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.

As we speak (are we “speaking,” or are am I just “talking” again, as usual?), the judges are poring over the many fine entries we’ve received to date for this month’s Octoberfest Blogging Bumper Sticker Sweepstakes (see October 1 post for important guidelines). Many outstanding entries have already been submitted, including numerous gems from yours truly (who invariably tends to win one prize or another, if not several). Nevertheless, we still haven’t heard from many of you, including a perennial winner in the name of one Gatemouth Brown, who may or may not the recently deceased musical genius of the same name. In any case, we’re reaching out to you Gatemouth–call it an “intervention,” a gentle tug from the lure of the TV screen–and to others who are thinking of entering but haven’t made the time or are ashamed of their entries and worried they’re just not “up to snuff.” Please don’t hold back. We’ve seen a lot of real stinkers over the months, let me tell you, and I promise not to laugh or otherwise humiliate you in public (unless absolutely necessary). After all, we do this for fun. Right? Otherwise, what’s the point? (I’ll need to think about that last question but, as of right now, I don’t have anything remotely approaching an answer.)

These “How Are You?” columns are fast becoming a regular feature here at “Call Me Snake,” and a popular one at that, according to the feedback I’ve received to date–a chance to take the spotlight off me for a change and put it on you. Speaking of me, I’m doing fine, apart from a new ailment (back spasms) that struck me yesterday at 12:30 as I tried to get my rollerblades on. The rollerblading did not go too well after that–I made it to my driveway, before turning back–but apart from that minor setback (or major setback depending on YOUR point of view. From my point of view it is major but this one, as I’ve stressed upfront, is all about you–your troubles, your hopes, your dreams, your pet chinchillas…)

So much for the “how are you” aspect of this multi-faceted post. Now for the “who are you” aspect. Starting on September 1, I noticed for the first time a “blog stats” link on the lower right of this blog. It has not worked too well: After several days, all the previous stats seem to evaporate like, uh, well, you can finish the sentence…. (After all, this is YOUR chance for the spotlight.) But in any case, getting back to the stats, I was surprised to see that according to whatever (or whoever) bean counter is at play here, nearly 50 “unique visitors” drop by on “Call Me Snake” each day. I only know a handful of you–and charges have been levied that some or most of those folks are my inventions to “pump up the ratings,” as my critics say. So the question remains, who the heck are the rest of you? Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to hear that someone outside my immediate family is actually perusing these offerings from time to time, and everyone who does so is, by all means, encouraged to keep it up. Tell your friends and mention it at a church social, if it seems natural and not forced. But if any of the “unique visitors” who are flying below the radar care to introduce themselves, I’ll be glad to make your acquaintance. After all, this time it’s all about you.

As some might notice, though most will not, I have done something I’ve never done before at Call Me Snake: I’ve deleted a post. Not just one post, but seven–all of which were peripherally related to an individual who is now facing criminal charges. I never meant to “drag this person through the mud,” as I was charged with, or to add to his legal difficulties. It all started innocently enough–I was simply intrigued by a name. An idle post about that led to some comments from people in the know, which in turn led to inquiries from reporters at the New Yorker and other newspapers trying to find leads for their own investigations. Things kind of took off from there; I played along for fun, not thinking that for some people this was no joking matter.

I’m sure those who reacted most strongly to my posts have no idea what this blog is about and, in fact, I could not explain it in 200 words or less. But the point I’d like to make, in closing, is that I never meant to defame someone who, evidently, is widely loved and has done many good things in his community. If I unintentionally did so, I apologize. Rest assured that no harm was intended.

At a Chinese restaurant last night, where we celebrated my 6-year-old’s birthday, my mother-in-law mentioned, in passing, that the word “humongous” has fallen out of favor and is not used nearly as much as it was in the past, when it used to be “really big.” She asked if there was anything I could do about it. I told her I’d handle it (my standard response), and that’s what this post is all about.

“Humongous” has dropped off precipitously, if you believe her dire warnings (and I have no reason to doubt her; she also warned her daughter, to no avail, before our union was formalized, though that advice was sound, as always). Now it’s up to us to remedy the situation. Start using “humongous” as often as possible, even when it is clearly inappropriate, and tell others to do the same. Use it in posts, use it in comments, use it in staff meetings, in dinnertable conversations, in chat rooms, in classrooms. Wherever, whatever, it doesn’t matter; just spread the word. Humongous deserves better. It ought to be bigger than big–even bigger than enormous, and a tad larger than huge, if you ask me. If we all do our jobs, it will be.

There’s a new word circulating around these days, and I’d like to put a stop to it. Call me a stick-in-the-mud, call me a curmudgeon, call me a jabbernow, but I hate the word “snarky.” I don’t know what it means and don’t want to know, though I sense it’s popular in “cyber” circles. Even bloggers, whom I consider to be the last bastion of sanity, are using it. But that will soon end. I promise never to use the word again. Now it’s up to you to do your part. For starters, please don’t refer to this site as “Call Me Snark.”

We know we’re doing well. Still, from time to time, we like to ask the reader just how well we’re doing. Are there some areas you’d like to see more attention devoted to? For example, do you think the Antoine Walker debate has received adequate coverage? Would you like to hear more about the author’s daily struggles with Patriots Obsessive Disorder or about this blog’s quest to find an identity we can all embrace? Please let us know your thoughts on these and other critical matters. Your input is extremely helpful to us. And thanks in advance for the care and attention you are giving to this discussion.

In a comment to a previous posting (I’ll be damned if I can remember which), one trenchant observer called my entry “a veiled call for help.” That was not too far from the truth. But now I’m pulling the veil off altogether in a flat-out, unvarnished plea: HEY, I NEED SOME HELP HERE! One of the things that convinced me to try out this blogging business was talk of it being a new form of “participatory” media. A blogging expert told me that the old model of one-way communications (i.e., an esteemed author speaking to faceless millions) was out the window. From here on in, she said, it’s a two-way street. That promise has failed to materialize. Sure a few people kick in their two cents worth every now and then, but to quote my old classics professor from college: The occasional two cents doth not a two-way street make. You folks out there–slackers I’m tempted to say–have to start fulfilling your end of the bargain. I can’t do it alone anymore. So come on: Stop all your productive activities, get down on your butts, and start typing.