Call Me Snake

Yesterday, during my handball game at the Cambridge Y,  I told my fellow players how I'd recently beaten two 90-year-olds in handball while I was in Chicago earlier this week. "You might not want to put that on your resume," one of my Cambridge buddies advised.

This is my first post of 2015, and I'm starting things off--as usual--on a worrisome note. For the first time ever, my wife said "no worries" to me. The phrase came up in a phone conversation a few minutes ago, and it's an expression I'm not fond of. Worse yet, it is making me worry in a big way.

Scott Brown took his pickup truck and transparent carpetbagger ruse north of the border, to New Hampshire, but could not convince enough Granite State voters to buy his hollow act. Maybe he'll establish residency in Maine next in the hopes of making another bid for the U.S. Senate. And if that fails, he can continue his northward journey to Canada where he could test the political waters again.

The tall fish tale told by Charlie Baker during his recent debate with Martha Coakley was dishonest on many levels--a cynical, calculated attempt to present a softer side to the supposedly numbers-driven CEO. Baker couldn't pull off this lie because his acting skills--unlike those of, say, Bill Clinton--are severely wanting. He and his minions have been backpedaling ever since he conjured up fake tears onstage during his face-off against Coakley. Maybe the guy wasn't from New Bedford, they say, on second thought. Maybe his sons didn't play football. Maybe they did or did not get scholarships. And maybe one of them, or both, did go to college after all. Next they may be admitting that the guy wasn't even a fisherman.

The only thing about this fishy tale that rings true is the part about the "big, sweaty guy." Only the big, sweaty guy is Charlie Baker himself, squirming under the spotlight brought upon himself by the bogus story he tried to palm off on us.

After handball today, my friends and I reflected on everyone's health. Three guys were plagued with bad backs; one had a bad hip (or two); another was suffering from foot problems. (I was feeling pretty good, actually, but that's besides the point.) All of these afflictions are bad, a player named Jim told me, "but the back's the worst." A second later, he amended that statement, saying, "No, everything's the worst."

While working out at the Cambridge Y, I saw some football experts (including Mike Ditka) on TV call Peyton Manning "the greatest quarterback ever." This was just before Manning broke Brett Favre's record on total passing yards. I asked a Patriots fan who worked at the front desk of the Y what she thought of the experts' pronouncements. She scoffed at their statement, suggesting they didn't know what they were talking about. "Tom Brady is just as equal as Peyton Manning," she said. "And Peyton Manning is just as equal as Tom Brady."

Call it an occupational hazard, but I'm often asked to write things of all sorts, from books to, well, other things. Sometimes I'm called on for my skills as a reviewer, and today was no exception. STAPLES, the "Office Superstore," just asked me to review a number of the products they sell, including BOUNTY Paper Towels and CHARMIN Toilet Paper. As an experienced (and highly sought after) professional, I take my reviews very seriously and will therefore proceed with my writing cautiously, taking it just one sheet at a time.