In Owl Chatter’s college football roundup, let’s applaud this agile Iowa cheerleader, who, . . . . oops, never mind folks — nothing to see here.
The game we had our eyes on — well, at least until we fell asleep during the first half at around 11pm — saw OC’s beloved Colorado Buffaloes barely eking by State in double overtime, 43-35. Yikes! We were heavy favorites — wha hoppin’, mon?
It was an ugly game, with two-way star Travis Hunter rushed to the hospital after a late (dirty) hit to his midsection. Deion says he’ll miss a few weeks. Ouch. He also said, resorting to Coachspeak — what matters is we won. State Coach Norvell is taking heat for taking the low road. 17 penalties for 187 yards. Like he cares. Next up for the Prime Timers — a very tough Oregon team up in Eugene.
Eyes will also be on the Notre Dame/Ohio State game next week. And Michigan plays Rutgers in Ann Arbor, their first game that matters.
BTW, Portland State who lost last week 81-7 in a game in which one of their players lost an ear, beat North American U (I know — who?), yesterday 91-0.
Today’s puzzle was amusing, taking pretty famous songs from our youth and putting them into a mythological context. For example: HERE COMES THE SUN, was a “warning to Icarus,” the guy whose wings melted when he got too close to the sun. Cute, right? YOU’RE SO VAIN was a “criticism of Narcissus.” LIGHT MY FIRE, — “request to Prometheus.” OH, PRETTY WOMAN was a “comment to Aphrodite.” I bet you didn’t know that “Oh” was part of the title. DON’T BRING ME DOWN was an “entreaty to Hades,” king of the underworld.
Commenter Andrew added these twists:
Birdseye request? – GIVE PEAS A CHANCE
Varicose diagnosis? YOU’RE SO VEIN
End of sitting shiva? MOURNING HAS BROKEN
Pillow preference? DON’T BRING ME DOWN
(Love the last two.)
“Oh, Pretty Woman” was written by Roy Orbison. Here he is performing it. A couple of kids are backing him up: Bruce, and Elvis (Costello), inter alia.
Today’s “Tiny Love Story” is by Joanna Good and is called “Two Sides of the Moon.”
The tattoo machine buzzes as I remember the night I had my first child at 17. I’d stared out the hospital window at the moon, a luminous crescent in the clear winter sky. The following day, I handed my daughter over to her adoptive parents. The moon comforted me during our years of separation. When my child came out as transgender at 15, his adoptive parents proved too rigid in their beliefs to accept him fully. My mothering arms had grown by then, and I reached out to my son. Now, we proudly compare our matching crescent moon tattoos.
*******
Pete Rose, who is a complete idiot who cares only about winning, money, and women, once remarked on racism something like, “How can anyone be so stupid to care about what color you are? What does that have to do with anything?” He got that one right. In that spirit, how in the world does a parent reject their child, adopted or not, because they are transgender? How can that matter more than their being your child? As Denzel said — Explain that to me like I’m a three-year-old.
I googled “crescent moon tattoo” for the above story. Meow.
To conflate the Jewish New Year with the other one, here’s Ted Kooser’s poem from Winter Morning Walks that he dated January 3 — the first one he wrote in that new year.
All through the night,
the deeply troubled, sighing furnace
has tried to console one whimpering floorboard
that wants to return to its tree.
Beyond the walls, milky, translucent snow,
brushed into drifts
by the long blue fingers of shadow.
The snow has gathered as much of the light as it can
from the stars, but that’s not enough warmth
to kindle the eyes of even one rabbit,
frozen still as a stone at the corner of morning.
See you tomorrow!
The Wellington Files 