Is nothing sacred? Yesterday’s NYT big story on the Business page addressed the question of whether sprinkles are subject to Trump’s Canadian tariffs. The happy conclusion is they are not, but some of the ingredients used to make them are. Dodged a bullet there.
The Gnats set the all-time MLB record for blown saves in a season with 38. Unlike most records, it doesn’t go all the way back to 1900; saves only became a stat in 1969. So just 57 years. And, in fact, it’s not as bad as it seems. One factor that led to the record is that the Gnats’ offense was so good they were able to take leads into the late innings. So they had an unusually high number of save opportunities, which is good. On the stat of %-age of save opportunities blown, they are actually only third worse this season.
Here’s Clayton Beeter. He led the team in blowns with seven and, sadly, is one their better bullpen arms. Yup. We feel your pain CB.
This story is called “Life Advice.” Ronald Wolfson wrote it for last Sunday’s Met Diary.
Dear Diary:
In May 1988, I was a rookie teacher at JFK High School in the Bronx.
After a rough first half of the year, I felt as if I had found my footing. Learning was taking place in the classroom, and the kids seemed to like me.
Every morning before my American history class, two young girls, Beatriz Collado and Lisette Rosario, would harass me in a good-natured way. They were deeply concerned with my social life.
One day, for no particular reason, I decided to wear a tie.
Beatriz clapped her hands when she saw me.
“Mr. Wolfson, you’re wearing a tie,” she said. “Do you have a date?”
Before I could answer, Lisette entered the classroom.
“Guess what?” Beatriz said. “Mr. Wolfson has a date.”
“Mr. Wolfson, can we come with you?” Lisette said.
“Oh no,” Beatriz said. “Mr. Wolfson wants to be alone, don’t you Mr. Wolfson?”
In addition to it being my first year as a teacher, I spent an hour and a half commuting each way every day, so I had little free time, and, unfortunately, no date.
I delivered the bad news to the girls.
“If I did have a date, what advice would you give me?” I asked them.
“Whatever you do,” Beatriz said, “don’t be yourself.”
Well, then.
I recently learned that Beatriz earned a teaching degree and had returned to Kennedy to teach social studies, perhaps in the same classroom where she once gave me life advice.
Beatriz, if you read this, I want you to know that I’ve been happily married for over 25 years and that I still remember you nearly 40 years later.
We get down to DC now and then to see the Gnats, but we really need to pop over to the reflecting pool to see how the great Trump repair project is going. Trump has been blaming vandalism by “sick people” for the problems and started arresting people, but a story in the NYT says the contractor admitted he f*cked up. The “greatest nation on Earth” can send a man to the moon but can’t fix a goddamn swimming pool. From the story in the Times:
“On Aug. 13, the contractor began power-washing the pool to remove loose chunks of blue liner, according to the documents. By the end of the next day, workers had filled one large trash bag, but many more bits of liner remained stuck to the pool’s concrete slabs and would need to be removed later with razor blades, hammers and crowbars.”
[Razor blades? Seriously? It’s kinda big isn’t it?] The article continues:
“After removing the loose pieces, the documents show, Atlantic sought to reapply the blue coating, only to encounter the same problems as before: Blisters would appear under the surface, between layers of the lining. Early this month, the company concluded that the problem was the interaction between the two compounds and stopped layering the hotter one on top, the documents show. That reduced the blisters but did not stop them completely.”
“Also early this month, the contractor identified a new potential culprit: sweat. It said that a worker, wearing a protective suit under the hot Washington sun, was leaving droplets of sweat on the coating, which were then trapped when new layers were sprayed on top.”
[Who could possibly have anticipated that??]
“To try to solve that problem, the documents show, the man then opened the top part of his protective suit and wrapped cloth around his head and wrists to contain the sweat. The documents reviewed by The Times do not say if that stopped the blisters.”
Meanwhile, Owl Chatter has obtained exclusive access to the following photos of the vandals who were arrested and charged with damaging the pool.
The former presidents all attended the 9/11 ceremonies (Biden, Obama, Bush, Clinton, and Polk), but you-know-whom stayed the f*ck away. Maggie Haberman was among the NYT reporters who wrote that Trump wanted to attend and give a speech. But the organizers told him no speeches were allowed so he blew it off. He was upset at the reporting so referred to Haberman as “maggot” and called her “unattractive, inside and out.”
We ran the “unattractive-outside” issue past our style and culture consultant Ana de Armas and staff photographer Phil. Both took issue with Trump’s charge. Armas said MH has very pretty features, especially nice eyes, and Phil thought her glasses gave her that special cute-smartperson look. But you can decide for yourselves, Chatterheads.
This poem is called “Boy with a Halo at the Farmer’s Market.” It’s from today’s Writer’s Almanac and is by Sonia Greenfield.
The metal halo was bolted into his skull,
little drills secured the scaffold,
so his bones could rebuild themselves.
How truly graced he must have been
to survive a broken neck. Someday
he’ll remember how he had to turn
his whole body, caged, to watch
the fruit vendor polish apples. His hair
will cover the evenly spaced scars.
He’ll go to school for architecture,
having learned to appreciate girders.
He’ll come to love the gold leaf halos
of medieval art, the flash of The Savior
in cracked oils. He may carry himself
a little gingerly, he may never ride a horse
again, but he’ll kiss his wife’s neck
in a dark theater, taking leisure, blessing
each vertebra, one lucky break at a time.
Brian Greenhalgh, of the Dull Men’s Club (UK Chapter), asks the following:
“Now then, I’ve just received this heading on an email. I presume this means 12 noon, although 12pm should really mean 12 hours post meridiem, i.e. midnight. Why such confusion?”
[I must say the 12 am vs 12 pm business has bothered me too. 12 pm is just one minute after 11:59 pm, right? Yet it’s noon. ]
Here’s how some members of the club responded.
Adrian Bull: There’s a reason why we have the specific words noon and midnight to define the two 12 o’clock times of the day – and no other words for any other times…
Wayne Mudwander: AM and PM refer to ante (before) and post (after) meridiem (midday). The 12 o’clock in the middle of the day, when the sun is directly overhead, is neither before nor after meridiem. It is the exact moment of meridiem. It is neither “ante” nor “post” meridiem. It is therefore foolish and confusing to refer to it other than 12 midday. Unfortunately, due to laziness and illiteracy, some people refer to this time as 12pm, in much the same way as other idiots use the word “wicked,” when what they are really trying to express is “good.” Finally, regarding the 24 hour clock: Is 00:00 yesterday, or tomorrow?
Eand K Makes: It depends on the tense. Shall we meet at 00:00 means today. We met at 00:00 means yesterday. Hope that helps.
Avi Liveson: It helps now, but it didn’t help yesterday.
Rowland Carson: I think that 12AM means the midnight that has just passed (i.e., before this noon); 12PM means the midnight that is yet to come (i.e., after this noon).
Robert John Wilton: It’s neither. There is no such thing as 12 am or pm.
Ken Irvine: Who makes an appointment for 12 midnight?
Ian Murdoch: Vampires and other denizens of the night might have committee meetings, support groups and other get-togethers around then.
For no reason connected to the puzzle, but only because it was 9/11, Rex shared this song with us. I had forgotten how great Paul Simon is. Had you?
See you next time, Chatterheads. Very glad you could stop by today.
The Wellington Files 