The Wellington Files

  • Grapey Immigrants

    Happy Birthday, E. L. Doctorow! Dead since 2015, but so what? The E is for Edgar: His dad was a big Poe fan. Later in life, Doctorow asked his mom: “Do you realize that you and Dad named me after a paranoid, drug-addicted alcoholic with necrophiliac tendencies?” His aging mother replied, “Edgar, that’s not funny.”

    This poem, from today’s Writer’s Almanac, is by Barbara Crooker and is called “Monopoly 1955.”

    We start by fanning out the money, colored
    like Necco wafers: pink, yellow, mint, gold.
    From the first roll of the dice, differences widen:
    the royal blues of Boardwalk and Park Place
    look down their noses at the grapey immigrants
    from Baltic and Mediterranean Avenues.
    My grandparents coming from Italy in steerage
    measured their gold in olive oil, not bank notes
    and deeds. The man in the top hat and tuxedo
    always holds the good cards. The rest of us
    hope we can pay the Electric Company.
    We know there is no such thing as Free Parking,
    and Bank Errors are never in our favor.
    In the background, Johnny Mathis croons
    Chances Are from the cracked vinyl radio.
    We played for hours, in those years
    before television, on the Formica table,
    while my mother coaxed a chicken,
    cooking all day on the back burner, to multiply
    itself into many meals. The fat rose to the surface,
    a roiling ocean of molten gold.

    Here’s a photo of Rex Parker (not his real name) whose blog partly inspired Owl Chatter, though it’s limited in scope to the daily NYTXW and whatever doors it opens. He’s an English prof in Binghamton.

    That shirt he’s wearing is significant. In Crossworld, a Natick refers to being caught between two clues (across + down) that you simply don’t know, so there’s no way to work out a solution. Check mate. Rex came up with the term, as he explains: “A long time ago, I was solving a puzzle and got stuck at an unguessable (to me) crossing: N. C. WYETH crossing NATICK at the ‘N’—I knew WYETH but forgot his initials, and NATICK … is a suburb of Boston that I had no hope of knowing. It was clued as someplace the Boston Marathon runs through (???). Anyway, NATICK— the more obscure name in that crossing—became shorthand for an unguessable cross, esp. where the cross involves two proper nouns, neither of which is exceedingly well known. NATICK took hold as crossword slang, and the term can now be both noun (“I had a NATICK in the SW corner…”) or verb (“I got NATICKED by 50A / 34D!”)

    [FYI, Natick is ten miles west of Boston, next to Wellesley.]

    And here are Rex’s beloved cats, Ida (white) and Alfie.

    For fun, I looked him up on Rate My Professors, to see what his students are saying about him. Here are a couple:

    There was no reason to go to class because he just rambled nonsense. I learned nothing. Avoid this class at all costs.

    I would say this is the worst class I’ve taken for the English requirement. Professor rambles and has zero empathy for anyone. Additionally, a serious ego problem. He really enjoys having more knowledge than his students. Avoid class at all costs.

    Ouch! But then there was this:

    FAVORITE PROFESSOR. I loved this class. So much. Quite a bit of reading, but it all ties together so well that I did not mind at all! Professor is also HILARIOUS and the only way I was ever going to wake up at 8am would be for laughs, so that was great! He’s accessible outside of class too.

    I check my reviews from time to time. My favorite of all time was: Prof. Liveson thinks he is very smart and funny, but really he is just a fat jerk.

    The puzzle today played with the expression DRAW CONCLUSIONS. Three theme answers used “draw” in the sense of art (drawing), and “conclusion” in the sense of end word. So we had CHARACTER “SKETCH,” CONTACT “TRACE,” and GOLDEN “DOODLE.” This adorable tune by The Bats, is called “No Trace.” Let’s play hide and seek!!

    Samantha Wood wrote this Tiny Love Story today. I think she puts her finger on what us grandfolks should be shooting for.

    Every Sunday, at 2 p.m. sharp, static sizzles from the beat-up, 10-year-old flip phone my grandpa won’t give up. Updates on his life in Oklahoma, my father’s health, my sister’s wedding plans, the old woman down the road whose dog digs up his yard. His lazy vowels loop together like cursive. He never says the words. But he’s stopped calling my girlfriend of five years my “friend.” He asks how I’m doing, sends old family photos by mail so I have a piece of them with me in Massachusetts. “You’ll always have a home here,” he says. “Remember that.”

    One of our favorites dropped in on the grid today, Amy POEHLER. She’s 53 (ouch) and is dating a former deputy editor of the NYT, Joel Lovell.

    I’m crying foul on 61A. I’m supposed to know “South Korea’s second-largest city” on a Monday? Second largest? It’s BUSAN. Easy Ed took the opportunity to give us a little lesson on it:

    For those of us who served in Korea in the days of yore, the answer was PUSAN, not BUSAN. The difference is in the anglicization of a relatively soft consonant in the Korean language that falls somewhere between an English “P” or “B” depending on various regional accents and the acuity of the listener’s ear. There are similar but more stressed or aspirated consonants in this family that are more frequently represented as “P.”

    OK — thanks, Easy Ed!

    Up for another “lesson?” At 43A yesterday, the clue was “Characters from Homer and Herodotus,” and the answer was ETAS, the Greek letter that appears in both names. OK, fair enough. But Michael Kavanaugh picked the following nit:

    While the capital eta does look like the letter H, neither name would begin with an eta when written in Greek. Well maybe Herodotus, but definitely not Homer. The h sound at the start of a word in Greek is created by a rough breathing, indicated by a c-shaped accent above the starting vowel. (A backwards-c-shaped accent would mean no h sound.)

    [God, I feel so ignorant. — Thanks, Mike!]

    One word yesterday that caught some attention was URNING. Nothing to do with “yearning.” The clue was “Storing, as some ashes.” You know, like to store in an urn — urning. Not convinced? Gary commented: My stepfather is currently URNING in a cardboard box in my storage unit waiting for us to travel to Istanbul. I’m planning on URNING in a plastic bag inside a cardboard box inside a dumpster.

    At 110D yesterday, “Vet’s concern” was PTSD. It led to this exchange. Anony Mous wrote: Anyone else bothered by 110 Down? Alas, we have enough PTSD in our society. Don’t need to see it in our crossword puzzles.

    But dgd countered: About PTSD
    Not in the least bothered by it being in the puzzle
    It is a disease caused by trauma
    PTSD is part of the human condition, and has existed since human beings existed (there is strong evidence that many other animals suffer from it).
    It is not some moral failing
    It can be difficult to treat and sometimes hard to identify. That is why the more public awareness the better. PTSD in the puzzle is a positive thing.

    If you notice (mostly) men unusually happy today, slapping one another on the back, high-fiving, etc., you are witnessing the joy we Jets fans feel at the end of the season. It’s the moment at which the torturer finally relents. It ended with a convincing if meaningless win over the fish (Miami) 32-20, which luckily only cost us one spot in draft positions. Amazingly, six teams finished worse than us.

    See you next year, girls!

    And we’ll see you tomorrow, Chatterheads!

  • Jack In The Bag

    Today’s NYTXW beat me up pretty good, but I staggered out of the ring a winner. The constructor was Sam Ezersky who has bloodied me plenty in the past, so I was braced for at least a few hard blows. It was one of those solves that required me to put it down, tell my brain to keep working on it while I busied myself with something else, and go back to it later several times. But I found something neat in it that I shared with the Rexites. At 40A the clue was “Just ‘done’ with something,” and the answer was SO OVER IT. Then, the next across clue was “Development area” and the answer was UTERUS. So I posted:

    Having just come back from visiting my new grandson Harold (middle name Barney) in Michigan, I enjoyed the line in the puzzle that contained: SO OVER IT, UTERUS.

    One category of clue that made the puzzle hard for me was names of people I never heard of under my rock. E.g., “Second woman, after Kathryn Bigelow, to win a best director Oscar (2020).” Confession: throwing Kathryn Bigelow into the clue was no help. Some of you are going, How could he not have heard of CHLOE ZHOU? Well, I just didn’t is hou. At least I saw Nomadland, which was the film that won her the Oscar. Oh, here she is! Hi Clo! Georgie! — a couple of Diet Cokes for us please. Take a load off, girl. You’re lookin’ good.

    BTW, if you were wondering, Bigelow won hers for The Hurt Locker.

    Until I intuited the Z from ZHOU, I struggled with the long crossing down: “Ancient figure called the ‘huey tlatoani’ by his subjects.” WTF!! That’s a clue that looks like Zoey’s cat Emily walked over the keyboard during its creation: tlatoani? The answer was AZTEC EMPEROR.

    I liked how the answer for “Refuse to eat?” was SLOP. (See the wordplay? refuse = garbage.) Rex noted that SLOP was in the puzzle two days in a row, and asked: What kind of cafeteria is this?!

    Also learned that another term for MOB RULE is “ochlocracy.” Here’s how to use it in a sentence. The one time I tried (and failed) to teach a Hebrew Sunday School class in our temple, it turned into a study in ochlocracy.

    At 25D, “Iconic bit of media merch” was NPR TOTE BAG. It reminded me that the great Steve Post (alav hashalom) used to refer to the NPR journalist Nina Totenberg during fundraisers by saying donors would receive Nina Totenbags as thank you gifts.

    Hey, look who else popped by!! Annie, how’ve you been? It’s been months, amirite? George — make it three! You know Clo, right? Settle in. Anne came by the grid via the film She Came To Me, the 2023 rom-com, which, of all things, was used to clue the word SHE. (Annie was in the cast.) Exquisite, as always, Babe.

    Rule #1 of being a New Yorker is, of course, never establish eye contact. Why ask for trouble? So any contact with a stranger becomes a noteworthy event. As in this Met Diary story from tomorrow’s NYT by Brad Rothschild.

    Dear Diary:

    I was waiting in line to pick up a prescription at a crowded Duane Reade. An older woman who was clearly exhausted left the line to sit down in a nearby chair. When it was her turn to get her prescription, she stood up, left her belongings on the chair and went to the counter.

    While waiting for the pharmacist, she turned and looked at the man who was sitting next to where she had been.

    “You know what’s in that bag?” she asked, motioning toward her stuff.

    The man shook his head.

    “My husband Jack,” she said. “He died last week, and I have his remains in there.”

    [OC note: I’m guessing the Rx was not for Jack.]

    As I was flipping around the sports stations today, I came upon an ice hockey match. Nothing unusual there — the NYC region has three pro teams — more than you can shake a stick at — ha! But this game was between the NY Sirens and the Minny Frost of the PWHL — women’s pro ice hockey. There are six teams and this is the second season. There seemed to be a good crowd. The Sirens play in the Pru Center in Newark — now that I’m retired we’ll try to take in a game.

    As I was watching, Sarah Fillier scored a goal for us (NY). She’s the team’s leading scorer and was the first overall draft pick this season out of Princeton where she majored in Psych. She was spectacular on the ice in college and hasn’t skipped a beat transitioning to the pros. Yikes! A knockout too.

    The scene shifts to the bedroom where Sarah’s boyfriend, overcome with desire, spends 45 minutes trying to get 37 items of interlaced hockey gear off of her, and finally collapses on the floor weeping. (And you thought you had trouble with bras, guys?)

    I perused the Sirens roster. I’ll admit it, I was cruisin’ for Jewish names. (Jewsin?) And I scored! — so to speak. Abigail “Abbey” Levy, from Congers NY. Played college hockey for Boston College. Her Wikipedia page confirms that she is Jewish. It also states she’s a member of the LGBT community, not that there’s anything wrong with that. A goalie. Her dates have found it’s nearly impossible to get anything past her. Here’s a pretty sexy shot of Abbey (if you find the idea of a girl in an ice hockey uniform sexy — and who wouldn’t?).

    Did you hear about the minor league ice hockey goalie who let in twelve goals and caused his team to lose a crucial playoff game? He was so despondent that, on his way home, he threw himself in front of a bus. Luckily, it went through his legs. (Just one of those nights, eh, Marcel?)

    See you next time, Chatterheads. Thanks for popping in.

  • Who Left The Fridge Door Open?

    Two funny people died this week. Dick Capri, who was 93, was a Catskills comic. He was Italian but was so much a part of the Jewish comedy world that the Friars Club held a combination roast and bar mitzvah for him in 2004. He knew (and used in his act) more Yiddish than many of the Jewish comics.

    He said he could trace his lineage to biblical times, via DNA research. “My ancestors were at the Last Supper, but not at the head table. They were at Table Four, where one of them won the centerpiece.”

    At the Friars Club roast he was presented with a yarmulke that was sewn with green, white, and red fabric, for the Italian flag. His life-partner, Alison Kaplan, said he was buried with it.

    Lenny Randle, who died last Sunday at the age of 75 (ouch), was playing third for Seattle v. KC on May 27, 1981 (Linda’s birthday!), when Amos Otis tapped a slow roller down the third-base line. It was the type of squibbler the announcers invariably say the infielder “wisely let roll foul.” But this roller wasn’t rolling foul so fast. So, as the obit in the NYT put it, “Randle dropped to his hands and knees and blew on the ball, huffing and puffing until it veered foul. The home plate umpire, Larry McCoy, called it a foul ball.” KC skipper Jim Frey protested and the call was reversed. But it was Randle’s argument in his defense that earned him a spot of honor in Owl Chatter. He claimed he was talking to the ball, not blowing on it. “I said ‘Please go foul, go foul’ — I just used the power of suggestion,” Randle insisted.

    He had another “moment” on July 13, 1977. He was batting for the Mets with Ray Burris pitching for the Cubs. As Burris went into his windup, the power on the entire eastern coast of the U.S. suddenly went out. It was the great blackout. Randle explained he didn’t know if Burris threw the ball or not so he just swung. Then, he didn’t know if he hit the ball or not, so he just ran. He said when he pulled into second base Chicago’s Manny Trillo “was waiting for me to hug and kiss him.”

    Randle played for the Yankees briefly. They acquired him on August 3, 1979, the day after Thurman Munson died in a plane crash. His MLB career ended with Seattle in 1982, but he continued playing and then managing in the Italian Baseball League, the first major leaguer to do so. Fans nicknamed him “Cappuccino” for his “hard-hustling play, charismatic swagger and impish sense of humor.”

    Randle is survived by his wife Linda, whom he met in elementary school, three sons, three grandchildren, and six siblings. Linda said of him, “He was like the wind that can never be harnessed. He was never upset, mad or mean, and always had something positive to give to you.” He remains the only MLB player ever to talk a ball into rolling foul.

    Rest in peace, Lenny.

    This poem is from the Poem-a-Day feature of Poets.org. It’s by Michael Hettich and is called “The Angels.” It rewards repeated readings.

    As the day turned to dusk, we sensed we could feel
    the people we’d loved and lost calling
    like a breeze that suggests itself but never
    actually awakens the trees. She told me
    again about the moment she decided to let
    our first child go so she could go on
    living herself, and I remembered
    how once, as a young man, I’d walked by myself
    for a day, until I was lost and came
    to a boulder and a creek. She remembered yearning
    to comfort our baby after we’d scattered
    her ashes, and I remembered that the sun
    had been warm; the sound of the creek had filled me
    with something as different from thought or song
    as a dream. She said she still dreamed of Audrey,
    our lost child. And then I told her again
    that when dusk fell, a clutch of black birds landed.
    Even when I stood up and gestured, there
    in that unfamiliar landscape, they refused to fly away.
    I think they were hungry. But I had nowhere else to go,
    so I lay down under stars so sharp
    in that darkness they hurt my eyes, even
    when my eyes were closed. All night those black birds
    stood watching, waiting for something. Like angels,
    she said then and laughed, though I don’t think she was joking.

    Paul Maynell, of the Dull Men’s Club (UK), raises the following question:

    When I make a cup of tea do I open the fridge use the milk then put it back?Or do I take out the milk, close the door, then reopen the door to put the milk back in?

    Which will heat the fridge up more ? Open the door (creating a vortex that drags the cold air out), then close the door, make drink, then open and close door to put milk back in? OR open the door, leave the door open while putting milk into drink (allowing cold air to fall out) then close door again?

    There were 79 comments. Here are the dullest.

    Alex Paul: What would be the effect on the room temperature? Should this also be factored in? Are you partially cooling it? Or perhaps you are returning it to the norm following heating by the kettle.

    Simon Strudwick: My gut feel would be open door, extract and pour milk, replace in fridge then close door. Less wear and tear on hinges.

    Debbie Mackay: Have you ever had a fridge with broken hinges?

    Paul: I have never known anyone to wear out fridge hinges.

    Avi Liveson: I would suggest to save time we contract “fridge hinges” to “fringes,” but as fringes already exists as a word, it’s best we not do so, to avoid confusion.

    Ruth Hunt: I have walked into a partially open fridge door, which then swung shut trapping my thumb between the overhang of the worktop and top of fridge door. The nail has never grown normally since. SO: shut the damn door! 

    Andrea Barratt: It depends on how far away the cup is from the fridge. If cups are next to the fridge then leave it open. If the cups are a few steps away or in another room then close the fridge door.

    Richard Hall: All fridges are low-power heat exchangers. Leaving the door open for a while will have little effect; the items within will not appreciably warm. The device itself will not either. The air within is a poor conductor and will have little effect on the latter, regardless of whether the door is opened once or twice, or left open for a few minutes. I would suggest that correct procedure is to boil a kettle, pour and allow the tea to brew, fetch the milk and add and return directly to the fridge on the same journey as the spoon to the sink for maximum efficiency. The fridge isn’t relevant.

    Paul: But my fridge is quite empty. As my room is heated to 20°c and the fridge is 5°c, I expect the cold air to fall out of the fridge and hot air to go in at the top but I need a thermal camera to see what happens in practice.

    Avi Liveson: Yes, definitely buy a thermal camera and let us know what you learn.

    Richard Hall: I’m not a physicist but I don’t think one lot of air replaces the other. The colder air is denser and will have higher pressure. When it meets the warmer air there will be a pressure drop at the interface. However, air is a poor conductor of energy so this is not exactly a ‘whoosh’.

    Robbie Robb: It seems counter-intuitive to me to leave the fridge door open for longer than necessary. I am no physicist, and my understanding of thermodynamics is basic at best, but the fridge is surely meant to be kept closed apart from when needing to take something out or put something in. I appreciate that leaving it open for a short time might not have a significant effect, but my parents wouldn’t have approved. An open fridge door is just wrong.

    Annabelle MacKendrick: Another variable is if you get distracted between retrieving the milk from the fridge and pouring it into the tea.

    There was some wonderful stuff in today’s NYTXW. First, the clue/answer at 21D. The clue: “‘That’s rather unfortunate,’ dismissively.” The answer: SUCKS TO BE YOU. At 37A, “Words before someone finally snaps?” SAY CHEESE.

    Then, at 48D, the clue was “Simple question on a high schooler’s hand-drawn poster.” You know about this business? The answer was PROM, and it’s a reference to “prom-posals” which have become a big thing. Kids are coming up with creative ways to ask their babes to the prom.

    [God — remember when you could talk to a high school girl without risking arrest? Those greasy pimply boys have no idea they are in Eden.]

    Yesterday, “Average Joe’s name (that’s not Joe)” was a play on the word “average.” The answer was NORM.

    Ever fall in love with the cute check-out girl (or guy) at the supermarket? Ever not? Rex shared this sweet song called Norman 3, by Teenage Fanclub.

    Sam and Sarah have monitors in Morris’s and Harold’s rooms, so you can hear what’s going on up there from down in the kitchen, where I usually hang. So I could hear Sam with Morris trying to get him to nap. It was quite a negotiation. Every three-year-old is a lawyer. Sam was finally able to work out a deal with Morris that would get Morris napping after ten more minutes of some sort of playing. Eventually, I heard the door click and Sam came downstairs. I referred to the arrangement Sam and Morris hammered out as a “pre-naptial agreement.”

    See you tomorrow!

  • Palindrome

    Notice anything special about the grid in yesterday’s puzzle?

    Step a bit back from it – that’s a dreidel in the center. See it? And since the song says they are made out of clay, all of the letters within the dreidel above are C, L, A, or Y.

    Wanna play? Just go to 52D and SPIN it. What are you playing for? That’s at 59D: GELT. Hope you don’t mind if our OWLS watch you play — they are at 54D, aptly clued as “symbols of wisdom.”

    If you’re wondering how dreidel is played, each side of the dreidel bears a letter of the Hebrew alphabet: נ‎ (nun), ג‎ (gimel), ה‎ (hei), ש‎ (shin).

    Everybody starts with an equal amount of pennies (or whatever you want to use), usually ten or fifteen. Each player kicks in a penny to start and does so again later whenever the pot is reduced to one or zero pennies. The players take turns spinning and see what letter lands face up. If it’s a nun, you do nothing — it’s like you skipped your turn. If it’s a shin, you have to kick in another penny. That’s a f*cking disaster in the world of dreidel. If it’s a gimel, you win the pot!! Hooray! If it’s a hei you win half the pot. When/if you have lost all of your pennies, you’re out. The last one alive wins.

    Back to the puzzle, you can see in the upper portion of the grid that the circled squares reflect a spin: Nun is at 9D (NONE); Shin is at 5D (PUT IN); Gimel is at 3D (ALL); and Hei is at 11D (HALF).

    This gem of a puzzle, appropriately run during Chanukah, was constructed by Seth Bisen-Hirsh and Jeff Chen. Seth’s parents are very good friends of Chatterheads Nancy and Eric, and Jeff is a giant in Crossworld.

    Unable to get into any good schools, Seth had to settle for earning two undergrad degrees at MIT (computer science and music), and his masters in music technology at NYU. In addition to brilliant XW construction, he is busy as an author, performer, composer/lyricist, and producer. Needless to say, Seth is a terrible disappointment to his parents since he is not a doctor.

    In addition to the neat dreidel theme, the puzzle had other features worth noting: A neat pervasive “O” presence, with OHARE, OVINE, OH GOD, ONO, and OHO. At 33D for “What you might call a tipsy friend,” the answer was CAB. There’s a nice PSA, no?

    And Seth and Jeff invited such a nice group of visitors to their grid: ELLEN DeGeneres, Sandra DEE, Chris NOLAN, Yoko (as noted above), BEA Arthur, and the two lovelies, ALICIA KEYES, and TERI Hatcher. Here are Alicia and Teri, with the latter looking especially sexy.

    Last word on the puzzle. Re: OH GOD and PUT IN. Commenter Anony Mous noted: The lord’s name is no joke for observant Jews, who won’t even write the word God (it’s usually rendered G-d in print). I’m not suggesting the puzzle never have “god” as an answer, but in a Jewish-themed puzzle it’s tone deaf at best. Same with PUTIN, whose scapegoating of “ethnic Jews” as an intentional tool of tyranny hearkens back to a troubled history and just feels insulting in a puzzle ostensibly celebrating a Jewish festival. Couple this with the swastika debacle two years ago, where [Will] Shortz doubled down on “it’s just a pinwheel!” and it really sours me on him as both an editor and a person. Most of us manage to avoid casual antisemitism every day without nearly as much effort as the puzzle seems to require on Chanukah.

    OMG, Mous — how idiotic can you be? To ascribe what you are ascribing to Will Shortz, Seth, and Jeff is ridiculous. Sometimes a banana is just a banana, and not an anti-Semitic banana.

    This poem appeared in yesterday’s Writer’s Almanac. It’s by Ron Padgett and is called:

    A Small Glass of Orange Juice

    on a white tablecloth
    with light blue legs below
    in a hotel restaurant
    in a small town in Poland
    in 1936
    is being contemplated
    by a man
    whose homburg
    is tilted
    at an angle
    parallel to that
    of the picture
    on the wall
    behind him,
    a mountain scene
    with forest below
    in which a lone deer
    has turned to look at us.

    Oopsies.

    Heather Pimble of the Dull Men’s Club (UK) writes: While contemplating the new year I realised my birthday can be written as a palindrome this year – 52211225.

    It generated an explosion of confusion.

    Ed Sylvester: How is 52211225 a date?

    Debbie Matthews: Were you born in 1225??

    David Mortimer: Although 52211225 is certainly palindromic I’m not convinced it’s actually your date of birth. I mean I could take any number, today’s date 010125 and make it palindromic by prefixing/suffixing appropriate digits.

    52101010125 or 01012521010

    And whilst they’re the same backwards or forwards I don’t think either of them could be taken to mean the same as 010125.

    Phil Drummond: Is “11th November” a verb now?

    Heather, who started it all, finally popped back in with: Sorry I’ve stimulated so many of your minds. I was born in (19)52 on the 21st December and it’s now (20)25.

    [I think I see it now, but my brain hurts.]

    My beautiful cousin Dayle (twin of Dianne) with hubby Mike, hosted Linda, me, and Welly for brunch today. Their son Dan with his lovely bride Marina and their two gorgeous boys were visiting from Florida. As a bonus, Dianne and hubby Dick were there too. I hadn’t seen Dan since his bar mitzvah. He’s, like, a real person now and absolutely wonderful. Very funny and warm. To say he reminded me a bit of my cousin Steve, alav hashalom, is pretty much about the highest praise I could give anyone, and he did.

    I mentioned how we recently attended Harold’s bris via Zoom but that the mohel was there in person. And then I noted that doctor-friend Larry said he could see a future in which circumcisions are performed remotely, via robotics. (In fact, for my prostate surgery, the surgeon was not in the room.) I said it would open up some neat possibilities, like having a mohel in Jerusalem perform a bris in NY. Dan loved the concept, and noted it would allow for all sorts of circumnavigation.

    Last, a special shout-out to very generous hosts Pam and Roy for this year’s New Year’s Day party in Wilmington DE. And for stuffing Linda and me with many take-home eats, not a crumb from which went unenjoyed. Yum!

    Happy New Year, Chatterheads! Our photographer Phil, who’s unusually prescient for someone who drinks so much, tells us we’re in for quite a ride. See you tomorrow — thanks for popping by.

  • Buttercups

    Here’s a New Year’s Eve poem for us, from today’s Writer’s Almanac. It’s by Jack Ridl and is called “The End of This Year.”

    The best place to be is here,
    at home, the two of us, while

    others ski or eat out. It will be
    quiet. We won’t watch the ball

    fall, the crowd in Times Square.
    They will celebrate while here

    there is this night. Tomorrow
    some will start over, or vow

    to stop something; maybe try
    again. Here the snow will

    fall through the light over
    the back door and gather

    on the steps. We will hope
    our daughter will be safe.

    She will wonder what
    the year will bring. Maybe

    we will say a prayer.

    Today’s puzzle included the American composer John Adams. The clue was “‘Nixon in ___’ (John Adams opera).” Wow — I’m very familiar with it, so I filled in CHINA right away. It was my go-to music thirty years ago when I painted a bunch of rooms in my house.

    I heard John Adams on NPR once tell a story that stayed with me. When he was in his teens, he was a member of a community band that was terrible. You could barely discern what tune they were trying to bang out. But one day they were set to perform in a local mental institution as a goodwill gesture. As the band was setting up, the patients were brought in and they were in various states of disarray — drooling, staring into space, mumbling to themselves, and so on. And then the band began to play and it was as if their lights were turned on. They all turned to watch and listen in wonder. They slowly shuffled their way towards the band and encircled them, enraptured for the entire performance. Adams said he never saw anything like it and it was then that he decided to pursue a life in music. If it could reach such lost souls so deeply, he wanted to be part of it.

    Here’s how commenter Gary described his experience with Saturday’s puzzle:

    This puzzle pushed me to the ground, kicked sand in my face, pointed and laughed at me, and then took my girlfriend to dinner.

    In yesterday’s puzzle, Rex and others (not me) were caught short at 18A. The clue was “Flower that reflects yellow when held under one’s chin.” The answer, of course, was BUTTERCUP.

    One that did catch me was “‘All you need is love and a ___’ (old saying).” The answer was CAT. (Had no idea.)

    Here’s Rex on them:

    There were a couple of clues that just meant absolutely nothing to me. Why are you holding a BUTTERCUP (or any flower) under your chin? Like, why that location, specifically? Huge shrug there. Also, even huger shrug on the alleged expression, “All you need is love and a CAT.” Uh, what? Who said that, when? It’s an “old saying?” I’m old. And I have cats. Why haven’t I heard it? Look, here’s one of my cats now:

    As many of you know, if you hold a buttercup under your chin and it reflects yellow onto said chin, you like butter.

    Scientists have taken up the question (the reflection part, not the fondness for butter). Researchers discovered that the buttercup petal’s unique bright and glossy appearance is the result of the interplay between its different layers. In particular, the strong yellow reflection responsible for the chin illumination is mainly due to the epidermal layer of the petal that reflects yellow light with an intensity that is comparable to glass. They say it has nothing to do with whether the holder likes butter. (Bah — you’re no fun!)

    Here’s commenter Gary again:

    The clue for BUTTERCUP is weird. Who’s holding flowers under their chin? So I asked my wife and sure enough she brightened right up with a happy memory from her childhood. What other secrets is she keeping?

    I learned a completely new meaning of SHIP from yesterday’s XW. Brace yourselves. The clue was “Wish for a romantic pairing between, in modern parlance.” Crazy, no? It all started back with the X-files TV show with the very attractive couple Mulder and Scully. Fans who were hoping they would hook up started being known (in the show’s fandom) as “relationshippers,” which was shortened to shippers. So the word “ship” has entered the language as stated in the clue. I’m not entirely certain how it’s used. I think you could ask: “Back in the early seasons of Friends, did you ship Ross and Rachel?”

    Hey! Don’t look at me in that tone of voice!!

    Those of you who don’t rely entirely on Owl Chatter for your news are likely to be aware of the infighting that’s broken out in Trumpworld. It’s over H-1B visas which allow companies to hire foreign workers for skilled positions. On one side are the Musk-ovites who favor the visas because their tech companies need the foreign engineers. That other dirtbag who’s working with Musk on killing Medicare and Social Security — Vivien Rimsky-Korsakov — agrees. Here’s Musk’s calm, reasoned position on the matter:  “The reason I’m in America along with so many critical people who built SpaceX, Tesla and hundreds of other companies that made America strong is because of H-1B. Take a big step back and F*CK YOURSELF in the face. I will go to war on this issue the likes of which you cannot possibly comprehend.” (Musk’s Tesla was among the leading employers of those holding H-1B visas in 2024.)

    But the right-wing MAGA-lomaniacs have never met an immigrant they didn’t want deported, so they are calling for elimination of the visa. Steve Bannon is in this wing, so it’s a movie like King Kong vs Godzilla. Here’s Bannon on it: “You can’t stop us, we’re relentless…. We’re never going to quit…. We’re a thousand times tougher than you guys are…. Keep coming after American citizens like you’re coming and you’re going to find out exactly how tough we are. We’re not going to tolerate this. Your trashing of the MAGA movement…. How dare you…. I don’t care how big a check you wrote.”

    Later, Bannon doubled down: “We’re gonna get H-1B visas out, root and stem, and all the workers you brought in. Just like we’re deporting 15 million here, we want them deported, out…. And give those jobs to American citizens today…we demand they get reparations. You stole from them.”

    What makes it all so delicious (and qualifies it as Owl Chatter fodder) is how Trump weighs in on it. In 2016 he said the H-1B program shouldn’t exist. And on June 22, 2020, he issued an executive order suspending H-1B visas because he said they were taking jobs from Americans.

    He apparently has swung over to the Musk-ovites, but perhaps he’s a little confused?  “I’ve always liked the visas, I have always been in favor of the visas. That’s why we have them. I have many H-1B visas on my properties. I’ve been a believer in H-1B. I have used it many times. It’s a great program.”

    However, as historian Heather Cox Richardson notes: Trump appeared to be confusing H-1B visas with H-2A and H-2B visas, which cover temporary agricultural workers and seasonal workers in tourism, hospitality, and landscaping.

    D’oh!

    The larger question: Will Trump really go through with his deportation program once he learns farmworkers like this will be booted?

    As the harpists say: Stay tuned! (Harpists, as the joke goes, spend half their lives tuning their harps, and the other half playing them out of tune.)

    Happy New Year Chatterheads!! The owls, George, Philly, Ana, and I wish you nothing but utter nonsense in the coming year — SRSLY. See you next time!

  • Huron Road

    Driving back from Annie Arbor to Bloomfield Hills Saturday night, here’s the conversation I overheard between George (who was driving), and Philly (who was navigating).

    George: What’s the next road I should be on?

    Phil: Huron Road

    George: Right. I’m on this road, and I need to know what’s the next road?

    Phil: Huron Road

    G: I’m on this road now — is that what you’re asking me? What road I’m on?

    P: What?

    G: Are you asking what road I’m on now?

    P: No, why would I do that?

    G: I don’t know. Then what did you mean?

    P: When?

    G: Just now, arrrrrgh — I need to know what road to go on next.

    P: Huron Road.

    G: Right — I’m on a road now, but what is the next road?

    P: Huron Road.

    G: I know that!! Okay, look. You see this road I’m on now?

    P: Yes.

    G: Good. Now when I turn off of this road, I’m on another road, right?

    P: Right.

    G: Good, and what is that next road?

    P: Huron Road.

    G: No! I know I’m on this road — I need to know the next road!!

    P: What?

    G: I just told you what — I need to know where to turn.

    P: Huron Road.

    G: Argggghhhh. Help!!

    We were driving back from the Crossroads Ceili at The Ark in Ann Arbor. Ceili is pronounced Kay-lee, and I think it means a party with music, dancing, and storytelling. It’s an annual event that’s been going on for over 20 years at The Ark, put together by local Irish musicians. It was wonderful. I learned the difference, to the Irish, between songs and tunes. Songs have words and are sung. Tunes are played on instruments: no words.

    Hannah Harris was one of the half dozen fiddlers that were on hand. She also has a beautiful voice.

    How’s this as a clue for ALBERTA: “Canadian province that’s home to the Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump World Heritage Site.” What?

    Well, you learn some odd stuff from puzzles. Here’s the scoop, courtesy of Wikipedia:

    The buffalo jump was used for 5,500 years by the indigenous peoples of the plains to kill bison by driving them off the 36 foot high cliff. The Blackfoot drove the bison from a grazing area to the “drive lanes,” lined by hundreds of cairns, by dressing up as coyotes and wolves. These specialized “buffalo runners” were young men trained in animal behavior to guide the bison into the drive lanes. Then, at full gallop, the bison would fall from the weight of the herd pressing behind them, breaking their legs and rendering them immobile. The site was in use at least 6,000 years ago, and the bone deposits are 39 feet deep. After falling off the cliff, the injured bison were finished off by other Blackfoot warriors at the cliff base armed with spears and clubs. The carcasses were then processed at a nearby camp. The bison carcass was used for a variety of purposes, from tools made from the bone, to the hide used to make dwellings and clothing. The importance of the site goes beyond just providing food and supplies. After a successful hunt, the wealth of food allowed the people to enjoy leisure time and pursue artistic and spiritual interests. This increased the cultural complexity of the society.

    Headline in The Onion: Grandma Who Survived Great Depression Casually Drops That She Once Killed Man For Mayonnaise

    The puzzle last Saturday taught us that BANGS, you know, the hairstyle, is called a fringe in England. Fair enough. They are most often cut straight across, but that’s not a requirement. As long as they cover the forehead, they are bangs. This is a young Jane Birkin, a French actress whose style of bangs became known as Birkin Bangs. She passed away recently at the age of 76.

    But never mind all that. Have you heard the expression, “bang on the ear?” It’s Celtic and it means an affectionate kiss or pat on the ear or cheek. This is a beautiful song by The Waterboys that makes good use of it. In lieu of a poem today, here are some of the lyrics.

    Deborah broke my heart and I the willing fool
    I fell for her one summer on the road to Liverpool
    I thought it was forever but it was over in a year
    But I give her my love with a bang on the ear

    The home I made with Bella became a house of pain
    We weathered it together bound by a ball and chain
    Is started up in Fife, and ended up in tears
    But I send her my love with a bang on the ear

    Krista was a rover, from Canada she hailed
    We crossed swords in San Francisco; we both lived to tell the tale
    I don’t know now where she is oh but if I had her here
    I’d give her my love with a bang on the ear

    So my woman of the hearthfire, harbour of my soul
    I watch you lightly sleeping and sense the dream that does unfold (like gold)
    You to me are treasure, you to me are dear
    So I’ll give you my love with a bang on the ear

    It’s good to be back. Tired, though, from the long drive. See you tomorrow.

  • Sneak Box

    Do you know what a sneak box is? Me neither and it was the name of my ale the other night. Kane’s Sneak Box American Pale Ale, brewed in Ocean NJ.

    It’s a type of boat that’s versatile. Can be rowed, paddled, or poled.

    The puzzle defeated me today. I may be weak since I’m on the road. Couldn’t get AMID for “In.” Couldn’t see “Distinctive mark” was STAMP. Arggggh. Off my game.

    Glad to see this part of MI (Bloomfield Hills) is strong on bagels and corned beef. Jews can live here.

    Dinner at Boneheads BBQ tomw and Celtic music at The Ark in Ann Arbor. Can’t wait!

  • Indian Ponies

    On Sunday, DJT stated that he’d like to see Greenland owned by the U.S. by the end of his term. Here’s the quote: “For purposes of National Security and Freedom throughout the World, the United States of America feels that the ownership and control of Greenland is an absolute necessity.” Sources close to Trump say he’s 100% serious. Absolute necessity!

    Greenland’s population is around 55,000. It’s the largest island in the world, even larger than Coney Island and Gilligan’s Island. It’s part of the North American continent but is also part of the Kingdom of Denmark, albeit as an autonomous territory. Its citizens are citizens of Denmark as well as European Union citizens. Its capital and largest city is Nuuk. (I know this sounds more like a baby product, but just write it down if it comes up in a puzzle.)

    Greenland is defended militarily by Denmark. It (Denmark) recently announced it has adopted a major defense package. For Greenland’s defense the package includes two elite sled dog teams. So it may not be as easy to overtake it as Trump thinks.

    It’s beautiful out there. I’m looking forward to when we get it.

    These are great pancakes, easy to make. First make some oatmeal. But don’t eat it. You’re not having oatmeal, you’re having pancakes — that’s the whole point.

    Okay, next, in one bowl mix 1/2 cup flour, 1 tsp baking powder, and 1/2 tsp salt.

    In another bowl mix one egg, two tbl butter or oil, 3/4 cup milk, and 1.5 cup of that oatmeal you already made.

    That’s it! Combine the two bowls and make the cakes on your griddle. I like to mix in blueberries which I keep in the freezer, and/or a sliced banana on top. Cinnamon optional, mon.

    This young woman is approaching them cautiously. C’mon, dig in babe. We don’t have all day.

    I am posting this nonsense early today, for we are heading west soon, for our overnight stop in Clarion PA on the way to Michigan.

    This poem will start our day. It’s by James Wright and was in today’s Writer’s Almanac. It’s called “A Blessing.”

    Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
    Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
    And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
    Darken with kindness.
    They have come gladly out of the willows
    To welcome my friend and me.
    We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
    Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
    They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
    That we have come.
    They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
    There is no loneliness like theirs.
    At home once more,
    They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
    I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
    For she has walked over to me
    And nuzzled my left hand.
    She is black and white,
    Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
    And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
    That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
    Suddenly I realize
    That if I stepped out of my body I would break
    Into blossom.

  • 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.

  • 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!