What was the problem? Couldn’t they find anything in Toronto?

Maybe I should just come out and say my life is pathetic, but I’m still riding high from last Sunday’s early-morning coup when my newspaper arrived with not one but two copies of my all-time favorite magazine, PARADE. (As I often say: “I like it ’cause it’s real.”) Last Sunday’s version–or I should say versions–had a picture of Beyonce’ on the cover, next to the caption: “Beautiful Beyonce’ worries: Does he love me for me?” I must confess that I haven’t gotten beyond the cover yet, but if I were forced to answer the question today, right now, based on what I know, I’d be inclined to say “no.” On the other hand, if I don’t love her for her, who do I love her for? Certainly not for my wife. Or kids. So, I guess I’d have to say “yes” after all. I don’t know anything about this gal’s singing–evidently she’s quite a talent–but I can say she is persuasive. Though not persuasive enough to make me want to see “Dream Girls.”

Many people missed it–well-meaning people who, unlike me, do not read between the lines. But there has been a major policy shift in Iraq. We are no longer “staying the course.” Which is not to say we’re going to “cut and run.” Forget it. That ain’t gonna’ happen. Let me repeat: We’re not gonna’ cut and run. But we’re not gonna’ stay the course either. Instead, says Bush, we’re gonna’ be “flexible.” Although this shift was introduced with little fanfare, it ought to be regarded as a major development in the history of humankind, especially for people who favor policies lacking in excessive rigidity.

On another note, Bush promised that we’ll stay in Iraq as long as “they” want us there. I forgot to ask, who among the Iraqis really want us there? Reading between the lines, once again, I’m forced to conclude that what he meant to say was that we’ll stay in Iraq for as long as the puppet government we installed there wants us to stay. Which begs another question: Who’s pulling the strings, the puppet or the puppeteer?

We thought, according to the familiar adage, that there was no depth below which the American public will not stoop. But, to my surprise, we seem to have established a lower limit after all. And that lower limit, apparently, has a name: O. J. Simpson.

Denny Hastert has laid down the law: Any members of his staff who knew about Mark Foley’s questionable email habits and covered it up would lose their jobs. That’s simple enough, though it does raise just one question: Technically speaking, is Denny Hastert a member of Denny Hastert’s staff?

After being away for several days, following another week AWOL, Old Roses admonished me for missing the Brangelina breakup story. (Is it true? I realize I should be telling you that, as your #1 source of news, but even snakes have to rest sometime–even when their movie happens to be the #1 movie in America today.) To make amends, I want to report on this report tonight, broadcast on my local evening news at 11, which I caught shortly after returning from my latest junket.

As Channel 4 news reported, JonBenet Ramsey’s father found the latest round of coverage concerning the arrest of John Mark Karr so “sickening” that he was considering leaving the country. Without pause, the reporter continued: “For 24-hour coverage of the latest developments in the JonBenet Ramsey murder case, tune in to wbz.com.” (Is it just me or could it be that newsman kind of missed the point?)

Ever since calling attention to an anomalously high number of “pageviews” on this blog almost two weeks ago (“Something About Tuesday”), pageviews plummeted to anomalously low levels. Today, however, which is still rather young, blog.com claims there have already been more than 200 pageviews on Call Me Snake. Could that be possible? Do I know enough people in the world (six degrees of separation notwithstanding) and, more importantly, do enough people in the world know me or this blog? Or did all those proverbial “monkeys” somehow, accidentally, magically, type in my URL: cambridgeguy.blog.com? It’s one of those great mysteries in the world and, short of consulting tech support, one that will likely forever remain unexplained.

We’re only a week or so into 2006, and I’m already hopelessly behind. First I came back from Mexico to a pile of newspapers and magazines which meant an immediate backlog of 7 sudoku puzzles, not to mention all the papers and magazines I still have to plow through. Then there were all the bills I was supposed to pay before the trip but still haven’t gotten around to. And then there are all the movies I’m supposed to see but haven’t found time for yet. And all the TV shows I didn’t watch now that I officially “watch” TV, even though I rarely have time to do so.

It’s all very disquieting for a person like me who used to stay on top of things. But that proud tradition–staying on top of things–is now a thing of the past, it seems. So I’d better get used to the future which, so far as I can tell, will consist of catching up on all the things from the past that were never attended to in the present.

If that makes sense to you, please explain it to me one day when I have a moment to listen. But I’m afraid now isn’t the best time.

Earlier this year, I spent a lot of ink–way too much according to some readers (right Gatemouth?)– questioning the merits of the trade that brought Antoine to the Celtics. Now that the Celtics have sent Walker to the Heat in exchange for a whole lot of nothing–a bunch of players nobody’s ever heard of, plus a couple of 2d-round draft picks–it looks like my first take on the subject was on the mark. SO MAYBE I WAS RIGHT AFTER ALL…

AND MAYBE HE’S RIGHT TOO, he being Rafael Palmeiro, of course, when he said he did not “intentionally or knowingly” take steroids–a refinement of his earlier, more categorical denial under oath. I, for one, am inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Palmeiro actually believed Jose Canseco when Canseco said he was injecting him with “Kool-Aid.” Ballplayers, as we know, will do anything to get an edge, even if it means eating chicken every day (as recent Hall of Fame inductee Wade Boggs did) or even mainlining a popular summertime refreshment.

Maybe I was wrong in my previous blog about Antoine Walker. Why not give the guy a chance? Unlike some people, I’m man enough to admit it when I make a mistake. The leader of the free world, apparently, has a problem doing that, but I wasn’t talking about him. So if your mind was wandering in that direction, that’s you; it’s got nothing to do with me. As for me, I can admit a mistake when I make one. Although in this case, I did not make one. In point of fact, I never said it was wrong to have brought Walker back to the Celtics. I just gave voice to some questions that had been circulating. Based on his performance in his first game as a Celtic–a game in which the Celtics beat the Jazz on the road, 109-102–Walker got off to a fine start, contributing 24 points and 10 rebounds, as well as some key defensive plays in the game’s final moments. “A masterful performance,” said FSN TV announcer Tommy Heinsohn. And if no less an authority than Heinsohn said that–a man who is not given to hyperbole or partisanship–who am I to question it? To play it safe, I’d like to retract everything that’s been said before. Let’s just pretend it never happened, shall we?

During times when I’ve posted numerous items, some people will tell me: “You’ve really been productive lately.” It’s nice of them to say that, but the fact is, they’ve got it all wrong. When I’m putting a lot of stuff up on this blog, it means I’m not doing my real work or fulfilling my obligations as an ostensibly caring and responsible parent. In other words, I’m just goofing off. Take right now, for instance. What I should be doing, instead of typing this worthless palaver, is trying to figure out how to distinguish D and F cosmic superstrings from ordinary cosmic strings. Or finding ways to explain the intricacies of inflationary cosmology (including all the braneworld variations) to the average shmoe on the street. But here I sit, typing away, at a time when any normal person would be sleeping. Who cares if no one’s reading at the other end? It doesn’t matter to me, and it surely doesn’t matter to them.

Going back to that discussion we had the other day about life being hard, jobs being hard, etc., I’m reminded of a quote from “The Friends of Eddie Coyle.” Well, it’s not really a quote, since I can’t find the book. Consider it more of a paraphrase: “Life is hard, especially if you’re stupid.” I’m not talking about anyone in particular, of course, especially not anyone who talked about how hard it was to tell some mother his son died in a pointless war and then complained about how hard it was “to love her as best I could.” No, this has nothing to do with that. Please put that idea out of your heads. I was just thinking of a passage from a book. Nothing more. The other thing you’re suggesting is shameless and contemptible. And way beneath me.

I’ve gone for nearly five days without mentioning a certain football team by name. My doctor considers it significant progress, urging me to “keep up the good work.” I appreciate the encouragement though I find the sentiment a bit trite. He means well, I’m sure. Not a bad guy, even though he plays his cards pretty close to the vest. Or is it chest? And vest or chest, what exactly does that mean? Personally, I’m glad to be on the road to “wellness.” There is a void in my life that is hard to fill but that, everyone tells me, must come from within, not from without. I’ve relinquished control of the remote control and my hand feels naked, aimless, devoid of a clear purpose. It, too, must find something to do with itself. Perhaps I shall take up piano again. I’ve let that go, but Hanon’s keyboard exercises are always a wonderful tonic. Or maybe piano isn’t the thing at all. Maybe what I really ought to do is get out of the house. It’s not easy–and that may be the only thing on which I agree with our current president–but the off-season was never supposed to be easy, was it? Basketball’s not what it used to be. That’s certainly true for Celtics’ fans. Still I think I can speak for the league in general on this point, including David Stern in a candid moment–say if he thought the microphone was off and no one was listening (a’ la “we’ll start the bombing in five minutes”). The hockey season may be permanently on ice. (I admit I never used to watch hockey games, but I resent the fact that I now don’t even have the choice.) And spring training is still two months away. “W,” for the first time in your life, you are right: It’s not easy. Yet in that realization, I hope, may lie the kernel of renewal and personal growth. People have expressed concern in various ways, sometimes in the form of seemingly hostile blog comments, sometimes in the form of spam or telephone solicitations. I just want to let them–and all the other well-wishers–know that I’ve turned the corner and am on the road back. My only question now is: Back to what?

[AUTHORS NOTE: The following paragraph, believe it or not, was actually published, appearing in a recent issue of a college alumni newsletter. I'd rather not name the school but I will say it is a small liberal arts college in New England. There, I've probably given it away. In any case, I was asked to inform people of any "noteworthy new developments." It was not easy, trying to cram an outsized, bursting-at-the-seams life (in more ways than one, including my Big-and-Tall E-Z Fit jeans) into a postcard-sized space, but here goes. I realize that most of you did not attend this "small liberal arts college in New England," so I'll try to keep the "in" jokes and other obscure references to a minimum. As I see it, that's the least I can do for my faithful blog readership without whom none of this would have been possible....] ***************************************************************************************** Business is exploding on all fronts, but that’s life in the pressure cooker of the bumper sticker trade. I’ve already secured screen rights to my forthcoming (i.e., soon-to-be-written) autobiography: “Bedtime for Bumpers.” If all my “ducks” come through, my company, “Bumpers Unlimited, Limited,” may soon crack the Fortune 500. We’ve recently introduced several new lines, including the ever-popular “four-letter word” series, as in “love is not a four-letter word,” etc., as well as the “mean people suck” series. To wit: “mean people are dirty low-down, guttersnakes that insult and demean kind and tolerant people like me.” Our new product line, “Crib Stickers,” is taking off, headed by the perennial favorite: “To chickens, talk is cheep.” My latest spinoff, “Code Orange,” is tapping the lucrative “what to do when the terrorists are out” market. “Code Orange” lingerie has already created a major stir in the undergarment industry. There’s not much time for soul searching given my 25/8 schedule, but I occasionally wonder about my priorities. I hope that, upon reviewing my life, historians won’t say: “There’s a guy who didn’t spend enough time playing volleyball.”

Pack your bags, Patriots fans. (And that includes snack bags, potato chip bags, donut bags, what have you, if you chose to watch the game from the comfort of your own home.) I’m getting ready for Jacksonville. For, you guessed it, Super Bowl #_____??? (Never was good at Roman Numerals. Can anyone help me out here?) It’s never easy getting into the Super Bowl, mind you. But this time I earned it the old-fashioned way, the hard way–watching on TV, what else? It can be grueling, at times, with nothing to relieve that mind-numbing tension but an endless assortment of snacks and junk food and the occasional nap. Then there are all those sleepless nights, pre- and post-game, as you endlessly review plays in your head, including those yet to be played. Training is tough, to be sure, but nothing matches the challenges of game day itself. It’s not easy to stay glued to the TV set, for hours on end, while the rest of your house is going down the tubes. I can’t tell you how many times I was tempted to drop what I was doing and help out one of my screaming kids, possibly seriously maimed, but I stuck to my resolve, never for a second turning away from my 32″ HD screen. I successfully blocked out the rest of the world, including my wife’s constant entreaties (“I need some help here!”) and kept my eyes on the prize, in this case the AFC Championship. I don’t know about you, but I’ve earned my trip to Jacksonville. There’s much work to be done, of course, before the big day. The Pats will have their practices–the usual head-bashing stuff, combined with their video workouts, scouting reports&whatnot–but I’ll be even busier, getting together all the things needed to make Super Sunday a huge success. There are the beverages, the condiments, and the little touches–Patriot napkins and autographed paper plates–that make all the difference. Come February 6, I’ll be ready. I’ll have my A-game. Let’s just hope my team can play up to the impossibly high standards I’ve set.

I was flipping through the channels the other day, testing some of the nifty features on my new remote. For a minute, I watched a PBS documentary on Osama bin Laden. One of his acquaintances–a schoolday chum, I believe–recalled that “he was a shy man…” And I realized, for the first time, that I had something in common with that highly sought after (“dead-or-alive”), though introverted, individual. (Ted Kaczynski, aka the Unabomber, was another “shy man.” In the end, I suppose, it comes down to how you choose to express that shyness.) Unlike me, bin Laden is sometimes described as “overly zealous.” That’s something I’ve never been accused of. He also appears to have some “anger management” issues. Too bad he didn’t take up blogging. Many people find it a useful way to vent the little frustrations in life that might otherwise build up, leading to attacks on the Twin Towers and the like…

As many of you know, October has traditionally been a hiatus for me–a chance to spend some quality time, and virtually camp out, at my favorite haunt, Spooky World. For years, this family-friendly theme park was Foxborough, Massachusetts’ best-kept secret, opening its doors each fall to the innocents. Last month, my world (aka “Stevie World”) was rocked, as if an earthquake had torn my home asunder, by the announcement that Spooky World would be closed and its holdings auctioned off, piece by piece. At first, the news was hard to fathom. An October without Spooky World? Surely this could not be. But then I bounced back, showing a resilience that surprised me–a hardiness reminiscent of another Foxborough mainstay, the New England Patriot football team. Rather than wallow in self-pity, which was how most people I know reacted, I tried to turn a negative into positive–an attitude that would have made Coach Belichick proud. If I could not make my home in Spooky World, well then Spooky World would have to come to me. Mind you, I could not afford to purchase the park’s entire, million-dollar-plus holdings. Perhaps if I’d been more frugal in my youth. But that was then. Today’s reality was this: I could not sit back and let Spooky World slip away from my life forever. I consolidated some loans, took out a second mortgage, and bought what I could. My two-year-old daughter now shares her bedroom with wax statues of Charles Manson and Bela Lugosi. The poor girl, I’m ashamed to admit, is a bit of a scaredy-cat, preferring her stuffed bears and bunnies to cult murderer and vampire. I patiently explain that Spooky World has been a vital New England tradition for the past 13 years, and we must always honor the past. Besides, my bedroom was already stuffed with artifacts–fog machines, torture devices, gargoyles, bats, and assorted monsters–courtesy of Spooky World’s Horror Museum. I can barely make it to the bathroom in the middle of the night without killing myself, and there’s absolutely nowhere to put Charles and Bela except in the bed itself–a sacrifice that even a horror nut like me has refused to make. My five-year-old did her part without complaint, trashing her Barbie set to free up space within her quarters for legions of Disco Ghosts and Killer Klowns. My only complaint is that she consistently misspells “Klowns,” substituting a “c” in place of “k.” I have to remind myself that her kindergarten is what they call “traditional.” No Child Left Behind notwithstanding, education is not what it used to be. The Grim Reaper now sits at the head of our kitchen table–our dining room jammed with artifacts from the House of Fangs, one of the nicest mausoleum’s you’d ever hope to visit. Having ceded my chair to the cause, I often kneel next to the table to join my family at dinner. It all comes down to values: We put a premium on togetherness in our household, even if that includes the odd ghoul or zombie. The living room is, shall we say, a work in progress. While Tiny Tim’s ukulele is a proud addition to any room, I’m still trying to find a way of exhibiting Janet Leigh’s “Psycho” dress to best effect. Michael Myers’ knife from “Halloween” is also posing some display challenges, though I’m confident a solution is close at hand. While it’s hard to single out any one area in particular, the bathroom is the place I’m most proud of. For starters, we have the shower curtain and stenciled drain pattern from “Psycho”–original items that did not come cheap. Latex cobwebs stretch from ceiling to floor, while the sink is filled with a seething mass of glow-in-the-dark plastic snakes. Those things, I expect, can be found in most any house. What sets this room apart is the toilet: The usual whooshing sound has been replaced with Vincent Price’s unforgettable laugh from “The House of Wax.” Admirers have called it “a flush of genius.” But I’m more modest, merely considering it a deft stroke. I’m always shocked to hear from friends who have little or no childhood memories of Halloween. It’s sad to think that such an important part of our heritage–arguably the most important part–could pass by, year after year, without making a dent. I may not be the perfect dad. In fact, I’m sure that upon occasion I’ve left the toilet seat up and toothpaste uncapped. There may be other missteps I can’t recall. Milk left out over night and that sort of thing. But on one point I’m certain: My children will always remember their Halloweens–frightful days that may provide fodder for decades of fruitful psychotherapy. Now I’ve got to make sure the non-Halloween portion of their lives also makes an impression. Responsible parents like me can do no less. ———————————————————————————————– Cambridge resident Steve Nadis has vacation property in Foxborough for sale or lease.