The Wellington Files

  • The Holy Birds at the Kitchen Window

    It was one of the great ironies in my little world that the host of WNYC’s Morning Show was Steve Post, alav hashalom. He was the quintessential “not a morning person.” If you made the mistake of wishing him “good morning,” he would bite your head off. “The world is falling part. We had Nixon in it. I had to get out of bed at 5 am to get here. What the hell is good about it!!??” A woman who was a guest on the show once automatically said “Good morning,” realized her mistake immediately, and quickly said: “Oh, no! I’m sorry.” Post chuckled.

    He was so closely associated with crabbiness that he ran a “crabbiest New Yorker” contest from time to time. Listeners would send in stories nominating crabby people they knew and a winner was selected. Of course, we all knew it was a contest for second place, because he was clearly the crabbiest.

    He was acerbically funny. After playing something by Mozart once, he said: “As you know, Mozart was very precocious. He composed that piece as he was being born.” He had to be off the air for a long stretch to fight the stomach cancer that later killed him, and before he came back the promos he ran for his return said “This is Steve Post. Forgotten but not gone.”

    Anyway. All of that is just to explain why I am dedicating this paean to morning joy to him. It’s by Anne Sexton and it’s called “Welcome Morning.” It’s from yesterday’s Writer’s Almanac. (Just kidding, Post. We miss you! Go back to sleep.)

    There is joy
    in all:
    in the hair I brush each morning,
    in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
    that I rub my body with each morning,
    in the chapel of eggs I cook
    each morning,
    in the outcry from the kettle
    that heats my coffee
    each morning,
    in the spoon and the chair
    that cry “hello there, Anne”
    each morning,
    in the godhead of the table
    that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
    each morning.

    All this is God,
    right here in my pea-green house
    each morning
    and I mean,
    though often forget,
    to give thanks,
    to faint down by the kitchen table
    in a prayer of rejoicing
    as the holy birds at the kitchen window
    peck into their marriage of seeds.

    So while I think of it,
    let me paint a thank-you on my palm
    for this God, this laughter of the morning,
    lest it go unspoken.

    The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,
    dies young.

    We’ve gotten some shots back from Phil who’s over in England following Taylor around. Travis, Prince William, and his kids George and Charlotte, popped in on them. Nice shot Philly! Happy Birthday Bill — 42!

    The puzzle yesterday worked me over like a rented mule. I could get nothing going for the longest time, and when I finally inched my way through it, I failed at 37D: “Celebrity gossip site.” Answer EONLINE. Just couldn’t see it and the crosses didn’t help enough. Oh, well.

    But we had some pleasant ballet exercises along the way. 36D: “Ballet exercises done at a barre.” FRAPPES.

    At 51A, “Temporary water provider,” had me thinking of aqueducts and rain dances and who-knows-what. Turned out to be PLANT SITTER.

    All in all, 20A was summing up the experience: “Worsening situation from which there is no escape.” DEATH SPIRAL

    There was a nice pair at 10A and 18A. One was “Locale named in the Beach Boys’ ‘Kokomo’” (ARUBA), and the other was Emmy winner Uzo (ADUBA).

    3D was “Bung, e.g.” No idea. Turns out it’s a STOPPER like in a sink. Some words, your whole life, they just never come up.

    Rex rated it Medium and, for a change, loved it. Here he is:

    A textbook Saturday, by which I mean something close to a perfect Saturday. Felt very hard, and yet after the typical early flailing, once I got a toehold, I kept making steady progress and never got what you’d call Stuck-stuck. Even places that initially felt intractable eventually opened up once I was able to give them a proper shove, coming at them from a different angle.

    He loved DEATH SPIRAL and PLANT SITTER. And his riff on ARUBA is Rex at his best. To wit,

    From the gods of cheesy late-80s pop music came a golden life preserver, thrown just for me, a cheesy late-80s pop connoisseur. I cannot believe that, after 35 years, having the lyrics to “Kokomo” permanently embedded in my head finally paid off. But if you know the song then ARUBA is probably the very first thing that popped into your head at 10A: Locale named in the Beach Boys’ “Kokomo.” I would sing the chorus for you, but it has the phrase “come on, pretty mama” in it, and so I just can’t. Too unbecoming. Oh, what the hell. ARUBA, Jamaica, oooh I’m gonna take ya / Bermuda, Bahama, [whispers] comeonprettymama / Key Largo, Montego, baby why don’t we go etc.” My wife and I (and maybe our friend Lena) once made up a version of this chorus, but with central New York cities instead of tropical islands. “Elmira, Owego, don’t forget Oswego / Deposit, and Conklin, come on Oneonta” etc. Try it with the towns in your area! Anyway, how do you not love a corner that’s giving you ARUBA ADUBA (18A: Emmy winner Uzo). Shooby dooby doo.

    Now, turn it up, readers!

    Have you noticed avocado prices inching up? We don’t make guacamole, but avocados are an important part of our salads. We buy six at a time from Costco. They come rock hard and we wait several days till they are ripe and ready for use. I saw a cartoon once in which a fellow had a time machine and used it to go three or four days into the future to bring a ripe avocado back to the present.

    Anyway, a story in today’s NYT explains that the U.S. suspended its inspections of avocados (and mangos, but who cares?) because two U.S. inspectors were assaulted and detained while performing their duties. (They were later released.) Without the inspections, avocados cannot cross over the border. Mexico provides roughly 90% of the avocados we use, so it’s no surprise the halt has caused prices to soar. The two countries are trying to work things out. But criminal cartels are moving into the avocado business, so there are problems.

    Avocados are essential in many medical procedures. The first woman, below, needs avocados to see. The second, whose lips are already turning blue, needs them to hear. And I can’t even imagine what will happen to the poor third woman if her supply is cut off. But do these ruthless cartels even care? Seriously.

    Derek Jeter’s 100-year-old castle fifty miles north of NYC finally sold after years on the market but for only around $6 million, less than half the $14.25 million original asking price. It has five kitchens (one outdoor), a lagoon, an infinity pool shaped like a baseball diamond, a game room, and turrets. It has six bedrooms and 13 bathrooms.

    Jeter was raised in Kalamazoo, MI, and planned to go to UMich had the pros not beckoned. But I only just now learned that he was born in Pequannock Township, NJ. His grandfather, William “Sonny” Connors, was the adopted son of John and Julia Tiedemann, who previously owned the castle/home, and Derek spent summers there as a kid. So it held sentimental as well as monetary value for him.

    With his baseball playing days behind him, Jeter married model Hannah Davis (Victoria’s Secret, SI Swimsuit edition, etc.) and they have four kids: three girls, pictured below, and a boy born in May of 2023, who was already offered a $15 million signing bonus by the Dodgers. (No he wasn’t.) That’s him sleeping below, no doubt dreaming of the perfect double-play ball. Awwwwwww.

    Rob Taylor of the DMC (UK) says:  “Brad Pitt is seen eating in every film he’s done as he sometimes doesn’t get the chance to eat in between takes. So they write it into a scene.”

    According to a story in Movieweb, it’s true that Pitt eats a lot in movies. In Troy, his character is seen devouring a giant turkey leg. In Mr. and Mrs. Smith, he consumes a pot roast, an olive stick, pancakes, and a Martini. In The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, he has beef stew; in Fury, some ham and eggs; and in Inglourious Basterds, a baguette. But it’s not because he’s hungry.

    Because actors don’t actually eat the food during their takes, there is a specific methodology known as “eat acting.” Some eating scenes may require multiple takes, and for this reason, eating acting is required. It entails the performers biting the food, chewing, and spitting out while the camera is away or a take is wrapped. Interestingly, this is a craft Pitt has perfected. In a story in WAPO, he was called the Laurence Olivier of eating.

    When Pitt is “eating” in a scene, it keeps the audience focused on him and makes him more relatable. Here are 23 seconds of Brad Pitt eating.

    Hold on a sec. I’m going to go grab a sandwich.

    There were some unusual words in the puzzle today. I learned them but they seem useless — perfect!! One was PAWL. It’s a “Mechanical catch,” i.e., a part of one machine that latches on to, or “catches,” part of something else. Another was GREAVES — armor that protects your shins. A post by Anony Mouse said:

    I’ve always liked the moment in Gilbert and Sullivan’s “Princess Ida” where Arac can’t remember what shin armor is called:

    These things I treat the same
    I quite forget their name
    They turn one’s legs
    To cribbage pegs
    Their aid I thus disclaim

    …apparently because Gilbert couldn’t think of a good rhyme for “greaves.”

    There was also AMBIVERTS. The clue was “They’re comfortable alone or in a crowd.” It’s someone who combines the traits of both introverts and extroverts.

    Ted Lasso fans should be pleased to see Jamie TARTT visit the grid, clued as himself (“Ted Lasso footballer Jamie”). George! Get our guest a Diet Sprite! Cheers, Tartt!

    See you tomorrow! Thanks for popping by.

  • Doe, a Mouse

    I was aware of the term mansplaining before it appeared in the puzzle today. It’s defined as: the explanation of something by a man, typically to a woman, in a manner regarded as condescending or patronizing. It has branched out from men/women to cover a condescending explanation in general.

    The term was coined in response to a 2008 essay by Rebecca Solnit (“Men Explain Things To Me”). Here’s the origin story, in her words: The word mansplaining was coined by an anonymous person in response to my 2008 essay and has had a lively time of it ever since. It was a NYT word of the year in 2010, and entered the OED in 2018. People often recount the opening incident in which a man explained a book to me, too busy holding forth to notice that I was its author, as my friend was trying to tell him.

    Here’s the essayist, Ms. Solnit. No doubt Phil was mansplaining something to her, which is why she is covering her ears.

    At 8D, we had a grid-spanning (15-letter) answer for the clue “Serious situation developing!” The answer was THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

    At 54A the clue was “Rare shots” for HOLES IN ONE.

    Which led commenter egs to note: I asks Mrs. Egs to grab me something from my shop to put two HOLESINONE of her cupboards for cup hooks. She brings me a hammer, so I MANSPLAINS that THISISNOTADRILL.

    At 51A the very good clue “Sign of sluggishness?” was for the answer SLIME TRAIL. Get it? If you’ve ever seen a slug make its way across your tent floor, e.g., you’ll see that it leaves a trail of slime.

    Commener kitshef shared: I once dressed up as a slug for Hallowe’en. Trailing out the back was forty feet of plastic wrap to give the appearance of a SLIME TRAIL.

    “Roughly half of mice” are DOES. Did you know a female mouse is a doe? A male mouse is a buck, and a baby is a kitten or pinkie.

    Sarah Day posted this photo in the Dull Men’s Club (UK) with the note: “Who’s with me?”

    Liz Colclough commented: I hate pants and love cheese. It’s like they know me…

    Ross Landale: You gouda be kidding.

    Paul Ver: Only way.

    Jessica Allyn: It’s a thief deterrent key ring. No one will want to steal your keys and risk breaking in to find you there eating cheese with no pants on.

    Several comments understood the reference to mean it is the cheese that is not wearing pants. Sarah then posted this picture of cheese wearing pants.

    I learned via the comments that “pants” means different things in the US and Britain. What we think of as pants in the US, like a pair of jeans, is called trousers over there. And pants, in Britain, refers to underpants, panties, etc.

    Yet another example of crucial information which has eluded you all these years (maybe?), clarified and mansplained by Owl Chatter.

    This poem by Louise Erdrich is called “Walking in the Breakdown Lane.” It appeared in today’s Writer’s Almanac.

    Wind has stripped
    the young plum trees
    to a thin howl.
    They are planted in squares
    to keep the loose dirt from wandering.
    Everything around me is crying to be gone.
    The fields, the crops humming to be cut and done with.

    Walking in the breakdown lane, margin of gravel,
    between the cut swaths and the road to Fargo,
    I want to stop, to lie down
    in standing wheat or standing water.

    Behind me thunder mounts as trucks of cattle
    roar over, faces pressed to slats for air.
    They go on, they go on without me.
    They pound, pound and bawl,
    until the road closes over them farther on.

    This photo of Justin Timberlake appeared on AOL’s newsfeed in connection with the celebrity’s recent DWI arrest. (Burp!) Owl Chatter: Wow — now we know whom to cast for Volodymyr Zelensky when it’s time.

    (BTW, VZ — George says he shipped out those 500 rocket launchers you asked for a couple of days ago to your Kyiv address. Make sure the doorman knows to look for them.)

    Here’s JT’s wife of ten years, Jessica Biel. We discussed bed head a while back. This is another good example.

    They have two sons, Silas and Phineas.

    Nick Scotty of the DMC (UK) posted: I’ve decided on trying a few new hobbies and chosen both transcendental meditation and wood turning. Does anyone have any experience on either?

    Tim Robinson: No.

    Adrian Blount: Try not to combine them would be my advice.

    Robert Sinclair: Once asked a bloke if he had any recommendations regarding transcendental meditation. He said he’d think about it and get back to himself.

    Wait, what?

    And we’ll leave you with that. See you tomorrow.

  • More on Willie

    Say Hey! Willie got that nickname when he was new to the big leagues. He didn’t know people’s names yet, so he’d go up to someone and say “Say hey.” We’ll devote some more space today to this remarkable man and ballplayer starting with this from Frank Bruni’s “For the love of sentences” feature in his newsletter this week:

    In a Substack post, Joe Posnanski described Willie Mays’s relationship with his own acclaim and fame: “Even Mays himself couldn’t quite understand it. ‘All I did was play baseball,’ he would say when approached by another fan with tears in his eyes. On one level, this was true. All he did was play baseball. All Robert Frost did was write poetry. All Grace Kelly did was play in movies. All Albert Einstein did was think about the universe.”

    Willie was Willie, Jr. His dad, Willie, Sr., was named after Pres. William Taft who was considered sympathetic to Blacks. They both also shared Taft’s middle name Howard. Willie Sr. was a steelworker and Pullman porter, but our concern centers more on his graceful play in semipro baseball which earned him the nickname Cat. Willie’s mom Annie Satterwhite was athletic too: high school track and basketball. So he had the genes. But his parents were unmarried teenagers and his mom left him in the care of his dad and her two sisters and went off, married, and had ten more children. Willie stayed in touch with her into his major league ballplaying days.

    Some of Willie’s stats are common knowledge for baseball fans, e.g., the 660 homers and the string of 24 All-Star games. He was NL MVP twice, eleven years apart: 1954 and 1965. But I only learned from his obit in the NYT that his 7,112 putouts (catches) as an outfielder ranks #1 in MLB history. And he had another 657 playing first base. His iconic “basket” catches were not for show — by catching the ball near his hip, he was in a better position to make the ensuing throw. And btw, if you delete the steroid users, his 660 lifetime homers place him fourth behind Aaron (755), Ruth (714), and Pujols (703). Consider as well that he missed the entire 1953 season and most of 1952 because he was in the army. The serious rankings compiled by players, writers, historians, etc., place Willie second only to Babe Ruth, as the greatest player of all-time.

    [I have to correct myself on one point. Yesterday I stated that Willie’s throw after “The Catch” just missed nailing a runner, but in fact, it was a throw to second base that prevented the runner from first from advancing to second.]

    Willie is survived by his only child, his adopted son Michael. Michael has been exceedingly private and almost nothing is known about him, such as family or profession. He is a good-looking gentleman, though, we’ll give him that much. And he often appeared at events honoring Willie.

    The NYT obit was written by Richard Goldstein. Here’s how it ends:

    Mays evoked the image of a “natural,” a superb athlete who needed to do little to hone his skills. But that was not the case. “I studied the pitchers,” Mays said. “I knew what every single pitcher’s best pitch was. You wonder why? Because in a tight spot, with the game on the line, what’s the pitcher going to throw? His best pitch. Curve, slider, fastball, whatever. His best pitch. Because I’d studied and memorized that, I’d be ready.”

    When he was selected for the Hall of Fame, Mays was asked to name the best ballplayer he had ever seen. “I think I was the best ballplayer I’ve ever seen,” he replied. “I feel nobody in the world could do what I could do on a baseball field.”

    Rest in peace, Willie.

    The puzzle killed me today. I died at 7D: “Process of cell division.” Had to be mitosis, no? It fit. And I confirmed the OSIS. But it’s MEIOSIS. What!! Gimme a break. And one of the crosses was “Lead-in to normative,” which I couldn’t figure out was HETERO. And next to MEIOSIS was “Inspiration for an essay writer,” which I had no idea was PROMPT. It turns out when a teacher assigns an essay and suggests some topics, they are called prompts. Who knew?

    It was a very clever and intelligent puzzle with clues/answers like: “Kind of electrons on the outermost shell of an atom.” Ans: VALENCE. And how about: “Dancer’s haul?” Answer: SLEIGH. (Think reindeer.)

    Even Rex rated it “Challenging.” Get this — the constructor was Ella Dershowitz, an actress, and lawyer Alan’s daughter. Thankfully, she’s prettier than him. (BTW, my brother went to college (Columbia) with AD.)

    Maybe you got your head caught in a ditch last night. That’s the opening line in this song by Ivy Tripp. Rex shared it because of the clue “Certain Ivy leaguer,” with the answer ELI, of course. Rex hates what he sees as a pro-Yale bias in the Times puzzles. I forget why. (Turn it up — it’s a rocker.)

    From the Dull Men’s Club (UK), which is by no means limited to men, this post is by Naomi Ross, who wrote: Saw this in Asda today. Wondered if anyone has tried it!

    OMG. Too funny. She’s covering up an O. It’s Chili sauce from Ghana.

    That’ll do for a close. See you tomorrow! Thanks for popping in.

  • Goodbye Willie

    Simon Mott of the Dull Men’s Club (UK) writes: I have a Spiced Dhal soup container on which I have written ‘COCOA’, but which actually contains crispy fried onions. He described himself as Male, 54, living life on the edge.

    Here are some comments:

    Dave Blackburn: Never let them know your next move.

    Patrick Towers: Had me fooled.

    Lou Helms: Why?

    Livia Lange: You living on a boat?

    Suz Kravitz: Rebel.

    Vuyo Hlubi: This is how trust issues develop.

    Victoria Ferrer: My mum had a Yorkshire tea tin labelled “fancy biscuits” which contained cutlery.

    And my favorite from Martin Smith: I usually don’t bother writing on them what they are, with predictable consequences. Though I do put blue food colouring in the herbicide that I carry around in a tomato sauce container.

    [Has this club won you over yet? I can’t get enough of it.]

    George Will has a book about baseball called Men at Work. He features several individual players and goes into them in depth. One was Willie Mays. I read it a long time ago but I remember this story about Mays. If he was facing a young pitcher for the first time late in a game that was pretty much over (so the at-bat didn’t matter very much) he would “on purpose” let the pitcher strike him out. And he’d remember the strike-out pitch. Inevitably, years later he’d face the pitcher again in a crucial situation. And he knew the pitcher would remember the pitch he once used to strike out the great Willie Mays. And he’d use it again. Bye bye.

    When he came back to NY he lived for years in a big white building in Riverdale in the Bronx. The Whitehall. It was just a block or two from where my brother lived. It’s hard to explain, but knowing that was a small point of warmth in my heart.

    I have a few items signed by Willie in my collection. He lived a long time so his autograph is not particularly rare. It may be worth in the low hundreds. But, of course, the emotional value is what we collect for. To have a piece of living history, in a way. Here’s the best one I have.

    About his famous catch off of Vic Wertz in the 1954 WS (“The Catch”), he said he had ten catches he thought were better than that. Many people forget the throw that followed the catch. It almost nailed the runner who should have scored easily. When the umpire made the call, he very unusually exclaimed “just safe.”

    Rest in peace, 24. Rest in peace, Willie.

    Rex began his writeup today with “About as boring a puzzle as I’ve ever done.” He later noted: “It’s not that this puzzle is badly made. It’s not. But like dry toast, it really needs butter, or peanut butter, or (as I prefer) butter and then peanut butter (Me to my wife the first time I saw her do this: ‘Geez, how much fat do you need?’ Boy did I eat (and re-eat) those words).”

    It was the opening I needed to share this little personal story with the gang:

    I couldn’t eat peanut butter or strawberries when I was growing up, because of my older brother, Jay. I was like a child in Appalachia who has never seen an orange. My mother couldn’t bring peanut butter into the house because Jay loved it too much. He would binge it all up and get sick. He was powerless to resist, even though he had no other addictive tendencies.

    Strawberries were another matter. My brother left home for college but had an apartment in NYC while my mom and I lived in Brooklyn. And whenever I found strawberries in the fridge and went to take some, my mother would say — “Don’t touch the strawberries. Jay will be home soon and they’re his favorite.” OK. So I never had strawberries either. Peanut butter
    and strawberries.

    Years later, with both of us much older and mom gone, my brother was visiting me and it occurred to me that I happened to have some strawberries. So I said to him, Hey – we have some strawberries — your favorite!. And he said, I don’t know why mom thought they were my favorite. One time I ate one and said it was good, but they were never particularly special to me.

    And I said, What!! My whole childhood I couldn’t have strawberries because of you!!

    My mother was crazy, for sure, but in such a good way.

    At 63A today the clue was “Big name in ketchup” and the answer had five letters. It had to be Heinz, no? But it didn’t work. Turned out to be HUNT’S. An angry comment noted that Hunt’s made “catsup,” not “ketchup,” which Heinz made. It was by an angry Pittsburgher, where Heinz is based. But Hunt’s changed the name of its product from catsup to ketchup in 1988. And Heinz originally called it catsup too.

    There’s was a nice crossing today: The clue at 53A was “‘Fiddler on the Roof’ setting.” Answer: RUSSIA, although someone noted it was actually set in Ukraine, which was part of the Russian empire at the time. And it was crossed by 9D: “Fixer-uppers, of a sort,” with the answer MATCHMAKERS.

    There was a good deal of hrummmmphing about 40D where the clue was “Wounded knee site, for short,” for the answer ACL. Folks thought it was disrespectful of the massacre of Indians that took place at Wounded Knee to treat it sort of jokingly like that.

    3D was a cute clue: “Cubs manager?” Answer: LIONESS.

    The abolitionist senator Charles SUMNER was in the puzzle. He became a symbol of the anti-slavery cause when he was beaten nearly to death on the Senate floor in 1856 by Preston Brooks, a slaveholding senator from South Carolina. Sumner must have hit a nerve. During the Civil War, Sumner was a critic of Lincoln’s, feeling Abe was too moderate towards the south.

    Of course, our Phil was in the Senate gallery at the time of the beating and was able to get this shot for us.

    We can’t send you off with such a terrible image. So let’s bid farewell as well to French actress Anouk Aimee, who passed away in Paris at age 92. Many of us remember her for “A Man and a Woman.” Aimee earned an Oscar nomination for Best Actress for the film, and it won the Oscar for Best Foreign Film.

    Reposez en paix, Anouk.

    That’s much better. See you tomorrow!

  • The Greatest Invention Of All Time

    The puzzle was nice and breezy today. The theme was a play on “kinda,” meaning “kind of,” using phrases that contained parts that could double as a suffix or prefix. [I know, I know — what the hell is he talking about?]

    So at 16A the clue was “Kinda comedic and saucy?” and the answer was BURLESQUE-ESQUE. Get it?

    At 39A the clue was “Kinda squishy and sting-y?” and the answer was JELLYFISH-ISH. (My favorite.)

    28A: “Kinda religious institution?” SEMI-SEMINARY.

    50A: “Kinda hunchbacked figure?” QUASI-QUASIMODO. (Also my favorite.)

    Here’s the clue from 9D: “Kind of accent heard in ‘Pahk yah cah in Hahvahd Yahd.’” BOSTON, of course. Son Volt posted this rocker for us. I’ve heard of the group but the tune was new to me. There’s a reference to Van Morrison’s “Cypress Avenue” in it. Turn it up!

    I don’t recall ever sharing more than one Met Diary story from a Sunday, but the writing in this one is so good, it left me no choice. It’s also a small part of my own youth. It’s by Vincent Barkley.

    Dear Diary:

    If I had a few bucks and the weather wasn’t terrible, I would bundle up and take the subway from Bay Ridge to Coney Island.

    Truthfully, this was about all I could manage. I was 17, and my mother had just died. Soon, I would be on my own.

    At some point along the way, the train exited the tunnel’s darkness into dazzling daylight. Then on to Coney Island and Stillwell Avenue, the end of the line.

    Downstairs, Philip’s Candy was my source for chocolate licorice. The windows were darkened with dust from the station above.

    Across the street was the Cyclone. According to a childhood legend: “Once kids were playing with the controls in the first car, and the coaster left the track and got chopped up in the Wonder Wheel!”

    To the right was the original Nathan’s. They had crinkle cut French fries and hot dogs with snap. My mom once bought a crinkle cut potato slicer to make us fries like the ones at Nathan’s.

    To the left was Eldorado Auto Skooter: bumper cars with disco lighting and a body-slamming sound system. Possibly the greatest invention of all time.

    Further down was the carousel. Majestic and fast-moving, a menagerie of surging, vivid animals amid a harrumphing organ with castanets and cymbals. It was operated by the world’s saddest-looking man.

    On the boardwalk, if the sun was shining, people of every stripe would be out and about. Some were ancient residents, their skin like leather from years baking in the sun.

    Coney Island is best in winter, when it’s in quiet repose. It’s soulful and shabby and old. And timeless like those residents in their sun-blasted skin.

    It was all there for me.

    From The Onion last Friday:

    Trump Family Takes Adorable Birthday Pictures Of Donald’s Face Covered In Cake

    A nice combo in the puzzle was 37D where “Singer Lauper” was CYNDI, and 38D, “Playful term for one’s female friends” was GIRLIES. Here you go. One of the great pop tunes of all time.

    Mark Amos of the Dull Men’s Club (UK) posted this yesterday:

    “My son has just informed me that something must be wrong with the gloss paint I recently used to paint the inside of his bedroom door. He explained that the sunlight had caused a dull patch to appear behind the mirror he hung on the back of it. Worried and believing the paint used was inferior, I immediately went upstairs thinking about what I was going to say to the local hardware store I purchased it from. Removing the mirror, I couldn’t see anything wrong and then realised he had been looking at the shadow cast by said mirror. I won’t say anything to him for the time being but may show him this post and read out all the informative comments at a later date.”

    You would think a post like that would generate some comments, but there were only 117 (so far). Here are a few:

    1. Judging by the number of posts you make on here, I’m surprised you found time to have a son 🙄😉

      2. I love these stories. Aged 7 and 5 me and my brother were sent to bed early without supper and banished to an upstairs bedroom on pain of absolute silence. I wrote a note and found a piece of string and dangled the note down the stairwell. It said: “We are haggry, if you do not feed us we will die”.

      My mum has kept this note for 63 years in her black “essential documents” briefcase, and likes to tell the story over and over again.

      3. Get him paint. Tell him it may take a few coats. Get popcorn for yourself

      My comment was: How can sunlight reach “behind the mirror?”

      Are you familiar with the term FUBAR? It was at 21A with the clue: “Extremely damaged, in military lingo.” According to Wikipedia: It means ‘Fouled Up Beyond All Recognition,” referring to unpaid military personnel with erroneous paperwork. Another version of FUBAR, said to have originated in the military, gives its meaning as “Fucked Up By Assholes in the Rear”. This version has at least surface validity in that it is a common belief among enlistees that most problems are created by the military brass (officers, especially those bearing the rank of general, from one to four stars). This version is also most likely to have had its origin in the U.S. Army, where the senior officers command from the rear, as opposed to the Navy or Air Force, where it is common for generals to command alongside their forces.

      Our Dirty Old Man Dept received several complaints about the photo we posted recently of our style consultant Ana with her dog. “C’mon, man,” one read, “can’t you get anything more exciting than that on the topic?” We put Phil on the case and his extensive research (two six-packs) came up with this. (Wow.) Looking good AdA!

      Can’t top that as a send-off. See you tomorrow!

    1. All Five Fingers

      This is our 537th post. I thought that might be a prime number, but it’s not. The closest prime numbers are 523, below it, and 541, above. In all, there are 168 prime numbers between 1 and 1000, with 997 the highest.

      Our Father’s Day message was written by Hannah Sward as a Tiny Love Story in the NYT:

      “How will I know?” I asked my father before he died. “Talk to me like we are now and listen,” he said. Months passed. I was scared to talk to him. What if I didn’t hear him? On Father’s Day, running barefoot on the beach, I called out “Dad?” The sharp edge of a shell sliced my foot. My father’s father was a podiatrist. My father was a poet who wrote endlessly about feet. He believed, “The soul is rooted in the foot.” Seven stitches, a beautiful scar. I feel hollow with loss, but my father is still with me.

      Who doesn’t like haiku? The Poetry Foundation yesterday sent us a poem by Robert Hass called “After the Gentle Poet Kabayashi Issa.” It’s a collection of haiku. Yesterday was the date of birth of Issa, back in 1763.

      New Year’s morning—
      everything is in blossom!
      I feel about average.

      A huge frog and I
      staring at each other,
      neither of us moves.

      This moth saw brightness
      in a woman’s chamber—
      burned to a crisp.

      Asked how old he was
      the boy in the new kimono
      stretched out all five fingers.

      Blossoms at night,
      like people
      moved by music

      Napped half the day;
      no one
      punished me!

      Fiftieth birthday:

      From now on,
      It’s all clear profit,
      every sky.

      Don’t worry, spiders,
      I keep house
      casually.

      These sea slugs,
      they just don’t seem
      Japanese.

      Hell:

      Bright autumn moon;
      pond snails crying
      in the saucepan.

      FYI, our friend Miriam says the plural of haiku can be either haiku or haikus.

      I visited the Dull Men’s Club (UK) this morning and found this photo of a British postal box posted by Joe Westy.

      And here’s what he wrote: The rare golden postbox in the UK. There are a great many red boxes, as any Brit will tell you, but did you know that there are a few golden ones dotted around? These postboxes are painted gold in honour of an Olympic gold medalist who lives in the area. This postbox is in Wimbledon, in honour of Andy Murray.

      There were 103 comments, most pointing out other gold postboxes in other areas, along with the Olympians (or para-Olympians) whom they honor. One gent pointed out a rare blue box in Manchester, which is blue for other historic reasons: blue used to be for airmail postal boxes, but that was only temporary and they were repainted red, except for the one in Manchester because it’s outside the air and space museum.

      Here’s your basic red one, which has become iconic. Many people use them as lawn decorations or for other non-postal reasons. This one goes for $900, but there are many much cheaper models.

      The typical box was once green, but they were difficult to locate because of the drabness of the color. Hence, the shift to red.

      I’m not sure how this matter got by the Dull Men’s Club guardians. Is it dull enough? Borderline, I guess.

      Neil Dorman posted this photo and wrote:

      “It’s mid June and I have had to light the fire. I promise I am not burning a beast’s head 🙂“

      I guess it’s been a cold spring over there. I commented: “Sure looks like a beast’s head. Not that I’m doubting you.” There were over 100 other comments — mostly on the weather.

      The Gnats are doing well, kinehora. They won their series against the Braves and Tigers and swept three from Miami. Brilliant young pitching augurs well for the future. But major league baseball is stressful. And things exploded two nights ago between Mackenzie Gore and Nick Senzel. Gore was on the mound when a grounder was hit to deep third by a speedy batter. Senzel’s throw to first was just late and a run scored. Gore thought he should have nailed him and told him so in the dugout. Senzel didn’t appreciate the lecture and shoved Gore. They were quickly separated. Gore later admitted he was wrong, under baseball etiquette. You don’t deride your teammates for their misplays. At the least, it was noted, they should have discussed it in the runway off the dugout and not in full view of the public and the press. BTW, Gore had a brilliant night and the Gnats coasted to an easy win.

      But let’s get to the merits of Gore’s claim. Could Senzel have made the play? Amazingly, we have data on it. Senzel entered the game with an 83.9 mph average arm strength, but threw the ball to first at a 72.7 mph arm strength. The runner beat out the play, running at 28.0 feet per second (the Major League average is 27.0 feet/second).

      “I’ve probably got to do a better job of getting rid of it with a better throw,” said Senzel. “Maybe a little lackadaisical so that one’s on me.” Still, Gore should not have incited the shove.

      There was a bit of a hoo-hah over the clue/answer at 103A today. All it’s doing for me is making my brain hurt. The clue is “Lives as lovers,” and the answer is SHACKS UP. Rex himself didn’t mention a problem, but several nitpickers noted that a lover (singular) “shacks” up, but lovers (plural, as in the clue) “shack” up. I guess these folks think the clue should be “Lives as a lover” (SHACKS UP), or “Live as lovers” with the answer SHACK UP. Arggggh!! My feeling is: SHUT UP!!

      Rex commenter Andrew has always been a bit crusty but his recent adoption of a rescue dog has turned him into a teddy bear, and the gang is enjoying his conversion. Today, he shared this song with us by Alun Davies, who produced a solo album after playing with Cat Stevens.

      And here’s our style consultant Ana with one of her pups.

      Woof woof. See you tomorrow!

    2. Nonchalant Plumage

      Owl Chatter’s first impression of Caitlin Clark’s boyfriend is that he may be worthy of her — they seem like a good pair. His name is Connor McCaffrey and they started dating a year ago April. He’s a U of Iowa grad, like Caitlin, (Class of ’23), and was on their basketball and baseball teams. He currently works as a team assistant for the NBA’s Pacers. He double dribbled, sorry, double majored in Finance and Poli Sci. Needless to say, OC was hoping to see Caitlin wind up with a Yid, but Connor seems like a very decent second best. His pet name for Caitlin is her uniform number: 22. “Love you 22!”

      Get this — Connor’s dad is Fran McCaffery, the head coach of Iowa’s men’s basketball team. Fran played college ball at UPenn — Go Quakers! And he coached previously at Siena College, Linda’s alma — Go Saints!

      Here’s a shot of Connor and his dad, followed by a slightly sexier shot of the young lovebirds, although it’s not nearly racy enough for our Dirty Old Man Dept. Rats!

      This piece from tomorrow’s Met Diary was written by Marla Jacobson.

      Dear Diary:

      I had just moved to NYC from LA in June 1981 and had a studio on 106th Street and West End Avenue. It came with no furniture, dishes, pots or pans — nothing.

      I was to start a teaching job in the fall but unemployed until then. I found a matching comforter-pillow-curtain set at Macy’s that fit my budget.

      A few days later, on a weekend trip to the Lower East Side, I found the exact set for half the price. So of course I bought it and returned the other set to Macy’s.

      A month went by and the charge was still on my account. I made several calls to arrange the credit. Two months went by and the credit still had not showed up. More calls.

      When the third month came, my account was credited twice. I took the bills, the receipt, and everything else I had connected to the purchase to Macy’s in person to try to straighten things out. When I got there, I explained the entire situation to the clerk.

      He looked at me like I was from another planet.

      “Lady,” he said. “Buy a dress.”

      The Four Tops were a leading Motown group back in the day. Reach Out, It’s the Same Old Song, Bernadette, Baby I Need Y our Loving. Classics, all, just to name a few. Anyway, over the years individual members had to be replaced as the group soldiered on. Its only surviving original member is Abdul Fakir. He’s 88.

      Back in 2018, Abdul invited Alexander Morris to join the group. They were in Michigan touring with an equally great group, The Temptations, when Morris felt pain in his chest and had difficulty breathing. He was taken to a hospital. This is where the craziness begins, and it wasn’t Morris’s. He mentioned that he was with The Four Tops and the staff took that to mean he was mentally ill. He was placed in restraints and ordered to undergo a psych evaluation. He offered to show his ID to security but was instructed to “sit his Black ass down.” He was denied oxygen and held in restraints for 90 minutes. Finally, he was able to show a nurse a video of him performing and the hospital realized its error.

      We are now transferring you to our “you-cannot-make-this-stuff-up” department.

      When the hospital realized its blunder, it offered Morris a $25 gift card to a local supermarket as compensation for its actions. (I am not kidding.) “The hospital denied my identity and my basic human dignity and then offered me a gift card,” Morris said through his lawyers. Then he cried out: Bernadette!

      Greg Delanty wrote this poem and it appeared in today’s Writer’s Almanac. It’s called “From Woody’s Restaurant, Middlebury.”

      Today, noon, a young macho friendly waiter and three diners,
                     business types—two males, one female—
      are in a quandary about the name of the duck paddling
                     Otter Creek,
      the duck being brown, but too large to be a female mallard.
                     They really
      want to know, and I’m the human-watcher behind the nook
                     of my table,
      camouflaged by my stillness and nonchalant plumage.
                     They really want to know.
      This sighting I record in the back of my Field Guide to People.

      Here’s a female mallard. The duck in the poem was too big to be that.

      OK, readers — here’s the scoop. I entered this week’s New Yorker’s cartoon caption contest. The scene is a lab of some sort and two technicians are standing and looking at a giant toaster in the middle of the lab, plugged in.

      And my caption entry is “What do we get if we open an IRA?”

      Okay, not exactly a knee-slapper, but here’s what you can do to help. Go to the New Yorker website in a few days and to the caption contest area. They let you review the entries and rate them not funny, somewhat funny, or very funny. The ratings help them select three finalists from which a winner is chosen by voting. (You have to wait a few days until this week’s contest closes.)

      We’ll end today with our AIMEE section. The actress AIMEE Lou Wood from “Sex Education” was in the puzzle at 17A: a knockout. She’s 30 years old, and British. And Son Volt took the occasion to share an Aimee Mann song: “Coming Up Close,” by ‘Til Tuesday.

      See you tomorrow. Thanks for popping in!

    3. Che Guevara’s Haftorah Portion

      Some of you may remember John Ciardi. Decades ago, NPR featured a short item on language by him in the morning. This poem from today’s Writer’s Almanac is by him. It’s called “Bees and Morning Glories.”

      Morning glories, pale as a mist drying,
      fade from the heat of the day, but already
      hunchback bees in pirate pants and with peg-leg
      hooks have found and are boarding them.

      This could do for the sack of the imaginary
      fleet. The raiders loot the galleons even as they
      one by one vanish and leave still real
      only what has been snatched out of the spell.

      I’ve never seen bees more purposeful except
      when the hive is threatened. They know
      the good of it must be grabbed and hauled
      before the whole feast wisps off.

      They swarm in light and, fast, dive in,
      then drone out, slow, their pantaloons heavy
      with gold and sunlight. The line of them,
      like thin smoke, wafts over the hedge.

      And back again to find the fleet gone.
      Well, they got this day’s good of it. Off
      they cruise to what stays open longer.
      Nothing green gives honey. And by now

      you’d have to look twice to see more than green
      where all those white sails trembled
      when the world was misty and open
      and the prize was there to be taken.

      On this date in Dublin Ireland in 1865, William Butler Yeats was born. The Writer’s Almanac shares this quote of his:

      “Now that my ladder’s gone / I must lie down where all the ladders start / In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.”

      C’mon Bill — lighten up. It’s a lovely Spring day out there.

      In the puzzle today, at 45A for the lovely clue “Emulates Niobe” the answer was MOURNS. You know how I like the say the puzzle sometimes opens little doors to walk through? Well, Rex shared this with us today related to Niobe. I first ran into this actor, Andrew Scott, when he played the role of the priest in Fleabag, a show I enjoyed very much. You could tell how good he is.

      Che Guevara was born on this date in 1928 in Argentina. He died young, at 39, executed by CIA-assisted Bolivian forces.

      You’ve all seen the iconic pictures of Che, but our incredible photographer Phil was at Che’s bar mitzvah and has this family shot from the event for us. That’s Che way on the left, next to his mom.

      On the topic of Che Guevara’s bar mitzvah, we had George dig out Che’s haftorah portion. It relates the story of how an angel of the Lord appeared to this guy Manoah’s wife, who was having trouble having a child, and told her she’d be pregnant soon and to not drink alcohol or eat unclean foods. The angel didn’t say anything about getting enough exercise and keeping an eye on her blood pressure. Anyway, the kid was born and they named him Samson.

      [Where else but in Owl Chatter will you learn about Che Guevara’s haftorah portion, I ask you? TBH, Che was not actually Jewish, but he did go to medical school. (George tells us he was Jew-ish.)]

      Let’s face it, folks, it’s harder to be cool as an American than if we were, say, French, right? It’s been that way for, like, hmmmm, forever? And back in the 60s, French cool was pretty much defined by Francoise Hardy, through her moody ballads and her looks. She died at age 80 on Tuesday. Her death was announced by her son Thomas via an Instagram post that said simply “Mom is gone.”

      She looked like this when she was here and young.

      Bob Dylan fell for her, writing about her in the liner notes of “Another Side of Bob Dylan.” He began, “For Françoise Hardy/At the Seine’s edge/A giant shadow/Of Notre-Dame.” When he held his first concert in Paris, in May 1966, he refused to return to the stage after an intermission unless she came to see him in his dressing room. She did.

      She was the only French singer on Rolling Stone’s 2023 list of the 200 best singers of all time. She is survived by her son Thomas, who is, undoubtedly, very cool.

      Rest in peace, Francoise.

      Ethel Barrymore popped in on us today, right off the bat at 1 down.

      What’s up, EB? Lookin’ good! George! Get the lady a Fresca!

      Winston Churchill proposed to her in 1900, but she married Russell Griswold Colt instead and they had three kids.

    4. Tippytoes

      At 1 across on Monday, the clue was “Theater backdrop” and the answer was SET. OK, fair enough. But then when I got to 8D, the clue was “Sink, as the sun,” and that had to be SET also. So what gives? A puzzle is not supposed to have duplicate answers. Then, all hell broke loose when 31A and 31D both had the same answer which, again, was SET. Those clues were “Prepare, as the dinner table,” and “Mathematical grouping using curly brackets.”

      Of course, the repetitive SETs were the puzzle theme. And the revealer was at 71A (the last across clue): “Guinness world record holder for ‘English word with the most meanings.’” That was news to me. The puzzle contained 14 meanings, i.e., the answer SET appeared in the grid 14 times, each clued via a different meaning for the word. But in fact, get this —

      “The word with the most meanings in English is the verb ‘set’, with 430 senses listed in the Second Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, published in 1989. The word commands the longest entry in the dictionary at 60,000 words, or 326,000 characters.”

      What made the execution of the theme “clean” was there were no other three-letter answers at all in the grid. The 14 SETs were the only three-letter answers.

      The cutest clue/answer was at 25A: “Cleaning implement for bunnies?” The answer was DUST MOP (think “dust bunnies”).

      33D was cute too: “You might stand on them to reach something.” TIPPYTOES.

      At 11D, the clue was “Philip Larkin or Patricia Lockwood,” and the answer was POET (I had heard of the former). It led Rex (who is an English prof) to share this:

      For today’s puzzle, I’m not sure if this was meant to be a joke, but for 8D the clue was “I’m all _____” and the answer was SET. D’oh! But that was the only SET today.

      There was a very non-Tuesdayish word today. The clue was “Trumpet flourish,” and the answer was TUCKET. WTF? One commenter noted: “Retired musicologist here, with a vast vocabulary of arcane terminology related to music and musical instruments. This is my first (and hopefully last) encounter with TUCKET.”

      Miriam Webster says: Tucket can be found most notably in the stage directions of several of William Shakespeare’s plays. In King Lear, for example, a tucket sounds to alert the Earl of Gloucester of the arrival of the Duke of Cornwall (Act II, Scene i). The word tucket likely derives from the obsolete English verb tuk, meaning “to beat the drum” or “to sound the trumpet.” Its first known use was in 1593.

      Commenter Anony-mouse wrote: As a drag performer, I TUCKET all the time. Well, very often.

      Today’s theme was announced by 58A: “Title for Jackie or Jill:” FIRST LADY. And four theme answers all opened with words that form a name when preceded by LADY: GAGA (ABOUT); LIBERTY (VALANCE); MARMALADE (SKIES); AND LUCK (OUT). So that would be Lady Gaga, Lady Liberty, Lady Marmalade, and Lady Luck.

      Lady Marmalade is a song made famous by Labelle containing the famous lyric:  “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?” But this isn’t that — this is Lady Luck.

      Hey Trav — you may have some new heavyweight competition. Maybe a few extra dozen roses? Just sayin’. Here’s what Trump said about Tay:

       “I think she’s beautiful — very beautiful! I find her very beautiful… I hear she’s very talented. I think she’s very beautiful, actually — unusually beautiful!”

      We don’t usually like to go out on a limb here at Owl Chatter, but, reading between the lines — does it seem to you Trump thinks she beautiful? I wonder if he’ll grab her by the, you know. It may be best if he doesn’t –Back in 2013, someone grabbed her tush and she took him to court. It was a DJ, David Mueller. He got fired for his actions. His defense was: “My hand was at rib-cage level and apparently it went down.” Yup, down and under her skirt. That’s one hell of an “apparently.” I don’t know if I’ve ever seen such a big apparently.

      “It was a definite grab, a very long grab,” Swift said in federal court. “I felt him grab onto my bare ass cheek.” She testified she attempted to move away but “he would not let go.”

      When asked her reaction to Mueller being fired, she said “I’m being blamed for the unfortunate events of his life that are a product of his decisions, not mine. I don’t feel anything about Mr. Mueller. I don’t know him. … I think what he did was despicable and horrifying and shocking.”

      So whadya think folks? — Is Taylor Swift very beautiful like Trump says? Judge for yourself:

      Oh, wait — I’m sorry — that’s not Tay — it’s E. Jean Carroll, the woman Trump sexually assaulted. He says she’s not his type at all. Not “very beautiful,” I guess. Never mind. Tay’s out of town right now. Phil promises us some shots of her as soon as he’s sober. Figure maybe October?

      Alan Davis posted the following for the Dull Men’s Club (UK): Swmbo decided that a trot around IKEA would be a good idea. Wrong, it was horrible, we couldn’t find the way out for ages. Never again.

      First, a comment asked “what is swmbo?” Answer: It’s the person’s wife; it’s an acronym for She Who Must Be Obeyed. Here were some of the other 53 comments:

      I’m 63 yrs old and have never been to an IKEA. I’d love to go, if only for the meatballs.

      The meatballs are made out of the people who never get out.

      There are people in Ikea who’ve been trapped there for months.

      In IKEA no one can hear you scream.

      Hibbing, MN, is not that big a town. Population only 20,000. It came up today because Rex shared a song by Gary Puckett, and a commenter noted Puckett’s from Hibbing. Many of you know Bob Dylan is also from there, as are, amazingly, Roger Maris, Celtic great Kevin McHale, and Robert Mondavi, the wine guy, among other notables.

      Also from Hibbing was Frankie Campbell, the pro boxer Max Baer killed in a match in 1930. Baer was enraged after being knocked down in the second round and beat Campbell fiercely in the fifth round, causing his death. The ref was suspended for not stopping the fight. Campbell’s brother was Brooklyn Dodger Dolph Camilli.

      See you tomorrow!

    5. Abide No Hatred

      Adriana O’Toole shared the following story with us in Met Diary yesterday.

      Dear Diary:

      In 1959, I signed up for a mushroom identification course at the New School taught by the composer John Cage.

      In those days, I often accompanied my uncles when they gathered mushrooms in the woods near Greenwood Lake in New Jersey. I thought it would be a good idea to really know something about what we were picking.

      The class met on Sundays, in a park off the Palisades Parkway. About 15 of us walked around with baskets and picked mushrooms.

      It was all very casual. We just walked in the park, saw different mushrooms and learned about them, including which ones were harmful. I still remember that the amanita is poisonous.

      Cage was instrumental in starting the New York Mycological Society, and he also got me started on collecting mushroom-related things: prints, ceramics and so on.

      Nowadays, I get my mushrooms at the local Acme or ShopRite, saute them in butter, or pickle them with vinegar, and dress them with garlic and olive oil.

      . . . . . .

      Here’s a mother amanita mushroom caring for her child. Stay away from them!

      Except for these. These “stuffed mushrooms” we love.

      At 14A today, the clue was “Irksome, like a fly,” and the answer was PESKY. If it were up to me, I would have clued it: “Johnny _______, aka Mr. Red Sox.” Pesky had a ten-year playing career, mostly for Boston, and then coached and managed, and worked as a broadcaster. He missed three seasons to serve heroically in WWII. He played on the left side of the infield. Over 1270 games, his lifetime batting average was .307 (just three points below Jeter’s). The right field foul pole at Fenway is the “Pesky” pole named after him by pitcher/broadcaster Mel Parnell. Pesky was a contact hitter with little power. He hit only 17 home runs in his career, and the ones at Fenway likely landed close to that pole. Pesky trivia: He was the first AL player ever to score 6 runs in a nine-inning game.

      When the Sox were awarded their championship rings for the 2004 “curse-breaking” WS win, one was given to Pesky too, and he was granted the honor of raising the Championship flag. He represented all the Boston players who toiled so valiantly during the long drought. A ring and the same honor was awarded to him after the 2007 WS victory too. On his 87th birthday, his number 6 was retired by the Sox and the right-field foul pole was officially dubbed the Pesky Pole. He was born in Portland, OR, but died in Danvers, MA, at the age of 93 in 2012.

      If I’m not mistaken, the Yankee Phil Rizzuto had a set to with Pesky at one point that left some bad feelings. I was listening to Rizzuto announce a game one night and his partner said: “You hate Pesky, am I right?” And Phil said — Nooo! I don’t hate anyone.” Then there was the longest pause, after which he said: “I just can’t stand him.”

      I suppose there’s a distinction.

      We’re closing shop early tonight. Linda and I had a great day celebrating our 40th anniversary. Yow! We crossed this bridge when we came to it. It brought us across the state line between PA and NJ. Our excellent lunch at the Black Bass Inn awaited us on the PA side.

      We ran into this flag on our walk in Lambertville.

      (The Jewish version says ABIDE JUST A TEENSY BIT OF HATRED.)

      See you tomorrow!