The Wellington Files

  • So Much Water So Close To Home

    Let it go, ‘Rines. Take the L. We don’t need no stinking win over Western Michigan. Let them have it. They f*cking earned it more than we did, for one thing.

    If you have no idea what I’m talking about (probably not for the first time), it’s the controversial ending of the UMich-Western Mich football game from Sept. 5. Sportsworld is still buzzing/fuming over it. The ‘Rines were four-touchdown favorites, but appeared to have lost the game, having played incredibly shittily, and watched the clock wind down to zero as their last-ditch pass failed. But the refs were watching a different clock: one that had one second left on it when some player touched the ball, stopping the clock. With that one extra second, UMich completed a Hail Mary pass and won the game.

    An uproar ensued and protests were filed. The NCAA concluded the refs blew it. The game should have been ruled over with WMU the winner. But it’s too late to change the result once the game officially concludes, so the win stands. What the f*ck! Too late my tuchas!! UMich has quietly entered the win into the record books, but I say they should join the protesters and say they don’t want it. We survived the great Appy State upset umpteen years ago, we can survive this loss. We just upended Oklahoma, for Pete’s sake. Give us the loss and let’s move on. Right, Babe?

    David Emsley of the Dull Men’s Club (UK) writes: A thought occurred to me at a local hostelry. As the time arrived for, you know, I went and selected urinal no1. At further visits I always selected the same urinal. Is this common? Do others always select the same one each time?

    Tink Dumbles: In a pub I know I use the same one if possible. If it’s a new pub I’ll try each one until I find a favourite.

    Ken Irvine: Now you mention it, yes.

    Trevor Mayor: I no longer drink, but when I did I was always pleased with myself if I made it to the urinals at the end of the night.

    Paul Collingwood: Yes I too have a favourite urinal, and in all honesty I’m a little disappointed if I have to use a different one.

    Joe Murray:  I find if you hover really close they finish up rather quickly.

    Paul C: Unless they are an undercover policeman, but I will keep that story to myself.

    We heard a report from MIT on student use of AI. The fear is that if students rely on AI too much, they will lose the ability to solve problems or think for themselves. But isn’t that the goal? It said professors should replace written exams with oral exams. Personally, I think rectal exams are the way to go.

    John Lonsdorf of Martinsville posted the following in our neighborhood website: “I just fired Ned Stevens gutter cleaning because their price has doubled over 2 years. Does anyone have a recommendation for a good local gutter cleaning service?”

    I try to be helpful so I responded: “We used the same company that’s repairing the reflecting pool in DC. Excellent, and they only charged $12 billion.”

    Two good tunes today, puzzle-related, from Son Volt. Enjoy!

    We’re shared this one before. So what?

    Son Volt works on music from the puzzle for us. Egs and I go for wordplay, the more ridiculous the better. Here’s egs today:

    What the magician who lost her lingerie needed to start her incantation…..ABRA.

    Didn’t Warhol’s son used to call him POP ARTIST.?

    Whenever I try to remember the word for [Female antelopes], DOES DOES not come easily to me.

    I chimed in with:

    Hey! Who took all the chocolates??!! LINDT remover

    How the successful Scottish comedian did: KILT

    Last, off the clue “Organ-related item in a wallet,” for which the answer was DONOR CARD, I suggested condom.

    From The Onion:

    Mitch McConnell Returns To Capitol Hill In Jar Of Formaldehyde

    This poem was translated from the Catalan by AKaiser. It’s by Anna Gual and is called “The New Normal.” It was today’s Poem of the Day from poets.org.

    We will sink our feet into other sands,
    in the new normal. We will grow plants
    between our toes, in the new normal.

    We will laugh at the distances
    and it will be forbidden to not touch us,
    in the new normal.

    Our calendars will seem strange
    and we won’t know what the rules are,
    in the new normal.

    There’ll be caves
    and space for everyone.
    There’ll be lichens
    and hunger well-whetted.

    We’ll embrace all the mysteries,
    we’ll be lovers of the invisible
    and death, death
    will be quite bearable.

    When winter comes
    the mud will come and with the mud
    creation unleashed
    and we will draw the whole holy day,
    in the new normal.

    We’ll yank flowers from the rocks
    and let pigment run
    and we’ll paint our faces, also our thighs,
    also our sexes and the hot thing, too.

    We’ll look at the sky more than anything else,
    in the new normal.

    We will breathe very slowly,
    in the new normal.

    And who knows if the gods won’t find us
    and we’ll have to create new altars with twigs
    and make a roaring fire and roast fish
    and dance barefoot until it hurts.

    Pain not in the feet, but in our bellies,
    from so much inconsumable joy.

    “Pain not in the feet.” Sounds like an old Jewish woman at the chiropodist. We’ll let her close for us today. See you tomorrow, Chatterheads!

  • Isle of Ewe

    The NYT asked a bunch of 10-year-olds to predict the future. Here are some clips:

    What will life be like in 2050?

    I’m thinking of drones delivering things to you.

    What would you get delivered?

    Pizza.

    Are there any famous people today who might be a bigger deal in 2050?

    LeBron James and Elon Musk.

    Who will be running the country?

    I think it might be me.

    What else will be different?

    I think Mount Rushmore is going to fall down.

    Why?

    Someone’s going to bomb it or something.

    What will our food be like in 2050?

    We’ll have different sorts of crops. We’re going to figure out how to make purple apples. They’ll be really sweet. People like sweet apples more than sour apples. I like sour apples, though.

    What will we do for fun?

    There’s going to be new instruments. People have been using a pumpkin to make an instrument. We’re going to figure out how to do something along the lines of that — use natural resources, like potatoes, to make some sort of instrument that’s got a totally new sound.

    SHEL Silverstein was in the puzzle today. His clue was “Silverstein who wrote and illustrated ‘The Giving Tree.’” It reminded me of one of my favorite-ever New Yorker cartoons:

    Sadly, in his later years, Silverstein was a mere SHEL of his former self.

    At 53D yesterday the clue was “Isle of ___ (Scottish locale whose name sounds like an expression of endearment).” The answer was EWE, but I didn’t get it. As one commenter asked: How is that an expression of endearment, unless you’re a sheep lover? But it’s phonetic: Saying “Isle of Ewe” sounds like “I love you.”

    Also learned what SCORIGAMI means. It’s a term coined in 2014 for when a score in a sporting event occurs for the first time. There was one yesterday in the Bears/Panthers game. The final score was 59-37 Bears. That score had never occurred before in an NFL game.

    This pretty Honey Bear was thrilled.

    A story in the Times recently discussed “familects,” special terms or words that are made up within families and are exclusive to them. Lorijo Peters wrote in and shared the following:

    “Back in July 1991, our family was at a zoo and had just passed a number of peacocks strolling the grounds. My 3-year-old son was sweating in the intense afternoon heat and declared, ‘I’m sweating like a peacock!’ That phrase quickly became our family’s standard way of declaring that we were hot. That son died in 2007 at the age of 19 in a motorcycle accident, but 18 years later, we still say that we are sweating like a peacock. In memory of him and that little gift to our family, I recently got a peacock feather tattoo on my arm. It makes me smile every time I look at it.”

    Here a few notes from today’s Writer’s Almanac. Agatha Christie was born on this date in 1890. Hercule Poirot was introduced in her very first book and appeared in 33 of them. When she tired of him, she killed him off in 1975 in Curtain. The NYT ran a full-page obituary for the fictional character. (Not kidding.)

    François VI, duke de La Rochefoucauld, was also born on this date, in 1613. He was a real card and published a book of funny maxims in 1665. Among them was “We all have strength enough to endure the troubles of others.”

    Last, born on his date in 1889, was humorist Robert Benchley, pictured below. He wrote: “The freelance writer is a man who is paid per piece or per word or perhaps.”

    This shot is from a short of his called “How to Eat” in which he portrays a hapless Joe Doakes illustrating how to dine in various difficult circumstances.

    I am definitely off my game. I read Jill Lepore’s piece in the New Yorker on the 9/11 anniversary, from which the sentence, below, is taken. And it struck me as especially wonderful, but I didn’t think to take the next step and send it in to Frank Bruni for his “For the love of sentences” feature. Of course, someone else did. Damn you, Stan Shatenstein, of Montreal!

    Lepore writes that she was teaching a class when the dreadful news started filtering in via cell phone calls to students. No one knew what was really going on.

    “What was safest: stay or go? Go, I decided. I ended class. Go straight to your dorms, and be safe, be safe. Then I got on my bicycle, turned on a radio bolted to the handlebars, listened to the unfathomable news, looked up at the clearest, bluest sky—no planes, no planes, no planes—and pedaled across the river to a day-care center to pick up my very little boys because mammals gather their young.”

    The person closest to us who was a victim was then-brother-in-law Tony Russo’s firefighter brother Michael, 44. He left a wife and 8-year-old son behind. Just learned that the son, 33 now, is a firefighter too. Apparently, many children of firefighters who perished on that day have followed in their footsteps.

    Here’s Michael. Rest in peace.

    Cincinnati’s Elly de la Cruz is one of those tall, gorgeous ballplayers you just can’t take your eyes off of. He’s 24, 6′ 6″, and from the Dominican Republic.

    He’s having a damn good year (.284 batting average (12th highest in the NL), with 27 dingers). And an intriguing question arose over this recent home run of his. Take a look.

    It left the field of play and it left the ballpark. Statcast tagged it at 457 feet from home plate. But the question that landed it here in Owl Chatter is, did it leave the state? What? Yeah, you heard me. When it landed outside the park it bounced and rolled into the Ohio River. Ohio ends at the river and Kentucky starts on the other side of the river. By making it to the river, had the ball reached Kentucky? In other words, had de la Cruz hit a ball out of the state of Ohio?

    I’ll keep this explanation brief, but nevertheless tedious. The language forming the state of Ohio says it rests north and west of the river. That would mean the river was not part of Ohio, and was therefore Kentucky. But it was reasoned a river’s level is changeable and a state’s border has to be fixed. So the Supreme Court finally ruled in 1980 that the official state border should be the low-water mark of the Ohio River as it existed in 1792, when Kentucky was admitted into the union. That places the border into the river about 250 feet beyond the Ohio-side shore. And that means the ball did not make it to Kentucky. Too bad.

    Let’s close with this pop song by Blue Rodeo, a Canadian band It’s linked to the puzzle via 53D: “Cowboy contest.” RODEO. It captures that dangerous “head over heels” feeling when you first fall in love. Awwww. You remember that, right? Listen to it five or six times — it’ll come back.

    See you tomorrow gang.

  • I Dreamed I Was Flying

    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.

  • Cheese Can Be A Heart

    In the puzzle today, at 46A, for “Old-timey ‘Listen!’” the answer was HARK.

    Noah was 500 years old when he built the ark, give or take. I’m no Bible expert, but I’m thinking his hearing might not have been that great.

    God: HARK!

    Noah: Ark?

    God: No, HARK.

    Noah: What?

    God: HARK. It means listen.

    Noah: Okay. I’m harking. What do You want?

    God: Ark.

    Noah: Hark?

    God: No, ark.

    Noah: That’s what I asked before and You said no.

    God: I was saying HARK before.

    Noah: Ark?

    God: No, HARK.

    Noah: Oh! Okay, so what do You want?

    God: Ark.

    Noah: HARK?

    God: Arrrrgh.

    Noah: Ark?

    It’s a miracle it ever got built.

    At 1A, “‘OK,’ in modern slang” was BET. Remember this great Jim Harbaugh ad?

    The other items I “worked” on were SHEENS (“Paint options”), and SPADE (“Part of a black suit”).

    SHEENS: Martin and Charlie

    Alternate clue for SPADE: With “a,” what to call a spade.

    We’re back to our miserable lives from our weekend in the Berkshires. Monday’s movie was Coyote v. Acme. Linda liked it more than I did. It was certainly clever, well-done, and likable. Maybe I was expecting too much.

    Took a very nice walk in downtown Pittsfield MA after the movie. A vacant store window had posters with children’s poems in it. These were my favorites.

    1.

    Dear blue I know you’re
    The color of sadness
    But you can be other emotions too!
    You can be depression.
    You can be blueberries!

    2.

    I TOLD MY MOM THAT
    I CLEAN MY ROOM I DON’T
    CLEAN MY ROOM

    3.

    Cheese is a moon
    A full moon
    (a half moon
    Or even the eclipse)

    Cheese can be so many things?!

    Cheese can be a heart if you
    Cut and shape it.
    Or maybe a fake pencil.
    You can draw cheese with cheese.

    4.

    I’m made of flowers

    The flowers are red

    Stopped in Poughkeepsie for lunch on the way back and a stroll over the Hudson on its “walkway.” Beautiful day for it.

    On Saturday, for the clue “The sound that concludes ‘The Sound and the Fury,’” the answer was LONG E. Get it? It’s the E sound at the end of the word “fury.” I bring it up only because I loved this comment and response that appeared on Rex’s blog:

    Commenter Stillwell: Did anyone else confidently write CADDY as the last sound of “The Sound and the Fury?” As in, what Benjy hears the golfers yelling on the golf course that used to be their farm, at the end?

    Burtonkd’s reply: You may be alone on that one.

    Phil — we’re not doing photos on this — just let Michelle play.

    The following is, verbatim, from historian Heather Cox Richardson’s newsletter from a few days ago. Before continuing, however, take a moment to remind yourself that she is talking about the President of the United States. It’s the same office held by men like George Washington, Lincoln, FDR, Eisenhower, Obama.

    He posted multiple images of himself changing maps or of new maps showing the change of the name of Lake Ontario to “Lake America” and the state of New Mexico to “New America,” and labeling the Strait of Hormuz as “NEW U.S. Territory.” He showed the colors of the U.S. over the North American continent, and he posted “before” and “after” maps in which Iran was replaced with a silhouette image of his own head, as well as an AI image of a U.S. military plane blowing up Iran’s Kharg Island with the caption: “Bye bye, Kharg,” along with repeated claims that Iran is collapsing. He posted an AI-generated image of himself beating Canadian prime minister Mark Carney at hockey and saying, “GET UP, GOVERNOR,” an insulting reference to Canada as a U.S. state.

    He posted AI images of former president Joe Biden wearing a Trump 2024 hat and Robert DeNiro holding up a shirt saying “TRUMP IS MY PRESIDENT.” He posted an AI image of what seemed to be the luxury liner RMS Titanic, labeled “DUMOCRATIC PARTY,” sinking in flames.

    He posted an image of himself trading stocks at his desk in the Oval Office at a screen that reads “BOUGHT: INTEL $20” and another that reads “NOW $95” with the caption: “I do this for our Country, not myself. I’ve made Hundreds of Billions of Dollars on Stocks, and many other type Holdings, for the U.S.A., not myself, and all I do is get criticized by the Radical Left Dumocrats. Very unfair, but what can you do!

    Let’s close with another poem today. It was the poem of the day from Poets.org on Sunday. It’s called “The Valley of Aijalon,” and is by Babette Deutsch. See you tomorrow, folks.

    I have forgotten precious things:
    Wisdom in books, the words of lovers,
    But not the shadow on the waters
    Cast by a hidden sea-gulls’ wings.

    I have forgotten many a pledge
    Given and taken—fear and hunger
    That once were knives—but not the pewter
    Of olives from a mountain’s edge.

    The tired brain gathers and lets go
    Faces and cities, wars and weathers,
    But keeps one sun as still as Joshua’s
    On honey-bright unbroken snow.

  • Roasted Garlic

    It’s been a glorious few days up in the Berkshires. The weather has been perfect. We took a great walk in a city park in Pittsfield, though you wouldn’t know it’s urban: fields galore and wooded trails. Springside Park.

    Nice walk yesterday before our concert at Music Mountain, near Falls Village, CT. Ran into this old fella. Hi Buddy. Hang in there!

    The concert was terrific. The Penderecki String Quartet (that’s a soft c, so the pronunciation ends in “ski”). Phil got a little artsy with this shot — the place will do that to you.

    It’s been sawing away for 40 years, 15 with these four members. The violinist on the right has been a member for 39 of the 40. Here’s a 2-minute taste.

    Solid burgers at the Water Street Grill on the first night with a fine pilsner, and a terrific Chicken Francese with an excellent specialty pizza at the Roasted Garlic last night, which was packed: we were lucky to get a table. A fine Fiddleheads Ale was on tap. (Burp!) Here’s the still-to-be-eaten half. Nestled under the arugula atop the excellent crust are figs, goat cheese, prosciutto, and red onions. SRSLY.

    Our activity upon arrival on Saturday was a terrific end-of-summer outdoor party out back at the Clark Art Institute. A thirteen-piece mostly strings ensemble played an excellent selection of pieces for an hour, loosely connected to exhibits inside. Apparently, it’s an annual event and the group, The Knights, are regulars. They’re a NY-based usually larger group.

    Before we move on, a special shout out to a nice little coffee place in North Canaan, CT, called Ilse. We were lucky to arrive before closing, and had a good cup and a nice chat with the owner. One thing he said was that he always takes leftover brewed coffee home, and that it gets better over a day or two. He locked the door at 2 but let us linger and offered us free pastry which was otherwise going to waste. An excellent croissant.

    Watched the Gnats throw one away to the Dodgers last night. That’s 36 blown saves now, one shy of the all-time season record. Arggggggh. They blew it early on a miscommunication I had never seen before. There was a grounder between first and second. The first baseman made a move towards it, but left it to the second baseman to field and retreated to first to take the throw. But the pitcher was also headed to first to cover. They arrived together. The pitcher took the throw, but the first baseman’s presence at the bag prevented the pitcher from stepping on it. Franny’s analysis: The first baseman should have called the pitcher off clearly and loudly: it’s his play. Two runs scored as a result and we lost by one in the end.

    Keeping it short today, but here’s some wordplay I’m pleased with from today’s NYTXW. I was working with KIMONO, TRUCE, REPAST, ICESAW, and ATLAS. Here’s what I came up with:

    John Lennon’s sister-in-law: KIMONO

    Trump’s daily feckless threats to Iran: TRUCE or consequences

    Historian’s memo heading: REPAST

    Caesar’s postcard home to Mrs. C from his winter fishing trip to northern Minnesota: I came, ICESAW, I fished.

    Collection of maps offered gratis by MLK, Jr., for his marches: Free ATLAS.

    See you next time! Thanks for popping by.

  • Kate Koval

    Angelo Montenegro posted the following on our neighborhood website: Anyone hear/feel that big boom around 1:30 AM, Sept 3, in Basking Ridge? Was that some freak lightning, nuclear bomb, and/or aliens? The boom lasted for what felt like 10+ seconds and my whole house shook.

    A good 30 or so people replied that they did hear it and gave their locations. I couldn’t let it go, so I posted the following in response:

    “Sorry folks. It happens whenever I eat turnips. Should probably see the doc about it.”

    Any Chatterheads recognize the reference? Groucho was in a rowboat with Margaret Dumont. He was kidding around (vu den?) and she said: “Oh, Professor, you’re so full of whimsy.” And he said: “It happens whenever I eat turnips.”

    I struggle to remember my grandchildren’s names, but that I remember.

    As a draft dodger from the sixties (5/18/71, to be specific), I feel uniquely qualified to pontificate on matters pertaining to the U.S. military. So here I go.

    The current leadership (Trumpseth) has no interest whatsoever in safeguarding the country. For example, they are perfectly fine about losing enormous numbers of highly qualified officers and personnel. Our enormous military might is now devoted entirely to two purposes. One is to pillage weak countries for their resources. They tried to force Ukraine into a minerals deal, but Zelensky wasn’t buying it. And you see what’s going on with Venezuela. It’s all a military-backed oil grab for Trump’s oil buddies.

    How deeply is the U.S. distrusted now? This is from Krugman’s letter today:

    “A large fraction of the world’s gold reserves sits in a vault underneath the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. And why not? The sanctity of nations’ ownership of gold stored in NY is guaranteed by the word of the U.S. government — a government that is utterly reliable, because it honors the role of law. Or anyway, that’s the country we used to be.

    “But the Trump administration has special contempt for international law. His tariffs were and are in clear violation of past agreements solemnly signed by previous U.S. presidents, including Trump himself.

    “So the idea that the U.S. government might devise some excuse to seize gold held in the Fed’s vault is no longer far-fetched. Earlier this week the Dutch central bank announced that it was shifting about $12 billion in gold from the vault in New York to the Bank of England’s vault in London. This follows a move by the French central bank to shift an even larger sum from New York to Paris. “

    The second use of the military is for dismantling democracy. The military is being purged of leaders with integrity in favor of toadies and sycophants. They know they can’t win elections any more, so they are setting the scene for the military to intervene, confiscate ballots, etc. They are putting in place commanders who will obey patently illegal orders. Once the election is stolen or wrongfully invalidated, an uproar should ensue. So Trump needs a military that will follow his orders to quell any riots violently and impose martial law on cities like Portland, Minneapolis, etc.

    That’s what’s on my mind, as I read the papers these days. This might help: BB King with ETTA JAMES, “Singer dubbed the ‘Matriarch of the Blues’” in today’s puzzle.

    I’m proud of a joke I made up for yesterday’s puzzle. It was on ALI BABA, nicely clued with “Character with a famous opening line?”

    Why did the forty thieves in the ALI BABA tale never go to prison?

    They all had good alibibis.

    I also worked with SMEE, EXISTS, and POKER GAME, as follows:

    Knock knock.

    Who’s there?

    SMEE.

    Come in.

    A religious sect comprised of divorced folks who still worship their former spouses: EXISTS.

    Once in a while, when I’m flipping through TV channels, I run into a POKER GAME on one of the sports channels. It’s amusing to think of it as a sport, and brings me back 70 years to when my dad would sit around playing gin rummy with his buddies. In food-stained undershirts covering their big bellies, they smoked cigars and drank schnapps. I never realized they were athletes.

    One of the missiles Russia launched towards Kyiv landed in the LSU women’s basketball program. The missile is named Anna Minaeva. She’s 17, 6′ 5″, and played pro ball for Moscow before LSU grabbed her to play college ball for them this season.

    So what’s the problem? The problem is Kate Koval was the center for LSU and she’s a very proud Ukrainian.

    “My father serves in the Ukrainian military and takes tremendous pride in defending his country against Russian aggression,” Koval said. “For me, this war is not distant or abstract. People close to me have been killed and wounded in Russian attacks, and places where I grew up and first began playing basketball have been destroyed by missile strikes.”

    “The timing of this situation and the deeply personal effect it has had on me, my family and those we care about who continue to live through and fight this war ultimately made me question whether LSU remained the right place for me,” Koval said. “This decision has not been easy. While I understand and respect that roster decisions are a part of college basketball, I have to remain true to myself, my values and my country.”

    She’s leaving LSU. One small glitch is that the “portal,” which allows transfers, closed a few days ago. So Kate is requesting special permission. She goddam better get it. We don’t want to have to send George and Phil down there to “reason” with them.

    From a poem that didn’t make it past our guard puppies:

    Just as my hair poses an appendage of my brain
    my tongue poses an appendage of my heart.

    Have to agree with the puppies on that one. My feeling is you can pose a question, but you can’t really pose an appendage. Amirite?

    There’s a new movie out about Woody Guthrie’s weight-loss struggles. It’s called “Zepbound For Glory.” The injection scenes are a little hard to take. Woody is played by former NJ governor Chris Christie. I can see it.

    The O’s are quietly tip-toeing out of the wild card race. Can’t seem to hold on to leads: a case of Gnats-itis. Three back of a bunch of teams now.

    Closing the shop now. We’re heading up to the Berkshires for the last gasp of summer. Reports to follow. Enjoy the weekend!

  • Red Hair and Black Leather

    A discussion was triggered by 40D in the puzzle yesterday. The clue was “Like un homme with a Napoleon complex,” and the answer was PETIT. Rex noted:

    This was weird. I guess you had to go to French because PETIT is a word in English only in legal contexts. PETITE is a word, obviously, but it’s got that “E” and applies almost exclusively to girls and women. In French, “PETIT” just means “small” (masc.), so a man can be PETIT there. I am a tall man myself, so whatever complex I have, this ain’t it, but I do have to say “Napoleon complex” seems like a “derogatory social stereotype” (wikipedia’s words), a way of mocking guys for being short, perhaps for doing the very same (obnoxious) things that taller men do all the time. If you know a number of short guys who are “overly aggressive or domineering,” consider how many average-sized and tall guys you know who behave exactly the same way. You can criticize a short man for various shortcomings and leave his shortness out of it (see also fat people / fatness—even more so). 

    JJK wrote: I would say a Napoleon complex is when someone (a man) feels he has to compensate for being short, so he goes out to show all the big tall men that he’s just as virile and masculine as they are by, e.g., trying to conquer the world.

    Anony Mouse #1: Yes but you are attributing that “need to compensate” to him, on what basis? It’s like the whole dumb thing of saying guys drive big trucks or talk tough etc to “compensate” for small penises. It’s made up and based on Your own prejudices (against short men, against small penises). Guys are assholes because they’re assholes, not for some biological shortcoming.

    Anony Mouse #2: Nope. Napoleon complex is mocking someone for their behavior. No one would say Richard Reich has a Napoleon complex and he’s practically a little person. Shortness is a requirement of the Napoleon complex but in of itself not sufficient.

    Anony Mouse #3: This only makes Anonymous’s point. If a short person is domineering, how is that any different from a tall person’s being domineering? Why are you bringing shortness into it? A: easy prejudice. This is like how people who don’t normally make fun of fat people will Absolutely bring fatness into it if they Don’t like someone. Like, the president is an awful human being but mocking his fatness (as so many of you do) is just dime-store anti-fat prejudice. Easy to make fun of / pathologize short guys. So if you find a short guy overbearing you go after his shortness despite its total irrelevance. You have asserted its relevance because it’s an easy cheap jab. Napoleon complex is not a real thing. Just like Napoleon’s shortness was not a real thing (avg height for his time).

    pabloinnh: It’s ROBERT Reich. He had a summer camp near where I grew up.

    Me (Liveprof): Was it a camp for short people?

    I separately warned people not to confuse “Napoleon complex” with “complex Napoleon,” which is an intricately designed pastry.

    Linda and I stayed up late (for us) Monday night to make sure we saw the final out in the Gnats’ win, since they are experts at blowing leads. Gotta drive that stake through the vampire’s heart. And they did — it was a great win. The Marlins loaded the bases in the 8th with no outs, down 3, but Erik Tolman came in and got a strike out followed by a DP to end the threat. Wow. He pitched the ninth too, to earn his first MLB save.

    There’s a bit of a story on him. He underwent Tommy John surgery successfully twice, but on his return to pitching, he was walking off the mound, hopped over the foul line, caught his cleat on the turf, and tore his leg up very badly. Yikes! Well, he worked hard to recover from that. (He’s 27.) Now, when he crosses the foul line, he makes a slash mark on it with his foot. It’s a little gesture, a way of saying “I’m back.”

    Anyway, as late as it was, the O’s game hadn’t ended — they were 1-1 in Colorado with a rain delay. I checked my phone in the middle of the night and was happy to see they won, 2-1. But it was only much later that I learned how they won. They were up 2-1 and Colorado had a man on in the ninth with two down. McCarthy was up, a good hitter, and he sent one way out to deep center. Cowser (Moooooo!) gave chase. If it goes over the fence, ‘Rado wins 3-2. If he snares it, the O’s hold on for the win 2-1. Take a look, below. (Note, also, the look of stunned joy on the face of the Orioles pitcher, Rabbi Chaim Mandelbaum.)

    Yesterday, at 11D, the clue was “Genuinely,” and the answer was IN EARNEST. Son Volt used it to share this extraordinary song with us, lyrics and pics below.

    Oh, says Red Molly to James, “That’s a fine motorbike
    A girl could feel special on any such like”
    Says James to Red Molly, “My hat’s off to you
    It’s a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952
    And I’ve seen you at the corners and cafés, it seems
    Red hair and black leather, my favourite colour scheme”
    And he pulled her on behind
    And down to Box Hill they did ride

    Oh, says James to Red Molly, “Here’s a ring for your right hand
    But I’ll tell you in earnest, I’m a dangerous man
    For I’ve fought with the law since I was seventeen
    I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine
    Now I’m twenty-one years, I might make twenty-two
    And I don’t mind dying, but for the love of you
    And if fate should break my stride
    Then I give you my Vincent to ride”

    “Come down, come down, Red Molly,” called Sergeant McRae
    “For they’ve taken young James Adie for armed robbery
    Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside
    Oh, come down, Red Molly to his dying bedside”
    When she came to the hospital, there wasn’t much left
    He was running out of road, he was running out of breath
    But he smiled to see her cry
    And said, “I give you my Vincent to ride”

    Says James, “In my opinion, there’s nothing in this world
    Beats a ’52 Vincent and a red-headed girl
    Now Nortons and Indians and Greeveses won’t do
    Ah, they don’t have a soul like a Vincent ’52”
    Oh, he reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys
    Said, “I’ve got no further use for these
    I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome
    Swooping down from heaven to carry me home”
    And he gave her one last kiss and died
    And he gave her his Vincent to ride.

    We love the name Molly. It was a leading candidate before we settled on Caitlin. Caity tells us they may name the new baby Romeo, kinehora. Hope so. But we’ll be very happy with whatever, of course.

    Let me remind you of the difference between acronyms and initialisms. Acronyms are new words made up of initials, e.g., NATO. Initialisms are when you just use the initials, e.g., FBI. Today’s guest poster for Rex reminded me of one of my favorite initialisms: IYKYK. It’s “if you know, you know.”

    She (Malaika) called the weather in NYC atrocious, like being in a swamp. Then she posted this photo and captioned it: “swamp things, iykyk.”

    Well, I didn’t know, but a kind soul looked it up for us. It’s singer Lana Del Rey and her hubby, Jeremy Dufrene, a Cajun swamp tour boat operator, of all things.

    Today I learned (TIL) what “Perpetual Stew” is. The clue was “continuously heated soup with ever-changing ingredients.” It’s also known as forever soup, or hunter’s pot. The tureen is never emptied; ingredients and liquid are replenished as necessary. It can continue cooking for decades or longer if properly maintained. Yikes. It’s safe to eat, as long is it’s kept at a constant simmer.

    A batch of pot-au-feu was claimed by one writer to be maintained as a perpetual stew in Perpignan from the 15th century until World War II, when the restaurant ran out of ingredients to keep the stew going due to the German occupation. However, historians doubt this is true, for a variety of boring reasons.

    Phil! — the soup is supposed to be simmering — not you.

    I’m sorry folks. You don’t wear a top like that unless you’ve murdered your roommate.

    Just kidding! That’s Amanda Knox, of course, who was convicted (twice), but was finally and totally exonerated, after serving four years in prison. Ouch.

    Here’s a knock-knock joke I made up.

    Knock knock.

    Who’s there?

    Knox.

    Yeah, I heard those. Who’s there?

    Knox.

    Can we please get past that!! Who the hell is it?

    Knox.

    Arggggggh.

    Anyway, so Amanda’s in the news again. Not for murdering anyone this time. She’s slaying in a different sense: stand-up. Yeah, you heard me. She’s got a stand-up comedy routine that draws on her nightmare experience and she’s catching a bit of shit for it. Among others, the family of the dead roommate thinks it’s disrespectful, even though it only dwells on Amanda’s own experiences.

    Now, I haven’t heard the routine. And I didn’t follow, or form an opinion on, Amanda’s legal back-and-forths. But let’s assume that the system got it right and she’s innocent. I’d like to propose a rule:

    If you’ve served four years in prison for a crime you did not commit, and you put together a comedy routine about it afterwards, people should cut you a modicum of slack. Just sayin’.

    Yeah. That’s a better top, AK.

    See you tomorrow! Thanks for popping by.

  • A Boy Named Seven

    This poem is by William Carlos Williams and is called “Thursday.” It’s Saturday’s poem-a-day from Poets.org.

    I have had my dream—like others—
    and it has come to nothing, so that
    I remain now carelessly
    with feet planted on the ground
    and look up at the sky—
    feeling my clothes about me,
    the weight of my body in my shoes,
    the rim of my hat, air passing in and out
    at my nose—and decide to dream no more.

    ********

    Ouch. This is what Allen Ginsberg said to his class about it:

     “So we’ve all been in the same place here as this poem? Maybe you haven’t lost all your dreams yet. You haven’t lost them. Just keep going. You’ll get there. You’ve got a couple of dreams left. […] Okay, so in this class, no dreams are allowed to be written as poems, except if you’re looking at them from the outside and saying, ‘That’s my dream?,’ except if you’re looking at it as kind of an object. Like [Williams] did, in a way.”

    I haven’t lost my dreams yet. But they are not for me anymore. A lot of them are for Robin, Granddaughter #1. She’s a junior in HS this year and is starting to have some college thoughts. I guess what I have for her aren’t really dreams — they’re wishes, hopes. And they come with all the love this old heart can muster.

    I was supposed to have a zoom meeting with a PA from Aetna, my health insurer. I had one last year and it was a complete waste of time. I only consented to waste my time again because they said they’d give me $50 to do it. Okay. So at 12:30 — the appointed hour — I set things up to zoom, even though I hadn’t gotten anything from them since it was set up and didn’t have the link yet. Good chance they would fuck up, amirite? So I waited till about 12:35. Still nothing — no text, no link, nothing. I closed up shop and had lunch. The next time I checked my email I saw they sent a link at 12:41 which, of course, I did not see in time. They did not call or text.

    I replied to the email as follows:

    “The link was sent eleven minutes after the meeting was to start.  And I received nothing ahead of time.

    “I set aside time for this.  It should have been handled better.”

    I got no response. It’s a good thing stuff like this doesn’t ruffle my feathers.

    The Jets will kick off their 2026 season against Tennessee in a few weeks. Let’s note two historic achievements of the men in green from 2025. They were the first team in NFL history to go an entire season without intercepting a single pass from an opponent. The next lowest total last season was six, and the next lowest total ever was two, by the 2018 Niners. Second, the Jets were the first team in NFL history to lose five games in a row by margins of at least 23 points. Bravo, gentlemen!

    Is this man the answer? New QB Geno Smith. Geno had some good years with Seattle. He turns 36 in a few weeks, and is just holding down the position until the Jets can draft their future QB out of college. Geno and his wife Hayley have a son whom they named Seven, Geno’s number.

    This item falls both in our Brotherly Love and You Can’t Make This Stuff Up Departments. Grandson Raffi, 6, whom we love dearly, is our grandchild who gets into trouble far more often than the others. It’s, like, 700-3. He gets a certain gleam in his eyes and attacks his poor brother Isaac relentlessly. Izzy will be five soon, kinehora (for both). He responds with ear-shattering shrieks and fights back as best as he can until the cavalry arrives (Caity and/or Danny). And yet Friday when Linda and I were watching Izzy and Zoey (10) for a while, Izzy got a little bored (before we went for ice cream) and said: “I miss Raffi. I miss fighting with him.”

    This shot is from around five years ago. Raffi is in Caity’s lap; Izzy’s the baby. Leon and Lianna (Robin) are holding hands, and ZoZo is the ray of sunshine in the center. I was walking to school up Lexington Avenue once and passed a shop with a sign that said: “Spend time with people who feel like sunshine.” I sent a shot of it to Caity with the caption: “Zoey.”

    “Island of Arthurian legend” today was AVALON. Son Volt had a bunch of tunes for us on it. I liked these two. If you just have time or patience for one, go with Van.

    For my wordplay from the puzzle, I worked on ATONAL, CIAO, and IGLOO. To wit,

    How much do we wish you had beaten W in 2000? ATONAL

    I paste, said Tom.
    I tape, said Sally.
    I staple, said Robert.

    How about you, Panak?

    IGLOO.

    When you can finally say goodbye and go eat: CIAO time.

    I got into a mild contretemps yesterday on Rex’s blog. It started when Rex commented as follows about DONNA SUMMER: “I had DONNA and the only famous DONNA I could think of (that fit) was SUMMER, so I just wrote her in.”

    I casually mentioned in my post: It’s odd there aren’t more famous Donnas, as RP noted. The only other one that came to mind for me was Donna Reed from her (very) old TV show.

    Anony Mouse chimed in: How about Donna Karan?
    Or Richie Valens massive hit Donna?
    Donna Dixon, Donna Shalala ( for those of you who lean blue) Donna Mills for those of us who were red-blooded boys in the 80s.
    Strange to me that people think Rex has expertise outside of literatute or the puzzle.

    Rex responded: None of those fit [six letters], but keep going…

    And Mouse replied (to him): They fit Liveprof’s false claim .

    Ouch! “False claim!!” That seemed like a gratuitous dig. My first reply did not address the charge (I hadn’t seen it yet) and was:

    Anon: According to the Dictionary of Silly Words, the preferred spelling is “literatoot.” Also, Donna Shalala was the President of Hunter College (CUNY) when I started teaching there in 1986. I recall very fondly her welcoming us newcomers aboard. Thanks for the memory!

    After seeing the dig, I replied again: Let’s not forget Bella and Ma. [Donnas] My (false) claim rests on my subjective view that the other Donnas, as worthy as they all are, for sure, are a notch down, fame-wise, from DONNA SUMMER. But surely YMMV as we like to say.

    [YMMV stands for “your mileage may vary.”]

    And that was the last word.

    Here’s Shalala:

    I do remember Donna Mills. What’s with all the water, Babe? You on some kind of diet?

    The Gnats last night. Ugh. It was tight tight tight. The boys were nursing a one-run lead through the middles, and finally squeezed out an insurance run to take 2-0 into the ninth. Then, Oy — Beeter was effective for the 7th and 8th, but the wheels fell off the bus for Kranick and Cosgrove in the 9th and we lost 6-2. It was the 35th blown save this year — the most by far of any team, and only two shy of the all-time record. Oh, the ignominy! If they had just held on to ten of those leads, they’d be in the playoffs.

    The front page of the Times today was just business-as-usual horrifying. Terrible abuses visited upon deportees and how DOJ found a way to funnel its outrageous cases through an obliging federal judge in Texas: forum shopping on steroids. Google has changed Lake Ontario to Lake America already.

    So when I got an email with the headline about the Interior Department setting aside 2.3 million acres for the future enjoyment of the Trump family, it didn’t strike me as odd. Only later did I notice it was from The Onion.

    Dept. Of Interior Sets Aside 2.3 Million Acres For Future Trumps To Enjoy

    Where does this end, folks? Do you really think the midterms will lead to effective countermoves? Still expect to see the Epstein files? Do you envision a peaceful transition back to normalcy in 2028? These folks are just going to fold up shop and walk away? It’s going to be the hardest test democracy has ever faced. And from my spot here in Jersey, democracy ain’t doing too good.

    The clue at 28A today was “Role for Selena Gomez on ‘Only Murders in the Building.’” I watched the whole first season of it but had no idea she was MABEL. Les S. More wrote:  “I find Selena Gomez’ nasal, monotone delivery a bit annoying but she’s the perfect foil for those two silly geezers, Steve Martin and Martin Short.” I said “complaining about her voice was like noting that Babe Ruth couldn’t bunt.”

    We’ll let SG close for us today. See you next time Chatterheads!

  • Goodbye Dolly

    This letter to the editor was in the NYT yesterday. It’s by Kathy Perkins of Lawrence, Kansas.

    To the Editor:

    The Kansas that invalidated driver’s licenses when the gender didn’t match the holder’s sex assigned at birth is a far cry from the rural Kansas where I grew up in the 1960s. It was not the fantasy of old-fashioned rural America, but community-minded folks with flaws and secrets who lived by the adage “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

    I moved back to Kansas in 1996 and obtained a Kansas license. Four years later, I went in to renew it, wearing a skirt and on my way to work. I moved through the line and passed the eye test, and the woman at the final station handed me a document and said slowly, “I want you to review this very carefully.”

    I reviewed it and said, “It shows that my gender is male. Can I change it to female?” (By now everyone was paying attention.) She said, “Honey, you can be whatever you want — we aren’t allowed to ask.” The people in line chuckled. I wondered how neither I nor anyone else had ever noticed the “M” on my license.

    I believe my grandfather who served as a Republican in the Kansas House of Representatives and Senate has rolled over in his grave at the mean-spirited actions of present-day legislators.

    Can’t we just go back to treating others as we wish to be treated? Or put another way: “You can be whatever you want — we aren’t allowed to ask.”

    Not enough news of the good that she did in the world reached me under my rock. But it’s pouring out now, in the wake of Dolly Parton’s death. She was, of course, a long-time favorite of our Phil, who is devastated.

    She’s getting wonderful coverage out there in the world, so we don’t need Owl Chatter to pile on. Just wish her fans who are Trump supporters would heed her message of love and inclusion for gays and trans. She wasn’t subtle about it, having written and performed the song “Travelin’ Thru” for the film Transamerica. It was nominated for the Academy Award, Golden Globe, and Grammy Award for Best Song from a Movie. She performed it at the Oscars in 2006.

    Rest in peace, Dolly.

    Yesterday’s puzzle theme was neat, IMO. It was ZZTOP, you know, the rock band. But how it worked was there were four theme down answers with ZZ in them, but you had to relocate the ZZ to the top. So, e.g., with the answer BUZZ ALDRIN, you had to fill in ZZBUALDRIN. See? The ZZ was moved to the front. JAZZHANDS became ZZJAHANDS. The best was a double: FUZZY WUZZY. You had to move all the Zs to get ZZZZFUYWUY.

    At 15A, the clue was “November birthstone,” for TOPAZ. This was my comment on it:

    “Octavio Paz was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1990. It came as a surprise TOPAZ, but not to his devoted fans. They began distributing his poems on the streets in Mexico and became known as Paz dispensers.”

    I was pretty proud of Paz dispensers.

    At 14A, for the clue “Pre-Inca civilization known for its underground aqueducts and geoglyphs” the answer was NAZCA,

    Here’s me again:

    NAZCA: Pre-Inca civilization known for its devotion to auto racing.

    Oh no! Is that Dolly? Can’t be: no lipstick.

    In today’s puzzle, I learned there is such a thing as YAK polo, in Pakistan. I would guess nothing feels better after a tough yak polo match than a session of goat yoga.

    The O’s blew a 7-0 lead against the Cards on Tuesday, but won it 8-7 in the ninth. Some say games like that mark a team with destiny. If they win Thursday, kinehora, they’re two games out of the last playoff spot. [They didn’t.] They’ve caught our attention now that the Gnats have drifted. Still a long shot. This girl has faith. A redhead!

    From The Onion:

    Old Man’s Son Also Old Man

    One thing we’ve learned early from Phil is whatever you do, don’t mess with the redheads. They are a breed apart. And so we read with interest a story in the NYT yesterday that took up almost half a page about Sadie Sink — one of the more gorgeous redheads on the scene today. (Not sure what Phil did to earn the scowl. Not asking.)

    Anyway, could you possibly improve on that hair? Seems like a no to us. But in her role as Jean Grey in the new Spider-Man movie, they have her wearing a red wig. WTF? And it’s been a bit controversial.

    From the article:

    “Alessandro Bertolazzi, the hair and makeup designer for the film said that using a wig sped up and simplified the styling process. He added that the volume and hair quality offered by a wig makes a huge difference.

    “When designing the wig, Bertolazzi said that he had been inspired by Billie Eilish and that he wanted something ‘cool, contemporary, fashionable, in the same time messy, even dangerous.’ Bertolazzi recalled his team working on the wig for around four weeks. They played with length, texture and color.”

    Here she is in the wig. The Owl Chatter drool-meter has the wig/nonwig scores about even.

    And here’s Eilish.

    It took me a while to equate Trumpism with Nazism, but that line (for me) has been passed long ago. This is Paul Krugman, from his newsletter earlier this week:

    “We’re long past the point where it’s considered unthinkable and incredibly rude to make Nazi parallels. There’s a lot of people in this administration or close to this administration who are effectively Nazis, in some cases explicitly Nazis. America is not yet Germany under Hitler. But the reason we don’t have a functioning Gestapo in this country is not for lack of desire to have one. It’s because these people, at least so far, don’t have the juice. So all of the stuff, all of the parallels seem appropriate.”

    PK noted Hitler’s obsession with building a “gigantic, gaudy” ballroom, btw.

    But his points of comparison took a scary turn. In Hitler’s last days, he blamed his losses on the German people’s failing him. He came up with a Nero Decree the gist of which was to destroy as much of Germany as possible, ostensibly to deny it to the Allies, but insidiously, to take his anger out on the German people: the losers who failed him.

    Trump, of course, will never blame himself for any of his wide range of failures. He sees the polls, though he denies it, and knows the people have turned on him. He will exact revenge, because that is all he knows. His construction projects are essentially destruction projects. His idiocy has already wreaked havoc on the military and the economy and the rule of law. How much damage will be done when he starts trying?

    Here’s how PK ends his column:

    “Increasingly it looks as if he just plain hates this country because it doesn’t love him. How much damage will he do? How much damage can he do? I don’t want to make a specific prediction, but I’m worried.

    “And don’t say that he won’t do that or he can’t do that. Those have been famous last words again and again over the past decade. So this is going to be even worse, even uglier, I think than most people imagine.”

    See you next time!

  • Crimes Against Science

    We’re back at our Jersey headquarters after an excellent road trip to Baltimore. The O’s couldn’t pull off a sweep of the Rays for us on Sunday, but it was a good tight game. Actually, the home squad was moribund through eight: Ray ace Nick Martinez was brilliant through six followed by two fresh arms. Wait, the O’s only had one hit? Yikes. But we were only down by three, so the way I like to look at it is: if we can get just one man on base, we’re just a single or walk away from bringing the tying run to the plate.

    I said to Linda: “If we can get the leadoff man on, the whole complexion of the game changes.” Then, holy shit, Cowser drove the first pitch out of the park! The crowd woke up – MOOOOOOOO!! Then Taveras reached when his bunt was misplayed! Sluggers Alonso and Henderson would get up with the chance to tie it, just as we drew it up in our dreams.

    Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. Good game though. Great weather. Great seats. Great scene. We enjoyed our Potbelly lunch in the stands as the grounds crew toiled, and I had a cold $5 High Life. Can’t beat a $5 beer at the ballpark.

    Linda snapped this nice shot of me at the game.

    Although the game was the centipede of the trip, we very much enjoyed the side activities too. The movie “Tony” at the historic Charles St. Theater was very good, followed by an excellent Spaghetti AI Frutti de Mare with stuffed zucchini at the Grano Pasta Bar in our favorite neighborhood (Hampden). And the post-game pie at Angeli’s was, as always, out of this world. Thank you Charm City!

    My “partner” egs and I came up with some good stuff on today’s puzzle. In the low-hanging fruit category, we both went for “the TRILL is gone.” Egs was brilliant on PERSEIDS, below, clued with “Summer meteor shower named for a mythological hero.”

    Bouncer: Can I see your IDs?
    Teen: Well, what we have aren’t IDs per se.
    Bouncer: Well I need PERSEIDS or you’re not coming in.

    And I worked on NOSEEUM (“Tiny biting insect”), and SHIVERY (“Like someone emerging from freezing cold water, typically”).

    The Institute of Olfactory Systems has an excellent NOSEEUM open to the public. The sneeze exhibit is a blast. Best to avoid the peak hours though, as the more popular passages can be clogged.

    It was freezing this morning. Who says SHIVERY is dead?

    OK, Phil. Now let her back in!! What the hell is wrong with you?

    You just never know what will set someone off in a puzzle. At 45D today, for the clue “The paths of planets” the answer was ORBITAL. I didn’t give it a moment’s thought. And yet Anony Mouse wrote:

    Yo! This is an ignorant crime against science! Orbital is a noun referring to the probability distribution of an electron in one of the shells of an atom. An orbital is a spherical or dumbbell shaped cloud. It DOES NOT refer to the path, or orbits, of the planets. More science ignorance from the NYT crossword. It’s a bummer.

    Several replies noted that our friend Miriam Webster says it’s “of, relating to, or forming an orbit (such as the orbit of a moon, planet, or spacecraft).” Another Anony Mouse wrote: “Slow your roll, pal. ‘Orbital’ here is being used as an adjective, not a noun. The paths of the planets are ORBITAL paths.”

    Commenter Gary had the last word: “‘Crime against science!’ Is the Department of Pompous School Boys where these crimes are reported? Who enforces these? What court adjudication exists? What are the sentencing guidelines? We’re lucky to have crossword police ready willing and able to call out such violations against wisdom.”

    This entry is by Karen Barnett in Sunday’s Met Diary. It’s called “Moths.”

    Dear Diary:

    In 2024, I arrived back in New York City after six years away. My 19-year-old car was filled with boxes of rugs and textiles and other things I had kept from my old apartment.

    I met a friend of a friend who had an entire basement where I could store the rugs while I tried to sell them on Facebook Marketplace.

    After a few months, I was relieved to finally sell the biggest rug I had. The relief faded quickly when I got a text from the buyer: “We found a moth.”

    I took back the rug and looked through everything in my friend’s basement. It was all infested with moths.

    My husband and I drove toward our Bed-Stuy apartment as he spun plans that required garbage bags and mothballs.

    After getting the supplies, we were ready to forge ahead, but my foul mood had officially set in.

    My husband tried to cheer me up.

    “Give me a kiss,” he said.

    Grumpily, I obliged.

    “And another.”

    With a huff, I gave him another kiss.

    “One more for good measure.”

    Now, with my smile starting to peek through, he got his third kiss.

    I started to pull out of our spot when a man who was nearby started to gesture wildly and shout at us.

    I looked around confused. Was I about to hit something? What was he saying? We rolled down the window.

    “Give us another!” he said with a smile. “One more time for Bed-Stuy!”

    Our focus on Nat Harp recently (see Owl Chatter’s post “Replacement Blonde”), was the same as that of Maureen Dowd’s on Sunday. Here’s her opening para:

    “I’ve spent my career watching officials maneuver and scheme, often in absurd ways, to get closer to presidents. But I’d never seen anything like the photo of Natalie Harp dashing after President Trump’s golf cart in Scotland three years ago. I’d also never heard of a staffer jumping into the trunk of an S.U.V., as Harp did, when she was denied a seat in the motorcade.”

    It goes beyond the sort of stuff you might see in a photo of an 8-year-old girl staring adoringly at JFK. It’s clearly psychotic. Or, as Dowd puts it: “something really dark and deranged at the innermost circle of Trump’s White House.”

    In adoring letters released recently, Nat talks about her fragile emotional state — forgetting to eat or sleep and getting hurt by others’ critical remarks (not Owl Chatter’s, we hope: We love you Nat!).

    “I want things to always be right between us,” she writes. “I’m sorry I lost my focus. You are all that matters to me. I don’t want to ever let you down. Thank you for being my Guardian and Protector in this Life.”

    She pleads, “We shouldn’t have to talk about work all the time!!” and pines to “hear every conversation” he has.

    She says that it would have been hard to lose her father if she had not had someone so “worthy” to turn to in Trump. “And, I will add,” she signs off, “it is I who is unworthy.”

    That’s not correct. Should be “am.”

    Two more deaths can be laid to Trump and Kennedy, according to a report in the NYT: the first two measles deaths in the U.S. this year, both in PA, of unvaxed folks. Vu den?

    More cases have been reported in 2026 than in any other year since the virus was declared eliminated in 2000. Outbreaks have popped up all over the country. Roughly 1 in 5 unvaccinated people who contract the virus lands in the hospital. The virus is especially dangerous for children. Up to 3 out of 1,000 children with measles die from respiratory and neurological complications. As many as 1 in 20 children with measles goes on to develop pneumonia, which is the leading cause of death from measles among children. Children can also experience brain swelling, which can leave them with lifelong hearing damage or intellectual disabilities. There are no treatments for measles.

    Good job, Mom and Dad!

    This poem by Albert Garcia is called “August Morning.” It was The Poetry Foundation’s Poem of the Day last Monday.

    It’s ripe, the melon
    by our sink. Yellow,
    bee-bitten, soft, it perfumes
    the house too sweetly.
    At five I wake, the air
    mournful in its quiet.
    My wife’s eyes swim calmly
    under their lids, her mouth and jaw
    relaxed, different.
    What is happening in the silence
    of this house? Curtains
    hang heavily from their rods.
    Ficus leaves tremble
    at my footsteps. Yet
    the colors outside are perfect–
    orange geranium, blue lobelia.
    I wander from room to room
    like a man in a museum:
    wife, children, books, flowers,
    melon. Such still air. Soon
    the mid-morning breeze will float in
    like tepid water, then hot.
    How do I start this day,
    I who am unsure
    of how my life has happened
    or how to proceed
    amid this warm and steady sweetness?

    See you next time, Chatterheads!