China explained today that their spy balloon was inadvertently set adrift over the U.S. when they bent over to tie their shoe and let go of the string momentarily. Their Minister of Defense added: “C’mon fellas, you’ve all been there.” Biden, who has seven grandchildren, noted: “He has a point.”
Yesterday’s puzzle included the dating app GRINDR. One comment noted that there are other new terms that drop the final E, e.g., TUMBLR. He said it’s called “disemvowelment.” I had heard separately that when an E or an A shifts position in a word, it’s a VOWEL MOVEMENT.
Which reminds me of one of the funniest things our friend Carl ever worked on me. It was back during the era of “born agains,” during which many people wore pins that said things like “Ask me about the Good News.” I made the mistake of asking a young lady at our food coop about the Good News once while she was checking out my groceries at the register. She said the “good news” was that Jesus loved me. Good news, indeed. Hard to dispute. I thanked her, checked my change, and made a note never to ask anyone that again.
Anyway, so Carl was visiting a few weeks later and we were having a little brunch, and he excused himself at one point to use the rest room. When he returned I noticed he was wearing a little pin. It said “Ask me about my bowel movement.” Seriously, I had to be helped off the floor and back into my seat.
Today’s puzzle contained Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag” at 6D. It led “Taylor Slow” to share a modern rag with us: William Bolcom’s “Graceful Ghost Rag.” It is lovely.
Harry Whittington died on Saturday in Austin TX. He was 95. He’s lucky he lasted that long — he’s the fellow Dick Cheney accidentally shot on a hunting trip back on Feb. 11, 2006. A little-known fact about that incident is that after shooting him, Cheney bent over and bit off part of his ear. [That last part is not true. I went for a cheap Tyson-Holyfield joke. Once it came to me, I had to go with it. Long-time readers of Owl Chatter will understand.]
Here’s how the NYT described the shooting in Whittington’s obit: “In the encroaching dusk, Mr. Cheney abruptly wheeled around to shoot a quail and instead shot Mr. Whittington in his face and upper body. He suffered scores of birdshot wounds.”
The two had met only briefly before the outing. Surprisingly, it was Whittington who apologized — for stepping into Cheney’s line of fire. At the time, Cheney acknowledged only that he was responsible for pulling the trigger. (Huh? Let me tell ya, folks — that’s one hell of an “only.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen an “only” stretched that far. “We only hit the iceberg, Captain.”))
Five years later, in his memoir, Cheney offered what The Times termed “an apology of sorts.” He wrote: “I, of course, was deeply sorry for what Harry and his family went through. [Of course.] The day of the accident was one of the saddest of my life.”
Whittington’s wounds were more serious than was revealed at the time. He had a mild heart attack after birdshot moved into his heart, and he suffered a collapsed lung. About 30 pieces of shot remained in his body, including one near his heart.
During his lifetime, Whittington was an effective prison reformer and worked to combat corruption in Texas. He was sensitive to the needs of the developmentally disabled, since his daughter Claire was in that condition, and he successfully pushed for the creation of a separate unit in prisons for them. He urged Gov. Rick Perry to sign a bill banning the execution of developmentally disabled people. Perry vetoed the bill, saying it would diminish the power of juries, and noting that Texas did not execute such people anyway. (The U.S. Supreme Court later banned the execution of the developmentally disabled. So, fuck you, Perry.)
Whittington is survived by his wife Mercedes whom he married in 1950, three daughters, six grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren. Sadly, his daughter Claire passed away last year.
Whittington kept the blood-stained vest he was wearing when he was shot, and used it to teach children the dangers of firearms. He hunted only infrequently after the shooting. He said “Some of my enthusiasm is gone.”
Ya think?
And Charlie Thomas died, at 85, last Tuesday. He was with The Drifters. They had some terrific hits and are in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Who doesn’t recall Under the Boardwalk, There Goes My Baby, and This Magic Moment? Classics all. Their only song to reach #1 was Save the Last Dance for Me.
Oh, I know
Oh, I know
That the music’s fine
Like sparkling wine
Go and have your fun . . .
But don’t forget who’s taking you home
And in whose arms you’re gonna be.
So, darlin’,
Save the last dance for me.
I wonder how it would sound if Leonard Cohen sang it, don’t you?
Here’s a shot of Charlie Thomas, beltin’ it out — thanks for all the great tunes! — Rest in peace.
Sheldon “Shel” Silverstein was in the puzzle today. He was born in Chicago back in 1930. Has it really been over twenty years since he died? He was 68. He never married, and was quite a ladies man: a frequent guest at Playboy clubs and Hugh Heffner’s Playboy Mansion. He had two children, Shoshanna (which is Hebrew for Rose), who died of an aneurysm when only eleven, and Matthew, 38, a songwriter and producer in NYC. A Light in the Attic is dedicated to Shoshanna.
The Giving Tree was one of Caity’s favorite books when she was little. She knew it by heart. To say it’s a classic doesn’t say enough. He was a songwriter too. He wrote “A Boy Named Sue” which Johnny Cash turned into a huge hit.
Here are three samples of his writing:
Listen to the mustn’ts, child.
Listen to the don’ts.
Listen to the shouldn’ts, the impossibles, the won’ts.
Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me…
Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.
How many slams in an old screen door?
Depends how loud you shut it.
How many slices in a bread?
Depends how thin you cut it.
How much good inside a day?
Depends how good you live ’em.
How much love inside a friend?
Depends how much you give him.
If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hoper, a pray-er, a magic-bean-buyer.
If you’re a pretender come sit by my fire
For we have some flax golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!
Silverstein also wrote this wrenching song, “Sylvia’s Mother,” nicely performed by Doctor Hook. Remember pay phones?
Whew. I’m pretty much wrung out now. See you tomorrow.
The Wellington Files 