CALL ME SNAKE

In describing the environmental writer Bill McKibben, an article in today's Boston Globe called him "a youthful-looking 46." I have nothing against the guy and have never met him in person but judging from the pictures provided in the paper, he looks more or less like someone who's 46. In other words, he looks his age. And there's nothing wrong with that. Yet for some reason reporters always feel obligated to describe everyone as "youthful-looking" or "looking younger than the years." Of course, if everyone looks younger than their years, they actually look their age. So maybe we can finally stop this entrenched pattern of age deflation. Maybe people can start looking their age for a change. This I believe.

The other day, I saw two women saying goodbye to each other (in a coffee house, or something like that, or was it in the lobby of a gym?). One put her hand on top of her friend's hand and said: "Take good care." It was a well-intentioned phrase, in all likelihood, but I for one take offense. What's wrong with simply saying, "Take care"? By saying "take good care," one is almost implying that "take care" is not good enough and that those who employ the short form don't really care all that much. But the revised expression is inflationary in my opinion. If we go down that path, soon everyone will be saying "take very good good" and before long "take exceptionally good care." If that happens, we would have traded in a perfectly acceptable two-syllable phrase for a cumbersome and unwieldly eight-syllable one. Well, that's all I have to say on this subject for now except for some parting words of advice. If anyone says "take good care" to you, reply in as polite a manner as possible: "No thanks. But I will take care."

With the recent (albeit controversial) demotion of Pluto to something less than full planetary status, Astronomy Magazine says the time has come for a new mnemonic device to help schoolchildren, as well as the rest of us, remember the now eight planets. Following Astronomy's lead, Call Me Snake is also soliciting suggestions. To give you an idea of what we're looking for, here's one for starters:  Many varied examples mainly just suggest utter nonsense.

Here's another: My vast experience may just show us nothing. 

Don't delay. Please submit your entries today. The fate of the solar system, if not the universe, is at stake. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you were an up-and-coming antique Shanghai furniture establishment trying to make your mark on the U.S. market, what would you do? If you were smart, like Jun He Antique Furniture, and wanted to reach the largest possible audience, you'd post a comment on the Call Me Snake, advertising your wares (antique chinese furniture of Ming & Qing style, copy antique furniture, wood carving, windows and screens, orient hardware, accessory, painting, Lighting & Lamp.) Which is just what Jun He Antique Furniture did. Other Chinese furniture outlets have also found the Call Me Snake comment box to be a most convivial (and rewarding) home. If you have any furniture to unload (stolen goods accepted), you could do worse than posting cryptic messages on Call Me Snake.

The situation I was worried about--and wrote about so eloquently in the Cambridge Chronicle and here in these pages--has come to pass. Last week, I sprained my thumb (bashed it against the wall in a pathetic attempt to return Jimmie's notorioius corner serve). Dannie was already out with back spasms. And the new Dannie, whom I've also written about as the potential savior of the declining local handball scene, was also out with a cut finger (dishwashing accident, he claims). That means that at the moment, there are only three available players--the aforementioned Jimmie, Ronnie, and Woody--not enough for even a single game of doubles. I knew the situation was dire when I wrote my answer to "Common Sense" two weeks ago, but it has quickly escalated to the "crisis" level (Code Yellow or Orange and maybe even Red). The solution is obvious, and hardly bears repeating, yet I will lest any members of the public have been caught unawares: Cambridge needs more handball players. It's not just one Cassandra whining in the breeze. No, it's much more than that: The future of a dying game is at stake.
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What happened to the Bumper Sticker contest announced last month? Who are the winners? What are the prizes? I'm sure these and similar questions have been coursing through your heads over the past three-and-a-half weeks since the March 30 announcement. The answer is this: It hardly seems like a Bumper Sticker contest without our perennial champion, Gatemouth, joining in. So this is a time of humility for me. I'm on my knees begging Gatemouth to send in his entries for which, no doubt, he will be duly rewarded. Please Gatemouth, an important tradition is depending on you. And surely we cannot let too another "important tradition" go down the drain, along with phonebooth stuffing, goldfish swallowing, and the like. As James Jones once said (or was it James Joyce?): There's a subtle difference between man and beast--a thin red line known as "THE FIRST ANNUAL APRIL FOOL'S DAY BUMPER STICKER SWEEPSTAKES."

I don't normally use this space to get on the soapbox, but some matters are so urgent as to prompt, and indeed necessitate, urgent measures. Handball is a dying sport. Let me break that down for you one more time in case you weren’t paying attention: Handball is a dying sport. I have that on the highest authority--from my father back in Chicago, who's played the game for nearly 60 years. So if he says a game is dying, I'm inclined to believe him. And that certainly seems to be the case at the Cambridge Family YMCA. We're now down to just five handball players--six if you count John, who comes just once or twice a year (on account of being too busy with his new university job). Five is not much when you consider that Ronnie's got knee issues, Jimmy has back issues, Woody has shoulder issues, I've got my own "issues," and Danny is retired and travels a lot (too much, if you ask me). A few men down ("Man down! Man down!") and we'll have trouble scraping together a game.

We've lost a lot to attrition over the years: Tony's shoulder finally got to him. (He hated losing to people worse than him--i.e., people like me.) Jeff faded away; they say his wife didn't let him out much once they had kids. Neal, who used to live a few blocks from the Y, moved to Arlington; Gary, who used to live in Arlington, moved to China. Various other people just moved on period.

At the same time, our recruitment efforts haven't panned out so far. Vinnie showed up a couple of years ago, but (as the Boston "Open-level" champ), he was too good for us and moved on. Trevor (a former Irish champ) stopped coming after a few times and maybe moved back to Ireland. Phil showed up once and didn't come back. (He said his hands hurt.) Donnie showed up once and didn't come back. (He said his hands hurt.) Tommy played once, after a long layoff, and hasn't come back. (He said his hands hurt--a refrain that is becoming all too familiar, if not tedious.)

So we're down, as I said, to the "fabulous five," just barely scraping by, in contrast to the situation a couple of decades ago when there were dozens of players and regular tournaments and court time was hard to come by. Hence this urgent appeal: Any handball players in the Cambridge/Boston area owe it to themselves, and to the sport itself, to come on down to the Cambridge Family YMCA. There's more at stake here than just the interests of a handful of desperate players. We're trying to save a dying game.

 

My team, the New England Patriots, stumbled last night in Denver, ending their string of 10 straight playoff victories. It was disappointing to watch, but the Patriots still went out like, well like Patriots. Despite several big errors and one crucial bad call by the officials, they still kept battling back. Until, of course, time ran out on the season and their dreams (and mine) of a third straight Super Bowl.

So I too can reclaim my life once again, going back to all the things I do in the off season, which, as best I recall, consists of killing time until the fall returns and a new football season is upon us. Don't despair: We can and will get through this.

I racked my brains trying to solve a sudoku puzzle in the Boston Globe Magazine last month. To no avail. I couldn't get it done. I was stuck and frustrated. Why was this happening to me, an incipient sudoku master?

The answer came in the Globe two days later: "CORRECTION: Because of a transcription error, the Sudoku puzzle in the Globe Magazine on Sunday omitted the numeral 3 from the end of row 8 in column 9, making it impossible to correctly solve the puzzle."

Well, thanks for the clarification, albeit belated. So I'm not a complete fool, though that, of course, is debatable, because anyone with half a wit would have given up long before I did. The fact is, I wasted a lot of time trying to solve an insoluble puzzle--precious time I could have wasted in many other ways.

I'm sure some of you may be worried that my erstwhile volleyball blog is rapidly devolving into a sudoku blog. I have nothing to say on that subject other than to paraphrase Coach Belichick (or was it Coach Parcells, his former mentor?): "It is what it is." (Or, as the football geniuses would have it: "You are what you are." Which is, of course, merely another take on Popeye's most famous utterance.) The main point--or take-home message, if you will--is this: I have no idea what kind of blog this is (other than self-important and longwinded). It surprises me all the time. And I have no idea what it will come up with next. If you have even a modicum of curiosity, please stay tuned.

Hello everyone -- Please take a minute from your shopping to read this important notice. Entries for the latest Bumper Sticker competition are pouring in from all quarters and our judges are close to rendering a decision. Consider this a gentle reminder to one of our readers, and a perennial winner (like the Celtics and Lakers when they used to win), named GATEMOUTH. Please respond when you get a moment. Otherwise all winners will have an asterisk after their award, thereby devaluing their efforts. I don't think you want to have that on your conscience--headed as we are, full steam ahead, toward the holiday juggernaut.