CALL ME SNAKE

File this under “Much Ado About Nothing”: There are a lot of reckless rumors circulating about Boston Celtics star Paul Pierce and his alleged use of “gang signs” to express his displeasure to a member of the Atlanta Hawks. I personally don’t see what all the fuss is about. For starters they were not “gang signs,” which is often said by people (usually white) who don’t know the first thing about such matters. In point of fact, they were merely hand signals for “I’m going to kill you.”

On a separate note, I’d like to apologize for yesterday’s entry, “Freaky Friday,” which was an otherwise excellent entry except for the fact that it was Thursday. But I was thinking that it was Friday, and maybe that was wishful thinking given that Friday is my handball day. To make a long story short, now it is Friday so why don’t we just file that one under the heading “One Day Early”?

We all know that China is a rising power that may soon dominate the world’s economy. But most people don’t know why.  I have an idea about that which came to me as a result of hearing a friend/colleague last night speaking to someone over the phone in Cantonese.  He spoke incredibly fast–far faster than I’ve ever heard anyone speak in English. In fact, I don’t think it’s possible to speak that fast in English. My friend acknowledged that “Cantonese is a very fast language.” And that’s why I believe we are going to have a hard time competing with China: They can talk faster than us. By the time we’ve finished our sentences, they’ve already sealed the deal.

My youngest daughter was recently invited to a Purim party hosted by an Israeli family at her school. Here’s how the mother who threw the party explained Jewish holidays to the gentiles in the crowd. They’re all kind of similar, she noted. “Wicked people tried to kill all the Jews. But somehow, miraculously, the Jews managed to survive. Now let’s eat!”

I don’t know what to do with myself. I used to enjoy criticizing Mitt Romney but the fact that’s he’s dropped out of the race has taken some of the fun out of that pasttime. So I don’t have any new complaints on that score, other than to say that Romney went out of the race the way he went in: With lies. If you took his words at face value, the fact that he was getting his ass kicked by McCain and even Huckabee had nothing to do with his decision to “suspend” his campaign.

On another note, Barack Obama seems to be on quite a roll. Not only did he win a number of primaries and caucuses over the weekend, he also won a GRAMMY. That’s got to be a first for a presidential candidate. On the other hand, I recently heard an editorial in which the Grammy’s were described as a joke because they give them out so freely–so many awards in so many categeries–it almost takes an act of divine intervention to avoid winning one.

Not to boast but… (How many times have I started with those words?) Yes, I’ve been published again–this time in an extremely exclusive venue, my college’s alumni newsletter notes section. And I was writing, ironically, about being published elsewhere, so we’re dealing with many levels of publishing here, especially if you consider online publishing to be publishing. Anyways, this is what I wrote in the newsletter and I’m repeating it here for no good reason other than I’m feeling kind of tired:

Inspired by the letter-writing success and prowess of fellow alumn ____ ____ , I managed to get a letter printed in the Cambridge Chronicle on the burning issue of Cambridge’s dearth of handball players. There are only five handball players left at the Cambridge YMCA, and I’m one of them–the youngest, in fact, which gives you an idea of the future prospects for this sport. (For awhile it looked like there were going to be six until the new guy, Daniel, ripped his Achilles, which put us back to five again.) My letter attracted a lot of attention locally, though no book or movie deals yet. Nevertheless, I have since become a columnist for the paper–perhaps on the strength of my handball manifesto. The Chronicle, by the way, is pretty much where my freelance writing career began and now, it appears, pretty much where it will end.

Last night I saw “28 Weeks Later” with the same friend I saw “28 Days Later” with a couple of years ago. While it is a solid entry to the horror genre, it also has the most stomach-rending makeout scene every put on film. That gave me pause. And when I look back over my life, I’m forced to conclude that I’ve seen an awful lot of zombie movies, starting with “Night of the Living Dead” 40 years back and including Dawn of the Dead, Shaun of the Dead, Trouble Every Day (an obscure French one), the 28 Days/Weeks series, and several others I’m sure I’m forgetting right now. Although some of these movies hold a bit of fascination for me–Shaun of the Dead was hilarious, and the “28″ pictures are extremely well made–I really don’t like zombie movies. There’s something about zombies; they kind of give me the creeps, especially the fast-moving ones of the 28 Days/Weeks saga, which are very nerve-racking. I prefer my zombies slow and lumbering, the kind you can easily outrun, although they do tend to be persistent. I’m thinking of doing something drastic here and swearing off zombie movies altogether. It’s probably time for me to move on to something new, even if that just means a new kind of monster. And I think I will stick with that resolution, at least until “28 Years Later” comes out…

We’re introducing a new feature here at Call Me Snake called “Finish This Sentence,” which no doubt will prove to be one of the most popular new features ever introduced here at Call Me Snake. I was walking home from the YMCA on Sunday morning and passed the entrance to a nearby church where some church functionary, holding some literature, said to another man: “which sounded like a hardship but…”

That’s when the inspiration for “Finish This Sentence” seized me. Here’s how I would finish it: “was really a challenge.” If you have any ideas, please let us know. The winning entries will be posted at a later date. Be patient if you have trouble getting through. We may well experience “bandwidth problems” in view of all the anticipated traffic.

An article in today’s Boston Globe asks the question: “Is plastic making us fat?” The premise of the article is that plastics in the environment can make people predisposed to obesity and could be a factor in the general weight gain in our population. But I’d like to suggest another hypothesis, namely that laziness is making us fatter. People spend too much time sitting in front of a computer (mea culpa) and in front of the TV set and, to make things worse, they drive everywhere or–in the case of children–are driven everywhere. At my gym, where people go to work out, they even take an elevator up one or two flights rather than walk. So while some scientists might blame it on plastics, I’m going to go with laziness for now.

Writing about Mitt Romney, Boston Globe columnist and Democratic consultant had this to say: “Is it just me or has Romney passed the president as the most detestasble Republican around? The other GOP campaigns can’t stand him either.” Payne goes on to say: “Romney’s is a candidacy of contrivance, consultants, cash, and cynicism.” Well put, Dan. I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Speaking of great lines, there was one in a haunting movie I saw last night called “The Dead Girl.” After having sex during a roadside tryst with a weird guy on a first date, the Toni Collette character asks him: “Can we please stop talking about serial killers for awhile?” Nice line, Toni. I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Here’s an idea for a movie: Someone calls out the name of a chipmunk, let’s say “Alvin.” After no response, he calls a little louder. Still no response. So this time the man really shouts it out: “A-L-V-I-N-N-N!!!” And there’s your movie. What do you think?

A friend of mine took his kids to see it–i.e., “Alvin and the Chipmunks” (which my 5-year-old is also keen on seeing)–and told me it’s not as bad as it sounds. Which reminds me of what Mark Twain said about the music of Richard Wagner: “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

It’s hard to believe it, looking from the outside, but December 2007 is shaping up to be a banner month for Call Me Snake with well over 6,000 individual visitors before all is said and done and more than 400 visitors on a single day–a record for this site. Personally I’ve had a hard time understanding it, as it seems like, if anything, interest has dropped off rather than grown. So I did a little bit of research to see how people got here, what searches brought them to Call Me Snake, and here are some of the phrases that led them here: “maggot therapy” “history of chips ahoy” “snake pinata,” and the perennial favorite,“Brazilian butt fill.”

I’ve sometimes had aspirations of putting out some kind of highbrow fare but it’s clear from the foregoing that if Call Me Snake has any appeal at all, it is to the Lowest Common Denominator. So here’s to my comeuppance, and Happy New Year to you too.

Sometimes fame is fleeting. Warhol spoke of 15 minutes. In this case 15 seconds is probably more accurate. But attention spans are short these days, and 15 seconds is not bad. In any case earlier today (or yesterday, if you want to be that way) the following notice suddenly appeared on a popular blog called, “Knight Science Journalism Tracker.” Well here’s what the “Tracker” had to say about yours truly, from one blogger to another: “AND FURTHER, should you wish to read a stupefyingly scholarly, if not merely stupefying, analysis of the Holy Grail in its greatest sphere of excess please consult “Decontructing Astronomy’s Holy Grail” by S_ _ _ _ N_ _ _ _, in the Annals of Improbable Research, May-June 2006.”

Personally I’m honored. I’ve never seen my work referred to as “stupefyingly scholarly,” if not merely “stupifying.” (It has, on the other hand, been referred to as “scholarly” on a number of occasions–primarily by me in this blog.) Well, I think my 15 seconds is up. If I continue, it will become 30 seconds and I might risk overstaying my welcome. Farewell gentle readers and thanks in advance for your unfailing support.

About a year ago, I came across the cartoon competitions in the New Yorker and soon after that in the Boston Globe. I sent in many excellent entries, certain that all of them would win. But none did and I realized the people running those things didn’t know what they were doing. So I decided to run one on my own, the right way.

To get the ball rolling, I’m going to post a sample entry. I can’t do the artwork myself–I contract out for that, don’t you?–so let me instead set the scene. The establishment is called JOE’S DINER, SAVINGS&LOAN. Behind the counter is a slobby-looking guy in some kind of white chef’s outfit who asks the customer: “Do you want fries with that CD?”

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OK, the rest is up to you. And sorry in advance for setting the bar so high.

Last night, Channel 5 News in Boston ran the kind of tough news stories that most stations don’t have the guts to air. It had to do with the nasty weather in Boston on Thursday and the havoc it created. One dad was all bent out of shape because he’d spent $100 for two tickets to some kind of kid event–The Jingle Ball, or something like that–but was unable to make it there because the roads were so bad. He felt like he was owed a refund.

I feel for the guy, I really do, as 100 bucks is a lot to blow on entertainment, especially when–owing to circumstances beyond your control–you’re not able to be entertained. But really, should this sort of thing be on the “News”? I can only wonder what Edward R. Murrow would say. Probably something like: “Good night and good luck”?

In the heyday of this blog, we ran bumper sticker contests every month or so and some of the entries were outstanding. There hasn’t been enough correspondence these days to make such a contest seem like a viable option. So instead of announcing one, I’m going to reprint a good bumper sticker I saw last weekend:

WALMART, YOUR SOURCE FOR CHEAP, PLASTIC CRAP.

If anyone wants to try to top that, or has a bumper sticker idea (original or not) they want to share, be my guest. Maybe we can revive that grand tradition (now that baseball, in some people’s eyes, no longer qualifies. A new national pasttime, bumper sticker contests? Could be an idea whose time has come.)

I don’t know where you stand on sophomoric teenage sex comedies, but there is one recent movie that stands out from the crowd, and that movie is SUPERBAD. Watching it alone, late at night while the rest of the family slept, I laughed so loud I was afraid I might wake the whole household, as well as the tenant downstairs. Funny, demented, and wise, all at the same time, this is one to watch–that is, if you go in for sophomoric teenage sex comedies. And if you don’t–if you actually have a life–all I can say is more power to ya.

While working last night, I listened to the Patriot’s game on the radio last night. But as it was pretty close, I decided to watch the last 10 minutes on TV. I’m glad I did. It was a thrilling finish to a close, tightly-fought game. The Patriots should have lost this one. They came close to losing on so many occasions yet somehow, miraculously, hung on (making their record a perfect 12-0). Despite all the luck falling the Patriots way, the Ravens still had a chance to win it all in the finally seconds but fell two yards short of what would have been the game-winning touchdown.

There was a movie about the boxer, Rocky Graziano, called “Somebody Up There Likes Me.” At the moment, the same words seem to apply to Tom Brady and the entire Patriots team.

To the rest of the world, tomorrow is November 17. But here in Cambridge, it’s the day of the “Big Game,” and I’m not talking about the Harvard-Yale game. I’m talking about the battle between Orange and Yellow in the Cambridge Youth Soccer under-10 girls league. Our team, the undefeated Orange, will face off (a mixed metaphor?) against the Yellow (whose only loss came at our hands) in the final game of the season. The outcome will determine whether Orange is truly number one, as we’ve been telling ourselves (and the rest of the world) all year, or merely tied for first place. I’m sure the suspense is killing you but it will all be decided in less than 24 hours. Find something (I’m happy to offer puzzles from my Sudoku backup piles) to occupy yourself with until then.

I don’t really know. Fortunately I’ve never met any of these people. Yet I think the charismatic, murderous kingpin–such as the character played by Jack Nicholson in The Departed (supposedly modeled after Whitey Bulger)–is a literary conceit. Do guys like that really go around spouting literary allusions and, through their learned discourse, carry on like deranged college professors? Or are they, in more brutish fashion, using intimidation and fear to get others to do their evil bidding? I think the latter but fortunately I don’t really know. I’ve never met any of these people.

If you ask me, the title of the forthcoming movie, “The Assassination of Jesse James By the Coward Robert Ford,” reveals too much. In fact it gives away the whole story. On the other hand, it does not give away the real story. For was Robert Ford the real coward? From what I heard, Jesse James was a murderous coward who has, unfortunately, been romanticized as some sort of outlaw hero. If what I’ve heard is true, what does that make the man who shot this murderous coward?

I used to love amusement parks as a kid and sought out the biggest, scariest rides. I couldn’t wait until my kids got old enough for me to take them on rides like that. But by the time they were old enough, I evidently was too old. I can’t enjoy rough rollercoasters anymore as they take a toll on my back and neck. I don’t like things that go upside down anymore as that makes me too dizzy. And I don’t like things that spin too fast, as that now makes me nauseated. But I can still enjoy the attractions at water parks (we went to one yesterday, the so-called “biggest in New England”) and fortunately my kids like them too. So for now it looks like water parks are the thing for us, though I dread the day when our kids insist on going to Six Flags.

My previous post, “I Almost Sprayed a Skunk,” seems to have struck a nerve and elicited the following response from one Marco Polo (aka Markus Polus and various other aliases), which stands as today’s Celebrity Guest Comment (slightly edited by the author):

That reminds me of a true story as a lad of 18 who’d taken a break from a ‘gathering of peers’ on the outskirts of our fair town: (the law’d changed the year before, so our “lubrication-of-choice” was now legal). As I submitted to Nature’s call, I noticed a small, striped creature waddling thru the underbrush, who must’ve been surprised at the outbreak of a … shower on a sunny day. As it cleared some brush, giving us both clear view, the creature looked back to examine the ’source’ of the shower and, by it’s reaction, was not too impressed!

THE AUTHOR’S REBUTTAL: One night about 10 years ago, when our city had been deluged with more than a foot of rainwater, I had to relieve myself in the back yard–during a downpour–as our basement was flooded and the drain all backed up. Before I’d finished my business, a little skunk wandered by and almost got hit by my spray (which was the first time I almost sprayed a skunk though not the last). The skunk just avoided getting hit and, fortunately, did not try to retaliate.

I’ve already written about competitive eating, and given my already delicate stomach, this is one sport you can be sure I won’t be doing. Nor will I enter any professional paintball competitions. I had no idea, until reading an article about it last week, that it even was a professional sport. (It’s certainly not a sport of the stature of rock, paper, and scissors.) And finally, count me out of the next bike polo game, which I just read about yesterday in the Boston Globe. I don’t know about you, but crashing into a bunch of other crazed cyclists/bike messengers doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time. Then again I’m often considered old-fashioned.

For actors from the previous generation like John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart, playing cowboys came easy. But the cowboy sensibility is far enough away from today’s society that many contemporary actors are not convincing in the familiar cowboy role. They lack the requisite taciturn gravitas; they seem to much like “Young Guns” trying to play cowboys but you can see them trying. And playing cowboys without ever becoming real cowboys. Robert Duvall, Tommie Lee Jones, and Kevin Costner are three who can pull it off the cowboy roles well. Heath Ledger had a noteworthy turn in Brokeback, and based on his performance in “Broken Trail,” Thomas Haden Church of Sideways fame is another standout.

First I saw “Rocky Balboa” — a story in which an actor too old to play a boxer played a boxer too old to fight. Then last night I saw the latest “Die Hard” picture in which Bruce Willis plays a guy too old to be jumping off buildings, trucks, and jet planes–yet jump he does, time and again. I kept thinking that, apart from getting shot and smashed up in car wrecks, for a guy my age or Willis’s age, just jumping 10 feet onto cement would be enough to put me out of commission. But somehow Willis withstood two hours of such abuse and much more, though every minute I expected him to say: “I’m too old for this shit.” Sitting there, watching these ridiculous action sequences for what seemed like the thousandth time, I almost said the same. Despite that, I was entertained. And for the first time in as long as I can remember at a movie theater, my eyes stayed open for the duration of the film.

I’ve been published again — in the one magazine that almost can’t turn me down: the “Class Notes” section of my college alumni magazine. Sure, it’s pathetic to brag about that. On the other hand, I hear more about my Class Notes entries than about the things I write for national (or international) magazines. Here’s the latest entry, the one I hope will promote me to legendary status among the school’s Class Notes faithful:

“Well, I passed the 50-year mark awhile back, and the signs that I am slipping are many and numerous. (The above redundancy being one.) First of all, I became a blogger <, which is a sure sign that I’ve given up any ambition of ever amounting to anything in life. Second of all, my seven-year-old daughter is already smarter than me. Third of all, my four-year-old daughter is already smarter than me. Fourth of all, I’m ending a lot of sentences in prepositions of late, which makes me wonder what my syntax is coming to. Fifth of all, I’ve taken to repeating myself a lot of late, which may owe to the fact that I passed the 50-year mark awhile back. But I think I said that already…”

(Author’s note: In the spirit of the above paragraph, I can’t help wondering: Did I post this before–perhaps when I submitted it to said alumni magazine? The answer is “quite possibly,” which would be a consequence of the age-related issue already alluded to…)

 

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Several people have expressed shock when I mention that I still watch “Lost,” as if that were so passe. (It’s also surprising because I don’t watch TV, but that’s another matter.) My 16-year-old niece laughed at me. “It was OK in the beginning but that show is so over,” she said. “It’s well beyond toast.” Her words and those of others were enough to shake my confidence in my own judgment. So I put the question to a friend, a local writer/editor/publisher/impressario who was, at least at one time, a “Lost” fan. (In fact, he’s the guy who turned me on to the show during the summer rerun period after the first season had concluded.) Does the fact that I still like “Lost” make me a loser, I asked. “If you’re a loser, count ___ & I in as well for we feel that, if anything, the show has gotten better,” he replied. The Boston Globe TV critic said today that he’ll be sorry to see the season end because, in his words, the show “has been on a roll.” After tonight’s season finale, the show will go into hiatus until February 08. Then members of the loser’s club that I belong to will become truly lost souls. Each of us will, somehow, have to muster up a life of our own–one that does not involve worrying about “the others.”

On Thursday, my favorite movie theater (the Brattle) is showing “The Cockfighter,” a 1974 movie starring Warren Oates who plays a man who trains fighting cocks in Georgia. The movie (which I have not seen) is based on a novel (which I own, but have not read) written by Charles Willeford, a pulp novelist I am fond of. While looking up the movie online, I came across this fake tagline: “He came into town with his cock in hand, and what he did with it was illegal in 49 states.” As I said before, that’s gotta be the best movie teaser never used…

For years, I’ve heard the term “nitpicker” and have used it myself, in the figurative sense, on quite a few occasions. But it’s only been in the last week, when head lice infestations broke out in my daughter’s classroom, that I’ve come to know the literal meaning of the word. Nitpickers are thought to be overly fastidious people who seize on the smallest detail and go after it with a vengeance. Once they find what they are looking for, they cannot be deterred. These traits can be considered a real pain in the ass, but there is a time when those qualities are, instead, a real virtue. And that happens to be a time when there are real nits to be picked.

An article in yesterday’s Boston Globe discussed new products for mental fitness targeting aging baby boomers, which are the only kind of baby boomers to be found. Some of these cognitive exercise products cost hundreds of dollars. What ever happened to crossword puzzles. Or my old standby, sudoku?

Keeping up with our recent rodent theme (i.e., “The Rat Race”), I was just accused of “squirreling away” some snacks left over from a preschool concert that I volunteered to help at. (In point of fact, I put them next to the director’s office and then informed her of their presence.) The person who said that probably didn’t think anything of it but I, personally, don’t like the image conjured by the term “squirreled away,” which sounds, well, “squirrely.” And, with our six-year run at preschool coming to an end in a month, squirrely is not the way I care to be remembered–especially after doing the school what I thought was a good turn.

(EDITOR’S NOTE: This is part of a recurring series on “Deconstructing Rocky Balboa in the 21st Century.”) It hit me while I was playing handball, me a guy who might be termed middle-aged (if you want to be technical about it), playing other guys who are middle-aged or worse. The movie, “Rocky Balboa,” is a story about a guy too old to get back in the ring, starring a guy too old to play a guy getting back in the ring, and watched in this case by a guy too old to fall for this same old story again. That’s all I have to say about “Rocky Balboa” for now, but I promise to get back to you as soon as I have something new to say on the subject. Or maybe not so new…

Twenty years ago, I wrote an article about a mathematician with whom I’ve since kept in occasional contact. Now he’s offering me advice about writing. That might seem galling, except for the fact that I soliticited his advice. And what’s more, the advice he’s given me is good. For too long (going on six months now), I’ve been struggling with a book proposal and, given that the book is about math, I called on my mathematician friend for advice. He couldn’t understand why I was having such a problem winning over my agent. “I’m sure all the stuff you need is already there in the proposal. Now you just have to hit them over the head with a frying pan.” That image stuck vividly in my mind, perhaps because, embarrassingly, I watch Boston Legal from time to time–a show in which the frying pan often proves to be the weapon of choice. And I, too, will soon take up the cast-iron skillet in the hopes of leaving a lasting impression on a relcalcitrant literary agent.

If you ask me (and even if you don’t), there’s something kind of funny about this new line of toilet paper, “Charmin Basic.” What strikes me as weird is that the name suggests you can try to do things on the cheap (with an economical wipe) or do it in style with the premium (ultrasoft, ultra thick, toilet-clogging) blend. The Basic product line, I suppose, will hold a certain appeal to the frugal-minded, a group that I, unfortunately, am forced to subscribe to. Others, more prosperous or more indulgent, will probably spare no expense when it comes to their precious rear ends. (Why accept second best? Why risk chafing? Why give your bottom any more abuse than it needs? These are the questions I’d probably ask myself were I to join the ruling class.)

The response has been overwhelming, the consensus inarguable: My post of two days ago, which lacked a single word or punctuation mark, was my best ever. (Or, as I subsequently put it, the greatest post ever posted since Post Toasties.) “An exemplar of concision!” wrote one astute reader. “Hear, hear,” another chimed in. “Finally a post that is not just so many wasted syllables strung together.” Evidently I’ve learned well from my blogger friend Jungle Jerk, who’s shown us that sometimes you can say a lot by saying a little. In other words, sometimes more is less, and nothing speaks volumes.

“Rich men must live in fear of this moment,” my wife said upon seeing the headline of Monday’s Boston Globe: “Tom Brady’s former girlfriend pregnant.” The article discussed Bridget Mohnahan’s pregnancy and her claim about Brady’s role in that development.

My wife might be right about this (she usually is), but I think a person of modest means would fear that sort of moment more than a multi-multi-millionaire star athlete. Besides, Brady has already moved on to supermodel Gisele Bundchen, and for all I know he’s on her right now.

As for the Globe, the decision to make the Brady story the headline is surely one of its lowpoints. Now the only thing separating it from the New York Post is that the Post would have been sure to have a good, saucy title to go along with such a dubious story

Have I mentioned before that I love PARADE? I can’t say enough good things about it. The latest issue of my favorite magazine–with the words “What you can learn from TV docs” emblazoned on the cover–would have the impressionable reader believe that we can all stop going to our physicians and instead watch medical shows like Grey’s Anatomy, Scrubs, or MASH reruns. The next issue of the weekly journal, I expect, will tell us that watching TV is good for you, especially if you eat junk food at the same time.

I’m not normally in the habit of reprinting stuff that gets forwarded around, all over the internet. But as the title suggests, this bears repeating: This year, both Groundhog Day and the State of the Union address occur on the same day. As Air America Radio pointed out, “It is an ironic juxtaposition of events: one involves a meaningless ritual in which we look to a creature of little intelligence for prognostication while the other involves a groundhog.” (EDITOR’S NOTE: Thanks go out to Ken, one of my famous Nashville cousins, for this one.)

Sorry to hit a guy while he’s down but right now George Bush makes quite a tempting target. And, frankly, I’m not strong enough to resist. The other day, I heard a story on NPR about “No Child Left Behind,” the brilliant program introduced by the Bush Administration. The reporter interviewed a principal from a beleaguered Baltimore school, asking her how “No Child Left Behind” had helped. She talked about all the ambitious goals that had been set for the school–all the targets and all the tests–and how poorly the school had fared. Because the program does not offer one iota of assistance. It just sets goals that are unrealistic for struggling urban schools who are then left to fend for themselves. And that, in a nutshell, is the legacy of the self-professed “education president.” So I’ve got a proposal: How about a more accurate name for the program, something alone the lines of “No Child Left Untested”? That would be less hypocritical and show the program for what it is: no help for the needy.

EDITOR’S NOTE: In a recent post entitled “None Of My Business,” I submitted that it was kind of sad to hear that a young celebrity star, just 20 years old, was in AA. Gatemouth riposted with his usual dead-on commentary, which I’m reprinting in full. As usual, his sage remarks speak for themselves:

GATEMOUTH SPEAKS: Shouldn’t all 20 year olds be in AA? I mean, let’s face it, the average blood-alcohol level of ANY 20 year old is well above the legal limit. Anyway, I don’t know which is sadder–that all these young actors and actresses self-destruct, or that they’re not allowed to make the same mistakes most teens and twenties make without it turning into national news. I’m sure I wouldn’t like Lindsay Lohan right now, if I had to deal with her on a daily basis. But I’m also sure I didn’t behave any better when I was her age. (Though I had a lot less money and a lot fewer people wanting to sleep with me.)

EDITOR’S REBUTTAL: I agree with all of the foregoing, ESPECIALLY the last sentence about fewer people wanting to sleep with him than with that young starlet, her “recovery” notwithstanding.

I must confess that until yesterday, I did not know who Kevin Federline was, though I had probably seen the name while standing in line at the grocery store. A gossip column in the Metro, the paper I get for sudoku (the puzzle is located in the celebrity/gossip section, which is how I pick up this stuff), suggested that Federline, Britney Spears’ estranged husband, burned through $50 million of her money, depleting her net worth from $100 million to $50 million.

I have no idea if it’s true. (I do not follow these things.) But supposing it is. My first impulse would be to call him a no-account, lazy bum. But on second thought, I have to admit that spending that kind of money has got to be hard work. It especially seems that way to a penny pincher like myself. My thriftiness came home to me the other night while I was watching a horrible David Mamet movie called “Edmond” in which the title character, portrayed by William Macy, tries negotiating at a variety of sex clubs and keeps walking out dissatisfied, protesting: “THAT’S TOO MUCH!”

But getting back to Kevin. If what they say is true, how do you blow that much dough in two years? For a guy like me, who hates parting with $50, $50 million seems stratospheric, almost unfathomable. That could very well make him the greatest mooch of all time. And if I were the kind of guy who wore a hat (hate ‘em), my hat would be off to him right now.

Recently I’ve interviewed a lot of high-powered types for the terrorism article I’m working on. Almost all of them set aside 15 minutes for these interviews. However, one of the experts allows only 10 minutes for such conversations. I tried to explain to his secretary that 15 was the industry standard, but she held firm: 10 minutes was the limit, no ifs, ands, or buts. This guy is a big deal and possibly a trendsetter in his field, which makes me think that 10 may be the new 15. Remember, you heard it here first.

Today we’re introducing a new feature here at Call Me Snake, which is one of the best things we do here at Call Me Snake. The new feature, as the title suggests, is called “Tip of the Week.” The idea behind Tip of the Week is fairly simple and can be summed up in four words: tip of the week. In other words, we highlight something of note due to occur in the upcoming week.

This week’s tip comes from the “TV Week” section of today’s Boston Sunday Globe. Although I do not watch TV, save for the odd moment, here and there, between changing channels, I faithfully read “TV Week,” which is a kind of poor man’s TV Guide. Here’s a description of the movie “Horror Express” (1972) scheduled for next Saturday at 12 noon: “Victorian scientists fight a missing-link monster making zombies on a trans-Siberia train.” (If this movie is half as good as the above summary, it’s a masterpiece.)

EDITOR’S OPENING REMARKS: Many have written about the perils of sudoku addiction, but none perhaps so succinctly, eloquently, or convincingly as Gatemouth in his response to Fletch’s attack on me (henceforth referred to as the “Sunday morning massacre”) for “ruining his life,” such as it is. So, once again, I’m going to relinquish the reins and hand over the “conch” to Gatemouth, who will ably take us through the ins and outs of this frightening new problem.

GATEMOUTH: Fletch, the real key to becoming addicted to Sudoku is to get the electronic version on your computer. Then, as soon as you finish one game, you can start another. I was totally addicted (as your son so astutely predicted) for about six months. Then I had to take the damn thing off my computer or risk becoming the most sedentary, unproductive person on the planet (besides George Bush, that is).

EDITOR’S CLOSING COMMENTARY: In conclusion, I should like to say, heretowith, that I agree wholeheartedly with the spirit, if not the tenor, of Gatemouth’s remarks. Yes, sudoku addiction is a real problem. I know this not from my own personal involvement with the game–the situation here, I’m pleased to admit, is under control, I repeat, under control–but rather from my day job as a tireless student of human nature, a subject I study with great relish when I’m not working on number puzzles from Metro, the Globe, and other sources. (With pen, always with pen.) Sorry, I’ve got to go: I’m just about to close out another little 9 x 9 box, and I don’t want to make a mistake. Because once you do make a mistake, it’s hard to get back on track, and your life as you once knew it–so promising, it seemed–is, for all intents and purposes, over.

Much has already been written or said about the Mark Foley situation, and I have nothing to add except, perhaps, a few small remarks. First off, isn’t it interesting how–at the first sign of trouble these days–people check themselves into an alcohol rehab facility? Admitting alcoholism (or drug addiction or sex addiction), it seems, is invariably the first line of defense. Second (just a question): Would Foley be in as much trouble today if the pages he harassed happened to be girls rather than boys? Would the NPR reporters still have called his instant messages (which I have yet to see) “disgusting” or would they merely be considered “offensive”? Third, he sure picked a good time to “come out,” now didn’t he? Almost enough to give coming out a bad name. Fourth, credit Foley with a P.R. coup on the priest molestation charge. You can be sure that Foley’s record/background will be gone over with a fine-tooth comb. But claiming that a priest molested you is one allegation that can never, ever be disproved. A brilliant stroke. (By the way, does anyone know his publicist? I might need to hire that genius someday.)

In a fascinating essay in last Sunday’s Boston Globe Magazine, MIT political scientist Stephen Meyer discussed America’s misguided war on mosquitoes, which is being played out in backyards throughout the country. According to Meyer, a standard bug zapper will kill more than 10,000 insects over the course of a summer, “but body counts reveal that fewer than a couple dozen of these will be mosquitoes or other biting insects.” The rest, almost 99.9%, consist of collateral damage or, as Meyer puts it, “harmless bugs of all kinds, including rare and endangered ones.” Pesticides and herbicides are equally indiscriminate in their killing. To me, this seems like the worst of American ingenuity–using technology in a wholly inefficient way, with little regard to its effectiveness or to the consequences–an approach that, unfortunately, seems all too common.

I was doing a search on the web the other day and, by chance, came across an article of mine about Mars that ended up on the so-called “College Research” website (http://www.collegeresearch.us/). I have no idea how it ended up there and don’t know if they went to the bother of purchasing the rights from the magazine in question (New Scientist). For a student looking for a nifty paper topic, my article was a relative bargain: You could read it and other “essays” for just $9.99, as part of a 1-month membership, or $19.99 for a 3-month membership. But if you want to purchase a pre-written term paper, you’ll have to shell out some big bucks. “The Rise of Muslim Science and Astronomy,” for example, will set you back $136, payable by credit card or online check. And ‘custom-written” term papers, penned by their staff of professional writers, can be even more costly–up to $50 per page on a rush basis.

None of this was possible, of course, when I was a college student. Nobody spent hundreds of dollars buying illicit term papers; instead we spent hundreds of dollars buying illicit drugs. And if we wanted to cheat on our assignments, we had to do it the way our parents did it, and their parents before them: good old-fashioned plagiarism. Best of all, the cost was free.

In late-August, when most people are on vacation and circulation, as a result, is down, one must do what one has to do. In that case, it means invoking the term “flying squirrels,” which inevitably brings in a lot of stragglers through Google. My article on this subject, which has been chronicled extensively in these pages, is moving closer toward publication. After a quick touchup last week–needed more “color,” snappier quotes, plus a sharper focus, plus a revamped structure with a different beginning, middle, and end–the article is now in the fact-checking stage and, with any luck, will appear in print before the year’s end. A year-and-a-half from first submitting a story to its eventual publication may seem like a long time to those unfamiliar with the usual twists and turns of the publishing trade. And it is, admittedly, a long time for the typical puff piece with a short shelf life. But for a rich, timeless subject like flying squirrels–creatures that began developing their gliding skills some 20 million years ago–a year-and-a-half is a mere blink of the eye.

For some reason, while driving back from Vermont (a 4-hour-plus ordeal), I came up with countless sensational ideas for this blog. I don’t drive much and perhaps the practice is more stimulating than I thought. I’ve long since forgotten all those ideas, of course, but am left with this one–a trifling one at that. It used to be, you were always wondering how far you had to go on the highway. Mileage signs were few and far between. But heading south on Interstate 93 in New Hampshire, the mileage signs come fast and furious–several per mile, often separated by just 0.2 miles. We’ve gone from famine to feast. And if you ask me, that’s just too much information.

Speaking of too much information, why do sports reporters now dwell on pitch counts in baseball. They used to tell us how many runs a pitcher allowed, how many strikeouts, walks, and wild pitches. Now they invariable tell us the number of pitches a pitcher threw. Do we need to know this? Is it essential knowledge for the baseball fandom? If you ask me, once again I’d have to say: That’s just too much information.

If you had a new theory of everything you wanted to share with the world, what would you do? You’d probably do the same thing that an enterprising, bottom line-minded Chinese furniture exporter/wholesaler/retailer would do: You’d contact Call Me Snake, ASAP. Which is why, perhaps, I just received–out of the blue, without asking for it, minding my own business, you might say–”Macro-Micro Cosmos in Theory of Groups” or, in simpler terms, “A Theory of Everything.” The document, written by Julian Guzman of New York City and Lima, was shipped to me at a cost of $2.55, complete with a CD-ROM containing Macro-Micro Cosmos Animation. I have not yet read this new treatise–which I’ll probably get to just as soon as I finish Bobby McGehee’s equally weighty volume, “New Universe Theory” or NUT. As I said, I have not read Guzman’s white paper in its entirety, but I can say the work does have a rather catchy ending: “AND THIS IS EVERYTHING.”