In a Word

intendiment
n. intention or purpose

auspicate
v. to begin an undertaking

mercation
n. the act of purchasing something

Alnaschar
n. a person given to unrealistic dreams, expectations, or plans

In the summer of 1967, the Beatles briefly considered buying a set of Greek islands where they could live and work together.

“We were all going to live together now, in a huge estate,” Derek Taylor says in Anthology. “The four Beatles and Brian [Epstein] would have their network at the centre of the compound: a dome of glass and iron tracery (not unlike the old Crystal Palace) above the mutual creative/play area, from which arbours and avenues would lead off like spokes from a wheel to the four vast and incredibly beautiful separate living units. In the outer grounds, the houses of the inner clique: Neil [Aspinall], Mal [Evans], Terry [Doran] and Derek, complete with partners, families and friends.”

John, Paul, and George got as far as touring the islands south of Athens and visiting one they considered buying. But indulging the idea for an afternoon seemed to be enough for them. George said, “We got back on the boat and sailed away, and never thought about the island again.”

“It’s a good job we didn’t do it,” Paul said later, “because anyone who tried those ideas realised eventually there would always be arguments, there would always be who has to do the washing-up and whose turn it is to clean out the latrines. I don’t think any of us were thinking of that.”

Diversion

https://archive.org/details/mad-43-man-squamish-mad-095/mode/2up

In 1965, Mad Magazine presented the rules of a deliberately incomprehensible sport. 43-Man Squamish was designed to be impossible to play, but a nameless Wikipedia editor has heroically summarized the rules:

Each team consists of one left and one right Inside Grouch, one left and one right Outside Grouch, four Deep Brooders, four Shallow Brooders, five Wicket Men, three Offensive Niblings, four Quarter-Frummerts, two Half-Frummerts, one Full-Frummert, two Overblats, two Underblats, nine Back-Up Finks, two Leapers and a Dummy—for a total of 43. The game officials are a Probate Judge (dressed as a British judge, with wig), a Field Representative (in a Scottish kilt), a Head Cockswain (in long overcoat), and a Baggage Smasher (dressed as a male beachgoer in pre–World War I years). None of the officials has any authority after play has begun.

Squamish is played on a pentagonal field, or Flutney, and the game is divided into a period of 15 minutes, known as an Ogre. Most squamish games consist of seven Ogres, unless of course, it rains. In that case, they are to play eight Ogres. Competitors wear gloves, a helmet, and flippers. They pursue the Pritz (or ball), which is 3 3/4 inches in diameter, constructed from untreated ibex hide, and is stuffed with blue jay feathers. Each player is equipped with a Frullip, a long hooked stick very similar in appearance to a shepherd’s crook that is used to impede opponents.

Before any game, the Probate Judge must first flip a coin, usually a new Spanish peseta, while the Visiting Captain guesses the toss. If he guesses correctly, the game is cancelled immediately. If not, the Home Team Captain must then decide if he wishes to play offense or defense first. Play begins after a frullip is touched to the flutney and the recitation “Mi tío es enfermo, pero la carretera es verde!”, a wise old Chilean saying that means, “My uncle is sick but the highway is green!” Penalties are applied for infractions such as walling the Pritz, icing on fifth snivel, running with the mob, rushing the season, inability to face facts, or sending the Dummy home early.

The offensive team has five Snivels to advance to the enemy goal. Carrying the Pritz across the goal line is a Woomik and scores 17 points; hitting it across with the frullip counts as a Durmish and only scores 11 points. Except in the 7th Ogre (and the 8th, if it rains), only the offensive Niblings and Overblats are allowed to score. In such cases, the four Quarter-Frummerts are allowed to kick or throw the Pritz, and the nine Finks are allowed to heckle the opposition by doing imitations of Barry Goldwater.

The teams must play a sudden-death overtime to break a tie, unless both Left Overblats are out of the game on personal fouls. If this is the case, the tie is settled by the teams lining up on opposite sides of the flutney (inherently difficult on a pentagonal shape) and shouting dirty limericks at each other until one side breaks up laughing.

When an insufficient number of players precludes a regulation 43-Man Squamish match, a simplified version may be played: 2-Man Squamish. The rules are identical, except in 2-Man Squamish, the object is to lose.

Writer Tom Koch had intended the game to be absurd, but several colleges fielded teams. Rensselaer Polytechnic issued a public challenge to Harvard; Marquette reported that its players had been suspended for “sportsmanlike conduct”; and the University of Alberta’s team boasted that “we happen to be the only undefeated Squamish team in Western Canada, mainly because we are the only team in Western Canada, and we haven’t played a game. We can’t understand why we have no opposition.”

In an ending that would have baffled the writer, Squamish is the highlight of Koch’s 2015 obituary in the New York Times, which credits him with a “vexingly convoluted game.”

Safety First

What’s the greatest number of times that players have castled in a single chess game? Surprisingly, the answer is three. From the Irish Chess Journal, November-December 1987:

An amusing incident occurred in this year’s Armstrong Cup between W. Heidenfeld and N. Kerins. Heidenfeld first castled Kingside and then, in face of a strong attack, moved his King back to its original square and then inadvertently castled on the Queen’s side. The incident was unnoticed by both players: the game continued and Kerins went on to win. Wolfgang does not lose many games in Irish chess but he has probably created some sort of a record, in Ireland at least if not elsewhere, by castling on both sides and still losing a tournament game!

Via Edward Winter. Here’s the game.

Sea Battle

https://archive.org/details/the-strand/The%20Strand%20v26%201903/page/478/mode/2up

This is a tug-of-war on the water at Healy’s Lake, Ontario, Canada. The boat is a punt used for ‘cadging’ baggage in the wilderness; the idea of a tug-of-war on the water was the suggestion of Dr. Joel M. Ingersoll, of Rochester, New York. … The left-enders ‘walked away’ with those on the right.

— T.J. Wilstach of New York, in the Strand, October 1903

Misc

  • The newsletter of the Procrastinators’ Club of America is called Last Month’s Newsletter.
  • Samuel Johnson’s 1755 Dictionary defines dross as “the recrement or despumation of metals.”
  • A sphere of radius n kilometers has almost exactly the same volume as a cube of side n miles. (Randall Munroe)
  • Cookie Monster’s real name is Sid.
  • “Henry James chews more than he bites off.” — Clover Adams

“There exist only two kinds of modern mathematics books: ones which you cannot read beyond the first page and ones which you cannot read beyond the first sentence.” — Physics Nobelist Yang Chen-Ning

Losing Chess

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Suicide_chess_1._d3_forced_loss.gif
Image: Wikimedia Commons

In losing chess, captures are obligatory, and the goal is to lose all one’s pieces or be stalemated. This makes it perilous from the start: Of White’s 20 legal opening moves, 13 allow Black to bait him successively through 16 consecutive captures, losing (and winning) the game by force. The example above shows what happens if White unwisely opens with 1. d3. If he’d started with 1. e3, he himself could have forced a win — if he knew all the correct lines.

A Folded Story

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Visual_Map_of_the_Film_Memento.png
Image: Wikimedia Commons

Christopher Nolan’s 2000 film Memento, about a man who has lost his memory, tells a coherent story in a disjointed order (click to enlarge). Scenes from the first half of the story, shot in black and white, are presented in chronological order. Scenes from the second half, shot in color, are presented in reverse chronology. The film alternates between these two timelines, beginning at the start/end and arriving at the middle — which acknowledges the advent of color with the development of a Polaroid photograph.

A Second Act

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HOMERO-EYES.PNG

Nathanael West’s 1939 novel The Day of the Locust contains a character named Homer Simpson:

Except for his hands, which belonged on a piece of monumental sculpture, and his small head, he was well proportioned. His muscles were large and round and he had a full, heavy chest. Yet there was something wrong. For all his size and shape, he looked neither strong nor fertile.

In a 2012 interview with Smithsonian, Matt Groening said, “I took that name from a minor character in the novel The Day of the Locust, by Nathanael West. Since Homer was my father’s name, and I thought Simpson was a funny name in that it had the word ‘simp’ in it, which is short for ‘simpleton’ — I just went with it.”