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Invasive Cane Toads
I guess he wasn’t much of a romantic, Calvin Coolidge. His Xmas gift to his wife Grace in 1923 was 25 gold coins. And he forgot to get her a card. (Been there?) So he re-used a card that had been given to him, but he forgot to take out the other person’s name. Sheesh. I’m guessing poor Cal slept on the White House couch that night.
And it was on Xmas eve of that year that Coolidge lit the first national Xmas tree. Like the Prez, it was from Vermont, a gift from Middlebury College. It was festooned with 2,500 electric lights, which was not yet a common thing to do. In fact, Coolidge’s hometown of Plymouth Notch VT did not yet have electricity. Six thousand people showed up for the ceremony. The Marine Band played and a church choir sang. The public joined in. In all, the festivities did not wind down until around midnight. At that point, the city’s African-American community was allowed to view the tree, and they held a 40-minute ceremony.
Boy, has the NYT really stepped in it this time? Did you see the lead piece on the Opinion page today? Very prominent placement. It’s a conversation between Nick Kristof and “a prominent professor of religion” at Princeton, Elaine Pagels. It should go without saying that you shouldn’t rely on me for anything, but it pretty clearly leaves the impression that JC was not the son of God, and that in fact his dad was a Roman soldier named Panthera who raped Mary. Yikes. That sorta changes a lot of stuff. Isn’t the NYT worried its offices will be sacked and pillaged by hordes of enraged evangelicals? I guess we’ll see. [I know, I know – they don’t read The Times. But they’ll be told about it.]
Can I segue into a Lenny Bruce line that I like? He said if Jesus were killed twenty years ago, kids in Catholic schools would be walking around with little electric chairs around their necks instead of crosses.
And here’s a cartoon I saw outside a colleague’s office at Hunter a long time ago. It has a fellow standing before St. Peter, hoping to get by the pearly gates that are in the background. He has a surprised look on his face and is saying: “You’re kidding — they count SAT’s?”
Headline from The Onion (I’m not kidding): Jets Fans Required To Sign NDA Before Leaving Stadium
My favorite clue/answer today was at 18A: “Invasive amphibian introduced to Australia in the 1930s.” I’ll be honest — it didn’t help me to know it was “invasive.” The answer was CANE TOAD. Of course! If, like me, you are wondering how it got its name, I’ll tell you. It has a voracious appetite so it has been used for pest control, including against the cane beetle which attacks sugar cane. As this little fella seems to be saying: You got a problem with that?
I just received the 12/30;1/6 joint New Yorker edition in the mail. I can’t in good conscience just let it go. I can usually at least tell what they were trying to get at humor-wise in the cartoons. But this batch is so bad, so anti-humor, it’s impressive. Let’s have a look at them.
Page 11. Two squirrels are in bed in their cave home with nuts and nut shells all over the floor. One is saying: “Ever since we got married, you don’t chase me around the tree trunk, halt suddenly, then continue chasing me around like you used to.” What’s the joke? What am I missing? Ascribing human marital complaints to squirrels? Is that it?
Page 14. Two elephants. Let me say at the outset, I am very fond of elephants, so I approach this one with hope in my heart. One of the elephants is drawn normally, but the other one is sort of crinkly. And the normal one is saying: “Have you gone all crinkly again or should I have my eyes checked?” Oy. What a waste of elephants. What is this one even going for? At least with the squirrels there could be humor in the marital angle.
Page 27. A weird-looking alien is standing outside of his saucer. He’s communicating with a military figure. An interpreter is saying: “It said, I’d love to pick your leader’s brain if you think they might be interested, but seriously no worries if not.” The humor here comes from imposing today’s informal speech onto an alien’s communications. Hysterical.
Page 29. A skier is looking at a trail map. It’s snowing. The map shows a mountain with an arrow pointing to one spot. It says: “You are freezing your ass off here.” This cartoon not only fails as utterly unfunny, it’s terribly drawn. You can barely make out the lettering on the map.
Page 30. A nasty-looking boy is explaining to his mother: “I’m sorry. I ate the magic beans because I needed a little protein.” This cartoon is drawing on the hysterical connection between beans as a nourishing food and beans as “magic” beans.
Page 32. A flight attendant is speaking to the passengers. She says: “And for those of you who will be making connections—well, good for you.” I’ll pause to give you a moment to compose yourselves.
Page 39. Two women are seated at a table in medieval times. A suit of armor is seated on a third chair, but nobody is wearing it. One of the women says: “Then I realized all I wanted was the shining armor. I didn’t need the knight.” Brilliant, amirite? Separating the “knight” from the “shining armor” in the expression. Einsteinian in its genius.
Page 40. A woman is lying down (face up) on her yoga mat. A second woman is standing near her. The first says to the second: “I let go of all my tension and lost my will to get up.” Oy.
Page 43. This one I will grudgingly admit is not horrible. An operating room. The surgeon is saying to his assistant: “I know you’re rolling your eyes every time I ask for something.” This is playing with the scene we’re familiar with in which the surgeon spits out “scalpel,” “retractor,” etc. We assume each item is handed to him automatically. So I like it here where the surgeon’s requests are being “judged” by the assistant.
Page 44. Back to the pits. A couple walks into a house. A band is set up and playing in the main room. The caption says: AIR R & B. Get it? Instead of AIR BNB. This is absolutely horrible. Anti-funny. That someone thought this was good is very depressing.
Page 49. A couple sitting in their living room. There are seven coffee mugs spaced randomly on their coffee table. The woman is saying: “We’re getting our money’s worth out of this coffee table.” At this point, I seem to have crossed a line: this is so not funny, I am actually sitting here laughing. These dreadful cartoons have brought me into some zone where funny and not funny are all jumbled up together. Having seven coffee cups on the table means they are getting their money’s worth out of it! I can see it! I think I like it!
Page 53. Roz Chast is a genius. She is a charter member of the Cartoon Hall of Fame. Her work should never be clumped in with the other cartoons in an issue. This one is decent, if not her best. It’s holiday cards we’ve all gotten where we don’t know who the hell it is who sent it. They are called “Cards of Mystery.” The first one reads: “Who are we? You can’t recall. You don’t know us From a hole in the wall,” signed The Cobbinses. The other two are similar and the artwork on the cards is Chastian, i.e., terrific.
There are three more crappy cartoons in the issue, but I will spare you. There’s only so much one can take. You get the idea.
Let’s end on a more festive note. First, a very pretty song shared with us by Son Volt today. There was a puzzle answer HMM. Close enough to conjure up this tune by HEM. And then, down below, a dazzling holiday shot of our Ana. (Philly — you’ve outdone yourself.)
Merry Christmas everybody! From Phil, George, the Owls, me, and Ana.
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Rickey
How proficient a base stealer was Rickey Henderson, who died this week at the age of 65? To be honest, the only person who ever really caught him was his wife Pamela, who survives him. She was his high school sweetheart and they had three daughters: Angela, Alexis, and Adrianna. They, more than his baseball feats (or “feets”), reflect the measure of the man.
Here’s a guy who was so feared a base stealer that every pitcher facing him had to be thinking, “just don’t walk him, just don’t walk him, just don’t walk him.” Yet he walked more times than any other player in MLB history except Barry Bonds: 2,190 times. How could that be? Well, he was short by athletic standards: only 5′ 10″. And his natural batting stance was a crouch, so his strike zone was minimized. Sportswriter Jim Murray wrote that Henderson had a strike zone “the size of Hitler’s heart.” And he was such a good hitter, including for power, that pitchers were torn between not wanting to walk him, but not wanting to give him anything too good to hit. So they were f*cked either way, so to speak.
Do you enjoy little math facts? Rickey’s MLB-leading number of lifetime stolen bases was 1406. (Nobody else has 1,000.) It’s one SB short of exceeding the second place total by 50%: Lou Brock had 938. Here’s my worksheet: 938 x 150% = 1,407. He holds the single season record of 130 (1982), and went over 100 three times.
He scored 2,295 runs — more than anyone else in MLB history: 50 more than Ty Cobb.
Rickey’s unique genius was his ability to read pitchers when he was on base. Not for what pitch they were going to throw, but for whether they were going to pitch to the batter or throw over to his base. It allowed him to get a good jump, and his speed took care of the rest. He was on first base once against the Orioles, and the third baseman, Floyd Rayford, looked over at him. Rickey smiled and flashed what looked like the peace sign: two fingers. Rayford didn’t know what Rickey meant. Two pitches later Henderson was on third.
As the saying goes, Father Time is undefeated. But as Rickey aged he found it difficult to let go of baseball. Or was baseball refusing to let go of him? When no MLB team would sign him, he stuck around in the minor leagues hoping to get recalled. That’s when I got to meet him, if only for a moment. One of the teams he signed on with was the Newark (NJ) Bears, in an independent league. I got to a game early and saw him signing autographs for kids near the dugout. I joined them and he was kind enough to sign my ticket stub and I wished him well. But here’s a neater item from my collection. It’s a commemorative envelope signed by both him and Lou Brock.
Rickey played football in high school, which he preferred to baseball because he liked the hitting — the other kind of hitting. But his team needed baseball players, so his guidance counselor called him in during his sophomore year. When he refused to make the switch, she made him a deal — she’d give him a quarter for every hit, every run, and every stolen base. Ooooh, Rickey liked that. “I’m about to make me some money,” he said.
Rickey had many detractors. Some thought he was arrogant. Some thought he was lazy, which is ridiculous — he was one of the hardest-working men in the game. He was electric. I loved him. I loved his smile, his speed, his swing. He left an enduring mark on the game.
Rest in peace, Rickey.
This poem is called “Christmas Sparrow.” It’s by Billy Collins and was in today’s Writer’s Almanac.
The first thing I heard this morning
was a rapid flapping sound, soft, insistent—wings against glass as it turned out
downstairs when I saw the small bird
rioting in the frame of a high window,
trying to hurl itself through
the enigma of glass into the spacious light.Then a noise in the throat of the cat
who was hunkered on the rug
told me how the bird had gotten inside,
carried in the cold night
through the flap of a basement door,
and later released from the soft grip of teeth.On a chair, I trapped its pulsations
in a shirt and got it to the door,
so weightless it seemed
to have vanished into the nest of cloth.But outside, when I uncupped my hands,
it burst into its element,
dipping over the dormant garden
in a spasm of wingbeats
then disappeared over a row of tall hemlocks.For the rest of the day,
I could feel its wild thrumming
against my palms as I wondered about
the hours it must have spent
pent in the shadows of that room,
hidden in the spiky branches
of our decorated tree, breathing there
among the metallic angels, ceramic apples, stars of yarn,
its eyes open, like mine as I lie in bed tonight
picturing this rare, lucky sparrow
tucked into a holly bush now,
a light snow tumbling through the windless dark.
If you saw “Midnight __________,” what would you fill in the blank with? Cowboy? Mass? Snack? Oil? That was the theme of today’s puzzle. The revealer was AFTER MIDNIGHT, and the four theme answers were COWBOY BOOTS, MASS TRANSIT, SNACK MIX, and OIL PAINT.
At 14A, “leafy vegetable” turned out to be KALE. It inspired Nancy to write:
(To be sung to the tune of “I Hate Men” by Cole Porter.)
Oh, I hate KALE!
And anyone who cooks with it will fail!
You put it in a salad and the salad you diminish.
You put it in a casserole — your family won’t finish.
And then you know what others know: You should have cooked with spinash!
Oh, I hate KALE!
This tune was shared by Son Volt pertaining to those COWBOY BOOTS.
Cowboy boots, cowboy boots
Where in the hell are my cowboy boots?At 30A, “Hoppy holiday?” was EASTER. (The bunny, right?) From Son Volt again: Patti Smith. Definitely worth a listen.
Here’s Willie! Another holiday pet pic sent in by a reader of Rex’s blog. Word is he was named after William Blake who wrote “Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright.” Looks like a living “Do Not Disturb” sign to me.
Owl Chatter is taking to the road again. Xmas morning we head west towards Michigan, with a layover in Clarion PA. Xmas dinner will be a couple of our Chinese faves from Garden Rice, reheated in the microwave in our hotel room. How’s that for romantic? Thursday in Bloomfield Hills we meet new grandson Harold Barney. The whole crew is coming, Phil, George, and the owls. We’re loading up the Subaru!
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What Am I, Chopped Liver?
Ikebob!! Ikebob?? Are you sh*tting me? That’s a “common word” by you? I am ranting about today’s (Sunday’s) Spelling Bee in the NYT. I missed burble and blubber, which is fine. I certainly should have seen blubber (no jokes please–I am not in the mood), but ikebob? And they didn’t accept bubbe!!??
For those of you wondering what I am blubbering about, there is a game called Spelling Bee in the NYT. There’s a daily Bee online, which I do not play (Hi Joe!), and a separate additional one on Sunday (in the Magazine), which I do. You get seven letters with one of them the central one. You need to form as many words as you can with them. Each must contain the central letter. On Sundays each word must be at least five letters long. (For the daily Bee, the minimum is four.) The Sunday instructions state we are to look for “common words,” and they provide you with their complete list. That’s the goal — to come up with all of the words, making you a “Queen Bee.” And, so, I ask you — is ikebob a common word?
Here’s how the Urban Dictionary defines ikebob. (I am not making this up.)
“A dragon slayer who knows how to handle her pudding cups.”
What??
It goes on: “Often times a gamer, or a loner. Someone who makes a lot of cartoon, and game references.”
Yeah, Monique — We’re as puzzled as you are.
Today’s “Tiny Love Story” in the Times is by Nancy Glazer Pearl:
The subject line: “Here Comes the Sun.” The email: “You don’t know me, but your late husband was my fourth-grade teacher. Every winter solstice, he’d bring out his guitar, and the whole school would sing the Beatles song together. He’d remind us that, even on the darkest day, each one after would bring a little more light. I wanted you to know that every year on this date, my friends and I have a group Zoom to sing and remember Mr. Pearl.” I smiled, thinking how, 14 years after his death, Michael’s light still guides us through the darkest days.
Today’s poem from The Writer’s Almanac is “The Video.” It’s by Fleur Adcock. I’m dedicating it to our newest older brother Michican Morris.
When Laura was born, Ceri watched.
They all gathered around Mum’s bed —
Dad and the midwife and Mum’s sister
and Ceri. “Move over a bit,” Dad said —
he was trying to focus the camcorder
on Mum’s legs and the baby’s head.After she had a little sister,
and Mum had gone back to being thin,
and was twice as busy, Ceri played
the video again and again.
She watched Laura come out, and then,
in reverse, she made her go back in.
The “online initialism of excitement” in the puzzle today was FTW, which is “For the win!” It’s an expression of support or approval, which I don’t fully get but fortunately don’t care about. We asked Miriam Webster for an example of how to use it and she came up with: “Weekend brunch FTW! It’s cheaper than going out to dinner at the same restaurant.”
It’s not to be confused with FTD which is “fresh to death.” You might think this one has something to do with a corpse that has not yet started to rot, but it doesn’t. It actually means something is very stylish or cool. “Fresh,” of course, means stylish (“a fresh look”), and “to death” is like in the expression, “I love it to death,” meaning a lot, or extremely.
“Sh*t, Jerome — those new boots are fresh to death. Can I borrow them Tuesday?”
So, there — try to use those on your kids (or grandkids).
In yesterday’s NYTXW, the clue at 24D was “Star-forming region nearest to Earth,” and the answer was ORION NEBULA.
But Anony Mouse had this to say:
(Pushes glasses up nose) Ackshually the Orion Nebula is not the nearest star forming region, not even close. The Taurus Molecular Cloud, rho Ophiuchus, and Perseus are all closer, and there are probably others. At best you could argue that Orion is the closest region where stars more massive than the sun are forming.
Well, okey-dokey — thank you very much!
And if that’s not enough to get your panties all up in a bunch (or your knickers in a knot, for the gentlemen), at 56A the clue was “Last ruler of the Ptolemaic Kingdom, familiarly,” and the answer was CLEO.
But commenter Sailor writes: Ptolemy XV Caesar, aka “Caesarion,” eldest son of Cleopatra VII by Julius Caesar, and co-ruler with his mother, outlived her by about 2 1/2 weeks (until he was captured and executed by Octavian), making him the last Ptolemaic ruler of Egypt.
So I ask you: Where are the standards? Is no one checking these puzzles?
This Met Diary story by John Berlind is called “More or Less” but it’s all about irrefutable logic.
Dear Diary:
It was 1994, and I was living in the East Village. On my way home one day, I stopped at the Second Avenue Deli.
After waiting in line for a few minutes, I stepped up to the counter.
“One pound of chopped liver, please,” I said.
The counterman waved his hands dismissively as if batting the idea away.
“No, no, no,” he said. “That’s not the way to do it here. What I’ll do is I’ll make you a chopped liver sandwich, and that way you get more than a pound of chopped liver.”
“Otherwise,” he added, “I gotta charge you more for less. Makes no sense!”
“Oh, thank you,” I said. “But really, I just want a pound, and I’d like to get it in a plastic container.”
Before I finished speaking, though, he had unspooled a long sheet of white deli paper and loaded a thick slice of marble rye with a softball-size dollop of creamy, fresh chopped liver redolent of sweet garlic and raw onion.
When my request finally registered with him, he stopped and fixed me with a long, disappointed stare.
“Look,” he said, “what’s the problem? I make you a nice chopped liver sandwich, you take the sandwich home, you unwrap the sandwich, you throw away the bread! What’s the problem?”
I conceded that it sounded like an excellent course of action.
It has not been a good few days for Owl Chatter’s sports teams. We were pulling for Tennessee to upset the hated Ohio State Buckeyes. Didn’t happen. (42-17. Ouch.) We were pulling for OC fave Paige Bueckers to lead Uconn past USC last night. Didn’t happen. And the Jets. Oy.
Too painful to go on.
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Bendy Straws
Today is the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. Which I never understood — aren’t they all 24 hours? For the occasion, The Writer’s Almanac quotes Thoreau: “In winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts are warm and cheery, like cottages under drifts, whose windows and doors are half concealed, but from whose chimneys the smoke cheerfully ascends.”
Okay. Whatever. Here’s a shot of the backyard this morning at Owl Chatter headquarters.
The puzzle today was co-constructed by a beloved member of Rex’s blog’s Commentariat, Lewis. He is the sweetest man who always finds something positive to say. And his puzzle (co-constructed with Barbara Lin) is terrific.
You know it’s going to be fun when the very first answer at 1A turns out to be BENDY STRAW, albeit clued trickily with “Shifty little sucker?”
My favorite clue/answer was “Worth a shot,” and the answer was IT CAN”T HURT. Here’s a joke: An actor collapses onstage and everyone is at a loss at what to do and a little old Jewish man from the balcony keeps yelling — “Give him an enema.” Finally, a doctor comes up from the audience, attends to the poor man, and turns to the balcony and explains that an enema is not what he needs right now. And the little old man yells back: “It vouldn’t hurt.”
BTW, my urologist’s book just came out — he gave me a copy. It’s called “An Enema of the People.”
“Jhené ___, Grammy-nominated R&B singer” at 26D was tough for me. I needed all the crosses. It’s Jhené AIKO.
Her full name is Jhené Aiko Efuru Chilombo and she’s from LA. Ever cook something up with, like, a zillion ingredients and you had no idea how it would turn out and then it’s beyond delicious? So, get this — Her mother is of Spanish, Dominican, and Japanese descent, and her father is of Native American, African-American, and German-Jewish descent.
Jhené has two kids. She was married to record producer Dot da Genius for a few years, and her partner since 2016 has been the rapper Big Sean from Detroit.
If you read this blog like I read Rex’s (and most blogs), you skip a lot of the clips I post. Hope you spend some time with this one:
This is neat. The clue at 18A was “Austrian composer Mahler,” and the only reason I knew it was ALMA was from a Tom Lehrer song my brother and sister used to play for me several hundred years ago. Every few years I’m reminded of him (Lehrer) and how good he was. Commenter Conrad was too, and he posted the relevant link for us. If you are not familiar with Lehrer’s music and wit, give it a listen. If you are, you don’t need my noodge.
Remember that BENDY STRAW from way up there somewhere? Well, how about Syd Straw? You hear of her? (New to me.) She’s good. So much music today! What’s with the suitcase?
This excellent New Yorker cartoon by Dan Misdea will be appreciated by baseball fans, well, maybe not Yankee fans. It reflects Juan Soto’s spurning of the Bombers in favor of the Amazin’s. (It’s the 4 train that goes to YS, BTW, not the 6, though the 6 does go elsewhere in the Bronx.)
Personally, I love the guy, but I think he’s been unfairly turned into Babe Ruth by the media. He’s a great hitter, for sure, but not Ruthian. And his fielding and baserunning are just average. He played a big role in the Nats’ brilliant championship run in 2019, but wasn’t their MVP in either the NLCS (Howie Kendrick) or the WS (Strasburg). IMO, the Yankees have done very well by signing Max Fried, Devin Williams, and Cody Bellinger.
BTW, when the Yankees introduced Max, he introduced his girlfriend, Reni Meyer-Whalley. She was seated with Max’s mom, which says something, though we cannot ascertain whether she’s Jewish. She was a volleyball star in college. We’ll have them over for a visit once Max settles into the area — before Pesach, we hope. George — we’ll give you enough warning so you can stock up the fridge. Here’s Reni.
Have you heard about the big flap in Yankeedom? It turns out that before marrying Cody Bellinger, Mrs. B was dating Giancarlo Stanton (of the Yankees) pretty seriously. Will jealous tempers flare in the locker room? Nah. GS is a very eligible bachelor, but the Bellingers are happily married with a pair of kids, and both guys are mensches.
And to whom is Bellinger married? We thought you’d never ask. She’s Chase Carter a model from the Bahamas who has appeared on the cover of Maxim. I wasn’t aware of this, but it seems that professional athletes who are good-looking and rich often attract beautiful women. Here’s the aptly named Chase. Phil has been drooling over her since long before Bellinger signed on with NY. Below are some of his photos.
We’ll start with a family shot to give you fellas a little time to brace yourselves. After that — kaboom!
Let’s close tonight with a piece by Linda Coleman from tomorrow’s Met Diary in the NYT.
Dear Diary:
It was my first autumn stroll in Central Park after getting divorced. I was reminiscing about my baby boy’s first time there in 1997. As I walked, I came upon a good-looking couple with a stroller at the edge of the lake.
The mother asked if I would take a photo of them. “It’s our baby boy’s first time in Central Park,” the father said proudly.
We did an impromptu photo shoot, strangers bonding over a common goal. “I hope they came out OK,” I said, handing the phone back.
“Yes, definitely,” the boy’s mother said. “This so exceeded my expectations.”
As I walked away, I began to relive my own experiences as a new mother of an infant son, swaddled by feelings of high expectations, first times, new beginnings.
The leaves were starting to turn but still had a way to go before the colors reached their peak. They were not yet exceeding expectations, and I intended to be there when they did.
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Popsicle Toes
We’re all breathing a proverbial sigh of relief at the arrest of an Oregon man, Robert Cole Parmalee, 40, on charges of stalking Owl Chatter fave, UConn basketball star Paige Bueckers. We were certain it was our photographer Phil they were looking for. Even Phil was certain: He turned himself in to the Connecticut State Police to confess. (They ignored him. It wasn’t the first time.)
Parmalee said on social media that he intends to marry Bueckers. Consistent with that claim, he had an engagement ring and lingerie with him when he was arrested while walking along a highway near the airport in Hartford, CT. (We have turned the portion of the investigation related to the lingerie over to our Dirty Old Man Dept.) A warrant was also out for Parmalee accusing him of setting a home on fire in Oregon with roommates and pets inside. We’re guessing he’s hoping Paige is open-minded enough not to hold that against him.
Parmalee pled guilty to the stalking charge and faces three years of probation during which he is barred from entering Connecticut. A restrictive order protecting PB will remain in effect until 2064. Meanwhile, back on Planet Earth, the girls did a number on Iowa State, outscoring them 101-68 while setting a school record for three-point baskets (20). They are ranked 4th nationally and face a tough USC squad Saturday.
Before the Nazis starting killing Jews, they worked on altering the image of Jews in the German society — softening up the populace for the task to come. Goebbels was in charge of that effort. And the elements of German society that fell into line have blood on their hands.
Fast-forward to the present. Capitulating to the winds of bigotry, the Disney company has removed a transgender story line from its animated series “Win or Lose,” which is set to start streaming in February. A small step. Hardly worth mentioning. As the suicide rate for trans youth remains high — maybe just a teeny splatter of blood?
Turning to the puzzle, the best clue today was at 35A: “Sticky treats, in more ways than one?” Answer: POPSICLES. Sticky — get it? They have sticks.
Here’s Michael Franks:
I know today’s your birthday,
And I did not buy no rose.
But I wrote this song instead and I call it,
“Popsicle Toes.”I also learned that to “post up” means to hang out for a while. It comes from basketball.
Did you know the “13th-century poet who wrote the ‘Masnavi’” was RUMI? Me neither. Lewis shared a line of Rumi’s: “You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.” Rumi-nate on that a while.
That expression, “Nero fiddled while Rome burned?” Well, fiddles hadn’t been invented yet. So there. He must have just “air” fiddled.
Closing the shop early tonight. See you next time!
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Feat of Klee
Today is the birthday of Paul Klee (1879). It’s okay if you didn’t send a card: he’s been dead since 1940. Here’s a shot of the artist with his Bimbo.
Perhaps I should clarify: that’s Klee with his wife Lily. The name of the cat is Bimbo.
And here’s a nice sample of his work, IMO. It’s called “Castle and Sun.” Some have noted its similarity in style to the Magna-Tile works of my grandsons Leon and Raffi.
Say Hi (or Meow, if you speak Cat) to Chai. No idea if this is Hebraic (eighteen/life) or a tea lover. Adorable in either case.
Phil swears Liz Cheney, who is 58 and has four kids, has gotten much hotter-looking since she started championing democracy, and says this shot he got of her proves it. Maybe so, Philly — she does take on that sexy librarian look with her glasses on. But, still, keep your distance. Her dad shot that guy on a hunting trip, remember? If you try anything funny, he’ll carve you up like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Anyway, hot or not, LC is in the news: the GOP is going after her, via a House subcommittee, asking for FBI investigations on improprieties in connection with the Jan. 6 hearings. BS, of course, although Trump has said Jan. 6 Committee members should be behind bars. So Bernie S. says Biden should pardon Lizzie, and the Prez is considering it. Why didn’t the GOP wait until Biden’s out of office? It’s just a month.
Headline in The Onion: Doctors Warn of Damaging Effects Child Obesity Having On Mall Santas.
In yesterday’s puzzle, “Self-care company founded by Gwyneth Paltrow” was the clue for GOOP. Of course, it’s pretty pricey. Two small (1.4 oz.) bars of soap go for $20. Coconut shell polishes away dead skin and grime, shea and murumuru butters intensely moisturize, and brightening licorice supports the skin barrier. The scent—a deliriously pretty cardamom and wood blend—fills your entire shower and lingers ever so softly on your skin.
You had me at murumuru butter. Sign me up, GP!!
Arlene Croce died on Monday in Johnston RI at the age of 90. She was the dance critic of The New Yorker for 23 years until retiring in 1996. The obit by Brian Seibert in The Times says she was “the most feared dance writer in the U.S.,” which seems funny to me. What? — Did she have mob ties? Did she break legs?
In her review of one performance, she described the feet of the ballerina Carla Fracci as “flapping along the floor like a loose mudguard.”
She thought of herself as a “dance illiterate.” She never studied dance formally or took a music lesson. She said she was proof that you could come to dance knowing nothing of how it is done and still understand it.
She never married and is survived only by her sister Marcia, who didn’t find her very fearsome.
The great Ty Cobb was born on this date in Georgia in 1886. I remember being a teenager and just starting my autograph collection. I bought a Cobb autograph for $9 and another collector I knew felt sorry for me for getting ripped off so badly. Ha!
Story from The Onion: Bald Man Presses Face to Window As Thick-Haired Family Sits Down To Dinner
Andy Spragg posted the following for the Dull Men’s Club (UK):
My name is Andy and I am a bathoholic. These are my current stashes of additives: liquid and salt.
Hitherto I’ve been a one-liquid man, with or without salt. Readers of a sensitive disposition may care to look away now. Tonight I decided to be a little less dull. I am currently reposing in a bath with salt, Deep Heat foam bath AND Olbas bath. I’ll report back later on the quality of the bath experience, if interest warrants.
Melanie Hendrie commented: I hope you get well soon. Must be pretty ill to need all those weird and wonderful potions.
Andy: Is that so?
Melanie: Well it’s rather extravagant otherwise is it not?
Andy: Well … not really. I mean, for example, how many pairs of shoes have you got?
There actually is a reason why I have currently got so many liquid additives – it’s far from situation normal – but I don’t really see why it’s extravagant. I have two baths a week and I add roughly the same amount of bubbly stuff every time. So I’m spending roughly the same amount whether I use one sort frequently, or several sorts occasionally.
Melanie (backing off): That’s a good explanation.
Andy: Thank you!
Lauren Spilsbury: In an area with low water situation – fast showers only. Haven’t had a bath in a decade or more. Now old enough to have a concern about whether or not I could get my warm, wet, slippery, sleepy self up out of the tub.
Andy: That concern is on my horizon too, for sure. (In respect of my self, obv … not your self.)
Susan Green: You must have skin like a rhinoceros with all those chemicals.
[OK, readers, brace yourselves. We’re going to go on for a bit.]
Robert Brueford: Bathaholic here (which is ironic as we have a wet room and no bath!) What I do have however (as a true bathaholic) is a fabric pop up bath, soon to be replaced with a foldaway plastic bath. I utilise olbas oil and deep heat bubbles, lavender and rose bubble bath (cheap in Home Bargains and is very, very relaxing) and occasionally, Radox with Pink Gin Himalayan salts. I do love a good bath and have a minimum of 2 a week.
Andy: Bathaholic, 2 a week at least, and Home Bargains aficionado? I think I’ve just stumbled upon my soul brother! I also think you need to tell me more about this “fabric pop-up bath.” Is that actually a Thing? From where does one procure it? How does one fill and empty it? So many questions.
Robert: So, if you Google pop up baths, the common ones are a waterproof fabric inner that’s supported by a pvc pipe frame. The one I have is large enough for me (6ft). I fill it using the clip-on hose pipe tap connectors, a length of hose on each from the bathroom sink which is then cable tied to the PVC pipes into the bath. Always filled about 2/3 of the way up (bath is approximately 800mm high).
To empty, I use a 150Lpm fishtank pump with a hose attached to the outlet which I then pop into the overflow of the bathroom sink. Takes approximately 15 minutes to empty which gives me time to get dressed, sort my stuff out at which point, I simply fold the legs away and put the bath behind one of our bathroom cabinets out of the way.
We have upgraded this year as the wife wants a sturdier bath (current one is sturdy if you know where to put your hands but as she has a back issue, I understand her dubiousness) so we purchased an extra large moulded plastic one (1480mm long) with a collapsible heavy duty rubber (could be silicone) inner. This one has a three-part tray on top to a) preserve heat and b) allows me to plumb in my portable sauna heater directly into the water to keep it hotter for longer.
There’s nothing like a steaming hot bath with some music and relaxing lavender and patchouli bubbles.
Andy: Now that’s what I call intel! I can see a whole new world opening up that I never knew existed. I’m so glad I made my inconsequential little post about double bubble action. Thank you so much for laying out the facts in such lavish detail.
To send us off tonight, this elegant gentleman is Barney, 17 years old, kinehora. Easy does it, old fella.
See you tomorrow, Chatterheads!
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Dusty Books and Faded Papers
Here’s a Monday morning poem for us by Sahar Romani (After Rumi, After Terence Hayes), called “Sign.” It’s from Poem a Day (Poets.org).
What aren’t you willing to believe. A heart
graffitied fuchsia on the street, a missive from another life.
Remember the stem of lavender you found
in a used copy of Bishop’s poems, a verse underlined:
The world is a mist. And then the world is
minute and vast and clear. Suddenly, across the aisle
a woman with your mother’s bracelets, her left wrist
all shimmer and gold, you almost winced.
Coincidence is the great mystery of the human mind
but so is the trans-oceanic reach of Shah Rukh Khan’s
slow blink. Each of us wants a hint, a song
that dares us to look inside. True, it takes whimsy
and ego to believe the universe will tap your shoulder
in the middle of a random afternoon. That t-shirt
on a stranger’s chest, a bumper sticker on the highway upstate.
Truth isn’t going anywhere. It’s your eyes passing by.
I’ll never forget a sign I received a long time ago. A “bump” was detected on Caity’s belly at a routine checkup when she was about 1 and a half. (Sam wasn’t born yet.) So we started visiting surgeons to try to find out what it was. At one extreme, the good one, it could be nothing (a cyst). At the other, it could require surgery, treatments, who knows what? We schlepped out to Long Island to see a specialist, and into Manhattan. Jersey, too, for sure. It was an every-waking-moment type of concern. Caity, at the time, was not only the apple of our eye — she was the whole eye. [Note: Still is.]
I was riding the bus from Manhattan home from work (train service from Penn Station to Chatham had not yet started), and for some reason I took a seat way up front. We were off the highway and coursing down Main Street in Chatham and the driver suddenly applied the brakes for no apparent reason. Luckily, he was able to see in time what I watched a few seconds later. A mommy duck led her six little ducklings calmly across Main Street in downtown Chatham, while rush hour traffic in both directions halted. I took it as a sign from the Universe that Caity would be okay. And she was. The bump turned out to be nothing. And the following Sunday evening, we had roast duck for dinner. (No we didn’t.)
It’s time for our annual “Justice for Jerry” appeal. As many of you know, I am Chair of the “Free Jerry Sandusky Committee.” If you haven’t gotten your “IF HE HAD GONE INTO THE CHURCH HE’D BE POPE BY NOW” T-shirt ($25), bumper sticker ($8), or button ($5), what better time than now? With a sexual abuser about to take over the White House with a cabinet full of predators, and “the church,” what? about 90%** abusers?, how can we in good conscience keep Jerry behind bars? $100 donors will receive a “Penn State: Not State Pen” baseball cap; and, for $250, a personally autographed bath towel.
[**exaggeration for dramatic effect, aka lying.]
Remember yesterday’s “Art Heist” puzzle that I (and Rex) raved about? It turned out to be one of the most divisive puzzles in recent memory. While many of us loved it, I would say the majority of Rex’s commenters not only hated it – they reviled it. Yes, they viled it and then re-viled it. Here’s a sampling of rants:
Came here to post for the first time ever and state how much I hated this puzzle. HATED IT.
Hated this puzzle. From start to finish, absolutely hated it. The hint made no sense. The resultant answers were nonsense. I hated hated hated it passionately. Oh, also, I hated it.
When I saw the constructor’s name I was really hoping to love this puzzle, having attended a wonderful stage performance last summer in which David Kwong delightfully combined magic and crosswords. Instead I found myself almost screaming in agony by the time I gave up and opted for “reveal puzzle” in the app.
I’ve been doing the NYT crossword for three decades and this was the worst, least joyful puzzle I’ve seen them publish. Chose not to finish – a first for me.
In a class by itself. WOAT. Absolutely WOAT. Gimmick piled on gimmick piled on gimmick piled on errors. I. Do. Not. Understand. Why. NYT. Published. This. Mess.
I do the Sunday puzzle to be entertained – hard, easy, whatever. Not to be tortured. I almost threw it against the wall. It was overly ambitious, convoluted & impossible (for me) to even want to “try” to solve. It put me in a bad mood & I wish I had gone back to sleep. Worst puzzle of the year.
I find it interesting that this puzzle was so polarizing, with some people loving the creativity and some people hating it. Count me in the latter camp, as I found this to be perhaps the least enjoyable puzzle I’ve ever completed.
It’s a rare day that I’m willing break my streak because a puzzle is so unpleasant that I can’t bear to finish it. This is one of those days. As so many others here have noted, it was ugly, fussy, and filled with gibberish. Awful, awful, awful!
I love art and artists and couldn’t believe how much I hated this puzzle. It’s Sunday. I want a cup of coffee and sit down and just finish a well-done puzzle. This isn’t it. This was miserable and zero fun at all.
Maybe my least favorite puzzle I’ve ever done.
I hated, hated, hated this puzzle. Just an unpleasant slog, constantly having to backtrack to figure what on earth was missing from which answer.
I knew all the artists but HATED this tedious, pedantic, boring slog of a puzzle.
Perhaps the least enjoyable puzzle I’ve done in 5+ years of NYT crosswords.
An interesting clue/answer from yesterday’s XW was “Opened or closed like an eye, in film lingo.” The answer was IRISED. You know about this? I didn’t. It’s when a scene in a film is started or ended with a circle opening or closing. An “Iris In” or an “Iris Out.” This short clip is interesting (or boring).
The following paragraph opens a story on the front page of the NYT today as if it’s business as usual and the country has not spun its way into utter insanity:
“The lawyer helping Robert F. Kennedy Jr. pick federal health officials for the incoming Trump administration has petitioned the government to revoke its approval of the polio vaccine, which for decades has protected millions of people from a virus that can cause paralysis or death.”
You know you’re in la-la-land when you look to Mitch McConnell for support. Happens that McConnell was a polio survivor as a child. So he’s sorta in favor of the vaccine, along with any human being who has a brain. Here’s how the Times put it:
Senator Mitch McConnell of Kentucky, a survivor of childhood polio, said in a statement: “Efforts to undermine public confidence in proven cures are not just uninformed — they’re dangerous.”
“Anyone seeking the Senate’s consent to serve in the incoming administration would do well to steer clear of even the appearance of association with such efforts,” he said.
Owl Chatter has gained exclusive rights to a conversation between the Senator and RFK, Jr. on this very topic.
In the interest of full disclosure, there is a family member close to us who is opposed to vaccines. Our grandson Leon, who is six, is seeking to end all childhood vaccination programs on the grounds that “they hurt.”
Here’s a very pretty tune by Kate Wolf shared with us by Son Volt, linked to the answer ACROSS from today’s grid. It’s called “Across the Great Divide.” Hi Kate!
We’ll finish today with a Holiday pet pic shared by Rex. It’s Donut!
Woof woof.
Pleasant dreams. See you next time!
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Esme
Let’s open with this item by Monique Morgan from today’s Met Diary in the Times.
Dear Diary:
I live near Union Square, and I walk my dog around the Con Edison loading dock in the mornings before work.
At some point, I became friendly with the manager at the plant. If I saw him, I would greet him with a hug, and we would talk for a minute or two.
When I saw him one Friday, we were both so happy that it was Friday that we just started to dance.
It became a habit. Every Friday, around 7:30 a.m., we would dance. Sometimes, he would “do” the music and sometimes I would. Sometimes it would be a short ditty, and sometimes we would get an audience. (He was a much better dancer than me.)
A few years ago, I was walking down the street, and a woman pointed at me.
“Oh my goodness,” she said. “It’s you!”
I didn’t know her from Adam, and I’m pretty good with faces. Nonetheless, I said hello.
It turned out that she lived across Third Avenue and had happened to see the Friday dance one morning.
After that, she said, every Friday around 7:30 a.m., she would wait with her cat at her window for the Friday Dance to begin.
I don’t usually make it all the way through the Modern Love column in the Sunday Times Styles section. But today it held me. It’s by Rebecca Collins Jordan. College sweethearts stayed together through grad school and into a happy marriage. They were heteros, although both were bi. [I’m hanging on to the jargon for dear life.] But then the male of the duo gender fluidified into womanhood. The writer of the story started getting buttonholed into “talks” about her situation, with the assumption that it was a disaster. But it wasn’t. Quite the converse. Here’s how it ends (she had been traveling solo):
Questions from strangers, family and friends echoed in my mind on my sleepless overnight flights. I watched a Jane Austen adaptation on the seat-back screen and wept again for the end of simplicity in my love life.
Then I walked through the door to my house and saw Kaci again. All the questions and grief of others fell off me as we embraced. She had cleaned the house and made me tea. We traded smiles and giggles and watched the weekend fade into dusk. This was love — the kind you know in your gut.
I have learned more in these last few years about the joy of love’s unpredictability than about self-shrinking or the bitterness of commitment. I have learned of love’s boundlessness and creativity. I have felt the glee of meeting an even more authentic version of the person I fell in love with. I have learned how not to aspire to be the girl next door and simply to live into myself, how to walk away from places where I am unvalued, how to be blunt, how to welcome my own joy.
This is the kind of love most of us dream of. I would like to keep it, if you don’t mind — and even if you do.
Today’s NYT XW by David Kwong, a professional magician among other pursuits, was absolutely brilliant. Even Rex Parker the curmudgeon gushed (by his standards) and called it “maybe” his favorite Sunday of the year. It’s called “Art Heist.” I’ll try to do it justice.
In ten answers the name of an artist is “stolen,” i.e., removed from the answer. And all that’s left is the letter used for the crossing answer. I know — what? Stick with me, here’s an example. At 71A, the clue was “Common scale range,” so the answer would be FROM ONE TO TEN. But “Monet” is in there – see it? FROM ONE TO TEN. So you remove (steal) Monet, and in its place leave only the letter R from the crossing word (ASHORE). That happens ten times: ten artists are “stolen.” Degas is taken out of BODEGAS. Miro is taken out of STEAM IRON. The two most brilliant are O’keeffe taken out of SMOKE EFFECTS, and Sargent out of BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA.
But that’s just the beginning. The ten artists who have been “stolen” appear as solo answers elsewhere in the grid. And (icing on the cake): the ten letters left behind from the crosses spell out (in order) “I WAS FRAMED.”
Seriously. OMG.
That, dear readers, is some goddamn serious-ass wordplay. Bravo David Kwong.
You’ll never guess who popped by for a visit today. At 50A “Role for Jay Silverheels” was, of course, TONTO. George!! — Get our guest some “firewater” — maybe a cold Fiddlehead Ale? Take a load off, Buddy — looks like you’ve been riding a long time: NJ Transit?
“Tonto” means fool in Italian and Spanish. So when the Lone Ranger was translated into Spanish they changed Tonto to Toro. The Italians just said F*ckit and let it ride.
Sh*t!! — Thanks Kwong — I’m going to be singing Silverheels to myself all day now to the tune of Silver Bells. Arrrrrrrgh! Make it stop!!
Sheesh. You’d think if anyone should be sensitive to stuff like this it would be the Director of a University’s multicultural activities. We’re talking about Rachel Dawson at, what?, UMich??!! Aw, man, say it ain’t so, Raich. So the story is Dawson was approached at a conference by two profs from other schools who had heard a Jewish student had issues at Umich. They asked her if the student should go to the DEI office for assistance. And, as comic Mike Birbiglia would put it — what Dawson should have said was . . . . nothing. Instead she said, No, Jewish students are all rich and don’t need help from the administration. Ouch. After an independent investigation was conducted, Dawson was fired. She’s suing on First Amendment grounds. UMich’s defense is, essentially, she was fired for being an idiot.
Owl Chatter is not taking sides in the matter. We’re just going to wait and see how the idiot’s case turns out.
Back to the puzzle, for the artist DALI, Kwong used MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB. See him in there? MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB. If you find the children’s version a bit tedious, as I do, this one by Stevie Ray Vaughn may be more to your liking.
Turn it up.
I’m trying out a new approach for Wordle. [BTW, my brilliant daughter scored a rare 2 yesterday: ADIEU DROOL. (Took me 5.)] Anyway, my old approach was to start almost always with OCEAN, OPERA or IDEAL, trying to ferret out the vowels. And I tried to score a 3 or at worst a 4, and was miffed with a 5 or, gasp, 6. New approach – I’m just going to use random/fun five-letter words and keep track of either getting it (in 6 or less), or not getting it. Let’s see how that goes.
Remember reading Salinger’s stories several hundred years ago? Crossworld is keeping ESME alive. She popped in again today. Here’s actress Esme Cullen. Lookin’ good, Doll. Fresca? George — a cold one for Esme, please, and see if there are any chips in that cabinet above the stove.
We went to an excellent performance of Handel’s Messiah today, resurrecting (pun intended) a tradition we had let slide in recent years. On the way out, I said to Linda — “So does he die, or what?”
The bass voice stole the show, IMO. He was Edwin Jahmal Davis, from Utica MS, a graduate of Jackson State U and the Manhattan School of Music. Bravo!
See you tomorrow!
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A Murder of Crows
I’m so bored. This was a big mistake.
My favorite clue/answer in the puzzle today was at 38D. The clue was “Leave la-la land,” and the answer was SNAP TO.
At 1D, “A little bit of everything,” was an odd clue for SESAME. But it won me over when I realized it was referring to an everything bagel. There it is! You can see the sesame on it, right?
Georgie! Here’s a ten — run out and get some cream cheese. Hurry.
Remember Linda ELLERBEE? She was “Award-winning journalist Linda” at 10D. She retired in 2015 and is 80 now, kinahora. Originally from Texas, she went to Vandy, but dropped out to start living her life as a journalist. Ever step in it, but it works out? She was writing for the Associated Press in Dallas and was fired after writing a catty personal letter on the AP’s word processor and accidentally sending it out on the wire. But it caught the attention of some folks at CBS and within months she was in NY working for them. Go figure.
She has two kids, Vanessa and Josh. Vanessa is a writer and Josh a film producer. They both look scary smart.
One of the little thrills in my life (not to imply there are big ones: I’ll be 75 next month), is posting something funny on Rex Parker’s blog and getting a nice response, like an LOL. Imagine my horror, therefore, when a small joke I shared got me dubbed “The Butcher of Maple Street.” Here’s the story.
A while ago, MOTH appeared as an answer in the puzzle and it reminded me of a joke. This guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, “Doc, you have to help me. I have an obsessive fear that I’m turning into a moth.” The doctor says, “A moth?” and the guy says “Yeah, a moth.” And the doctor says, “Well, first of all, why did you come to see me, out of all the doctors in town?” And the guy says “Your light was on.”
So I post the joke and within an hour get the following response: “Oh, man, you butchered that joke. Do yourself a favor and watch Norm Macdonald tell it.” So I did.
This poem from today’s Writer’s Almanac is by Stephen Dunn. It’s called “Seriousness.” (This is how it appears, in block form.)
Driving the Garden State Parkway to New York, I pointed out two crows
to a woman who believed crows always travel in threes. And later just
one crow eating the carcass of a squirrel. “The others are nearby,” she
said, “hidden in trees.” She was sure. Now and then she’d say “See!” and
a clear dark trinity of crows would be standing on the grass. I told her
she was wrong to under- or overestimate crows, and wondered out loud
if three crows together made any evolutionary sense. I was almost get-
ting serious now. Near Forked River, we saw five. “There’s three,” she
said, “and two others with a friend in a tree.” I looked to see if she was
smiling. She wasn’t. Or she was. “Men like you,” she said, “need it writ-
ten down, notarized, and signed.”
There does seem to be a connection between crows and three. A Scottish children’s song includes the lyric “Three cross three crows and they’re sitting on a wall.” A brewery in Sacramento produces a black lager called Three Crows, and there’s a science fiction magazine called Three Crows.
And get this: Morrígan is a Celtic goddess who can transform into a crow or raven. In some traditions, she’s considered a triple goddess, representing three aspects of the same deity: Badb, Macha, and Nemain.
Creepy enough for you? Gotta love the smoky eyes.
Clive Sutton, of the Dull Men’s Club (UK), posted this note which generated, by far, the most comments I’ve seen (173). I guess it hit a nerve.
Our teenage Granddaughter emailed us (out of the blue), with an ebay link to the present she would like for Christmas. No contact for months despite our efforts to stay in touch etc.
I have been considering reciprocating – perhaps with a link to an ebay sale of a vintage Bentley, but unsure if the subtlety of the message in that response would be missed.
Interested to know what some alternative responses from this brain trust might be?
A lot of comments were at the extremes of the options — i.e., tell her to f*ck off, or just it buy it for her — she’s your g’daughter.
Mark Evans wrote this: Electronic communication can and often does get misinterpreted. I’d buy the present but get it delivered to your address. Tell her she can pick it up whenever she wants. Then over a cup of tea (other hot beverages are available) have an honest conversation about contact.
Melanie Wright wrote: Difficult one. If she has reached out to you in any way at all, then I suppose it’s progress and you don’t want to spoil that. She’s still your granddaughter at the end of the day. I’d kinda call her out on it, but make it “half joking, full earnest” and let her know you’re delighted she got in touch.
Dian Sellers: Life is really hard these days for teenage girls. Imagine being that age in a world with the internet. We had it so lucky. Be loving and kind, she won’t be a teenager forever. She’ll work through it all and come out the other side. Buy the gift (if you can afford it).
This is my Lianna (15) with her boyfriend Diegan. I’d buy her the world if I could. Make a list, Babe.
As I mentioned earlier, Rex is an animal lover and has started posting holiday pet pix that his readers send in to him, maybe 5 or so a day. I will shamelessly steal one now and then. Here’s Edward, with Rex’s funny write-up:
“This is Edward, because if ever a dog was an “Edward,” it’s this sweet proper gruff-faced baby. He’s a CAIRN Terrier mix (a proper crossword breed). I want to scritch him and give him treats. I want him for my very own. I have dognapping tendencies (i.e. I enjoy napping with dogs).”
And this exquisite cat is named Oxy.
Let’s go out tonight with this song by Mary Gauthier called “Christmas in Paradise.” If you’re tired of the same old Xmas songs — or even if you’re not — try this one on.
Thanks for popping by. See you tomorrow!
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Let’s Get It On!
Let the record show — wait a minute, what record? Whatever — I taught my last class today, Friday December 13, 2024. The end of an error, for sure. I mean era. How fitting that my career would end on Taylor Swift’s birthday. That can’t be a coincidence.
So many fond memories. There was the law class with about 80 students at the end of which one of the coeds came up and told me my fly was down. I thanked her and suggested she tell me before class next time. There was the tax test that one of the students did poorly on and she came to my office to speak to me about it. She said she didn’t have time to prepare for it, so she just copied all the answers off of her neighbor so they weren’t really her wrong answers. I needed to let that sink in for a moment. Then I said: You are telling me you cheated on the exam and you want that to act in your favor?
But overall, no question, I loved the students — loved them all. I was very lucky to blunder my way into my career. I can’t imagine a better professional life, given my unique assortment of deficiencies.
I asked the tax class if they’d mind if our photographer Phil took a picture of them, you know, for the memories, and they said okay.
Hey Chatterheads, facebook tells me it’s our friend Sandee’s birthday today — same as Taylor! — You’re the cuter one, S — no question. Hope it’s joyous, and many more.
Today’s NYT XW had a jarring musical juxtaposition. Remember ALONE AGAIN? It’s clue was “1972 Gilbert O’Sullivan hit with a melancholy title.” Well, it was crossed by “Sexually charged title track of a hit 1973 album,” which was LET’S GET IT ON. Rex handled it thusly in his blog:
“Quite a 1-2 punch. If you’ve ever heard “ALONE AGAIN,” you can see how you might need to chase it with “LET’S GET IT ON,” just to get yourself up off the floor. In fact, it might be too jarring, that segue—hard to get excited about getting it on when you’re buried under an avalanche of grief. Seriously, “ALONE AGAIN” goes so hard at the end … you think, “wow, this guy has lost a lot,” and then in the last few lines he’s like “oh also this happened” and you really just wanna call him and see if he’s OK. That funky, sexy opening guitar lick on “LET’S GET IT ON” might be a little off-vibe following a song whose last verse literally ends with “I cried and cried all day.” I can imagine trying to play “LET’S GET IT ON” for the “ALONE AGAIN” guy and having him look at you like, “Really?” Would not put “ALONE AGAIN” on my sex playlist, if I had such a thing, which, officially, I absolutely do not.”
I remember ALONE AGAIN but I must not have paid attention to all the gloom. Here are some of the lyrics:
In a little while from now
If I’m not feeling any less sour
I promise myself to treat myself
And visit a nearby tower
And climbing to the top
Will throw myself off.[That’s how it opens. Ouch.]
It seems to me that
There are more hearts broken in the world
That can’t be mended
Left unattended
What do we do
What do we do[Here’s how it ends:]
I remember I cried when my father died
Never wishing to hide the tears
And at sixty-five years old
My mother, God rest her soul
Couldn’t understand why the only man
She had ever loved had been taken
Leaving her to start
With a heart so badly broken
Despite encouragement from me
No words were ever spoken
And when she passed away
I cried and cried all dayHere — take a listen, for old time’s sake. BTW, twenty minutes after this video was filmed, the guitarist had a seizure.
Let me tell you about a joke. It was behind a little door the puzzle opened up for me at 17A today . The clue was “Question after an untimely joke,” and the answer was TOO SOON?
It came up in an unusual movie I saw years ago, 2005, actually, called The Aristocrats. It was a documentary about a single joke that was making its rounds among comics. It’s not a particularly great joke, but it involves drawing out a scenario and it became a thing that the hallmark of a great comic was how well he or she could draw it out.
So this movie discussed the phenomenon and, most importantly, showed how various comics handled it. George Carlin, Drew Carey, many of the great comics of our day. Here’s the joke: a family (mom, dad, kids) approaches a talent agent trying to “sell” their act. The talent agent says, well what do you do? What they do is then described as the most disgusting dirty stuff you can think of. That’s the what the comic has to portray — and each one takes his or her unique approach. And after this disgusting scene is finished, the talent agent says, what do you call yourselves? And they say “The Aristocrats.” That’s the joke. Not especially great, everyone concedes. It’s all in the telling.
So the last comic they show telling the joke was the late Gilbert Gottfried. And it was just after 9/11 and the comic world didn’t know how to inch itself back in — audiences were so down. Gottfried opened with a tasteless joke about the Empire State Building and it was not well received — someone yelled the now-famous TOO SOON: the line from the puzzle.
So Gottfried decided to just blow the place all to hell with his version of “the joke.” Even after hearing it 20 times, as I did watching the movie, his version was pure disgusting comic genius, IMO. Here it is. Warning — if you don’t like dirty jokes, do not watch this.
Whew. Hard to follow that. Need help from a big star.
In honor of Taylor’s 35th birthday today, this 31-second “tribute” was posted on TikTok by the NFL, grateful for the unlikely merging of Swiftworld with pro football that her romance with TK has brought about. (Hope you can get it to play. Try clicking on that circle thingie bottom left.)
At Owl Chatter, the feeling is anything that distracts from the plight of the Jets can’t be all bad.
Happy Birthday, babe!! We’ll see you at the next Chiefs home game.
I’m gonna end with a beautiful song posted by Rex commenter Son Volt. I can’t figure out what it relates to in the puzzle, but who cares? It’s by a group I never heard of (vu den?) called Everything But The Girl, and it’s called “We Walk The Same Line.”
Good night everyone. Thanks for popping in.
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The Wellington Files 