Happy Father’s Day, everybody!
Too soon?
If ever there was an aptly named woman, it was Sally Ride, the first American woman in space. She made it up there on this day 40 years ago aboard the Challenger, for a six-day mission. She said, “The thing that I’ll remember most about the flight is that it was fun. In fact, I’m sure it was the most fun I’ll ever have in my life.”
Ride was married to astronaut Stephen Hawley from ’82 to ’87 (no kids), but was gay and was a long-time partner of pro tennis player Tam O’Shaughnessy. Ride was the first astronaut known to be LGBT.
Ride was a graduate of Stanford, where she earned a BS in physics and a BA in English Lit in 1973, an MS in physics in 1975, and a PhD in physics in 1978 for research on the interaction of X-rays with the interstellar medium. She died of pancreatic cancer eleven years ago at the age of 61.
As the first American woman to fly in space, there were over 500 requests for private interviews, all of which were declined. Instead, NASA hosted the usual pre-launch press conference at which Ride was asked questions such as, “Will the flight affect your reproductive organs?” and “Do you weep when things go wrong on the job?” NASA engineers asked Ride to assist them in developing a “space makeup kit,” assuming it would be something a woman would want on board. They also infamously suggested providing Ride with a supply of 100 tampons for the six-day mission. NASA must have a Costco membership.
Ride was appointed to the Rogers Commission investigating the Space Shuttle disaster, and headed its subcommittee on operations. After Ride’s death, Major General Donald J. Kutyna revealed that she had discreetly provided him with key information about O-rings, namely, that they become stiff at low temperatures, that eventually led to identification of the cause of the explosion. To protect her source, they fed this information to Richard Feynman, who you may recall famously illustrated the effect with a simple glass of ice water sitting in front of him at the hearing.
Among the numerous run-of-the-mill awards she received, like the Presidential Medal of Freedom, two stand out: A mini-figurine of Ride is featured in a LEGO set; and Mattel released a Barbie doll in her likeness. Incredibly, the Barbie doll defies gravity, as shown below.
I searched the universe for a sexy picture of Ride for the Owl Chatter Dirty Old Man Department, but she’s so f*cking wholesome there’s nothing out there. Hrummmph. This devastating smile will have to do.
In the puzzle today, the clue at 46D was “The Iron ___, pro wrestling Hall-of-Famer from Iran,” and the answer was SHEIK.
Commenter Anoa Bob wrote:
I went through a professional wrestling phase about the time The Iron SHEIK was a head liner. This was not long after the Iranians overthrew the Shah and imprisoned the U.S. Embassy personnel, so The Iron Sheik was a bad guy par excellence. He did a routine where he hoisted two heavy “Persian Clubs” repeatedly over his head and then would challenge his opponent to match his feat. It would usually end in “Professional Wrestling style,” i.e., hilariously. [See the video, below] I just saw that he passed away this June 7 at age 81. RIP Iron Sheik.
Here’s the best-ass Father’s Day poem you’ll ever read. It’s called Daddy Dozens, by Jamilla Woods, and it’s from the Poetry Foundation.
My Daddy’s forehead is so big, we don’t need a dining room
table. My Daddy’s forehead so big, his hat size is equator. So
big, it’s a five-head. Tyra Banks burst into tears when she seen
my Daddy’s forehead. My Daddy’s forehead got its own area code.
My Daddy baseball cap got stretch marks. My Daddy pillowcase
got craters. His eyebrows need GPS to find each other. My Daddy
forehead lives in two time zones. Planets confuse my Daddy forehead
for the sun. Couch cushions lose quarters in the wrinkles in my Daddy
forehead.
My Daddy so smart, he fall asleep with the movie on and
wake up soon as the credits start to roll. My Daddy so smart, he
perform surgery on his own ingrown toenail. Momma was not
impressed, but my Daddy got brains. My Daddy know exactly
how to drive me to my friend’s house without lookin at no map.
My Daddy born here, he so smart, he know the highways like
the wrinkles in his forehead. He know the free clinics like the gray
hairs on his big ass head. My Daddy so smart, he wear a stethoscope
and a white coat.
My Daddy drive to work in a minivan only slightly
bigger than his forehead, that’s just how my Daddy rolls. My Daddy
got swag. My Daddy dance to “Single Ladies” in the hallway.
My Daddy drink a small coffee cream and sugar. My Daddy
drink a whole can of Red Bull. My Daddy eat a whole pack
of sour Skittles and never had a cavity.
My Daddy so smart, he got a pullout couch in his office. Got a mini fridge there too. Got a cell phone, and a pager, and a email address where I can leave
him messages when he’s not at home. My Daddy’s not home. Momma saves a plate that turns cold.
But when my Daddy does come home, he got a office
in his bedroom too. Computer screen night light,
Momma says she can’t sleep right, but my Daddy
got work, my Daddy at work, at home, in the attic,
with the TV on, in the dark, from the front yard,
through the windows, you can see him working, glass
flickering, my house got its own forehead, glinting, sweaty,
in the evening, while my Daddy at work, at home,
in his own area code,
a whole other time zone.
We’re back at the Owl Chatter home base in Jersey. Long weekend.
Here are the caps that honor Susan’s memory. The three initials replicate exactly how she signed her name. Robert had several hundred made for friends and family. An object to represent the feelings. Spanish boots of Spanish leather.
The Wellington Files 