Let’s get right to the puzzle; the news is insufferable.
I had something to say to the gang about the following: ARMRESTS (“Possible causes of in-flight disputes”); LEGLOCKS (“Certain submission moves in wrestling”); NATO (“Grp. joined by Finland in 2023 and Sweden in 2024”); and I’LL LIVE (“‘Tis but a scratch”).
ARMRESTS: What ARM does when it’s tired.
LEGLOCKS: French handguns.
NATO: Sources say Finland and Sweden only joined NATO after a better deal fell through for them to join the Big Ten.
POPCULTURE: The section in the bookstore where you’ll find the six-volume set on the history of Fresca.
Re: I’LL LIVE
Many years ago I was on line at the supermarket in Bristol VT with my friend Robert who lives up there. The fellow in front of us had some empty bottles to return for a refund. The young woman at the register told him he would get 65 cents and that she’ll take care of it after ringing up his items. He said fine. But by the time they finished, they both forgot about the refund. She remembered just as he was reaching the exit. So she shouted: “Sir! Sir! Your 65 cents!” But it was too late. He didn’t hear her and he left the store. We could sense she didn’t run after him because there must have been a strict rule against leaving the register unattended. By now she was holding 65 cents in her hand that didn’t belong to her and there was no way to get it to him. She was completely flummoxed. She looked up at us in utter despair. And Robert said: “He’ll live.”
The poem of the day today from poems.org is by Kathy Evans.
It’s called “Bio.”
Born at midnight, fish were spotted on the ceiling, and language,
all song and curlicues.
Mother was a pretty ribbon, father, a painted merry-go-round horse.
I hunted arrowheads,
watched water-skeeters on the surface of a pond.
I had a pet chameleon with half a tail that lived on my windowsill.
Somewhat abstract, I loved swimming pools, the deep end,
kissing boys on the high school hill,
listening to the sound of distant trains in the middle of the night—
I walked in hot mud
ate pie cherries from a tree above a creek,
was baptized for the dead, read Edgar Allen Poe,
could crack codes, enter caves and sestinas.
When asked, what do you want to be when you grow up?
I always answered, “the weather girl.”
[OC note: For the ignorant among you, a sestina is a fixed verse form consisting of six stanzas of six lines each, normally followed by a three-line envoi. The words that end each line of the first stanza are used as line endings in each of the following stanzas, rotated in a set pattern.]
DIEGO Maradona popped by today, clued as “Argentine soccer legend.” As good an excuse as any for Son Volt to share this haunting tune.
True stories of high finance. Linda has a Roth IRA. It’s with Vanguard and I check in on it from time to time online. It’s whimsical. So sometimes it asks me to verify my (Linda’s) identity via a secret code sent to our phone. The problem is the phone it uses is our landline, which we shut down (“is no longer in service”). Okay, so we called Vanguard and gave them the new number and they assured us the problem was solved. I tried to log in several hours later only to discover the problem was not solved. They were still sending the code to the old dead number and I was not able to log in. Hmmmmmm. Must remain calm.
I called Vanguard again and this time a young woman answered. I explained the situation. She dug a little deeper and said the other guy just changed the number in the profile — not the number for security purposes. For that, we need to mail in a form with Linda’s signature notarized. She emailed me the form. I printed it out and Linda and I drove down to the Chatham library where they notarize things as a community service. However, as luck would have it (bad luck), the notary was out and would not be back for several hours. So we drove back home.
Must redouble efforts to remain calm.
Bottom line: It took me ten minutes (and was easy) to open a new account with Fidelity, close the Vanguard account, and transfer the funds over. All just because we dropped our landline. Ridiculous.
This Letter to the Editor appeared in today’s NYT.
To the editor:
Bruce Springsteen is doing exactly what artists are supposed to do: Artists call out society’s shameful acts, artists alter a person’s consciousness, and artists point society in the direction of change and hope.
Thanks, Bruce.
Rebecca A. Miles, Sarasota, FL, a novelist.
[Taylor — where are you?]
Oooh, that reminds me — the Big Man was in the puzzle on Sunday: CLEMONS (“Sax player Clarence”). How great is that? Lookin’ good, big fella. Miss you.
Thanks for dropping by, Chatterheads. Go Blue!
The Wellington Files 