On this date 120 years ago, the Wright brothers made their first flight. Wilber complained that his lunch was cold, and Orville was upset at having to pay extra for his bag. Low-hanging fruit, but sometimes the bad jokes just have to be told. The actual flight took place near Kitty Carlisle, NC, or, if you prefer the truth, Kitty Hawk.
Orville went first, got only ten feet off the ground, and landed right away. After two more tries, Wilbur got seriously aloft and traveled 852 feet. There was some damage to the plane, but the boys were overjoyed. There was no press coverage of the event. The brothers hired an amateur photographer, (it may have been Phil’s dissolute great grandfather), who took only one photo, when the plane was ten feet off the ground. This is it.
Papers refused to run it, thinking it was a hoax. Only six years later, when Wilbur flew over Manhattan, were the boys given their place in history.
Both brothers married very late in life, joking that they spent a long time looking for Mrs. Wright. Orville’s wife Emmylou is on the left, and Wilbur’s wife Betty on the right. The brothers often confused the two until Betty had a restraining order issued. [This entire paragraph is false: the boys never married. I don’t know who these women are, but they’ve been very generous with drinks and salted nuts. So they’re welcome to stay, like, forever.]
I was wrong about the Pistoffs schedule — I thought their next loss, I mean game, was tomorrow against Atlanta, but they managed to sneak in a loss to Milwaukee last night. So it’s 23 in a row. They seem to have settled into comfortably losing by 32 points, since that was the margin again, 146-114. They lost all four quarters. After the first they were down 43-20. Ouch. Let’s not dwell on it. Here’s a lighter topic — Jeffrey Dahmer.
Remember Jeffrey Dahmer? The serial killer with the worst-selling cookbook in publishing history. He was killed in prison in 1994. But his dad Lionel died only two weeks ago, in Ohio, at age 87. If you’re wondering what it’s like to be the dad of a son like that, you can read Lionel’s book that was pretty well received: A Father’s Story.
Lionel’s parents were both elementary school teachers and he was a chemist. He married Joyce Flint, a telephone operator. How’s this for creepy:
“She became pregnant days after the wedding. The coming months were a kind of ill omen. [Ya think?] Joyce Dahmer suffered from seizures and emotional fits. Her legs locked into place, she trembled, her jaw jerked to the right and became frighteningly rigid, and she foamed at the mouth. Sometimes the episodes would end only when a doctor injected her with barbiturates and morphine. She took as many as 26 pills a day.”
Jeffrey was a happy little guy, but turned awkward as he grew up, and the rest is history. Lionel had been awkward as a child too, and he didn’t realize Jeffrey had become “serial-killer awkward.” They had a second child, who is still living, but the marriage failed and Lionel remarried. He visited Jeffrey in prison and recordings of those visits were used in a mini-series on the story. Lionel is survived by a sister, his son, and two grandchildren, none of whom look forward to Thanksgiving.
Here’s Lionel at the trial, with his second wife, not Joyce.
Remember what Garrison Keillor said when he spoke at his daughter’s graduation: ”The truth is, we would love you just as much, and be just as proud of you, if we were visiting you in prison today, instead of at your college graduation. But we’re grateful for the difference.”
71A in the puzzle today was “Count on one hand?” and the answer was SIXTY. I had no idea why, but it turns out to refer to the hands of a clock which are counting sixty seconds and minutes. Commenter John X says:
“The minute and second hands of a clock can count to sixty, and so can a human hand. This has been done since ancient times, and is the origin for the Base-60 system (that and 60 is divisible by more whole numbers than 100). This is why there are 60 minutes/seconds, 12 hours, 360 degrees, etc etc.”
Okay, thanks. Wait, is that the Minister of Silly Walks on that clock? We’d have to change the clue to “count on one foot.”
The clue/answer for the Dirty Old Man Dept. today was at 12A: ”They may be wireless.” The answer was BRAS. One commenter asked: ”Wait — so women use their bras to connect to the internet these days?”
The puzzle theme was “bridges.” In theme answers there were bridges crossing over various bodies of water. Rex questioned whether there is a “bog” bridge, but many pointed out that of course there is. When you take a hike over marshy areas, little bridges help you across the wetter spots. There was also a question about “ocean” bridges. But “trigger” noted: ”I think bridges to barrier islands or to Key West would qualify as ocean bridges.”
And pabloinnh added: ”The bridge over the OCEAN made me think of an old Bob and Ray bit where one is interviewing the other, who is building a bridge over the Atlantic Ocean, which has just been started, and in the background you hear the sound of cars driving off the end and into the water because of course they do. Nobody beat those guys for absurd.”
This poem from The Writer’s Almanac is by Louis Simpson and is called “Chocolates.”
Once some people were visiting Chekhov.
While they made remarks about his genius
the Master fidgeted. Finally
he said, “Do you like chocolates?”
They were astonished, and silent.
He repeated the question,
whereupon one lady plucked up her courage
and murmured shyly, “Yes.”
“Tell me,” he said, leaning forward,
light glinting from his spectacles,
“what kind? The light, sweet chocolate
or the dark, bitter kind?”
The conversation became general
They spoke of cherry centers,
of almonds and Brazil nuts.
Losing their inhibitions
they interrupted one another.
For people may not know what they think
about politics in the Balkans,
or the vexed question of men and women,
but everyone has a definite opinion
about the flavor of shredded coconut.
Finally someone spoke of chocolates filled with liqueur,
and everyone, even the author of Uncle Vanya,
was at a loss for words.
As they were leaving he stood by the door
and took their hands.
In the coach returning to Petersburg
they agreed that it had been a most
unusual conversation.
Rex’s practice this holiday season of sharing pet pix his readers send in turned poignant today. He posted this photo of a reader’s cat named Oliver, dressed up as something silly:
Then he shared this note he received two days after he received that photo:
Hi, Mr. Parker!
My wife, Courtney [W.], submitted a photo of our cat Oliver in the last day or two. Oliver died yesterday, and part of her cat grief has been to regularly check your blog to see if her photo was posted. Sometimes it’s the little things? 🙂
To honor her memory, Rex followed up by posting additional photos of Oliver. Here are two of them.
Rest in peace, little guy.
We’ll see you all tomorrow.
The Wellington Files 