The Wellington Files

  • House Wine

    The following post appeared on our neighborhood message site. It troubles me a bit because we use Summit Health and it seems to be going downhill in some ways.

    It was posted by Nancy H.

    “I was attempting to schedule an appointment today with a doctor at Summit Health. The ‘person’ handling my call didn’t sound like a real person, but more like a robot. Apparently, Summit Health is using AI to respond to routine calls like scheduling appointments. So I really was talking to a robot. I now think I could have asked to speak with a real person, but at the time I thought maybe I was being silly. But I wasn’t. It was an unnerving experience, because she asked how I was, and made a sympathetic comment when I said I wasn’t feeling well.”

    I replied: How do we know you’re a real person?

    At 3D in the puzzle today the clue was “Setting of the 1888 painting ‘Café Terrace at Night.’” The answer was ARLES. It led Commenter James to share this haunting, beautiful song with us: “Spinning Away,” by John Cale and Brian Eno.

    Up on a hill
    As the day dissolves
    With my pencil turning moments into line . . .

    And here is the painting by VG. Don’t bother looking for his John Hancock. He didn’t sign it.

    It was an artsy puzzle today, with ART TATUM in the grid too, clued with “Jazz pianist with a memorable recording of ‘Tea for Two.’” How ignorant am I? Well, I heard of him enough to solve the puzzle but had no idea what he looked like or sounded like. Happily, Commenter Lewis helped on both accounts. Got two minutes?

    At 5D, ST. DENIS was the “Bishop for whom a neighborhood in Paris is named.” When things start getting rough, it’s best to keep your head about you and Denny held on to his fairly tightly.

    According to Wikipedia, “Denis is the most famous cephalophore in Christian history.” If I just saw the word and had to guess what it meant, I think I’d guess whale hunter. But that’s way the hell off. In fact, a cephalophore has a pretty specific meaning: it’s a saint who is carrying his severed head. To be more precise: who is “depicted as” carrying it. It made me wonder – were there so many of them that it was worth making up a special word for them? Well, there were over 60 of them, smarty pants, including Justinian of Ramsey Island (not to be confused with Shlomo of Staten Island).

    And just when you thought it was all classy and stuff with Art Tatum, Van Gogh, and St. Denis, it got down and dirty at 21A: “James in the National Rhythm & Blues Hall of Fame.” Who doesn’t love this tune? Turn it up!

    If all that isn’t enough, two actresses popped by: FAYE Marsay, and NAOMI Watts. Hey girls — sorry, it’s a madhouse here today — the puzzle just had too much going on all at once. You could lose your head! Clear some crap off the couch, and grab a Diet Coke. George should be around here somewhere. Georgie!! Company!! You’ll plotz!

    You may know Faye from “Game of Thrones.” Here’s a pretty intense shot of her.

    And we’ve been a fan of Naomi Watts from all over the place for years. Beautiful shot, Philly.

    Naomi is British. Her dad was a road manager and audio engineer for Pink Floyd, but died when she was only 8 of an apparent drug overdose. She was partnered with the late Heath Ledger and then, for 11 years, with Liev Schreiber, with whom she had two children. She’s been married to actor Billy Crudup since 2023. Here’s one of her kids, Kai Schreiber, who is transgender. Kai is a model and actress.

    The clue at 49A was “Restaurant sommelier’s offering,” and the answer was HOUSE WINE. I often jokingly refer to a carafe of wine as a giraffe of wine. Hysterical, I know. So, many years ago, Linda and I were uncharacteristically at a very fancy restaurant by our standards. Lots of extra silverware I had no idea what to do with, for example. And our intent was to order a carafe of the house wine. But when it was up to me to tell that to the waitress, I must have had a brain glitch or something because I very seriously said to her: “and we’d like a giraffe of your house wine.” She looked at me for a few seconds and said “I know what you mean.” (I told that story in class often to make a point on the importance of using correct terminology.)

    We’ll end with this very troubling item from The Onion:

    42 Million Dead In Bloodiest Black Friday Weekend On Record

    New York—According to emergency personnel, early estimates indicate that more than 42 million Americans were killed this past weekend in what is now believed to be the bloodiest Black Friday shopping event in history.

    First responders reporting from retail stores all across the nation said the record-breaking post-Thanksgiving shopping spree carnage began as early as midnight on Friday, when 13 million shoppers were reportedly trampled, pummeled, burned, stabbed, shot, lanced, and brutally beaten to death while attempting to participate in early holiday sales events.

    Law enforcement officials said the bloodbath only escalated throughout the weekend as hordes of savage holiday shoppers began murdering customers at Wal-Mart, Sears, and JCPenney locations nationwide, leaving piles of dismembered and mutilated corpses in their wake.

    Survivors of the deadly holiday sales event said that while the weekend began as a chance to “get in on some unbeatable post-Thanksgiving deals,” it quickly escalated into a merciless, no-hold-barred fight to the death.

    “At some point in time we all stopped caring about the deals and the holiday shopping and were pretty much just out for blood,” said Dana Marshall, 37, a Target shopper who suffered seven broken ribs and a cracked sternum while fighting two other customers for a discounted Nikon digital camera. “I remember just sitting on top of a woman and smacking her head with a DVD player until her face was completely unrecognizable. I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

    See you next time!

  • Hook and Tumble

    This poem by Mary Oliver from today’s Writer’s Almanac is the perfect way to open Owl Chatter’s Thanksgiving Day cornucopia of nonsense. It’s called “Winter and the Nuthatch.”

    Once or twice and maybe again, who knows,
    the timid nuthatch will come to me
    if I stand still, with something good to eat in my hand.
    The first time he did it
    he landed smack on his belly, as though
    the legs wouldn’t cooperate. The next time
    he was bolder. Then he became absolutely
    wild about those walnuts.

    But there was a morning I came late and, guess what,
    the nuthatch was flying into a stranger’s hand.
    To speak plainly, I felt betrayed.
    I wanted to say: Mister,
    that nuthatch and I have a relationship.
    It took hours of standing in the snow
    before he would drop from the tree and trust my fingers.
    But I didn’t say anything.

    Nobody owns the sky or the trees.
    Nobody owns the hearts of birds.
    Still, being human and partial therefore to my own successes—
    though not resentful of others fashioning theirs—

    I’ll come tomorrow, I believe, quite early.

    Mary Oliver was from Ohio and passed away in 2019 at the age of 83. She lived for over 40 years mostly in Provincetown MA with her partner, the photographer Molly Malone Cook, of whom she said “I took one look [at Cook] and fell, hook and tumble.” Here’s Mary. Isn’t she beautiful?

    The puzzle today featured the theme “Square the circle.” There were three circled squares that you were supposed to fill in with the words for numbers. You would use a rebus to do that: that’s when you smoosh more than one letter into a square. So, at 43A, the clue was “Process for a descending spacecraft” and the answer was EAR[TH REE]NTRY. And the letters spelling out “three” were all placed in a single square as a rebus. That was an across answer. Then! Going down, through that circled square, you used the (math) square of three, which is nine to get the down answer. Get it? Have I confused you? Going down through the circle the clue was “Gloomy, as an atmosphere,” and the answer was SATUR[NINE], with the “nine” appearing as a rebus within the same circle you used before for the three. So you “squared the circle” by converting the three in it into nine, its square. That happened three times: a two across became a four down, and a one across stayed a one down because the square of one is one. Whew. That wasn’t easy. Give me a cookie.

    Among the commentariat, the issue of what is the plural for rebus sometimes arises. Bob M. started it today with “Just curious…the plural of alumnus is alumni…ergo, is the plural of rebus rebi?”

    tht replied with:

    We’re going to have that discussion again?!?! Since it’s Thanksgiving and everyone is relaxed, we could make a drinking game out of it. Every time someone says “rebodes,” do a shot.

    More seriously and soberly: the Latin word rebus is already a plural form (in the ablative case), so the only thing to do is try not to give away the fact you don’t know Latin, by trying to fake it with “rebi”. (It’s sort of like pretending to form the plural of “agenda” as “agendae”, not realizing that “agenda” in Latin is already plural, with “agendum” as its singular.) In my opinion, the only sensible response is to treat “rebus” as English, and pluralize it as “rebuses”. But that’s no fun, is it?

    Anony Mouse added:

    Rebus actually is a plural, funnily enough. I knew this – it’s one of the endings drilled into you in Latin, but not how it was used in this sense. I just looked it up thanks to your comment! Comes from the phrase “non verbis sed rebus” or “not by words but by things” as in the sense of those puzzles where pictures and letters combine ( with ‘+”s and ‘-‘s) to make a saying. How it was first applied to xwords isn’t clear to me.

    Finally, I added:

    Thanks! How does it work in Yiddish?

    KREBS CYCLE? SRSLY? I’m supposed to know Krebs Cycle is “Essential biochemical process that releases energy in cells?” Can’t complain, though, because the crosses were pretty easy. BTW, when I googled it I found that there are two bike shops on Long Island called Kreb Cycle. (Not kidding.)

    Phil! Don’t follow this girl into the woods!! The last time you did that you came back without pants!

    You know how when you throw out your garbage in some places like Whole Foods, it’s like a test — you need to figure out what category of garbage it is, e.g., garbage, compost, or recycling? True confessions — I may give it a moment’s thought, but the science is too deep for me so I just pick one at random. If I glance in I generally notice that no one else pays attention to the categories either. So I figure the whole three-part system is just a scam. But maybe not! I receive a newsletter on minor league baseball and the latest one raved about the team and stadium out in Spokane WA: the Spokane Indians in the Colorado Rockies system who play in Avista Stadium. But, wait a minute — isn’t it insulting for a team to be named the “Indians?” Cleveland changed to the Guardians. Well, it’s kosher in Spokane:

    “The city of Spokane is named for the Spokane tribe, the first people to live in the region. Professional baseball has been played here since the 1890s, with almost every team using the Indians name. In 2006, the baseball team and the Spokane Tribe announced a groundbreaking partnership that included logos and signage featuring the tribe’s Salish language script. Salish can now be found all over the ballpark, including the primary home jersey.”

    Okay, what does any of that have to do with throwing out garbage at Whole Foods? I’m getting there, I’m getting there, — sheesh.

    So when Benjamin Hill (who writes the newsletter) visited Spokane the team scheduled him for a whole bunch of activities including the following: He dressed as a mascot (below), rolled hot dogs for a hot dog promotion, AND he spent a few innings on Compost Corner duty.

    Stadium employees actually sort through all the garbage to make sure it’s properly categorized! Amazing. That’s Ben on the right.

    Bottom line: If you’re ever out in Spokane try to take in an Indians game. It sounds like a gorgeous stadium and a terrific operation. And you can feel good about your garbage getting to where it belongs.

    Back to the puzzle, if you’re at all like me (God forbid) you haven’t the slightest interest in ever going to one of those medieval faires, amirite? The closest I want to come to one is in a puzzle, like today at 33D where the clue was “______ Faire (medieval-themed festival).” The answer, of course, was REN. It lit a bit of a light under Eng. Prof. Rex. Here he goes:

    The clue is designed to make someone like me (a medievalist) nuts. Do you know what REN stands for? Do you know what it’s short for? I think you do. And if you do, then maybe you too had a little twinge of “huh?” when you wrote in this answer. See, the “RENaissance” (so-called) is, explicitly, specifically, self-importantly, not “medieval.” Not not not. The Middle Ages (whence the word “medieval”—from L. medium aevum, “middle age”) are the allegedly benighted period that the Renaissance was supposedly leaving behind. Thus the Renaissance is, by definition, subsequent to the “medieval” period. To say that a REN(naissance) Faire is “medieval-themed” … the nails-on-chalkboard effect was real and jarring. But then … it looks like the people who put on and go to these “faires” don’t give a **** about such niceties as terminological accuracy. “Many Renaissance fairs are set during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I of England. Some are set earlier, during the reign of Henry VIII, or in other countries, such as France. Others are set outside the era of the Renaissance; these may include earlier medieval periods such as the Viking Age or later periods such as the Golden Age of Piracy” (wikipedia). I get that everyone collapses the olden days into one giant Time of Yore and that actual historical periodicity is entirely an invention of historians writing (generally) well after the times in question, and that shifts from one time to another are actually gradual and involve continuity as well as rupture blah blah blah. But where labels are concerned, “REN” is not not not not “medieval.” Not. No. Stop.

    [So . . . just what are you getting at?]

    I don’t know, Rex — this fair young maiden seems to be eyeing you askance.

    Let’s close with some headlines from the Thanksgiving edition of The Onion:

    Weird Wooden Chair Pressed Into Service For Thanksgiving

    Sweet Potato Dish Stopped Being Healthy 5 Ingredients Ago

    Grandma Thankfully Dies Before Sister’s Girlfriend Arrives

    Happy Thanksgiving Chatterheads! Thanks for popping in!

  • Scream Queen

    On this date in 1942 FDR instituted gas rationing for the U.S. Get this, though, it wasn’t to save gas, we had plenty of that. It was to save rubber. Japan had taken over the rubber plantations. More driving meant a greater demand for tires, so we had to keep driving down. Hence the gas rationing. Posters went up asking “Is this trip necessary?” This one startled me a bit: A poster pushing car pooling said: When you ride alone you ride with Hitler. Yikes. Phil said that would still be better than riding with his brother-in-law. On the other hand, with the government these days moving to classify the swastika as equivalent to a smiley-face, maybe we shouldn’t be too hard on the Nazis.

    In the Credit Where Due Dept, let’s note the key role Lauren Boebert played in last week’s Epstein saga. At 44D today the answer was LAUREN, so she came to mind, even though the clue was for Ralph: “Big name in upscale fashion.” Plus she’s pretty hot for a Congressperson. Hey, girl — your old pal Georgie is upstairs. Grab a cold Diet Coke and run up and surprise him!

    OMG, she can really crack you up sometimes.

    Remember when the Stein was Wein, before it was Ep? Sh*t, Epstein makes Harvey Weinstein look like Mister Rogers.

    Today’s puzzle was a wonderful paean to bad movies. Sorta. The theme featured funny pans by Roger Ebert. A good one at 43A was: “A two-hour movie squeezed into three hours” (2001). Answer: PEARL HARBOR. Another was “Like taking a bus trip with someone who has needed a bath for a long time” (2000), for BATTLEFIELD EARTH.

    Commenter Lewis added these to the pile:

    To call “A Lot Like Love” dead in the water is an insult to water. (2005)

    On the movie “Mr. Magoo”: There is not a laugh in it. Not one. I counted. (1997)

    On the movie “Masterminds”: I stopped taking notes on my Palm Pilot and started playing the little chess game. (1997)

    An email I received from The Onion today, hocking me to subscribe started: “Autumn is often a time of reflection: Why didn’t I plant more sorghum? . . . .”

    It has nothing to do with periodontics. Here’s a photo.

    Jenna of “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” at 46D is Jenna ORTEGA. She’s 23 and from California, of mostly Mexican descent. Her work in horror films has dubbed her the “scream queen.” From humble beginnings, she has been acting since the age of 9. We’re going to go out on a limb here and predict her looks will not stand in her way.

    Tough game for our Sirens of the PWHL last night, losing to Montreal 4-0. It’s early in the season, though, and the many new players on the roster have to get to know each other. Our Sarah looked good, as usual — just couldn’t get anything past that Victoire goalie. We’ll be at the home opener on Saturday. Full report to follow.

    “You’re churning butter! No, you’re a monkey! You’re operating a loom! Come on, what is it?”

    Happy Thanksgiving! Welly and Wilma are thankful they’re not turkeys. And so are we!

  • Hang Down Your Head Tom Dula

    At Baltimore Ravens games you can order from the “Flock Friendly” menu: a selection of items that are reasonably priced. A decent hot dog for $3.50 and a 12-ounce beer for $5 are terrific values at a ballpark. As much as I love beer, I refuse to pay $15 (or more!) for one at a stadium. So we decided to have lunch at the Jets/Ravens game. We’d have a dog each, share the pulled-chicken sandwich (for $5), and I’d have a beer. I placed my order with the fresh-faced young man. He pulled out a can of Lite beer and we conversed as follows:

    Him: Is Lite okay?

    Me: What are the choices?

    Him: There are no choices.

    Me: Lite’s okay.

    The dogs were very good, although we noticed a thinner condiment array than at Nationals Park: no relish, and only yellow mustard. Still, they were great, as was my ice-cold Lite beer. The chicken sandwich was pretty weak. We would not have that again. I would not push the pulled chicken. Release that chicken unharmed, fellas!

    What?

    Oh, the game? For a Jets game it was surprisingly not horribly embarrassing. We led at the half! Just 7-3, but still. And even though we lost 23-10, we beat the spread, which was 13.5 points — take that, gambling establishment!! Also, impressively, we gained more total yards than the birds did. That means the Ravens struggled a bit against our defense, and we had a few decent drives. The darkest, most Jetsian, moment, came about halfway through the last quarter. We were losing 20-10, but drove beautifully all the way down to the three-yard line: a terrific drive. At that point, however, for some reason, rather than score a touchdown making the score 20-17 and giving us hope, the Jets elected to fumble the ball away, essentially ending the f*cking thing.

    Arggggh. But, as I said, it was a much better effort than any Jets fan ever has any reason to hope for.

    You think your team has cheerleaders? Next to Baltimore, it doesn’t have sh*t. Fuhgedaboutit.

    Our parking plan worked to perfection. Since it was Sunday, we parked on a street downtown for free (!) and took a 35-minute pleasant walk to the Stadium. Can’t beat that. And the weather was perfect: 60 and sunny! Continuing our good fortune, the pizza place we found online in Little Italy after the game was outstanding. Angeli’s on High Street. Great little neighborhood place. Terrific local IPA too.

    Thank you Baltimore!

    From Charm City to the Big Apple. Here’s an item from Sunday’s Met Diary by David Daniel called “Savor the Moment.”

    Dear Diary:

    Late to work on a cold, sunny, spring morning, I decided to take a shortcut through Madison Square Park.

    With the sound of traffic and barking dogs behind me, I joined the meeting I was late for via phone and hoped that I would not have to speak.

    As it got later, I started to sweat from what had turned into a jog to First Avenue. Dodging the dog walkers, I saw a single white flower petal twirling gently as it fell from the sky.

    I stopped and stood still. The sound of traffic, dogs and my meeting seemed to fade away. I was amazed at the beauty of the single, pristine, delicate white petal as it danced through the cool spring air toward the ground.

    In my haste to get to work, I had failed to appreciate the beauty of my surroundings: the dogs, the people, the flowers, even the traffic.

    The petal landed, and I picked it up. It was clearly a sign that I needed to appreciate the beauty around me, no matter how stressed out I was feeling.

    But it wasn’t a flower petal. It was a discarded receipt from the M23-SBS Bus.

    And I was late for work.

    Can you handle one more? This is by Karen Ocker and is called “Flat Fixed.” Earns a “wow” from us.

    Dear Diary:

    I was a young woman driving north by myself on Interstate 87 through the Bronx.

    Suddenly, one of the tires blew out, and I couldn’t change it.

    I turned off at the nearest exit and looked for a service station but couldn’t find one.

    I pulled onto a local street and asked a man walking there for help. He agreed and proceeded to change the tire.

    At some point, I noticed that he was changing it with one hand. He was missing his other arm.

    The puzzle today started off with a wonderful clue at 1D: “‘No’ was a famously short one for the 1948 musical ‘Isn’t It Romantic?’” Answer: REVIEW. I’m guessing the “No” served two functions: No, don’t see the damn thing, and No, it isn’t romantic.

    It reminded me of a Pauline Kael review. The movie was “Tomorrow” (1972) and starred Robert Duvall. It started: “‘Tomorrow’ proves that a movie doesn’t have to be long to be tedious.” (But I saw it and liked it.) Here’s RD, with the female lead, Olga Bellin.

    Anony Mouse chimed in with: I liked the review of the 1951 Broadway play “I Am a Camera” by John Van Druten which was adapted from Christopher Isherwood’s 1939 novel “Goodbye to Berlin.” The two-word appraisal simply stated: “No Leica.”

    Another Anony Mouse picked some serious nits. At 34A the clue was “Part of a hammer or a hawk,” and the answer was CLAW. Here’s the comment: “The worst thing in the puzzle was conflating CLAWs with talons, which is what hawks actually have. It’s like people who use monkey and chimpanzee interchangeably.” 

    We couldn’t agree more. They should be taken out and horse-whipped!

    A claw is a pointed, curved nail or appendage found on the digits of many animals. They may be used for scratching, digging, grasping, or climbing. On the other hand [hand?], a talon is the claw of a bird of prey, particularly those adapted for capturing and killing prey. While many animals, including cats, dogs, and reptiles, possess claws, only raptors, such as eagles, hawks, and owls, boast talons.

    These owls are very talonted.

    Any of you hear of Addison RAE? Not me. But apparently she’s famous enough to make it into a Tuesday puzzle. (She’s usually supplanted by Issa.) Addison is 25 and achieved stardom via popularity on TikTok. As of this year, she has 88 million followers, fifth most all time. She signed with Columbia Records and has released an album and has been in a few movies.

    She dated Omer Fedi for four years, an Israeli musician based in LA, but they split amicably. Phil has asked her to marry him, but only twice. He’s hopeful, because she hasn’t gone for a restraining order yet.

    No need to hang down your head if you didn’t know the song at 38A. The clue was “Traditional folk song that became a #1 hit for the Kingston Trio,” and the answer was TOM DOOLEY. I remember the song very well, a big hit for the Kingston Trio. It’s a North Carolina folk song, based on the 1866 murder of a woman named Laura Foster for which Tom Dula (pronounced Dooley, like opera is opry) was convicted and hung. On the gallows, he stated: “Gentlemen, do you see this hand? I didn’t harm a hair on the girl’s head.” Foster may have been killed by Dula’s lover (her cousin Anne) out of jealousy, and Dula may have been protecting her. Whatever. Who cares? But I was interested to learn this from Rex Commenter Andy F.:

    TOM DOOLEY is just one of many, many, A LOT OF murder ballads. They were a big deal in England and spread to America. “Frankie and Johnnie” is probably the best known, also based on a true story. Songs were the way sensationalistic news traveled back in the day. [OC note: You may be more familiar with the Yiddish version “Frankie and Yitzhak.”]

    Commenter jae wrote: “TOM DOOLEY should be a gimme for those of a certain age.” And Anony Mouse shot back: “Yes, ninety something!”

    Ouch.

    Sunday’s puzzle had some cute stuff in it. The theme asked us to switch the first two letters of a word in a famous phrase, for humorous effect. The best, IMO, was for the clue “Certain vacation booking in Madrid?” And the answer was SPANISH RAMADA. Get it? Instead of “Spanish Armada.”

    It doesn’t take much in this space to conjure up a John Prine song.

    It takes a lot to make Mitch McConnell look good, but every time Trump gives Putin a blow job McConnell’s stock goes up. It’s clear why Trump runs after the murderous Saudi schmuck: he’s getting showered with money. But Trump’s sycophancy to Putin is true love. Brandeis alum Tom Friedman is not the first to liken DJT on Ukraine to Neville Chamberlain. He quoted the WSJ today in opining that it will backfire on Trump: “If Trump thinks American voters hate war, wait until he learns how much they hate dishonor.” Hope so.

    This poem by Baron Wormser is called “The O’s.” How fitting, given our recent visit to Baltimore. It was in today’s Writer’s Almanac.

    My grandfather is lying in the hospital bed
    Listening to the radio every night.
    It’s the second week of the season; he’s an Orioles fan
    Ever since the O’s came to Baltimore
    In 1954—but it’s 1988 and they lose game
    After game after game after game after game.

    My grandfather’s face looks like a hardball hit it—
    Black and blue and yellow. It’s cancer
    That tie dyes you in muted shades so you
    Wind up looking like a hung-over toad,
    Which is no big thing to my grandfather
    Who drank too much and smoked way too much—

    Cigars—but never was vain, never was
    A look-in-the-mirror type but always grabbed
    His hat and said he was ready. Grandpa’s got a month
    At the most, according to the oncologist who spoke as if
    He were putting down a deuce at Pimlico.
    Grandpa knows this, which is to say it’s not

    The dogwoods or forsythia or magnolias he’s going to miss,
    Not the newly mown grass or the crab soup his long time
    Paramour, Bessie, still makes even though Grandpa can’t
    Eat much of anything anymore; he’s a slave to tubes.
    It’s the losing streak that he can’t abide because they’re
    Bound to win one, sooner or later the announcer’s
    Voice is going to take off into the ozone of announcer
    Excitement with a whoosh and a wallop
    And the curse will be over. Losing is for losers and Grandpa,
    Who has spent his life making and taking bets,
    Hates losers. Inning by inning we sit listening
    And Grandpa knows it’s stupid, he knows

    He’s dying and he should be thinking about last things
    But he doesn’t know anything about last things.
    He hasn’t been in a shul in fifty years and his
    Only religion is the worship of the female body.
    He’s an idolater. A sack of calcified lust. I turn off
    The radio and the nurse looks in on the mostly gone man
    And his grandson sitting in the wan, fluorescent light
    That could have come from Macbeth it’s so
    Grievous and spectral and unhealthy. Death light.
    We aren’t saying anything, but Grandpa’s still alive
    And though the O’s have lost another there’s still
    Tomorrow. Grandpa closes his eyes when the nurse

    Comes in with a little paper cup filled with pills
    And I say that I’ve got to head home and grade some themes.
    He opens his watery hesitant eyes because he knows
    He might not see me again; he might not hear another
    “Here’s the first pitch.” “We’re not finished yet,” he rasps
    And I smile a smile I can’t help because he’s right.

    Enough. See you tomorrow Chatterheads!

  • Stickers!

    “To succeed in the world it is not enough to be stupid, you must also be well-mannered.” Amen to that, Voltaire. And Happy Birthday! (1694)

    An issue of pluralism arose in the puzzle today. At 56A the clue was “Aces” and the answer was HOLES IN ONE. Commenter Sam S. raised this issue: It seems to me that HOLESINONE requires the ball to drop into the hole from an initial tee shot, then immediately bounce out of the hole (with great vigor) and travel on its own power all the way down to the next green and drop into that hole, as well. One shot, two holes. Or did I miss something?

    Do you see his problem?

    I tried to address it with the following:

    I can see that happening in miniature golf.

    I think what distinguishes your “miracle” shot from the plural of the traditional hole in one are hyphens. Wikipedia says the traditional hole in one can either contain hyphens or not. And dictionaries seem to vary on the matter. Assuming the hyphens, a plural of the traditional hole-in-one would be holes-in-one, as in the puzzle today, with invisible hyphens. And the plural of your miracle shot would be holes in one, sans hyphens. (But since hyphens are not required for the traditional hole in one, there are obvious holes in my theory.)

    A later comment aptly noted that if the shot into the first hole bounces out and then goes into the second hole, the first hole would not count. But we’ve already gone far enough with this nonsense.

    It’s opening day for the PWHL: Professional Women’s Hockey League. Go get ’em girls! We already have tix for a few games. Can’t wait!

    No one believes me when I tell them how brutal these ladies are. This picture, below, was taken during the playing of the national anthems.

    I thought the clue at 9D today was very clever: “It may bring out the kid in you.” Answer: CESAREAN. But it ruffled some feathers. Some felt it was being too “cutesy” with a serious procedure that many women have to undergo, and were offended. A lot of humor is offensive. The comic (or here the constructor) has to decide where to draw the line. The puzzle was constructed by a woman (Joyce Keller), and women are well-represented on the NYT puzzle staff charged with editing it.

    The comic Mike Birbiglia in his excellent “Thank God for Jokes” addresses the issue of jokes that are offensive. He will be hosting an awards show and comes up with a bit that is hysterical but will be very offensive in some quarters and could harm his career. As he’s struggling with the decision to go with it or not, his wife chimes in with the observation that to be true to himself as a comedian he has to use it (and he does). Now, I’m not saying I’d be okay with crossing the lines on racism (use of the N-word, e.g.), misogyny, and the like, but in general I come down on the side of the comic. Or, in this case, the constructor.

    At 50D, the clue was a little weird: “They have five eyes and communicate by dancing.” Five eyes? Maybe a potato, except for the dancing? The Jackson Five? But they have ten eyes. The answer was BEES.

    It did not sit well with Commenter kitshef: The overwhelming majority of bee species do not dance. A few do, but cluing it as creatures with five eyes that do NOT dance to communicate would be a better description of almost all BEES.

    [A stinging rebuke!!]

    Commenter Les added: It’s time the other 90% stepped up and learned to dance. Sweat bees, mason bees, leafcutters, don your tap shoes and take to the streets!

    But dgd said: This is a crossword puzzle with clues: not dictionary-level descriptions. All it takes for the clue to be valid is that some bees dance. That happens all the time.

    Finally, Anoa Bob shared this: In 1973 the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine was jointly awarded to Karl von Frisch, Konrad Lorenz and Kikolaas Tinbergen. Von Frisch won for his study of the “waggle dance” of honey BEES that communicates to other BEES in the hive the direction and distance of food sources. Von Frisch made his discoveries in the 1920s. He ultimately had to stop his research with BEES. He had been stung so many times that he developed a hypersensitivity and even one more sting could have been lethal.

    These bees are dancing.

    The puzzle keeps throwing sexy movie stars at us. (Not complaining.) Today it’s Lea Michele. “Fanny Brice portrayer on Broadway.” Lea is 39, married with two kids, and is from the Bronx! Her dad is Jewish and a former deli owner and her mom is Italian and was an RN. She was raised Catholic.

    When’s the last time you were flirtatious? For me it was, let’s see — never? Anyway, a great old-fashioned way to say it might be to say, “she gave him a come hither look.” And that was in the puzzle today: Clue: “Flirtatious.” Answer: COME HITHER.

    In a case like that, you have to be careful as the constructor not to come up with the answer COME HITLER. So, e.g., you wouldn’t make the clue “Flirtatious in the Wehrmacht.”

    From The Onion:

    Paleontologists Unearth Earliest Known Dinosaur Stickers

    We’re heading down to Baltimore tomorrow and will be, insanely, attending the Jets/Ravens game on Sunday. Why do we subject ourselves to this? It’s part of the Jets fan syndrome. I guess it’s like not being able to turn away from a train wreck. Although most train wrecks aren’t nearly as bad as most Jet games. Oy.

    See you next time!

  • Tchaikovsky’s brother

    I am proposing that the following New Yorker cartoon replace the disgraced Coat of Arms of UPENN, my (law school) alma mater.

    “Let this be a reminder: when they go low, we cave.”

    Penn’s motto, laughably, is leges sine moribus vanae. “Laws without morals are useless.” That’s easy to fix: just remove vanae, and you’re left with “Laws without morals.” Done!

    I just received my copy of the 11/24/2025 issue. I no longer expect the cartoons to be funny. But several have taken a new turn: I simply don’t understand them. I can’t figure out how they were even trying to be funny.

    Take this Koren:

    “No, no, no—I want just one day, totally unscripted!”

    I haven’t the foggiest idea of what the hell is supposed to be going on. Anybody? I see the giant arm and the sports equipment. So?

    And this one — what the hell is supposed to be going on? Is it me?

    “Did you download enough podcasts?”

    One more. This one.

    “Wow—the horses are really little tonight.”

    What do they think could be funny? That the horses are small is a comedic idea? Didn’t they ride there on those horses? Were they bigger earlier?

    From The Onion:

    Gifted Khashoggi Head Mounted In Oval Office

    Man Hoping People Notice How Many Folding Chairs He’s Carrying At Once

    TALLAHASSEE, FL—Looking visibly flushed as he hurried across the gymnasium floor, local teacher Greg Tollefson reportedly hoped that everyone helping to clean up after Thursday morning’s assembly at Mangrove Hills High School would notice how many folding chairs he was carrying at once. “You can just leave those there—I’ll come back and get the rest,” said Tollefson, hoping that his addition of a fourth folding chair to the three already secured under each of his arms would be seen and admired by all. “Yeah, I got it. You guys can focus on packing up the AV equipment.” At press time, sources confirmed that Tollefson was fairly certain that at least a few people had noticed he had chosen the heavier metal chairs over the plastic stackable ones.

    Here is a recent post of mine from the Dull Men’s Club (UK):

    Hi. American here. Hope this issue is relevant over there.

    I made some lasagna yesterday and it came out fine. There were 15 pasta “sheets” in the package and I arranged them in four layers: 4-4-3-4. But the directions on the package implied I should have layered them 3-3-3-3-3. That is, deeper and less wide. I can try that next time, as an experiment, but am wondering if the esteemed membership (i.e., you) has any thoughts on the matter.

    (Photo is not actually of mine, but comes close size-wise. SWMBO and I dug into mine before I thought to raise the issue here.)

    [OC Note: SWMBO (acronym pronounced SWIMBO) stands for “she who must be obeyed.” It’s commonly used in the Club for one’s wife.]

    Comments:

    Andy Spragg: Ask yourself what is special about 4-4-3-4, as opposed to 3-4-4-4, 4-3-4-4, or indeed 4-4-4-3, and I suggest you will be well on the way to answering your own question.

    Avi: I must be a stupid ass. Your point is eluding me.

    Andy: You asked us if we had any thoughts on the matter. My comment provided you with mine.

    [Still puzzling to me, but I’m letting it go.]

    James Banks: Personally I favour 3-4-2-1 and I will never deviate from that, but then my other name is Ruben Amorim. [OC Note: That’s a soccer reference. Those numbers are how the players would be positioned.]

    Dave Henry: Shouldn’t you be asking the Italian chapter of the DMC?

    Bob Golding: if he does that he will get 25 answers all different.

    Nina Cassar: Ooh. Now I tend to only have three layers of pasta (don’t put one on the bottom like some do). But I like extra sheets on the top for the last top layer to sit on. I would arrange mine as follows:

    Top white sauce layer & lots of cheese
    PASTA (7)
    Meat layer
    PASTA (4)
    White sauce (cheese of course)
    PASTA (4)
    Meat Layer

    Avi: We could call it a Cassar-role!

    Tes Slater: Cooking is more an art form than a science. Science is involved but it is the artistry that makes it special.

    Avi: Agreed. But then how do we explain Picasso’s terrible meatloaves?

    Robert John Wilton: depends on size of dish but also depends on whether using oven-ready noodles or not. My lasagna pans work out to 3 side by side and one at the end sideways. Each layer I alternate which end has the cross piece to stablize the whole dealy. As for depth, I do four layers of noodles if making meat lasagna, whether beef or chicken. Between first two layers just sauce & cheese for a base, then beef & mushroom, or chicken & peas etc. between next layers. If just doing a simpler lasagna without a meat sauce, then I do 5 layers of noodles. Someone I know had square pans so they alternated the direction on each layer… some have sloped sides so it might be 3-3-4-4 etc.

    I loved the early Bond films and read some of the books. Fell off after Sean Connery stopped. One of the Bond girls was in the puzzle today. The clue was “Vesper Lynd portrayer in ‘Casino Royale.’” Wonder how many of the others are Jewish like EVA GREEN is.

    Eva is French, and Phil says she scared the sh*t out of him. Was it the eyes, Buddy?

    Actually, according to the website JEWORNOTJEW.COM, between 1971 and 1977 three of the four Bond girls were Jewish: Jill St. John, Jane Seymour, and Barbara Bach (who has been married to Ringo since 1981. Yes, that Ringo — what other Ringo is there?).

    Jill St. John was born Jill Oppenheim. She’s 85 now and has been married to Robert Wagner (who is 95), for 35 years. Kinehora. Showing no concern for stereotyping, Jill’s Wikipedia page says: “As a young girl, St. John says she never played with dolls, instead preferring a toy cash register and money.” Her dad owned a restaurant in Brooklyn. Her mom gave her the name St. John as a stage name, thinking it would sell better than Oppenheim.

    Hard to break Phil away from those bedhead shots.

    At 29D today, the clue was “Humor with an edge,” and the answer was BITING WIT. I posted the following on Rex’s blog:

    Another clue for BITING WIT could be “Dentist jokes.” You’re in luck (bad luck). I’ve got two.

    Just before the dentist started to work on Mrs. Johnson’s molar, she reached up and grabbed him by the nuts. He looked down at her, stunned. And she said: “Now, we’re not going to hurt each other, are we?”

    A Texan at the dentist.

    Dentist: Your teeth look fine, Mr. Baxter.

    Baxter: Drill anyway, Doc, I feel lucky.

    Our classical music host (on WQXR) just said “It’s World Philosophy Day. Or is it?”

    It is! UNESCO established it as the third Thursday in November. Philosophy-related activities are supposed to be organized, including, primarily, trying to figure out what a philosophy-related activity is.

    Yesterday, he referred to a piece as having been written by Tchaikovsky’s brother, which led me to wonder: Isn’t Tchaikovsky’s brother also Tchaikovsky?

    Okay, my brain hurts a little now.

    See you tomorrow Chatterheads! So glad you could pop by!

  • de Armas and Cruise Are So Dunzo

    The vomit-inducing warm embrace of the murderous Saudi prince by Trump yesterday was upended by the brilliant ABC reporter Mary Bruce with her pointed question about the killing. Trump, who had already stepped in sh*t by lauding the Saudi’s record on human rights (which is horrific, of course), rubbed it all over himself by defending the killer. The Saudi knew nothing about it, Trump lied, and anyway, the journalist who was killed (and dismembered), Jamal Khashoggi, was controversial and disliked by many. Follow the logic — so it was okay to kill him and chop him up? Even by Trumpian standards, it was an abhorrent display.

    Here’s Bruce. Happens to be gorgeous. Easy does it, though, fellas. She’s very happily married with two kids, Elvis and Eve. Hey kids — your Mom just got into the Owl Chatter Hall of Fame. Extra hug tonight!

    Did you catch a glimpse of Malaria in all the coverage? The green dress. Stunning. Goes for just $3,350, btw. Seems reasonable. But before we start qvelling over this one piece of that horror show, get this: the color choice was likely paying tribute to the Saudi guest. Their flag is the same green. So even that’s tainted.

    Loved the puzzle today! Brilliant wordplay. There was a double revealer. I.e., two answers explained the theme. First, at 36A the clue was “Straight-shooting,” and the answer was NO SPIN. Then, at 38A, the clue was “Sexually excite,” and the answer was TURN ON. So what’s the deal? You take the two letters N and O and turn, or spin, them. Now, when you turn the N, it becomes a Z. So “turning” ON, gives you ON, then OZ, then NO, then ZO. The puzzle did three complete turns. So all four of those combinations appeared in shaded boxes in words three times each. Symmetrically, too. Confusing? Maybe you can see it, below. (Ignore the blue squares.)

    One of the Zs was in DUNZO. A new word for me. The clue was “Finito or kaput.” Here’s how to use it: When Eddie saw Maxine kissing Lou, Eddie knew he and she were dunzo.

    Another Z was at 21A: “Spanish island with a lively club scene.” Right up my alley. NOT. It was IBIZA. I’m not too strong on islands, Spanish or otherwise. Probably should have heard of this song though.

    Speaking of dunzo, Ana’s been staying with us for a few days. You know, for support. She’s a little weepy. We knew it wouldn’t end easily, her love affair with Tom Cruise. But, thank goodness, she finally pulled off the bandage and ended it. Jeez Louise, he has kids closer in age to her than he is. Plus he’s a phony and there’s all that Scientology crap. Good riddance, Doll. Just let us know if he’s still bothering you: we can call in some muscle. Our sports consultant Sarah Fillier would be happy to “reason” with him. Women hockey players: nothing fiercer on God’s green earth.

    I just learned what an egg banjo sandwich is. I’m almost 76, kinehora. It’s about time. It was mentioned in a post in the Dull Men’s Club (UK) about breaking egg yolks. Several comments just said “egg banjo” cryptically. So I googled it. It seems to have arisen in the British military. It’s best if you learn about it as I did. From this video:

    https://www.forcesnews.com/military-life/fun/ever-wondered-why-its-called-egg-banjo

    Yesterday, one of the answers was SUTURE, clued with “Surgical stitch.” It reminded egs he heard of a chain of discount Urgent Care Centers called SUTURE SELF.

    Here’s Owl Chatter’s part in the effort to fight a particular form of bigotry that hits close to home. Even our George (Santos) is Jew-ish, you may recall. Don’t use our stuff!!

    Thanks for popping by!

  • To Be Perfectly Blunt

    Hi Everybody. Welcome to Owl Chatter Post #923. I thought it might be a prime number, but it’s not. It’s divisible by 13 and 71.

    This poem is by David Budbill. It’s from yesterday’s Writer’s Almanac and it’s called “Sometimes.” If you could do without joyous today, let it go.

    Sometimes when day after day we have cloudless blue skies,
    warm temperatures, colorful trees and brilliant sun, when
    it seems like all this will go on forever,

    when I harvest vegetables from the garden all day,
    then drink tea and doze in the late afternoon sun,
    and in the evening one night make pickled beets
    and green tomato chutney, the next red tomato chutney,
    and the day after that pick the fruits of my arbor
    and make grape jam,

    when we walk in the woods every evening over fallen leaves,
    through yellow light, when nights are cool, and days warm,

    when I am so happy I am afraid I might explode or disappear
    or somehow be taken away from all this,

    at those times when I feel so happy, so good, so alive, so in love
    with the world, with my own sensuous, beautiful life, suddenly

    I think about all the suffering and pain in the world, the agony
    and dying. I think about all those people being tortured, right now,
    in my name. But I still feel happy and good, alive and in love with
    the world and with my lucky, guilty, sensuous, beautiful life because,

    I know in the next minute or tomorrow all this may be
    taken from me, and therefore I’ve got to say, right now,
    what I feel and know and see, I’ve got to say, right now,
    how beautiful and sweet this world can be.

    The puzzle yesterday had four theme answers that worked like this: The clue for the first was Circle, cone, cube, cylinder, heart, pentagon, star, triangle. Those are all “figures,” right? And there are 8 of them. So the answer was FIGURE EIGHT.

    The next was the longest: Airheads, Dots, Fun Dip, Heath, Kit Kat, Life Savers, M&M’s, Milk Duds, Nerds, Oh Henry!, Peeps, Pez, Rolo, Skittles, Twix, Twizzlers. Get it? Those are “sweets” and there are 16. So it was SWEET SIXTEEN.

    Next came the toughest (IMO): Boot, good, loom, moon, pool, rook, woof. Answer: DOUBLE O SEVEN.

    And last (my favorite) was: Andrew, Ketanji Brown, Mahalia, Reggie, Stonewall. Answer: JACKSON FIVE.

    I posed the following riddle for the Commentariat: Which theme “item” could also appear in a different theme clue? I’ll leave some space.

    REGGIE. REGGIE! is the name of a candy bar named after Reggie Jackson. While Reggie was playing for Baltimore, he lamented that if only he were playing in NY, he’d be so popular they’d name a candy bar after him. And that’s what happened when he became a Yankee. The REGGIE! bar was produced for three years. Catfish Hunter, commenting on Reggie’s massive ego, said it’s the only candy bar that, when you take the wrapper off, tells you how good it is.

    And get this! — TIL it’s being produced again. Amazon’s selling a 24-bar box for $43. (Back in the 70s each one cost a quarter.) On Opening Day at Yankee Stadium, April 13, 1978, the Yankees gave out Reggie! bars to fans as they entered the ballpark as a promotion. Reggie homered in the bottom of the first and when he took the field the next inning he was showered with Reggie bars by the fans. The game had to be stopped as the grounds crew cleaned up hundreds of bars.

    Anony Mouse replied that he or she was among those who threw a bar at Reggie that day! How great is that! He or she also noted that Reggie’s homer was on the first pitch. Since he famously ended the 1977 World Series with three homers on three consecutive pitches, this Opening Day homer meant Reggie homered at Yankee Stadium on four consecutive pitches.

    OMG, here he is with Thurman. Too sad.

    Rex took issue with Peeps being among the “sweet sixteen,” to wit: “Peeps are a seasonal abomination. If they aren’t on the candy rack near the checkout at a drugstore or grocery store or convenience store, then they don’t belong on this list. One other possible criterion: would you hand it out at Halloween? Peeps? Absolutely not. What are you, a monster? A Peeps sales rep?”

    Needless to say, a portion of the Commentariat peeped up about it.

    Conrad: I disagree about Peeps. Granted, you wouldn’t give them out as trick-or-treats, but the answer wasn’t candy SIXTEEN, it was SWEET SIXTEEN. And Peeps are undeniably sweet.

    Stan: You’re right. Though they are an abomination.

    Anony Mouse 1: No, no! My fav sweet—just the yellow ones though!!

    Anony Mouse 2: Peeps are marshmallow, which is a candy.

    JJK: An abomination, yes, perhaps, but also a sign of spring.

    Anony Mouse 3: I have Halloween Peeps (skulls) sitting open on my counter now waiting for the proper hardness to set in. Abomination, NO! A year round obsession for me.

    Pablo: Agree with the rather obvious observation that PEEPS are SWEET and definitely belong. I mean, really.

    Anony Mouse 4: Cake is sweet. It doesn’t belong. (Peeps is obvi an outlier here and it’s weird y’all can’t/won’t see that.)

    Anony Mouse 5: Marshmallows are considered a type of sugar confectionery (candy). And Peeps are marshmallows. That means they’re candy, no matter how abominable you think they are. They’re fun to watch blow up in the microwave….

    OKAY!! ENOUGH!! NOT ANOTHER PEEP OUT OF YOU PLEASE!!

    Actress Emily BLUNT was in the puzzle yesterday. Well, not really. The clue was “Not sharp, as a pencil.” But she’s too pretty to ignore.

    Em is 42 and British. Did you know she’s been married to John Krasinski from The Office since 2010 and they have two daughters? John’s 46 and from Newton MA. (Hi Don and Jelly!)

    I’ll never understand fashion. Jennifer Lawrence recently appeared at an awards show dressed in an “off-the-shoulder cream gown by Dior,” which sells for roughly what the defense budget was last year. It caused a stir, with some calling it a bedsheet or a diaper, and others raving about its elegance. You decide. I can’t even figure it out. George! Where is that thing in the middle going?

    In today’s puzzle, at 2D, the “Philosopher who wrote the ‘Tao Te Ching’” was LAO TZU. It set Rex off a bit: “He’s the crosswordsiest philosopher who ever lived and it’s impossible to know which spelling of his name the puzzle is going to want: I went with LAO-TSE (last two letters, wrong). Wikipedia has it as LAOZI, and you’d think Crossworld would’ve jumped all over that spelling, but, . . . let’s see, zero appearances! Maybe it hasn’t taken because it looks like it’s pronounced “lousy.” According to Wikipedia: ‘Lǎozǐ is the modern (pinyin) romanization of 老子. In English, a variety of pronunciations and spellings of the Chinese name exist, such as Lao-tse and Lao Tzu. It is not a personal name, but rather an honorific title, meaning ‘old’ or ‘venerable.’ Its structure matches that of other ancient Chinese philosophers, such as Kongzi (Confucius), Mengzi, and Zhuangzi.’ Anyway, as soon as I see that guy’s name, or parts of his name, my ‘Bumpy Fill Ahead’ warning system goes off.”

    I added the following:

    The spelling problem surrounding Lao Tzu may have been more widespread than originally feared. Here is a recently discovered restaurant review by the great philosopher:

    For tzupper, Lao Tzu had the tzoup. Tzadly, he tzaid it tasted like tzoap.

    Todd Snider died. He was a folksinger mentored by John Prine among others. He was only 59. Pneumonia. He was from Portland OR but left home at 16 to bum around and work on his music. He was not pretentious. He said “If someone learns something from me, that would be their fault.” Inducted into the Oregon Music Hall of Fame in 2021.

    Struggled mightily with drugs. But he put a life together. Married to the artist Melita Osheowitz for fifteen years, but divorced in 2014. This is one of her works.

    Survived by his mom, bro, and sis. Here he is with Conan.

    You go girl! If you need someone to kick DJT in the nuts, it looks like MTG may be your best bet these days. Speaking strongly along with the Epstein survivors this morning she seemed miffed that You-Know-Who called her a traitor. “Let me tell you what a traitor is. A traitor is an American that serves foreign countries and themselves. A patriot is an American that serves the United States of America and Americans like the women standing behind me now.”

    Yup. Amen to that, sister. Whoda thunkit?

    Still not holding my breath for those files.

    See you tomorrow!

  • Two And A Half Pinkwaters

    Before we go any further, I need to inform you about something serious that involves me. Better to hear about it here, before you learn about it from other sources. I expect to be named in the Epstein files. Please don’t be too upset. It’s a different Epstein: Barry Epstein, a kid I went to high school with. Still, it may get pretty ugly.

    One of the children’s books Daniel Pinkwater wrote is called The Hoboken Chicken Emergency. That is really all you need to know to fall in love with him, but I am going to share the plot summary from Wikipedia.

    The main character, Arthur Bobowitz, is asked to pick up a reserved turkey for his family’s Thanksgiving dinner. However, the meat market has lost their reservation and has no unclaimed turkeys or any other type of bird available for purchase, nor does any other market in the entire city of Hoboken. Arthur eventually finds an eccentric old man, who sells him a live chicken named Henrietta that weighs 266 pounds. The Bobowitz family welcomes her with open arms and full hearts, but the neighbors are not so sure. Everyone in town is horrified after Henrietta escapes.

    Pinkwater wrote that book with his wife Jill.

    I was happy to learn Pinkwater is still among the living (age 84), but sad to learn Jill passed in 2022. It was his birthday yesterday! To 120, DP!

    I heard about him from his work on NPR, but don’t know much about him. I do know that the width of his tuchas was adopted as a unit of measurement by Tom and Ray of Car Talk, who would say, e.g., “the car’s backseat is 2.5 Pinkwaters wide.” (Another unit of measurement they used was “mothers-in-law.”)

    Pinkwater once described himself as: “Very fat. Medium height. Mostly bald. Likes television. Has owned several French automobiles, for which parts were seldom available. Likes sausage. Lives on a farm. Has a wife. Votes for fictional characters in elections. Finally quit smoking. Likes to write for kids because they are a more respectable audience than adults. Hates his own books. Expects to do better in the future.”

    Was it necessary for him to note that he likes sausage? Who doesn’t?

    His name at birth was Manon Pinkwater. He and Jill joined a cult. The guru lived somewhere in Asia and said he had the power to divine a person’s true name, so Pinkwater wrote to him about his name.

    The guru wrote back. “Your name should begin with ‘D.’” Pinkwater sent a reply suggesting some “D” names. He included “Duck” as an option, just to test the guru. [Note: I am not sure how that is a test.] The guru’s next letter said that his name would be Daniel. Pinkwater told his mother that his name was Daniel. She started calling him Daniel. So did everyone else.

    The cult had a certain vacuity that appealed to Pinkwater. “The thing seemed to be contentless. I just wanted the straight energy.” He got so good at meditation that he didn’t need Novocain at the dentist anymore. He figured there was some scam at the heart of the cult, but it didn’t bother him. “The quality of the rip-off was so minor you could ignore it,” he said. For example, notes in the cult newsletter asked members who happened to be traveling to the Asian country where the guru lived to bring along a spare muffler for the guru’s Mercedes. But they eventually quit. “The amount of superstition and nonsense got boring,” Pinkwater said. “I didn’t need them anymore.”

    They bought a farm in the Hudson Valley and moved there after they had this conversation in bed one night: Jill said “I bought the horses.” “What horses?” Daniel asked. “The mother and foal,” Jill said. “What are you talking about?” Daniel asked. “We discussed this,” Jill said. “When did we discuss this?” “The other night.” “Where were we when we were discussing this?” “Here in bed.” “Did I say anything?” “Yeah, you said it would be fine.”

    He still maintains a spiritual practice, decades after leaving the cult. “Every morning I have my breakfast and then I take my dog and we get in the car and we go to a lovely place,” he told me. “We see things and we experience movement. The dog pees, I don’t. The dog sniffs things. Me, not so much. And we look out over the river at some point, we look at the Catskills in the distance, and she gets a cookie. And we come home. Restored, refreshed, advanced, and having communed with whatever that thing is.”

    Have you ever had a baby fall asleep on your arm and you know if you move he or she could wake up, so you stay there, like, forever? That’s how the puzzle started yesterday. At 1A: “Unable to move while holding a sleeping baby, in slang.” NAP TRAPPED. Rex said it’s his experience more often to be “cat trapped.” Here he is with his cat Ida.

    But the stakes are much lower with cats. You move and wake the cat up, it just stretches a bit, yawns, and goes back to sleep somewhere else for another 15 hours. You move and wake the baby and you are f*cked up the kazoo, amirite?

    If you like babies, this was the puzzle for you. At 48D: “Like a baby’s fingers, perhaps.” PUDGY. Awwww.

    The puzzle also had a nice pair that involved something flat and something the opposite of flat. At 56A: “Bad way to be caught,” FLATFOOTED. And at 12D “Brand associated with push-ups,” WONDER BRA.

    My visit this morning to the Dull Men’s Club (UK) left me dismayed. This was Andrew Norton’s post: “Can anyone explain to me, in simple scientific terms, why we do not use tidal power rather than solar and wind? There must be a reason but I can’t find it.”

    It generated (pun intended) 148 comments (!) almost all of which were serious. What gives?

    One member said “It has its ups and downs,” and another said “You need wellies.” (Boots.)

    One member was even chided for “trying to be funny.” I replied: Isn’t trying to be funny good?

    I did post these two efforts at answering the inquiry:

    Hesitation to appear before others in a swimsuit?

    The Sea Cow lobby has been throwing its weight against it.

    Michael Winter posted: They don’t want to electrocute fish. To that I replied: The way my wife cooks, that would be an improvement. (Just kidding. Love you, Babe.)

    Here’s a brother/sister story. It’s the Tiny Love Story by Meredith Jewett from today’s NYT called “A Whisper in the Wind.”

    The beach where my brother and I spent our childhood is all driftwood and rocks — better suited to fort-building and crab-searching than to swimming. In our youth, we ran along the wave break, screaming while dodging the other’s volley of bull kelp. As adults, we walked his dogs in the cool morning fog. Last July, I stood ankle deep in the cold water, a fistful of his ashes in my hand. My older brother, Michael, taken by an aneurysm at 36. “I miss you,” I whispered as the wind swirled his ashes through my fingers, falling softly into the Salish Sea. 

    The photo is of the beach on Decatur Island, the last time Michael and Meredith were there together.

    Today’s puzzle was called “Misquoting Shakespeare” and it just threw some bad puns at famous lines, e.g., “a nose by any other name.” Pretty lame. Don’t get me wrong — I generally love bad puns, but these did lack zip. I posted the following for the gang:

    By the time my consistently late daughter showed up at the theater it was Thirteenth Night. Another time the performance was so bad, the audience changed the play’s name to All’s Well That Ends.

    Hey, you know why Hamlet never went hungry? There were always some Danish in the castle. It’s true — look it up.

    Yesterday’s UMICH-Northwestern game was held at Wrigley Field. They had to screw around with it to fit the field in, like remove a dugout. The game itself was a real nail-biter and it shouldn’t have been. We were favored by over ten points but committed five turnovers and barely eked out a win on a last-second field goal. It may sound crazy, but the offense and defense looked good. We’ll be big dogs against Ohio State in two weeks, but I’m not entirely hopeless.

    There was a lot of banter about the history of Wrigley, including talk about all those years before lights were installed and only day games could be played. It led me to wonder who got the first hit at Wrigley in a night game. I might want his autograph in my collection as a piece of baseball history. So I did a little digging and found out the first night game was scheduled for August 8, 1988: 8/8/88. The city of Chicago and the Cubbies really played it up big. Celebrities were in attendance; tickets were scalped for hundreds of dollars. Ernie Banks and Billy Williams threw out the first ball. The Chicago Symphony Orchestra played. A local realtor paid $7,500 for the “honor” of being the bat boy.

    Phil Bradley got the first hit that night. He was the first batter up for the visiting Phils and hit a homerun. But heavy rains came and wiped it out. They waited for hours, but couldn’t get five innings in, so nothing counted. The first official night game was thus played on 8/9/88 and Mark Grace of the Cubs had the first hit, a single. I already had Grace’s autograph and was able to pick up Bradley’s for just a few bucks.

    Sticking with sports, I just learned that Jets cornerback Kris Boyd was shot in his abdomen at 2 am last night on W. 38th Street in Manhattan after a dispute turned violent. He’s 29 and is listed in critical but stable condition. Yikes. Of course, we wish him a complete and speedy recovery. Kris is from Texas and played college ball with the Longhorns. As always occurs when a member of the Jets is shot, the police have announced that every single Jets fan is considered a suspect.

    See you tomorrow Chatterheads. Thanks for dropping by.

  • Take Me Out To The Ballgame

    Readers of The New Yorker are familiar with the cartoons of William Steig, back from when their cartoons were wonderful and funny. Steig was born on this date back in 1907 in NYC and died at the age of 95 in Boston. His parents were Polish-Jewish immigrants from Austria-Hungary. His dad was a house painter and his mom a seamstress. It was she who encouraged his art. According to The Writer’s Almanac, Steig said:  “If I’d had it my way, I’d have been a professional athlete, a sailor, a beachcomber, or some other form of hobo, a painter, a gardener, a novelist, a banjo-player, a traveler, anything but a rich man.” He was the anti-Tevye.

    He is best-known as the creator of Shrek.

    Here’s a haiku I wrote yesterday.

    Eye exam: Is it
    Better this way or this way?
    Seems about the same.

    I watched the first half of the Jets game last night but didn’t need to see that much to realize how much better the Pats are than us. The Jets started well with an opening TD drive, but the New Englanders moved like a hot knife through butter in response. Their young QB Drake Maye is the real thing. He played college ball at UNC, not a traditional powerhouse, although Lawrence Taylor played there. Next Sunday the Jets face the Ravens in Poe-town, and Owl Chatter will be there. Oy.

    Oh, hi Joe! Hey, everybody, it’s Joe Namath with his beautiful daughter Jessica. Looks just like you, Dad! Thanks for dropping by. Grab a Diet Coke and settle in! See the game last night?

    Sydney Sweeney has taken her place among the great beauties of her generation. We don’t expect her to pop into the puzzle often: too many letters, but she was the focus of a boring Op-Ed piece by Ross Douthat in The Times today. He’s hoping her stardom can be a counterweight to cookie-cutter AI movies. Blah blah blah. We’re not going to worry about it.

    Phil says she’s taking it easy on us in this shot. A full blast could knock you backwards through a window.

    Remember that board game LIFE? I remember enjoying it. It first came out in 1860, a creation of the person Milton Bradley, the first ever board game for his company of the same name. It’s the modern version that I recall, and it came out in 1960, when I was ten. It was in the puzzle today at 41A: “Board game that begins with players choosing college versus career.” Here’s Rex on it: “I enjoyed remembering this game. Played it a lot as a child. It didn’t much prepare me for LIFE, though. For instance, I hardly ever drive around in a plastic six-seater convertible.”

    How about the spooky 50D? “Horror character known as the Mistress of the Dark.” Remember ELVIRA? She was pretty funny, as I recall. Here she is with her pet tarantula.

    Elvira was the creation of actress Cassandra Peterson, a redhead (vu den?)

    Per egs: ELVIRA always makes me shake my head in a gesture of awe and disbelief because a man named Dallas Frazier wrote a song which became a big hit for the Oak Ridge Boys and contained, in the chorus, the alleged rhyme, “My hearts on fire, Elvira.” I guess he didn’t think, “Don’t spend your IRA, Elvira” had the requisite zip.

    This poem by Natalie Diaz has a helluva name: “Abecedarian Requiring Further Examination of Anglikan Seraphym Subjugation of a Wild Indian Rezervation.” It was today’s poem of the day from Poets.org. I am shallow enough to be impressed that the first letter of each line works down the alphabet.

    Angels don’t come to the reservation.
    Bats, maybe, or owls, boxy mottled things.
    Coyotes, too. They all mean the same thing—
    death. And death
    eats angels, I guess, because I haven’t seen an angel
    fly through this valley ever.
    Gabriel? Never heard of him. Know a guy named Gabe though—
    he came through here one powwow and stayed, typical
    Indian. Sure he had wings,
    jailbird that he was. He flies around in stolen cars. Wherever he stops,
    kids grow like gourds from women’s bellies.
    Like I said, no Indian I’ve ever heard of has ever been or seen an angel.
    Maybe in a Christmas pageant or something—
    Nazarene church holds one every December,
    organized by Pastor John’s wife. It’s no wonder
    Pastor John’s son is the angel—everyone knows angels are white.
    Quit bothering with angels, I say. They’re no good for Indians.
    Remember what happened last time
    some white god came floating across the ocean?
    Truth is, there may be angels, but if there are angels
    up there, living on clouds or sitting on thrones across the sea wearing
    velvet robes and golden rings, drinking whiskey from silver cups,
    we’re better off if they stay rich and fat and ugly and
    ’xactly where they are—in their own distant heavens.
    You better hope you never see angels on the rez. If you do, they’ll be marching you off to
    Zion or Oklahoma, or some other hell they’ve mapped out for us.

    Here’s Natalie. She’s a Pulitzer-prize-winning poet and a prof at ‘Zona State. And get this: She was a point guard on her basketball team at Old Dominion and reached the Final Four of the NCAA tourney as a freshman and the Sweet 16 her other three years. She played pro ball in Europe and Asia.

    We rented Eephus from Amazon Prime this week and watched it twice. Bill Lee (yes, that Bill Lee, Red Sox fans) has a small but wonderful role in it. I don’t know how to describe the movie. To say it’s a baseball movie is to be entirely accurate and to completely miss the point at the same time. This is the premise as described in Wikipedia: “In a small Massachusetts town in the 1990s, the Adler’s Paint baseball team faces the Riverdogs in one last game before their ballfield is demolished to make room for a new school.”

    It’s the last game. The teams are a combination of middle-aged beer bellies with some college kids sprinkled in. Mostly white, but there is a Black player and when he hits a home run and they welcome him at the plate you can tell his teammates had long ago accepted him without the slightest trace of racism, as if they had no concept of what racism even is or could be.

    The whole movie is blue collar baseball banter. One team’s captain is dragged off midgame to attend his niece’s christening and another player says, “That’s why I’m never going to have a niece.” It’s a brilliant line, delivered as a throwaway.

    The game is constantly under threat: one team only has eight players and will have to forfeit, but they bat first and prolong their half inning just long enough for their ninth man to arrive. The umps refuse to stay beyond the allotted time, but the teams agree to continue under a modified honor system. The field descends into darkness but they arrange their cars and pickup trucks so the headlights cast just enough light to allow play. You see, the score is tied, and it’s the last game for them, like, forever, and they can’t let it end without a proper resolution.

    One of the young players on the Adler Paint team explains how the eephus pitch works. It’s super slow. It just hangs there. You get bored looking at it. You either lose your patience and swing too early, or you finally decide to swing later only to discover it’s gone past you. Bill Lee threw it in his later years in the majors, and he throws it here in his one inning, effectively.

    The family of only one player, Bill Belinda, comes to watch. His kids are in the short clip, below. (The daughter asks the quintessential question: “Why do they care so much?”) When his wife tells him it’s late and cold and they have to leave, he gets them to stay for one more at bat of his and he strikes out. He laments to a teammate that it was probably the last time his kids will see him bat and he struck out. The teammate says, “they’re kids, they won’t remember.” He counters: “they’re 10 and 12.” The teammate says, “then they’ll think it’s funny. It won’t matter to them.” And Bill says “It matters to me.”

    At another point, one of his teammates says, “Bill, how come you’re the only player whose family comes to the games.” Bill may not have realized it up till then, but it gives him a good feeling. At one point, when the consensus seems to be growing to call it quits, Bill’s daughter, on the field with him for some reason, sings “Take me out to the ballgame,” in her beautiful 12-year-old’s voice. The game continues.

    One batter hits a foul popup that the out-of-shape catcher lumbers over and catches. “I should be put down,” he mutters. Tell me about it.

    Enough. See you tomorrow.