At Baltimore Ravens games you can order from the “Flock Friendly” menu: a selection of items that are reasonably priced. A decent hot dog for $3.50 and a 12-ounce beer for $5 are terrific values at a ballpark. As much as I love beer, I refuse to pay $15 (or more!) for one at a stadium. So we decided to have lunch at the Jets/Ravens game. We’d have a dog each, share the pulled-chicken sandwich (for $5), and I’d have a beer. I placed my order with the fresh-faced young man. He pulled out a can of Lite beer and we conversed as follows:
Him: Is Lite okay?
Me: What are the choices?
Him: There are no choices.
Me: Lite’s okay.
The dogs were very good, although we noticed a thinner condiment array than at Nationals Park: no relish, and only yellow mustard. Still, they were great, as was my ice-cold Lite beer. The chicken sandwich was pretty weak. We would not have that again. I would not push the pulled chicken. Release that chicken unharmed, fellas!
What?
Oh, the game? For a Jets game it was surprisingly not horribly embarrassing. We led at the half! Just 7-3, but still. And even though we lost 23-10, we beat the spread, which was 13.5 points — take that, gambling establishment!! Also, impressively, we gained more total yards than the birds did. That means the Ravens struggled a bit against our defense, and we had a few decent drives. The darkest, most Jetsian, moment, came about halfway through the last quarter. We were losing 20-10, but drove beautifully all the way down to the three-yard line: a terrific drive. At that point, however, for some reason, rather than score a touchdown making the score 20-17 and giving us hope, the Jets elected to fumble the ball away, essentially ending the f*cking thing.
Arggggh. But, as I said, it was a much better effort than any Jets fan ever has any reason to hope for.
You think your team has cheerleaders? Next to Baltimore, it doesn’t have sh*t. Fuhgedaboutit.
Our parking plan worked to perfection. Since it was Sunday, we parked on a street downtown for free (!) and took a 35-minute pleasant walk to the Stadium. Can’t beat that. And the weather was perfect: 60 and sunny! Continuing our good fortune, the pizza place we found online in Little Italy after the game was outstanding. Angeli’s on High Street. Great little neighborhood place. Terrific local IPA too.
Thank you Baltimore!
From Charm City to the Big Apple. Here’s an item from Sunday’s Met Diary by David Daniel called “Savor the Moment.”
Dear Diary:
Late to work on a cold, sunny, spring morning, I decided to take a shortcut through Madison Square Park.
With the sound of traffic and barking dogs behind me, I joined the meeting I was late for via phone and hoped that I would not have to speak.
As it got later, I started to sweat from what had turned into a jog to First Avenue. Dodging the dog walkers, I saw a single white flower petal twirling gently as it fell from the sky.
I stopped and stood still. The sound of traffic, dogs and my meeting seemed to fade away. I was amazed at the beauty of the single, pristine, delicate white petal as it danced through the cool spring air toward the ground.
In my haste to get to work, I had failed to appreciate the beauty of my surroundings: the dogs, the people, the flowers, even the traffic.
The petal landed, and I picked it up. It was clearly a sign that I needed to appreciate the beauty around me, no matter how stressed out I was feeling.
But it wasn’t a flower petal. It was a discarded receipt from the M23-SBS Bus.
And I was late for work.
Can you handle one more? This is by Karen Ocker and is called “Flat Fixed.” Earns a “wow” from us.
Dear Diary:
I was a young woman driving north by myself on Interstate 87 through the Bronx.
Suddenly, one of the tires blew out, and I couldn’t change it.
I turned off at the nearest exit and looked for a service station but couldn’t find one.
I pulled onto a local street and asked a man walking there for help. He agreed and proceeded to change the tire.
At some point, I noticed that he was changing it with one hand. He was missing his other arm.
The puzzle today started off with a wonderful clue at 1D: “‘No’ was a famously short one for the 1948 musical ‘Isn’t It Romantic?’” Answer: REVIEW. I’m guessing the “No” served two functions: No, don’t see the damn thing, and No, it isn’t romantic.
It reminded me of a Pauline Kael review. The movie was “Tomorrow” (1972) and starred Robert Duvall. It started: “‘Tomorrow’ proves that a movie doesn’t have to be long to be tedious.” (But I saw it and liked it.) Here’s RD, with the female lead, Olga Bellin.
Anony Mouse chimed in with: I liked the review of the 1951 Broadway play “I Am a Camera” by John Van Druten which was adapted from Christopher Isherwood’s 1939 novel “Goodbye to Berlin.” The two-word appraisal simply stated: “No Leica.”
Another Anony Mouse picked some serious nits. At 34A the clue was “Part of a hammer or a hawk,” and the answer was CLAW. Here’s the comment: “The worst thing in the puzzle was conflating CLAWs with talons, which is what hawks actually have. It’s like people who use monkey and chimpanzee interchangeably.”
We couldn’t agree more. They should be taken out and horse-whipped!
A claw is a pointed, curved nail or appendage found on the digits of many animals. They may be used for scratching, digging, grasping, or climbing. On the other hand [hand?], a talon is the claw of a bird of prey, particularly those adapted for capturing and killing prey. While many animals, including cats, dogs, and reptiles, possess claws, only raptors, such as eagles, hawks, and owls, boast talons.
These owls are very talonted.
Any of you hear of Addison RAE? Not me. But apparently she’s famous enough to make it into a Tuesday puzzle. (She’s usually supplanted by Issa.) Addison is 25 and achieved stardom via popularity on TikTok. As of this year, she has 88 million followers, fifth most all time. She signed with Columbia Records and has released an album and has been in a few movies.
She dated Omer Fedi for four years, an Israeli musician based in LA, but they split amicably. Phil has asked her to marry him, but only twice. He’s hopeful, because she hasn’t gone for a restraining order yet.
No need to hang down your head if you didn’t know the song at 38A. The clue was “Traditional folk song that became a #1 hit for the Kingston Trio,” and the answer was TOM DOOLEY. I remember the song very well, a big hit for the Kingston Trio. It’s a North Carolina folk song, based on the 1866 murder of a woman named Laura Foster for which Tom Dula (pronounced Dooley, like opera is opry) was convicted and hung. On the gallows, he stated: “Gentlemen, do you see this hand? I didn’t harm a hair on the girl’s head.” Foster may have been killed by Dula’s lover (her cousin Anne) out of jealousy, and Dula may have been protecting her. Whatever. Who cares? But I was interested to learn this from Rex Commenter Andy F.:
TOM DOOLEY is just one of many, many, A LOT OF murder ballads. They were a big deal in England and spread to America. “Frankie and Johnnie” is probably the best known, also based on a true story. Songs were the way sensationalistic news traveled back in the day. [OC note: You may be more familiar with the Yiddish version “Frankie and Yitzhak.”]
Commenter jae wrote: “TOM DOOLEY should be a gimme for those of a certain age.” And Anony Mouse shot back: “Yes, ninety something!”
Ouch.
Sunday’s puzzle had some cute stuff in it. The theme asked us to switch the first two letters of a word in a famous phrase, for humorous effect. The best, IMO, was for the clue “Certain vacation booking in Madrid?” And the answer was SPANISH RAMADA. Get it? Instead of “Spanish Armada.”
It doesn’t take much in this space to conjure up a John Prine song.
It takes a lot to make Mitch McConnell look good, but every time Trump gives Putin a blow job McConnell’s stock goes up. It’s clear why Trump runs after the murderous Saudi schmuck: he’s getting showered with money. But Trump’s sycophancy to Putin is true love. Brandeis alum Tom Friedman is not the first to liken DJT on Ukraine to Neville Chamberlain. He quoted the WSJ today in opining that it will backfire on Trump: “If Trump thinks American voters hate war, wait until he learns how much they hate dishonor.” Hope so.
This poem by Baron Wormser is called “The O’s.” How fitting, given our recent visit to Baltimore. It was in today’s Writer’s Almanac.
My grandfather is lying in the hospital bed
Listening to the radio every night.
It’s the second week of the season; he’s an Orioles fan
Ever since the O’s came to Baltimore
In 1954—but it’s 1988 and they lose game
After game after game after game after game.
My grandfather’s face looks like a hardball hit it—
Black and blue and yellow. It’s cancer
That tie dyes you in muted shades so you
Wind up looking like a hung-over toad,
Which is no big thing to my grandfather
Who drank too much and smoked way too much—
Cigars—but never was vain, never was
A look-in-the-mirror type but always grabbed
His hat and said he was ready. Grandpa’s got a month
At the most, according to the oncologist who spoke as if
He were putting down a deuce at Pimlico.
Grandpa knows this, which is to say it’s not
The dogwoods or forsythia or magnolias he’s going to miss,
Not the newly mown grass or the crab soup his long time
Paramour, Bessie, still makes even though Grandpa can’t
Eat much of anything anymore; he’s a slave to tubes.
It’s the losing streak that he can’t abide because they’re
Bound to win one, sooner or later the announcer’s
Voice is going to take off into the ozone of announcer
Excitement with a whoosh and a wallop
And the curse will be over. Losing is for losers and Grandpa,
Who has spent his life making and taking bets,
Hates losers. Inning by inning we sit listening
And Grandpa knows it’s stupid, he knows
He’s dying and he should be thinking about last things
But he doesn’t know anything about last things.
He hasn’t been in a shul in fifty years and his
Only religion is the worship of the female body.
He’s an idolater. A sack of calcified lust. I turn off
The radio and the nurse looks in on the mostly gone man
And his grandson sitting in the wan, fluorescent light
That could have come from Macbeth it’s so
Grievous and spectral and unhealthy. Death light.
We aren’t saying anything, but Grandpa’s still alive
And though the O’s have lost another there’s still
Tomorrow. Grandpa closes his eyes when the nurse
Comes in with a little paper cup filled with pills
And I say that I’ve got to head home and grade some themes.
He opens his watery hesitant eyes because he knows
He might not see me again; he might not hear another
“Here’s the first pitch.” “We’re not finished yet,” he rasps
And I smile a smile I can’t help because he’s right.
Enough. See you tomorrow Chatterheads!
The Wellington Files 