I’m generally not a conspiracy theorist, but when the handwriting is on the wall in capital f*cking letters. . . . It hit me today when I was enjoying the break in the heatwave: Global warming is an invention of the Jews!
In my mother’s generation, when the Jews got old, they moved down to Miami Beach for the Florida weather. It’s a schlep — I remember my mother’s move. Well, with global warming the Jews worked it out so the Florida weather moves up to them! You can stay in New York and still go see the revivals of Fiddler.
How are people not seeing this?? Open your eyes! We’ll be getting a Jew in the White House soon! Somebody has to stop them! Santos! — make some calls!
The White Sox won last night, snapping their losing streak at 21, tying Baltimore’s AL record, but falling short of the MLB record of 23 set by the 1961 Philadelphians. There’s some interesting stuff on the 1988 O’s — their 21-loss streak opened the season: their record was 0-21 before they won on April 29th. And, get this — it’s not like they stunk — the opening day roster included Cal Ripken, Jr., Eddie Murray, and Freddie Lynn! Along with the losing streak, their owner died that year. Ouch!
In the puzzle today, at 58A, “Corkscrew-shaped pasta” was FUSILLI. Here’s the famous New Yorker cartoon by Charles Barsotti:
People also trotted out a scene from the classic ASSMAN episode of Seinfeld. Here’s a snippet:
Commenter Joe R. said his favorite pasta is strozzapreti for two reasons. Its shape, of course, and because it means “priest strangler.” I’m not sure I’ve ever downed a priest strangler.
It must be Linda Ronstadt week in the universe, because at 43D “Clothing colloquially” was THREADS. And so we get this: Ms. R belting one out in a sexy little-girl’s outfit. Could you plotz?
“You can’t buy my love with money, ’cause I never was that kind.” We hear ya, girl.
This week’s New Yorker has a story on Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. Here are two things I learned from just the first few pages. When his dad, Bobby Kennedy, was shot (after his victory speech for the California primary): “[RFK, Jr.’s] younger brother David, who was then thirteen, had travelled with his parents and stayed up late in the hotel room to watch his father’s speech; he saw the assassination unfold on live TV. Because of the chaos, it was several hours before anyone thought to check on him. He was discovered, with the television still on, unable to speak.”
And this: “When Sirhan was recommended for parole, in 2021, Ethel and most of her children opposed his release, but Kennedy [RFK, Jr.] and his younger brother Douglas, a Fox News reporter, advocated for it.”
The story is in the issue with this wonderful Roz Chast cover about ice cream:
OMG, I can’t pick a favorite! Amnesia! Microchip Mint! Grandpa’s Tea! Placebo! Here’s what she said about it:
“There are a lot of things I like about ice-cream stores aside from the ice cream itself. I like looking at the different colors and patterns of all the bins. I like comparing cones: wafer flat-bottom or pointy classic? And the names of the flavors: the more preposterous and baroque, the better.”
I’ve never shared a poem from the New Yorker before. They’re all too hard for me. I need simple ones with barns and flowers, maybe a cloud. But I liked this one. It’s called “Italian Lesson” and it’s by Cynthia Zarin.
the boy plays with the wooden horse il ragazzo gioca con il cavallo di legno
the seasons change le stagioni cambiano
I have never seen a volcano non ho mai visto un vulcano
we need wood for the fire abbiamo bisogno di legno per il fuoco
the wet wood is not good il legno bagnato non è buono
he saw smoke in the sky ha visto fumo nel cielo
then it is a volcano allora è un vulcano
there is sand in my shoes c’è sabbia nelle mie scarpe
the children build sandcastles i bambini costruiscono i castelli di sabbia
the clouds were getting darker le nuvole stavano diventando più scure
we could see nothing but fog non vedevamo niente a parte la nebbia
the fog is a cloud on the ground la nebbia è una nuvola sulla terra
the fog doesn’t let us see anything la nebbia non ci lascia vedere nulla
there is a flower on the bed c’è un fiore sul letto
there is a flower on the table c’è un fiore sul tavolo
we are in the forest siamo nella foresta
it is dangerous to swim in this lake è pericoloso nuotare in questo lago
I have only a small garden ho solo un piccolo giardino
we can hear the ocean from here possiamo sentire l’oceano da qua
where do you see the moon? dove vedi la luna?
she sees the sea lei vede il mare
the climate in the mountains is different il clima nelle montagne è diverso
it could rain this evening potrebbe piovere stasera
the rain follows me everywhere la pioggia mi segue dappertutto
he sees the sky lui vede il cielo
the region has many rivers la regione ha molti fiumi
are you lost? heaven is far from here ti sei perso? il paradiso è lontano da qua
which planet are you on? su quale pianeta ti trovi?
the sea is not blue today il mare non è azzurro oggi
the storm has passed il temporale è passato
in autumn the moon is beautiful in autunno la luna è bella
the snake waits under the rock il serpente aspetta sotto la roccia
the children play in the snow in December i bambini giocano nella neve a dicembre
the snow is beautiful la neve è bellissima
this morning we go to look at the sunrise questa mattina andiamo a guardare l’alba
there wasn’t a cloud in the sky non c’era una nuvola nel cielo
the sea, the hills, the little mountains il mare, le colline, le piccole montagne
yesterday I went fishing in the river ieri sono andata a pescare nel fiume
the sun this evening is not yellow it is orange il sole stasera non è giallo è arancione
how many stars do you see? quante stelle vedi?
there are many stars in the universe ci sono molte stelle nell’universo
If you go to the NYer website you can “play” the poem being read, and so hear the Italian. This might get you there:
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2024/08/12/italian-lesson-cynthia-zarin-poem
I’m tired. See you tomorrow. Thanks for popping by.
The Wellington Files 