It’s becoming obvious to even the most thick-headed among us that Trump has no idea what the f*ck he’s doing in Iran. If he’d just glance down for a moment he’d see they’ve got him by the Hormuz and are squeezing with all they’ve got. A big advantage Iran has (like Putin) is that they don’t give a f*ck about Iranians (or Russians) dying. Trump couldn’t care less about Americans either, of course (just take a look at his healthcare policies), but Americans do, and he cares about polls. We’ll see where this goes for ground troops. Here’s a headline from The Onion.
Trump Weighs Deploying 340 Million More U.S. Troops To Middle East
This poem is from today’s Writer’s Almanac. Different war. Same America f*cking up. It’s by Walter McDonald. “What If I Didn’t Die Outside Saigon?”
So what do you want? he growled inside the chopper,
strapping me roughly to the stretcher
as if I were already dead. “Jesus,” I swore,
delirious with pain, touching the hot mush of my legs.
“To see my wife. Go home, play with my kids,
help them grow up. You know.” His camouflaged face
was granite, a colonel or sergeant who’d seen it all.
He wore a parka in the rain, a stubby stale cigar
bit tight between his teeth, a nicked machete
like a scythe strapped to his back. He raised a fist
and held the chopper. He wore a gold wrist watch
with a bold sweep-second hand. The pilot glanced back,
stared, and looked away. Bored, the old man asked,
Then what? his cigar bobbing. I swallowed morphine
and choked, “More time. To think, plant trees,
teach my kids to fish and catch a ball.”
Yeah? he said, sucking the cigar, thinner
than he seemed at first. Through a torrent of rain,
I saw the jungle closing over me like night.
“And travel,” I said, desperate, “to see the world.
That’s it, safe trips with loved ones. Long years
to do whatever. Make something of my life. Make love,
not war.” I couldn’t believe it, wisecracking clichés,
about to die. He didn’t smile, but nodded. So?
What then? “What then? Listen, that’s enough,
isn’t that enough?” His cigar puffed
into flame, he sucked and blew four perfect rings
which floated through the door and suddenly
dissolved. Without a word, he leaned and touched
my bloody stumps, unbuckled the stretcher straps
and tore the Killed-in-Action tag from my chest.
And I sat up today in bed, stiff-legged, out of breath,
an old man with a room of pictures of children
who’ve moved away, and a woman a little like my wife
but twice her age, still sleeping in my bed.
Hard to believe it took over a thousand OC posts for RENEE Rapp to visit us. She was in the puzzle this week, clued with “Actress Rapp of ‘Mean Girls.’” First of all, fellas, simmer down, she’s gay.
Love the jacket, Babe.
Hangs with British rocker Towa Bird.
Renee is 26 and from North Carolina, which, oddly, is in the south somewhere. Her parents intentionally named her alliteratively “just in case” she made it in show biz. Smart. She’s doing well, despite the delay in her OC premier. Was on SNL and is an “ambassador” for L’Oréal.
George! Get the girls a couple of Frescas! Cans okay, ladies? We can rinse out a few glasses if you prefer.
Here’s another story from The Onion:
Entire Spring Break Spent In Airport Security Line
Today’s puzzle was brilliant. I’ll try not to do too much damage in discussing it. It was called “Roundabouts.” (In the NYT, XW puzzles only get names on Sundays.) At five symmetrical locations, a word “drove into” a roundabout: that is, a square that did not contain a letter itself, but served as the center of a verbal roundabout, or rotary. My favorite was at 42A. Take a look at it, below. That may help to see what’s going on. So the clue for 42A was “Nevertheless” and the answer was BUT. Okay. Then those letters (BUT) enter the roundabout. The first exit is at 52D, where the clue is “Mayor Pete.” Using the BUT and adding TIGIEG going down after exiting the rotary, you get BUTTIGIEG. Then continuing around the rotary, you get to the second exit at 43A. The clue there is “Rear end.” Using the BUT and the T from 52D, you add OCKS at 43A to get BUTTOCKS. Finally, you get to the third exit, clued sorta upside down at 14D with “Alternatives to zippers on blue jeans.” Using the BUT and TO picked up in the rotary and exiting upwards, you get BUTTONFLIES.
Amazing wordplay, and that happened five times.
A few nitpickers noted that the roundabout concept wasn’t perfectly executed because in each case the first answer (BUT, above), enters the roundabout but does not itself exit. It just hangs there.
But I noted: In Jersey, there are many roundabouts in which the driver enters and doesn’t exit. We call them pile-ups.
Oooh, what’s that up there at 124A? RIOT? (The clue was “Real comedian.”) Remember these guys? Turn it up!
Tom Friedman’s article on Minny brought out some letter writers. Here are clips from some in today’s NYT.
A Southern friend of mine — a MAGA believer — recently claimed that Minnesota protesters had hired 50,000 professional agitators to stir dissent against ICE and federal agents conducting raids in the state. I told him plainly, “No mercenary protester would march outside in below-zero weather, sing songs of resistance and then kneel on frozen pavement to pray.”
Minnesotans understand something essential: Survival in a harsh climate depends on neighborliness, regardless of race or religion. That instinct — to protect one another in hard times — is also what keeps a democracy alive. (Judith Moen, Atlanta)
In his book “The Imperial Presidency,” the historian Arthur M. Schlesinger Jr. warned that “corruption appears to visit the White House in 50-year cycles.” With remarkable insight, he wrote: “Around the year 2023 the American people would be well advised to go on the alert and start nailing down everything in sight.”
The people in Minnesota took it upon themselves to hammer down some of those nails. (Jerold D. Cummins, Arlington, VA)
What’s missing from [Friedman’s] account is the perspective of those who endured the winter in their apartments with the shades pulled down. If Mr. Friedman had spent time in their living rooms, he would not put such a neat bow on this catastrophic story. There is nothing “post” about a federal agent presence that is roughly three times its pre-surge level.
I am part of a suburban Minneapolis group that delivers groceries to neighbors unable to leave their homes. When I see their sparse living rooms, empty walls and minimal furniture, I feel a rush of anger. Why is our government picking on this vulnerable population? People who work so hard for so little reward, who now have to live with such fear? (Dan Forstner
Bloomington, MN)
Friedman’s column about Minnesotans reminded me of my time as a reporter in the 1970s for a regional newspaper up there. In particular, I recall a comment made by my managing editor after his return from assignment along a two-lane highway during a subzero, dead-of-winter blizzard.
While he was out there he noticed a farmstead light maybe a quarter-mile off the road. “I just knew if I was stalled there and somebody at that farm saw me, they’d bundle up and hike out to ask if I was OK.” He said such gut-level caring was one of the main reasons he worked there. It’s good to read that Tom Friedman found it’s still like that. (Ed Maixner, Herndon, VA)
It’s nice when a puzzle takes you nice places. Here’s what Commenter Pabloinnh said today: “My favorite word today is TENACIOUS as I met my bride-to-be in the fall and as we passed a small maple on campus that was still holding on to some of its more beautiful leaves I said it was nice to see such a thing, and she said yes, said tree was certainly TENACIOUS, and that’s where it all started. The stuff you remember.”
At 23A, for the clue “WWI helmet,” the answer was TIN HAT. Since we’re a country at war let’s listen to this great tune again. See you tomorrow, Chatterheads.
The Wellington Files 
One response to “Fifty-Year Cycles”
great poem. thanks
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