Linda and I were waiting in a medical office this morning. The nurse called Linda’s name and, before she led her back, said “Your husband can watch your bag.” That’s me, and I said “Sure,” even though it completely didn’t go with my outfit. Anyway, a woman sitting alone a few seats over said to me, “Can you watch mine too when they call me?” (I didn’t.)
Here’s a poem by Rita Dove. It was her birthday yesterday (71). She’s from Akron and is a crossword puzzle fanatic. This poem is called American Smooth.
We were dancing—it must have
been a foxtrot or a waltz,
something romantic but
requiring restraint,
rise and fall, precise
execution as we moved
into the next song without
stopping, two chests heaving
above a seven-league
stride—such perfect agony,
one learns to smile through,
ecstatic mimicry
being the sine qua non
of American Smooth.
And because I was distracted
by the effort of
keeping my frame
(the leftward lean, head turned
just enough to gaze out
past your ear and always
smiling, smiling),
I didn’t notice
how still you’d become until
we had done it
(for two measures?
four?)—achieved flight,
that swift and serene
magnificence,
before the earth
remembered who we were
and brought us down.
We had lunch afterwards at Destination Dogs, a terrific bar/hot dog place in New Brunswick, NJ. I learned of it from Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. We split two dogs. The first was called “Pig Trouble in Little China” and was linked to SF as its “destination.” Here’s its description: Cantonese sausage, fried shrimp, hoisin sauce, pepper jelly, orange zest, sesame seeds, scallions. It was out of this f*cking world. Our second I designed myself: Bratwurst, queso fresco, cole slaw, cherry pepper relish, scallions, black beans, and horseradish sauce. Also excellent.
David Wineberg sent this in to the NYT, as a “reimagined song:”
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
Twelve NFTs
Eleven forests burning
Ten migrants trudging
Nine bots a-tweeting
Eight cows a-belching
Seven drones a-spying
Six trolls a-doxxing
Five plastic sporks!
Four Covid tests
Three face masks
Two climate skeptics
and a cartridge for an AR-15
[I had to look up NFT. It’s a “non-fungible token:” a unique digital identifier used to certify authenticity and ownership (as of a specific digital asset). And “doxxing” means to publicly reveal personal information about someone, like for revenge. (“Outing” could be used to reveal that a person is gay or a person’s private gender identity.)]
Here’s a cow a-belching. What the hell is she eating? That can’t be healthy.
Take me out to the ballgame — and then straight to the emergency room!! Yikes — two women were shot at the White Sox game last Friday. Police determined the shots came from inside the stadium and asked for the game to be halted for safety reasons, but the Chisox said, “Nah, let’s just keep playing.” It was a big mistake: they lost 12-4. Both women are okay — one sustained leg wounds and the other was just grazed and refused medical attention. “I said no!”
In yesterday’s puzzle there was a clue about people who are season-ticket holders to several different teams and the answer was SPORTS NUTS. It led egsforbreakfast to post:
I think North Carolina passed a bill that says “No person who SPORTSNUTS at birth shall be allowed to participate in women’s athletics.”
Charlie Chaplin was in the puzzle today, as a bow-tie wearer, along with COLONEL SANDERS, KRUSTY THE CLOWN, and THE CAT IN THE HAT. It was National Bow Tie Day this week (I’m not kidding). As to Chaplin, one poster noted he was dyslexic and often wore a BLOWER.
There are so many areas about which I’d have to confess ignorance, and pro wrestling is certainly one of them. So it’s no surprise that I was puzzled when I read yesterday’s obit by Eduardo Medina in the NYT on Hall of Fame wrestler Terry Funk, who died at age 79. It said “He became known as a fierce wrestler who wielded improvised weapons against his opponents: chairs and ladders, barbed wire and bats, trash cans and fire.”
What? Aren’t there refs at these matches? You can bring stuff like that into the ring — barbed wire and ladders? No one was suspicious in between rounds when he started unspooling barbed wire or lit up a torch? I’m mystified. Medina goes on:
“Many of his highlight reels show him a bloodied mess, his long wet hair slicked back and his face bleeding from some kind of punch, kick or chair shot.”
“Chair shot?” Is that a thing like a type of hold?
Terry’s dad Dory Sr. was a well-known wrestler and promoter in Texas after serving in the South Pacific in WW2 and it was in Texas that Terry’s love of the sport deepened. In 1989 he had one of the most acclaimed matches of his career against Ric Flair. I’ll let Medina describe the action:
“The 20-minute contest was an ‘I Quit’ match, in which both men would scuffle and fight until one man surrendered. The match, now regarded as a classic, was a showcase for the brutal realism that drew fans to pro wrestling.
“There were chest slaps from Flair, headlocks by Funk, tosses out of the ring, wrangling along the sidelines, hair yanks and repeated shrieks from both wrestlers: ‘Want to quit?’
“Finally, when Flair wound Funk into a figure-four leg lock, Funk, his face contorted in pain, said the words that prompted the bell to ring: ‘I quit.’”
Terry and Ric Flair were life-long friends. See below (Terry’s on the right).
Funk married his wife Vicky Ann in 1965 and they were married for 53 years until her death in 2019 — she was his longest hold. Cause of death was a “chair shot.” [No it wasn’t.] They had two daughters, Stacy and Brandee, and three grandchildren. Funk is also survived by his brother Nelson, and his step-brother Half-Nelson.
The obit ends with the following statement of Funk’s:
“When I grew up, I was fortunate enough to live the wrestler’s life, a life that gave me stories to tell, just like the ones I had heard as a boy. Pirates, millionaires, kings and adventurers have nothing on me! I would trade my life with no one.”
Rest in peace, Terry.
David LaFlamme also passed away this month, at 82. He and his wife Linda formed the band It’s a Beautiful Day in 1967, and wrote the song “White Bird,” which you old-timers should remember. Oddly, as a single, it didn’t make the top 100, probably because of its length, but it was a favorite on FM channels. LaFlamme also formed a band called Electric Chamber Orkustra, with Bobby Beausoleil who would later be convicted of murder as a follower of Charles Manson. Creepy enough for you?
Here are David and Linda in 1970 singing “White Bird.” Recognize the venue, anybody? — It’s Tanglewood.
White bird
In a golden cage
On a winter’s day
In the rain.
See you tomorrow! Thanks for stopping by.
The Wellington Files 