As some of you know, I first met OJ Simpson at a prostate cancer survivor’s group: the LA Leakers, and we became pretty close friends. Of course, technically, he’s no longer a “survivor,” so he’s out of the group. Anyway, his kids asked Owl Chatter to let you know there’ll be a memorial service at Congregation Ohev Shalom, in Paramus, Sunday morning at 9:30, and the family will be sitting shiva at Cousin Bernie’s place in Bloomfield. (Bernie says he’s getting the cold cut platters from the kosher deli in Bergenfield so Aunt Estelle and her people don’t have to worry about going hungry, God forbid.) The family is asking mourners inclined to make donations to consider giving in OJ’s memory to the Hillel at USC. OJ remained active in the organization after college.
Are you wild? Wind-in-your-hair wild? Never thought of myself in that way, but I can see the appeal. Anxieties of various stripes — mostly ridiculous, of course — hold me back. Today’s poem from The Writer’s Almanac is called “Wild” and it’s by Stephen Dunn.
The year I owned a motorcycle and split the air
in southern Spain, and could smell the oranges
in the orange groves as I passed them
outside of Seville, I understood
I’d been riding too long in cars,
probably even should get a horse,
become a high-up, flesh-connected thing
among the bulls and cows.
My brand-new wife had a spirit
that worried and excited me, a history
of moving on. Wine from a spigot for pennies,
langostinas and angulas, even the language
felt dangerous in my mouth. Mornings,
our icebox bereft of ice,
I’d speed on my motorcycle to the iceman’s house,
strap a big rectangular block
to the extended seat where my wife often sat
hot behind me, arms around my waist.
In the streets the smell of olive oil,
the noise of men torn between church
and sex, their bodies taut, heretical.
And the women, buttoned-up,
or careless, full of public joy, a Jesus
around their necks.
Our neighbors showed us how to shut down
in the afternoon,
the stupidity of not respecting the sun.
They forgave us who we were.
Evenings we’d take turns with the Herald Tribune
killing mosquitoes, our bedroom walls bloody
in this country known for blood;
we couldn’t kill enough.
When the Levante, the big wind, came out of Africa
with its sand and heat, disturbing things,
it brought with it a lesson, unlearnable,
of how far a certain wildness can go.
Our money ran out. I sold the motorcycle.
We moved without knowing it
to take our quieter places in the world.
Frank Bruni’s letter this week spoke about the Congressmembers who are retiring (fleeing). Some aren’t even waiting for their terms to be up. He writes:
“Among them is Ken Buck, a Colorado Republican. ‘This place just keeps going downhill,’ he told reporters, ‘and I don’t need to spend my time here.’ You say that kind of thing about a rundown bar where there’s no eradicating the stench of spilled beer. He was talking about a broken-down institution that reeks of abandoned principles.”
And here are some sentences by others he liked:
Gary Shteyngart, on his time on the Icon of the Seas, billed as the biggest cruise ship ever, “The ship makes no sense, vertically or horizontally. It makes no sense on sea, or on land, or in outer space. It looks like a hodgepodge of domes and minarets, tubes and canopies, like Istanbul had it been designed by idiots.”
Zak Klobucher marveled at one of Bruce Springsteen’s live performances: “He carped so much diem that when he called on the audience, ‘Can you feel the spirit?’ Robin Williams showed up to ask him to take it down a notch.”
Last, my favorite, James Lileks described his attempt to use a snow blower as a slush blower: “I pushed it into the drift, and it was like trying to eat a thick, wet pillow with your dentures out.”
When we were in Israel, Jan. 2020, our guide told us that both black and green olives come from the same olive tree. If you leave them on longer they blacken. I was reminded of that, and the trip, by the puzzle today at 18A: “Subjects in a series of van Gogh landscape paintings.” OLIVE TREES.
Here’s what Rex was reminded of:
I did not know Van Gogh painted OLIVE TREES. I know he painted CYPRESS TREES because I went to that exhibit at the Met last summer with my daughter, when my wife and I were in NYC for the Lollapuzzoola crossword tournament that we never made it to because we got called home on a bat emergency and then proceeded to have Bat Week at our house. Try waking up to a bat in your house multiple nights in a row, even after you’ve let it fly out of the house each night; finding it flying around your bedroom even though you shut the door, etc. etc. etc. ad infinitum ad astra ad nauseam. We got a bat guy who came to put these little one-way bat tunnels somewhere in our house that let the bats get out but not get back in. It was probably just the one bat. We never saw more than one. One was enough. Plenty. No more bats after the bat guy did his thing. Still, didn’t sleep right for weeks. Serious short-term PTSD. Anyway, that’s my Van Gogh story.
You know those jokes – what do you get when you combine something with something? — chocolate that’s fluent in Yiddish!! or something like that. (If Tuesday Weld married Hal March the Third, she’d be Tuesday March the Third.)
Well, there’s a real life combination we can check out which I learned about from a piece in the New Yorker on Maya Hawke. What do you get if you combine Ethan Hawke and Uma Thurman? — Maya Hawke — they’re her parents. She dropped out of Julliard after a year to take a role in the miniseries Little Women and was wondering if she’s missing out on something by skipping college. So she hung out for a while with her brother Levon, a philosophy major at Brown, popping in on classes, etc. Decided she’s not missing much. Feels better now.
Nice shot Philly.
Well, it’s time to dip into the Owl Chatter mailbag and see if we can handle some Reader Requests. Doris M. from Wisconsin asks: “Can Owl Chatter teach me a magic trick I could use on my friends?” Well, Doris, Owl Chatter can’t, but we know a couple of geeky guys who sure can. And they were in the puzzle today at 5D: “Casino that houses the Penn & Teller Theater.” RIO. Pay close attention Doris.
Last, we bid farewell, sadly, to Jerry Grote, All-Star catcher for the 1969 World Champion Mets: Tom Seaver’s catcher. He was born and died in Texas. He was 81.
Never an offensive powerhouse, he made the All-Star team in ’68 and ’74 for his defensive prowess. He played for the Mets from 1966 thru 1977, is in the Mets Hall of Fame, and was considered one of the best catchers of his era. Johnny Bench said, “If Grote and I were on the same team, I’d be playing third base.”
High praise also came from Lou Brock — one of the greatest base stealers of all time. “Grote’s quick out the box, has a powerful arm and always seemed to have a sixth sense about me stealing. He would have the ball waiting for me at second base long before I got there.”
Although he was a Texan, as a baseball man he appreciated New York. “One of the advantages of playing for New York is that the big crowds at Shea Stadium help you tremendously,” he said. “They make you want to give 115 percent all the time. In Houston, nobody seems to applaud unless the hands on the scoreboard start to clap. Once those hands stop, so do all the others. Real enthusiasm.”
Grote is survived by his third wife, Cheryl Grote, and her three children; three children with his first wife, Sharon Grote; six grandchildren; and three step-grandchildren, all of whom are standing on the mound, peering in, waiting for the sign.
Rest in peace, Grote.
Below, first, is a photo of Grote in the center, Seaver and Koosman to his right, and Yogi and Nolan Ryan to his left. It was 2009, the 40th anniversary of the Mets championship. Next is his autograph from my collection.
See you tomorrow!
The Wellington Files 