Headline in the NYT today: Video Complicates U.S. Boat Strike Explanation.
Ya think? “Complicates?”
You mean the video that shows two shipwrecked men waving for help before being blown to bits? That one?
Owl Chatter was able to get its hands on this top-secret photo of the vessel moments before the attack.
At 12D in the puzzle today, the clue was “First name in Norse exploration,” and it was LEIF. Erikson, of course. Did you know that when Mrs. Erikson filed for divorce, she explained to the judge that she was turning over a new Leif? It’s true.
At 5D, “Big Apple cathedral,” was ST PATS. And at 52A, “That’s crazy!” was HOLY SMOKES!
Here’s egs:
“Did you hear about the new Vatican-endorsed cigarette? HOLY SMOKES. Their slogan: Every puff gets you closer to heaven. Available now at ST PATS and other authorized distributors.”
This was new to me, surprisingly. At 58A, “Side effect after a BBQ meal, informally.” Answer MEAT SWEATS. Our favorite BBQ joint is about a half hour east of Ann Arbor in a tiny town called Willis MI. Boneheads. OMG. Sam and I were at a UMich night baseball game once and planned to dine at Boneheads following the game. As the innings sailed by, I realized we didn’t know how late they were open. So I called and the news was not good. We fled the stadium as fast as we could, ran the three long blocks to our parking spot, and drove like hell. They agreed to serve us if we didn’t mind them starting to clean up. Whew.
Urban Dictionary defines meat sweats as follows: “To consume an obscene amount of meat resulting in perfuse sweating.”
A commenter on reddit who calls him- or herself Dr. Meat Sweat says: The threshold for meat consumption to trigger the so called “meat sweats” can vary from person to person. In many cases, the threshold for “throwing up from eating too much” occurs before the “meat sweats” thus resulting in a lack of widespread experiencing of “meat sweats.”
This poem is called “My Father’s Diary” and is by Sharon Olds. It’s from today’s Writer’s Almanac, which has been on a bit of a roll it seems to me.
When I sit on the bed, and spring the brass
scarab legs of its locks, inside
is the stacked, shy wealth of his print.
He could not write in script, so the pages
are sturdy with the beamwork of printedness,
WENT TO LOOK AT A CAR, DAD IN A
GOOD MOOD AT DINNER, LUNCH WITH MOM,
TRIED OUT SOME RACQUETS—a life of ease,
except when he spun his father’s DeSoto on the
ice, and a young tree whirled up
to the hood, throwing up her arms—until
LOIS. PLAYED TENNIS WITH LOIS, LUNCH
WITH MOM AND LOIS, DRIVING WITH LOIS,
LONG DRIVE WITH LOIS. And then,
LOIS! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! SHE IS SO
GOOD, SO SWEET, SO GENEROUS, I HAVE
NEVER, WHAT HAVE I EVER DONE
TO DESERVE SUCH A GIRL? Between the tines
of his W’s, and liquid on the serifs, moonlight,
the self of the grown boy pouring
out, kneeling in pine-needle weave,
worshiping her. It was my father
good, it was my father grateful,
it was my father dead, who had left me
these small structures of his young brain—
he wanted me to know him, he wanted
someone to know him.
Sharon is 83 now. She teaches creative writing at NYU. Here she is, catching up on some recent Owl Chatter posts.
At 45A the clue was “Penn athletes” and the answer was QUAKERS. I posted the following for the commentariat: “Maybe UPenn’s football team would do better if the team name wasn’t based on Pacifism. What was the second choice: The Penn Marshmallows?”
The puzzle was guilty of sending mixed messages: At 18A, PLEASE RISE. At 35A (the clue), Sit.
Years ago I was on a committee at our Temple that was charged with conducting a Friday night service. During my small part I got to say “Please rise” and watch everyone in the room stand up. I couldn’t resist ad-libbing and said “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
Here’s a rabbi joke: Three mothers are talking. The first says, “I am so proud of my Sammy. He’s a doctor, a big surgeon.” The second says: “My Isaac is a lawyer. Very successful, handles all the big cases.” They ask the third about her son and she says he’s a rabbi. “A rabbi?” they ask. “What kind of job is that for a Jewish boy?”
From tomorrow’s Met Diary. This entry by Aryeh Friedman is called “13 Records.”
Dear Diary:
It was the mid-1990s and we were living in Washington Heights with our 4-year-old daughter.
An older woman, a widow, who lived on our floor adored our daughter and showered her with compliments every time we bumped into her.
After a time, we learned that she and her husband survived the Holocaust. They had never had children.
One day, when our door was ajar, our neighbor peeked in and noticed some vinyl records that we liked to listen to with our daughter.
Later, the woman invited me over to show me a box filled with classical records. They were in horrible condition: broken, scratched and caked with who-knows-what.
I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so I thanked her and said we couldn’t wait to listen to them. I figured we’d get rid of them some time when she wouldn’t notice.
As I was leaving, she said that her husband loved classical music. They had always had Friday night dinner together when they were dating. And each time, instead of bringing her flowers, he had brought her a record.
They had 13 dinners before getting married. There were 13 records in the box, and she said she wanted my daughter to enjoy them all.
I still have those records.
OK Chatterheads. See you tomorrow.
The Wellington Files 