For you numerology/good-luck buffs, yesterday’s post was #777. Hi Mick! If my life depended on it, I could maybe remember three or four. Thankfully, they sail far away the moment I hit “publish.”
Anyway, I learned a new initialism from my Californian niece Tamar. She grew up in the NY region and was thus raised on NY-quality bagels. They are hard to come by where she lives now. So the term they use for the bagels out there is BSO — bagel shaped object.
Bagel purists are horrified by any bagel more modern than a core of bagels comprised typically of plain, poppy, sesame, onion, and garlic. Things like blueberry bagels and even cinnamon-raisin are scoffed at.
This story is from today’s Met Diary in the NYT. It’s by Richie Powers and is called “Unacceptable.”
Dear Diary:
I went to a new bagel store in Brooklyn Heights with my son.
When it was my turn to order, I asked for a cinnamon raisin bagel with whitefish salad and a slice of red onion.
The man behind the counter looked up at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t do that.”
Here’s a “tiny love story” from today’s NYT by Alison Stine:
He and I were walking, deep in conversation (in college, everything was serious). A group of lacrosse players with sticks walked toward us. In the path between us sat a magnolia blossom, big and pink, blown from a tree in the rain. We noticed the flower, and the lacrosse players did too. As we got closer and closer to the blossom, the players couldn’t contain themselves. They shouted to my friend (in unison as if they had practiced): “Come on! Give her the flower, man!” He obliged. Our romance never bloomed. But every spring, I smile, remembering that moment.
I was taking a walk in my neighborhood years ago and a couple was far ahead of me walking towards me. They seemed friendly and probably in their late 40’s. They were far enough away that I could not hear what they were saying, but at one point the wife reached over and punched the husband on his shoulder. When we got close enough to converse I said to her: “Don’t hit him!” And the husband said: “Tell her!!”
This song is called “You in the Sky,” and it’s by The Waterboys. Perfect for a Sunday morning. (56D: “Where to see contrails.” SKY)
I want to know why clouds come in between you and I.
107A: “Famous Leonardo da Vinci drawing with four arms and four legs.” Not famous enough for me to have heard of him: VITRUVIAN MAN. Of course, we’ve all seen the guy. This is the woman.
Lenny was inspired by the writings of the architect Vitruvius. It depicts a nude man in two superimposed positions with his arms and legs apart and inscribed in both a circle and square. The drawing represents L’s conception of ideal body proportions. Blah blah blah. . .
This poem is called “Tosca” and is by George Bilgere.
My sister held on to our old turntable
and all the old records we listened to
through the long Italian opera
of our childhood. So tonight
we sit in the living room with some wine
and Puccini, as the needle scratches
the black door of the past, the air comes to life
with that lovely, cornball melodrama,
and our father is sitting in his chair,
ice cubes clinking in his scotch,
and our mother is in the kitchen
trying to be quiet, trying not to disturb
Maria Callas as she explains
to Tito Gobbi that she has lived for art
and she has lived for love, but it’s hard
to fry pork chops and dice an onion
without making a certain amount of noise,
and pretty soon my father is shouting at her,
he’s trying to listen to the music
for God’s sake, could she for once
show a little respect,
and our mother says nothing,
it’s just the same old argument
between ghosts, after all—the music
won’t let them sleep—
though it has my sister in tears,
and even Tosca has begun to weep.
Long day visiting our dear Aunt Anita in Delaware, 96, kinehora. What a wonderful doll. See you tomorrow.
The Wellington Files 