CALL ME SNAKE

A few weeks ago, an editor friend of mine got caught in a traffic jam while driving along the river–at the same time, coincidentally, that my group was playing volleyball along the river. “That’s Steve, someone who writes for my magazine,” she told her son, who plays volleyball on the high school varsity squad. After watching for a bit, while stuck in gridlock, the lad offered the following assessment: “Not bad for old guys.”

And he was catching me on a bad day–my first time out in nine months (no, I was not pregnant!), plus I had a sprained thumb (about which too much has already been said) that was all taped up and definitely messed up my setting. Had he seen us under better conditions, he might have upgraded the remark to: “Not half bad for old guys.”

I’ve done my part in promoting Parade Magazine in these pages. Now it’s time for Parade to do something for me like, for instance, putting me on the cover. I’d be delighted to tell James Brady, Dotson Rader, or some other trusted scribe my inspirational story: about how I graduated from a prestigious public high school with great promise as my class’ sole “Dartmouth Book Award” winner and then how I squandered my talent and seemingly accomplished nothing for years–lost in a miasma of indecision and unfulfilled expectations–only to find fulfillment later (when all had written me off, especially myself [more on that later!]) through family, work, and, most importantly, blogging. (Note to James, Dotson, or one of the editors of Parade: Please leave a comment in the box below to arrange an interview. I’m happy to speak with you anytime, except during my scheduled volleyball or handball games, or during reruns of “The Office,” or during my daily sudoku break, or during what has traditionally come to be called in our household “Daddy’s time.” Apart from the aforementioned obligations, and a few others I forgot to mention, I’ll be glad to meet with you anytime. Please let me know when the photographers are coming so that I’ll be sure to make my bed.)

Last week, I watched the movie “Prime,” which came out on DVD a few months ago. The movie (starring Uma Thurman and Meryl Streep) is OK, as contemporary romantic comedies go–nothing special, and certainly not worth writing about in a discriminating blog like this except for one thing: In the opening montage of New York City street scenes, handball was featured, which may be a movie first. At least I can’t recall seeing handball in a big commercial picture before. However, I only recommend the movie for the true handball aficionado since the handball shots–good as they were (and they were, indeed, outstanding)–lasted less than two seconds.

It’s not often I do two posts in the same day. On the other hand, it’s not often that I (or anyone else for that matter) gets called “the chief holy grail hunter in all of science,” which is how I was described on today’s Improbable Research site (see link on right). As the editor of that site, as well as the editor of the renowned journal, The Annals of Improbable Research, put it (talking again about ME, as in yours truly): “Years ago, he began a relentless quest to find and document all the holy grails pursued by all the scientists everywhere. His latest collection, fixating on astronomy’s holy grails, appears in the May/June issue of the Annals of Improbable Research.” Part of that article appears online at: www.improbable.com. OK, now I’m going to stop bragging about myself and start bragging about you–a very supportive bunch, as has lately emerged, and full of insightful comments. Keep up the good work!

P.S. Please ignore that last post, “Somethin’ Fishy” (I believe it was called), as well as its predecessor, “Something About Tuesday” (or something like that), as I’ve since concluded the blog stats I was writing about are indeed bogus. Most would not have mentioned it, but I am bound here to a higher authority, that being the truth. You’ve come to expect of me no less. And I of you.

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.

It’s often said that things ain’t what they used to be. It’s said often enough, in fact, that some might consider the statement a cliche. I prefer to call it a truism. Athletic supporters are a case in point. Years ago–in what was affectionately called the “good old days”–athletic supporters used to do their jobs, which was to provide that special support that male athletes had come to depend on, keeping things in their proper place, so to speak. But they don’t make ‘em like they used to. The supporters you can get these days barely work at all, and in the rare cases that they do work, they only do so for a few months before getting stretched out beyond the point of usefulness. Which is why I started off this essay–or perhaps I should call it a disquisition–with that old chestnut: Things ain’t what they used to be. Any males in the audience, especially those old enough to recall the golden era of athletic supporters, will know just what I’m talking about. Female readers, assuming there are any, can only imagine.

Ever since Emerson, much has been made of a “foolish consistency.” But what of foolish inconsistencies? Should we just let them pass by, unchallenged? Or should we take a stand for moral, logical, and grammatical rectitude? One author has bravely chosen the latter course, and that–as they say in horse racing–has made all the difference.

Allow me to present Exhibit A. In yesterday’s Metro, a free Boston tabloid, the headline of one article read: “Higher gas prices mean modest increase in tourism.” The caption, a mere 1/2-inches above that line, read: “Faneuil Hall Marketplace and other Boston attractions may see fewer tourists this year.” Yet if, as the article plainly states (in the very first sentence) that Massachusetts expects to see a “modest increase in tourism,” why do they–in the same breath, as it were–insist on speaking of “fewer tourists”?

Shall we proceed to Exhibit B? (I’ll meet you in the foyer.) An article in last week’s Harvard University newspaper claimed that the naturalist E.O. Wilson is “optimistic about life on Earth.” Yet a photo caption, again only about an inch away, says that Wilson sees the 21st century as “a time when humans will celebrate and preserve biodiversity, or wreck life on Earth.” If that passes for optimism these days, then call me (an avowed skeptic) an optimist. And when you’re done calling me an optimist, Call Me Snake.

In one of his many duties in addition to running the country, Karl Rove is now focusing on the “legacy” of George W. Bush. Earlier this month, when one White House staffer suggested that time was scarce on the legacy front, Rove claimed there was plenty of time. “Jack Kennedy’s whole presidency was two-and-a-half years,” he said, as reported in the Washington Post.

With all due respect, Mr. Rove, I knew Jack Kennedy. I remember clearly the day he was shot (I was in grade school). And your boy is no Jack Kennedy. You could have two-and-a-half years or 100 years, and it would not turn your Vietnam era draft dodger (who played duck-and-cover during his “defining moment,” 9/11) into a World War II war hero.

Mission accomplished? I think not. Try Mission Impossible. And while you’re at it, maybe you can convince that screwball Tom Cruise to play “W.”

(Author’s Note: To avoid charges of plagiarism, I’d like to say, upfront, that I got this from my #1 source of news, “Personality Parade” in the one magazine I’d most like to have on a desert island, “Parade,” assuming, of course, I hadn’t “Lost” my subscription.) When asked about his interests, the male model and Halle Berry companion Gabriel Aubry mentioned tanning. “If you’re tan,” as Aubry wisely noted, “you can’t go wrong.” Even readers of this blog who are not male models (assuming there are any–either readers or readers who are not male models) might still find a kernel of truth, and perhaps some inspirational words to live by, in Aubry’s sage remark. And let us all say, “Thank you, Parade.” Where would we go for important news without you?

What words of encouragement does the U.S. scrabble champion have to impart to the rest of us civilians? “The typical American who plays in their living room is terrible,” says the champ, MIT undergraduate Jason Katz-Brown. But surely there’s something useful he can tell us–some helpful hint that will enable us to improve our games. Katz-Brown points to the official Scrabble dictionary, which lists the 80,000 or so allowable words. “I know every one of them,” he says.

If only I’d thought of that, maybe he’d be writing about me in his blog and I’d be, uh, playing championship-level Scrabble. Oh well, I tell myself in times like these. I can’t be number one in everything. (Or anything, for that matter, if you want to be that way. But please don’t. After all, it’s a well-known fact that “Mean People Suck.” You don’t have to take my word for it. I read it on a bumper sticker somewhere, so it’s gotta’ be true…)

I didn’t realize, until lately, that blog.com tallies statistics like “pageviews per day.” For some strange reason, pageviews for Call Me Snake took off on Tuesday of this week, exceeding 130, nearly four times the number on Wednesday. I still can’t figure out what was going on Tuesday to account for this surge. The best explanation I can come up with has to do with volleyball, which is what I normally turn to when all other explanations fail. On Tuesday, you see, I played volleyball for the first time after a long hiatus. I’d taken a break from active play for about nine months to sharpen my inner game. Tuesday was the day for me to put all that good “inner” work to use in an “outer” game. (We did, in fact, play outside, as is our custom this time of year.) Somehow, I’m thinking, people must have known about that riverside game. Otherwise, I’m hard-pressed to explain Tuesday’s pageview explosion, which may otherwise remain a mystery for the ages…

We’re going through one of the worst crises a family with small children can go through–a babysitter crisis, the problem being no babysitter whatsoever at present. We’ve met a few candidates who seemed like they’d be up for the job. The top one, unfortunately, charges $18 to $20 per hour, more than the combined earnings of my wife and I combined (blog revenues excepted). She seemed great, someone with a real flair for arts and crafts, and our children are enthusiastic. My wife is also anxious to hire her, but I’m balking at the steep asking price. “Think of it this way,” my wife said. “How much are our children worth?”

“Plenty,” I said. “But not $18 to 20 an hour.”

I was listening to the BBC this morning (what a cultured fellow I am!), though I must confess I wasn’t listening too carefully. Nevertheless, I did hear the reporter–Mark Doyle I believe he said his name was–mention something about “the $65,000 question.” I always thought it was the $64,000 question. I guess that was before inflation set in. Just another Sign O’ the Times, I reckon…

Last month I described my latest handball injury–a sprained thumb that has not only kept me from handball (See “Man Down! Man Down!” for further details), but has also delayed my volleyball comeback. I’ve also talked about injuries sustained while working on a (60-piece?) puzzle with my 3-year-old (now 4, but that’s another story) and, I believe, a separate injury sustained while playing a game with her, Connect Four, perhaps. Now I’ve gone and done it again in what is, quite possibly, the stupidest way one can injury him- or herself.

It’s all because of these damn moths that start plaguing us this time of year. It’s my fault, I suppose (when isn’t it?) for amassing a larger cereal box collection than Jerry Seinfeld ever dreamed of. (And with his money, he could actually put together a formidable collection, if he chose to.) In any case, last night when I was tired and not thinking straight (which pretty much applies to every waking moment, and probably every sleeping moment as well, as I have never been a good sleeper), a moth flew past me in the kitchen. I took a wild swing at it–just as I took a wild swing at Jimmie’s serve in handball, which started this whole problem–and in the process of not killing the moth, I bashed my sprained thumb on the arm of my kitchen chair. So I’m back to square one (which is, by now, getting to be a pretty familiar place), still not playing handball, still not playing volleyball, and still not getting any younger. I’d like to say I’m at least getting older and wiser, but the facts, such as they are, argue against it.

 

 

I say it every year, but it bears repeating: What are they teaching kids these days? I just passed through Harvard Square, in a frantic race to pick up my daughter from preschool. How many kids did I see–new graduates from Harvard, wearing the traditional robes and caps, their whole lives ahead of them, so to speak, such talent, such promise… So what do they do? Step out onto Mass. Ave. without looking both ways, or even looking one way. And these are Harvard kids, after all. Clearly their education is lacking in at least one important respect. We can only hope Derek Bok will address this deficit during his interim term.

Last week, in a scene reminiscent of a classic family movie, our babysitter up and quit on us. Which means we’ve gone an entire week with absolutely no “coverage.” Desperate times like these demand desperate measures. Which is why I’ve taken the extraordinary step of hiring a 20-year-old male babysitter–one, I might add, who is considered quite a “hottie” among the mothers at our daughter’s preschool. The whole thing makes me a bit uneasy, I must confess–the thought of my wife having impure thoughts about him in the same way I might (though emphatically do not!) have impure thoughts about an equally hot (though viva la difference!) 20-year-old female babysitter.

At a preschool gathering tonight, some of the mothers began talking about this same babysitter. “Does it make you want to be 20 again?” someone asked a mom who’s now in her early 50s. “No,” she replied. “But I’d sure like to know if his father’s divorced.”

Hypocrisy is running rampant in the Bay State formerly known as the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. (The wealth here is anything but “common,” as the following story illustrates…) U.S. Representative William Delahunt is now a big proponent of offshore wind power, despite the fact that he helped spearhead the opposition to the Cape Wind proposal–the one project out there that could make a difference in this region. Ted Kennedy has also been a hypocrite, pushing a provision to give governor Mitt Romney veto power over the Cape Wind project, knowing full well that Romney is an avowed enemy of the project. What really stinks about it is that Romney’s views are antithetical to Kennedy’s. Ordinarily Kennedy wouldn’t grant Romney veto power over anything, including the school lunch menu, but he made an exception in this one case where the wealthy and powerful of Cape Cod (hangers-on at the Kennedy compound included), Martha’s Vineyard, and Nantucket–as well as the people who pander to them (I’m talking about you Mitt!)–are coming together to thwart clean energy in New England.

Teddie’s nephew, Robert F. Kennedy Jr., is a vocal critic of the Cape Wind proposal, despite the fact that his employer, NRDC, has been a longtime proponent of wind power in general, as well as a backer of this effort in particular.

The third (fourth? I’m losing track!) instance of hypocrisy is the reaction to a plan to erect a wind farm in Buzzard’s Bay, away from the wealthy constituency fighting Cape Wind–folks, no doubt, who consider themselves staunch environmentalists. Frauds like Kennedy and Romney instantly claimed the idea had merit. For Kennedy, it was a classic case of YIMBY: Yes In Someone Else’s Back Yard.

As I always say (not that anyone’s askin’): It’s easy to be an environmentalist, so long as you don’t have to give up anything for it.

Sorry for the prolonged absence. I played “Mr. Mom” this week while my wife was out of town on a business trip. That and a big work deadline left me little time for my most important job: combing the papers in search of the perfect story. I found it in Monday’s Boston Globe–a few days late, but this one was well worth the wait. Filed in the “New England in brief” section, it reads: ‘MAN BITTEN BY NEIGHBOR’S DOG.” What an original story, I thought. In all my years of reading the paper from cover to cover, I’ve never seen anything like it. Sure, I’ve seen the usual “Man bites dog” story, which are a dime-a-dozen. But “man bitten by dog,” now there’s an original twist. Which is why it caught my fancy.

I’ve been so inspired by this find, in fact, that I plan to contact my local TV news station and suggest the possibility of their running the occasional “bad weather” (flooded basement, flooded city street, etc.) story or maybe something having to do with a burning building. (I can already see the accompanying headline in the newspaper.) But nah, forget it. What a crazy idea. They’d never go for it, not in a million years…