CALL ME SNAKE

Some time ago, I wrote about a nifty film I’d just seen called “3:10 to Yuma,” which came out 50 years ago. I don’t normally do that sort of thing but this taut little drama stood out from the crowd.  I must have been onto something because that same movie has been remade and is now a big new picture starring Russell Crowe, Peter Fonda, and Christian Bale. Was it just a coincidence or are the Hollywood producers reading this blog?

On our annual drive to New Hampshire each Thanksgiving, Mr. Mike’s is a welcome half-way point, an oasis on a day of closed McDonald’s and abandoned donut stands. On the drive north, as if in a dream, I think I saw two Mr. Mike’s though the second one was a bit of a blur and perhaps apocryphal. My wife’s aunt thinks she saw a second one, too, though she can’t swear to it. On the return trip to Boston, earlier today, my mother-in-law claims to have seen three Mr. Mike’s, which comes as a complete shock to me (the driver). I could only swear to one and figured there could only be two, at most, along our long-familiar route. Yet she, a woman who is not prone to hyperbole, claims to have seen a third. As to how many we’ll see on the next journey, only time–and visual acuity (which may be in short supply)–will tell.

The thing I love most about PARADE Magazine (among the many things I love about PARADE Magazine) is that you can learn things from it that you cannot learn anywhere else. For instance, in yesterday’s issue there was a fascinating discourse on Amanda Peet’s hair color and style on the TV show “Studio 60,” which came close to being cancelled after a very brief run. “Amanda has the new look for brunettes,” a Hollywood “hair maven” commented. The style is called “paneling,” which evidently creates “the rich patina of wood panels.” I didn’t know this. In fact, I had no idea that so much thought and foresight went into a TV program. I don’t watch the show personally, but the article has made me think that if they had put as much effort into the scripts as they did into Amanda Peet’s hair, they might have actually produced a show that people want to watch.

Many years ago, an L.A. friend and I wrote a screenplay, a romantic comedy. While we were shopping the script, I contacted an accomplished (Academy Award-nominated) screenwriter I knew vaguely through college, to get advice on how to make a deal. Midway through our conversation, he said, “Sorry Steve, can I put you on hold? I’ve got Steven Spielberg on the other line.” I told him that was OK, we could talk later. I was used to that sort of thing, being told that Steven Spielberg was on the other line. Anyway, there was always tomorrow. Or the next day…

Looking back now, I can’t remember if we ever did have that follow-up conversation. I think not. In any case, a few years ago, Spielberg came out with a movie (a bomb, I gather) that was awfully close to our story–so much so that another friend told me: “How come Spielberg made your movie?”

I doubt that he did. A guy like that probably has no shortage of ideas, and even if he did, there’ll always be an endless supply of people trying to tell him THEIR idea (trying to make it HIS idea). Still, I can’t help going back to that phone conversation many years back, when both Spielberg and I were talking to the same guy. At the same time. Almost on the same line. In the end, of course, my movie was never made. Spielberg’s was and, speaking objectively, I’m sure it sucks. But it’s out there in video stores and mine just remains a stack of papers, sitting in a box, collecting dust. Of course, that’s what happens when the two Stevens go head to head. Because in Hollywood, there’s still only one. Well, maybe two if you count Soderbergh. (Sorry Steven Segall. Please don’t karate chop me, as I’m still smarting from the body blow the other Steven already dealt me.)

Mitt’s on the stump again. Rather than allowing the state to provide security for Iran’s former president, Mohammed Khatami, during a scheduled talk next week at Harvard University, as is customary and would seem prudent, Romney–a presidential aspirant playing to his party’s far right (which is about as far as you can go)–has vowed not to spend a dollar of taxpayer’s money “to support a terrorist.” The dean of Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government, which is hosting the September 11 event, claimed the school is standing by its decision to invite Khatami to speak. According to the Boston Globe, the dean said that “decisions on whether to invite political figures with troubling records are made on a case-by-case basis.” Speaking of “troubling records, it makes me wonder: What would the Kennedy School of Government do–and more importantly, what would that grandstanding Romney do–if George W. Bush was invited to speak at Harvard instead?

Years ago, a mediocre movie came out called “Bad Influence” about an innocent, played by James Spader, who comes under the sway of a psychopath, played by Rob Lowe. Many years later, my talented younger cousin has come under the sway of a mediocre blogger. He claims said mediocre blogger (me, not to be too boastful) inspired him to start his own blog. I don’t want to claim too much credit for this fateful decision. You see my cousin used to be quite a productive member of society. He accomplished things: started restaurants, struck deals, gave pithy quotes to newspaper reporters–a lowly class he used to be part of. What’s more, he just became a father, entailing a level of responsibility that even this successful businessman and employer cannot yet fathom. So why is he risking all that and starting a blog–one of the greatest time-wasters yet invented–at this of all times? I don’t know. It seems my family is holding me responsible for this misstep, but they’re not talking to me about it. So I can only imagine what they’re saying. And thinking. About one rotten apple (as the old Jackson 5 song would have it) now threatening to spoil the whole darn bunch.

I’m an innocent. I’ve had my hand in a number of books (whatever that means), but I’ve never written a novel. (Maybe a novella, if you stretch the definition.) So it’s clear I don’t know the first thing about it. I thought novelists wrote the books themselves. I had no idea there was such a thing as “book packagers” like Alloy Entertainment (with 17 New York Times bestsellers in 2005!) that actually write (they say “package”) the books for you. All this came to light for me–and for many of you, no doubt–when stories surfaced about the poor Harvard undergraduate who apparently was overly zealous in “internalizing” the novels of another author. (Perhas the Harvard girl should have picked a more obscure writer?) The question now is whether that other author–the one who “externalized” it rather than “internalized” it–wrote the books herself, or did she leave the prose to the pros at Alloy or similar firms?

Dick Cheney addressed the media (question: is FOX NEWS really the media?) on Wednesday, expressing contrition over having mistaken his friend for a quail and then pulling the trigger. (With friends like that, who needs enemies?) It was one of the worst days of my life, said Cheney–the new poster child for the “gang that couldn’t shoot straight.”

What a shame. Cheney had a bad day on the ranch. I really feel for him. And what about Whittington, lying there in the hospital with birdshot lodged in his heart? How do you think he’d rate the day?

The Hopkinton, Massachusetts man I wrote about earlier, Neil Entwistle, has been upgraded from a “person of interest” regarding the murder of his wife and daughter to an outright suspect. Authorities believe they’ve found the gun used in the killings (though I’m still waiting for forensics on that) and now they’ve found evidence that Entwistle did internet searches on murder and suicide. (Note: Be careful what you search for!) The latest theory is that he planned a murder-suicide but quit halfway through the job.

Which brings up one of my pet peeves: “murder-suicide,” a trend apparently on the rise that I deplore. So the guy had some financial difficulties. Why did he think killing his wife and daughter and then, presumably, himself would make things better for them?

Here’s another thing that I deplore: Every time there’s a violent death in the family, who’s the first suspect? The father. Why? Because of jerks like Entwistle, that’s why. I’m not a proponent of suicide by any means, and it is a horrible societal problem. But maybe a guy like that should have just killed himself. I say that if you’re really intent on murder-suicide, kill yourself first. When you finish that job, you can see about the others.

I never met Coretta Scott King but I wonder what she’d think about having President Bush deliver a eulogy for her. What have his policies that favor rich (and predominately white) people done to further the causes of racial equality that she and her husband championed? How has the gutting of social services for the poor under Bush’s watch helped black people or the nation in general? Maybe the organizers of the funeral could have told the president: “Thanks for the offer, but we’d rather have our friends speak here today.” I don’t want to make light of Mrs. King’s death, but perhaps she’s lucky not to have lived to see the day when George W. Bush spoke at her funeral.

I know I’m supposed to like Elvis, if not love Elvis, because everyone is supposed to. It’s been the “in” thing for as long as I can remember. But “The Pelvis” never did it for me. I never liked the music and now that I learned he was a big admirer of Richard Nixon–and even volunteered to help Nixon fight illicit drug use (a strange choice for a pill-popping junkie or perhaps I should say two pill-popping junkies)–I like him even less as a person. So I must confess that I sympathized with the woman in Australia charged with stabbing her boyfriend with a scissors because he wouldn’t stop playing the Presley hit, “Burning Love,” over and over again. I’m just glad I wasn’t put in that same situation. I’d like to think I wouldn’t have reacted the same way, but until you’re put into a situation like that, you never know.

I got an email today from the notorious MarkoPolo trying to figure out what’s up with Call Me Snake, as he tried to access the site to write a brilliant comment and instead got the message “bandwidth exceeded.” I tried too and was similarly blocked. Marko wonders whether I pissed off some people (related to a recent “case,” perhaps?) who decided to shut me down. Did somebody “fry your server,” he asked, or “set up a loop?” (whatever that means).

Or maybe, he surmised, I couldn’t take the heat so I got out of the kitchen. The following is submitted as a test during this dark period. Did I shut myself down without knowing it or have others stepped in to block Call Me Snake? If you can read this, we can be assured that freedom of speech still prevails (at least to some extent) on these shores, in which case more verbiage will follow.

Here’s a screenplay for you: A devoted father and all-around funnyman (picture Roberto Benigni for the part), in an attempt to keep his son (a fanatical Celtics fan, perhaps with some sort of terminal illness) happy, pretends his beloved team is going to beat the Pacers in Indianapolis. To add to the drama, he describes in vivid fashion how Paul Pierce (his son’s favorite player, who visits often in the hospital, never forgetting to bring a little something for the nurses) gets ejected from the game with just seconds left in regulation for stiff-arming Jamaal Tinsley–a boneheaded move that puts a virtual rookie named Kendrick Perkins, who hasn’t been on the court all night, at the free throw line to make the two most important shots of his life. And he misses both! Yet the Celtics make a brave defensive stand, sending the game into overtime, during which they triumph despite the absence of their star Pierce. What’s more, Antoine Walker, who missed countless layups in regulation, and might have had some tough questions to answer, instead comes up with several clutch plays in overtime to seal the Celtics’ victory and send the series back to Boston for game 7. The boy goes to sleep happy–dying blissfully in his slumber as he dreams of the Celtics winning their first NBA championship since 1986–while the father is carted off by the Nazis to meet his doom.

This movie can’t miss: It will be a big hit, a veritable chartbuster at the box office, and, despite some controversy (which is good for the bottom line!), a critical success as well. Benigni, moreover will capture two Academy Awards–for best director and best actor–and surely would have captured a third, for Best Foreign Film, had the movie not been filmed at Massachusetts General Hospital. I will not win an Oscar for best original screenplay, but the nomination will be enough to secure my place in the Academy and ensure an endless supply of free, crappy movies for the rest of my life—that is, until I, too, am carted off by the Nazis to meet my doom…

If my intuition is correct, the NBA playoffs are about to begin and this year the Celtics may be joining the party. I say “may be” because I’ve had a problem with my Boston Globe subscription, particularly at the delivery end. It seems I have not been tipping the paperboy (or “information delivery specialist,” as they now like to be called) as often and generously as he would like. (I receive a solicitiation envelope at least once a week!) With the information flow cut off, I’ve been forced to rely on what I hear on the street, and from the dribs and drabs I pick up from the postman and the like, I get the distinct sense that something is afoot.

There has been much wrangling over the deal that brought Antoine Walker back to the Celtics, and I admit that “Call Me Snake” has been dragged reluctantly into the fray. It’s now time to settle this issue once and for all. With the benefit of hindsight, it seems clear that Ainge’s deal was indeed “brilliant” and I was “wrong” to have suggested otherwise. Of course, the “genius” of that transaction may soon be called into question, depending on how the Celts fare in the postseason, and I may ultimately be proved “right” again. There is only one place on Earth where I am always right, and that is here on the blogosphere in that cozy little nook known as “Call Me Snake.”

I just got back from Plymouth, Massachusetts and have a rather disturbing announcement: Plymouth Rock is missing. Gone. Kaput. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there’s no cause for alarm. But while driving past Plymouth Harbor this morning, en route to Plimoth (sic) Plantation, I did not see Plymouth Rock. In the spot of ocean where I expected to see a rock, there was nothing. Well not actually nothing. There was seawater all right, but no sign of a rock. So I have to conclude it’s gone. Unless the tide was unusually high. Or it got shifted during the last Nor’easter. Or I was looking in the wrong spot (unlikely, as I am normally a dead-on marksman). The main thing is not to panic. I might be mistaken. Still, it’s best to keep our eyes open, in case it turns up in an unexpected spot. In the meantime, I’m out looking for a replacement. And I might just pop it in sometime soon, when no one else is looking. If I do it quick, under the cover of night, most folks wouldn’t even know it was missing in the first place.

Before the ads on the local TV news last night at 11, the announcer said as a teaser: “And now the secret Britney’s fans have been dying to hear…” Shameless promotion like that never works on me. I promptly turned my TV off, canceling my cable subscription in the process. After all, what could a guy like me, who has everything going for him, possibly care about her sexual preferences? Not that there’s anything wrong with it…

The Celtics schedule is–and has been for decades–one of the best-kept secrets in Boston (along with where Arnold “Red” Auerbach procures his trademark cigars). Relying on a well-established network of informants, I have now determined that, in all likelihood, the team is off until Wednesday of this week, at which time it will resume league play against an opponent to be named. If several days have elapsed and you have not seen my official, play-by-play coverage of the Men (Boys?) in Green’s latest contest, it is probably due to the fact that they have not yet played. Continuous updates will be posted here as more information comes in.

Awhile back, I suggested that perhaps I had been hasty to raise questions about the wisdom of the Antoine Walker trade (“Maybe I was wrong,” February 26, 2005). Well, sure enough, the Celtics have gone on to win 6 of their last 7 and the genius of GM Danny Ainge has been widely pronounced (“True Genius,” March 9, 2005). Last night the Celts earned one of their biggest wins of the season, a double-overtime triumph over the defending World Champs, the Detroit Pistons. But Walker was just 4 of 19 from the floor, missing several easy layups, clanging free throws, and often trying to go coast-to-coast, only to lose the ball at the other end (4 turnovers for the night). So maybe I was right after all, and maybe Ainge is not the genius everyone claims. Time will tell, of course. But I now think I might have been wrong to say I was wrong.

From time to time in this space, we weigh in on the great issues of the day–not just Patriots’ fever and Antoine Walker’s return, but other pressing issues like Social Security. I’ll admit, I’m not a history scholar. In fact, my last history class was in high school, and that was a few years back. (You do the math.) But I seem to recall that Social Security arose in an era called The New Deal (not to be confused with the Fair Deal, the Real Deal, and the Raw Deal), which was itself a response to the Great Depression. The collapse of the stock markets, and the ensuing collapse of banks that triggered, left people penniless. Social Security, I surmise, was designed to provide a cushion for folks in times like that. But now our fearless leader is proposing to tie Social Security to the stock market–what had been the original source of the problem. Kind of defeats the whole purpose, doesn’t it? As I say, I’m no scholar. Certainly no expert. Just a guy asking questions, with no disrespect intended. Still, it does make you wonder…

By now, we’ve all heard more than we can stomach about road rage. Blog rage, I predict, will be the next fad. A large number of bloggers, it seems, are seething with anger, which can pour out at the slightest provocation. This became evident last January, when Harvard hosted a blogging and journalism conference, to which only a select number of bloggers were invited. Those who were left out of the proceedings expressed their dismay in vitriolic terms, to say the least. And the controversy–over nothing, really, when you get right down to it–raged on, by means of dyspeptic comments, long after the event was over. “Why are so many bloggers angry?” asked my editor–the one editing my article on blogging, in fact. The answer is simple: There are 8 million bloggers (and by now that number may be 9 million or 10 million, but let’s stick with 8 million for the sake of argument), and no one gives a damn about 7.999 million of them. That makes for a lot of people whose stuff is not being read, and they’re mad as hell about it. These people don’t get invited on Charlie Rose or to elite conferences at Harvard, and they’re mad as hell about that too. Why aren’t they being read? The answer again is simple: It’s a lot easier to write a pile of crap and post it on the internet than it is to read someone else’s pile of crap posted on the internet. This I believe.