The Wellington Files

  • Okay Boomer

    If I dug and dug — visited and revisited all of my usual haunts — I might come up with a better opening for today’s nonsense, but I doubt it. This is by Denise Levertov and is called “Animal Spirits.” It appeared in today’s Writer’s Almanac.

    When I was five and
    undifferentiated energy, animal spirits,
    pent-up desire for the unknown built in me
    a head of steam I had
    no other way to let off, I ran
    at top speed back and forth
    end to end of the drawingroom,
    bay to French window, shouting–
    roaring, really–slamming
    deliberately into the rosewood
    desk at one end, the shaken
    window-frames at the other, till the fit
    wore out or some grownup stopped me.

    But when I was six I found better means:
    on its merry gallows
    of dark-green wood my swing, new-built,
    awaited my pleasure, I rushed
    out to it, pulled the seat
    all the way back to get a good start, and
    vigorously pumped it up to the highest arc:
    my legs were oars, I was rowing a boat in air–
    and then, then from the furthest
    forward swing of the ropes

    I let go and flew!

    At large in the unsustaining air,
    flew clear over the lawn across
    the breadth of the garden
    and fell, Icarian, dazed,
    among hollyhocks, snapdragons, love-in-a-mist,
    and stood up uninjured, ready
    to swing and fly over and over.

    The need passed as I grew;
    the mind took over, devising
    paths for that force in me, and the body curled up,
    sedentary, glad to be quiet and read and read,
    save once in a while, when it demanded
    to leap about or to whirl–or later still
    to walk swiftly in wind and rain
    long and far and into the dusk,
    wanting some absolute, some exhaustion.

    Ever hear the cicadas when they’re really roaring/buzzing? It’s pretty impressive. They have spent over a decade underground. Then they bore through the soil and up to the treetops. What they do next — what you hear like vuvuzelas at a soccer match — is buzz for a mate. We’ve all been there. Some of us are still trying to get down from the tree. Don’t rush me!

    This dude may look like a rapper or break dancer (says my inner racist), but it’s Dr. Sammy Ramsey, an entomologist at U. of Colorado Boulder. He’s got something other than a cicada in his hand, valued at two of whatever it is in the bush, as the saying goes.

    According to the doc, there are seven species of periodical cicadas, called magicicada.  “There’s no other thing like this in the world. You can only experience this crazy, mass emergence of periodical cicadas in North America. So they earned a reputation for being magical.

    “We have a rather unusual occurrence this year: Two different broods are going to emerge at the same time.  Brood XIX emerges every 13 years and Brood XIII emerges every 17 years. They only sync up every 221 years.

    “Every emergence is an amazing feat of coordination. Then, once they are all out and in a tree, males will coordinate their mating calls with each other. They all fly to the same tree and coordinate this whirring sound. That sound isn’t ever a single cicada, or an uncoordinated patch of cicadas. That’s them all linking together and producing this amplified sound to sing to as many females as possible.

    The doc goes on to explain:

    “Cicadas wait until the evening to emerge from the ground. This is the most vulnerable stage of their entire life cycle, so they wait for dusk because squirrels and birds are less inclined to come after them.

    “Look for cicadas burrowing out of turrets in the ground. They’ll climb up the nearest vertical surface — the side of a house, trees, vehicle tires or anything else they can find. The backs of their exoskeletons will split open and out will crawl a squishy, white organism. It takes time for cicadas to harden, so they’ll just have to sit there for a while, barely able to move.

    “Eventually, they will gain the capacity to fly, and the males will sing. Their song will grow in intensity over about a week and a half as more cicadas come out of the ground, until it is a constant sound during the day. Look into the trees during this time and you might see cicadas darting back and forth. Those are the males, looking for a female who has snapped her wings to signal interest in mating. The hottest ones will be smoking a cigarette and wearing a tube top.

    “A little over a month after they show up, it’ll be over. By mid-July there’s usually not a periodical cicada to be found.”

    Hey — have you been missing Caitlin Clark heaving those threes up, or driving the lane? Me too. Well, her first pro game is tonight. We can catch her on ESPN2 at 7:30. Her Indiana Fever is playing the Connecticut Sun. Break a leg, CC!

    In today’s puzzle, 58A was “Wharton or Sloan, informally,” and the answer was BSCHOOL, for Business School, duh. We sent Phil out on an assignment to NYU, but it didn’t go too well. He got this one shot before security was called. At least he didn’t leave any equipment behind this time as he fled.

    “Okay Boomer?” was a cutesy clue at 19A for TNT. Are you familiar with the insult? I hope not. It’s what a millennial hurls at an old fogie (Boomer) dismissively.

    “You know, all that time buried in your phone isn’t doing you any good.”

    “Okay Boomer.”

    21D was new to me: “Traveling fashion sale featuring the work of a specific designer.” TRUNK SHOW. Wikipedia says a trunk show is an event in which vendors present merchandise directly to store personnel or customers at a retail location or other venue such as a hotel room. It may allow store personnel to preview merchandise before it’s available to the public. A particular designer may be present to add to the experience. The merchandise is often transported in a trunk — hence the name. They are popular in the bridal industry.

    The Onion featured this story today: A Day In The Life Of Rudy Giuliani

    After years of serving in some of the highest positions of the U.S. government, Rudy Giuliani has had an unprecedented fall from grace, forcing him to file for bankruptcy last year. Here’s an inside look at how the once-beloved NYC mayor now spends his days.

    • 9 a.m.: Top-up embalming fluid.
    • 11:46 a.m.: Reset pigeon traps.
    • 1 p.m.: Two-hour nap to digest stray cat he had for lunch.
    • 3:20 p.m.: Beg stranger at adjacent urinal to be his accountant.
    • 5:02 p.m.: Take “Which Sex And The City Character Are You?” quiz.
    • 6 p.m.: Dinner of whatever adhered to sole of loafer over course of day.
    • 7:43 p.m.: Scan family tree for potential fourth wife.
    • 9 p.m.: Lay out tomorrow’s barrel and suspenders.
    • 9:45 p.m. Have his sexual advances stopped by a hand to the forehead.
    • 10 p.m.: Desperately try old gate code at Gracie Mansion.

    At 25D, “Hum bug?” was BEE. It led Son Volt to share this song by Laura Cantrell with us. Exquisite.

    And here’s Laura. Nice shot Philly. Hauntingly beautiful.

    And, again.

    Hey, remember a short piece we wrote on Art Schallock, who pitched for the Yanks in the early 50s and just turned 100? He responded to my polite request for his autograph with two signed index cards. A little shakily, but not bad for 100. Thanks Art!

    See you tomorrow! Thanks for stopping by.

  • Job Opening

    Dave Barry defined “old person” as someone who remembers when there was no velcro. Well, it was on this day in 1958 that Velcro was patented by Georges de Mestral, an electrical engineer from Switzerland. The name comes from the French words velour (velvet) and crochet (hook).

    Mestral invented velcro after he took a walk through burdock and studied the burrs he removed from his clothing and from his dog under a microscope. It’s not clear how he got his dog under the microscope, but that’s not our concern. He found tiny hooks attached themselves to fabric or fur, and the rest is history.

    Here’s how Michelle Cottle’s Op-Ed piece starts today:

    “Americans like feeling as though they know their political leaders personally. And yet I think many of us now feel we know a little too much about Kristi Noem.

    “First, you definitely do not want the South Dakota governor to pet sit. Just, no.

    “Second, when it comes to reminiscing about meeting world leaders, Ms. Noem has a touch of George Santos about her.”

    Georgie! Free publicity! You’ve still got it, buddy!

    This is she, killing something else. Jeez Louise, girl, — give it a rest! Don’t go all Dexter on us!

    The puzzle was very neat today. The theme centered on the phrase that spanned the center of the grid: HOLE IN ONE SHOT. The first O was shaded to represent a golf tee, and the last O had a little flag in it to represent the hole. And a trail of Os running up and down the entire grid ran from the first one to the last one, representing the hole-in-one shot clanking around on a miniature golf course and rolling in. (A separate answer at 18A was MINIGOLF.)

    If you did the puzzle on the NYT App, when you finished, a little yellow animated golf ball popped off the tee and made its way via the Os into the hole. Adorable. Aside from the long path of Os, there were no other Os in the grid, a nice touch. See if you can follow the path of Os starting from the O in 33A and ending with the one in 35A. I’ll wait.

    William Mathews wrote this poem called “Iowa City to Boulder.” It appeared in today’s Writer’s Almanac.

    I take most of the drive by night.
    It’s cool and in the dark my lapsed
    inspection can’t be seen.
    I sing and make myself promises.

    By dawn on the high plains
    I’m driving tired and cagey.
    Red-winged blackbirds
    on the mileposts, like candle flames,
    flare their wings for balance
    in the blasts of truck wakes.

    The dust of not sleeping
    drifts in my mouth, and five or six
    miles slur by uncounted.
    I say I hate long-distance

    drives but I love them.
    The flat light stains the foothills
    pale and I speed up the canyon
    to sleep until the little lull
    the insects take at dusk before
    they say their names all night in the loud field.

    The ban in Nassau County preventing transgender women from participating in team sports as women was thrown out by Justice Francis Ricigliano of Nassau County Supreme Court. The ban had been imposed by the bigot Bruce Blakeman, the county executive who was found to have exceeded his authority.

    Phil refuses to photograph the schmuck. He suggested we go with a red-winged blackbird from the poem instead. Good idea.

    How do you feel about mutton chops? It was in the puzzle at 50A, well, one of them was, clued with “Cut of meat that lent its name to a facial hairstyle.” MUTTON CHOP. Rex was troubled that there was only one chop in the answer. The poor fellow will have to grow another, he pointed out. This guy grew a pair. Back away slowly Philly. He seems upset about something.

    Do you know the difference between a lamb chop and a mutton chop? Lamb chops are small cuts of meat from young sheep, typically between four months and a year old. Mutton chops, on the other hand, refers to meat from adult sheep at least a year old. And most sheep sold as mutton are well over two years.

    Egsforbreakfast shared this today:

    NEWS FLASH!!! The NYT is looking for a puzzle editor. Not the big one, but a nice job. Qualifications:
    •
    3+ years editing puzzles for publication
    •
    An appreciation for word games and puzzles
    •
    Basic experience with web production, and basic knowledge of web tools and interfaces
    •
    Basic knowledge of journalism ethics and standards

    Responsibilities
    •
    You will report to the Editorial Director and are responsible for editing and creating and quality puzzles for New York Times Games
    •
    Duties may include working on the New York Times Crossword or a new beta game
    The pay is $100,000.

    Commenter Gary replied:

    I would like to apply for that job. Here are my qualifications:

    1. I am very good at complaining about puzzles.

    2. I have been writing “uniclues” now for almost two years and only about 1000 people have complained about them.

    3. I own a computer and I think it connects to something called an internet.

    4. I work well with others as long as they agree with me.

    Oy. Tired. See you tomorrow.

  • Playing Catch

    In the puzzle today, at 31A “Metal ring that holds a pencil’s eraser” was FERRULE. How’s that for obscure? Why in the world would there be a word for that? Well, it’s not just the thingie holding an eraser on a pencil — it’s any “ring or cap, typically a metal one, which strengthens the end of a handle, stick, or tube and prevents it from splitting or wearing.” OK.

    Guess what? It’s a different word if you lose one of the Rs. “Ferule” means a flat piece of wood, like a ruler, used to punish children. Ouch!

    Al Oerter was in the puzzle today at 97D: “Discus thrower in the U.S. Olympic Hall of Fame.” I knew the name. He was the first to win gold in the same individual event in four straight Olympics: ’56, ’60, ’64, and ’68. Carl Lewis and Michael Phelps did the same years later. Oerter was from Astoria, Queens, NYC. (Hi Bob and Justine!) He threw college discus at U. Kansas.

    In the 1960 Olympics, Oerter outthrew his teammate who held the world record at the time, and had perhaps the greatest name in the history of Olympic sports: Rink Babka. Rink was from Cheyenne, WY.

    As a child, Oerter frequently traveled to his grandparents’ in Manhattan and admired their art collection. As a retired athlete, he became an abstract painter. For his “Impact” series, Oerter would lay a puddle of paint on a tarp, and fling a discus into it to create splashing lines on a canvas positioned in front of the tarp. If the discus landed painted-face up, Oerter would sign it and give it to whomever purchased the painting. He founded the Art of the Olympians organization, supporting the work of Olympians in the arts.

    He was humble and funny. He said: “I don’t think the discus will ever attract any interest until they let us start throwing them at one another.”

    Oerter suffered from heart disease. When he was advised to seek a transplant he refused, saying  “I’ve had an interesting life, and I’m going out with what I have.” He passed away on October 1, 2007, in Fort Myers, FL, at the age of 71. He was survived by his wife and two daughters, long-shots all.

    This painting, not from his Impact series, is called Red Chair. You can see his signature in the corner.

    It was good to see you in the puzzle, Al. Rest in peace.

    This poem, from today’s Writer’s Almanac is called “I Ask My Mother To Sing,” and is by Li-Young Lee.

    She begins, and my grandmother joins her.
    Mother and daughter sing like young girls.
    If my father were alive, he would play
    his accordion and sway like a boat.

    I’ve never been in Peking, or the Summer Palace,
    nor stood on the great Stone Boat to watch
    the rain begin on Kuen Ming Lake, the picnickers
    running away in the grass.

    But I love to hear it sung;
    how the waterlilies fill with rain until
    they overturn, spilling water into water,
    then rock back, and fill with more.

    Both women have begun to cry.
    But neither stops her song.

    At 108D, I learned a new word. The clue was “Polemology is the study of them” and the answer was WARS. Working off of the W, at 108A, the clue was “Picture book with characters like Odlaw, Wizard Whitebeard and Woof” and the answer was WHERE’S WALDO. Here’s Rex: “Characters? Don’t you just find the stupid stripe-shirt / ski-hat guy in a crowd? Is there really drama? A narrative arc? ‘Characters’ implies such things. I had no idea.” He also confessed to not knowing “polemology,” for a while oddly thinking the answer was TARS. But he knew that had to be wrong, because it would have made the across answer THERE’S WALDO, which he noted would have made a hell of a sequel. (Ha!)

    Speaking of obscure: the clue at 42D was: “______O’Malley Dillon of the Biden White House,” and the answer was JEN. Gimme a break. Here’s a nice tune though.

    This Tiny Love Story was in the NYT today. It’s by Rebecca Gaghen Veron.

    I was 41, single and no longer looking. Rushing back to work from lunch, I was climbing the Metro stairs when a briefcase brushed against my leg. A tall man in a Barbour jacket excused himself — a rarity in Paris — and smiled, revealing his dimples. We entered the same Metro car, and five stops later, both exited. “Madame, if you do not stop following me, I will call the police,” he said, as we waited to cross the street. His dimples reappeared, and soon after, I was no longer single.

    The following is from a piece in the Times today by Jessica Shattuck.

    I have never played on an athletic team. As a child, I was not fast or coordinated or interested in anything that involved chasing, catching or otherwise playing ball.  But in the long, cold and gloomy spring of 2020, I found myself the mother of an 8-year-old son who wanted nothing more than to play ball. This was the heart of early Covid; there were no organized sports, no activities, no babysitting, no school. 

    Will was an excellent coach: He broke the actions of catching and throwing down into a series of discrete steps: Crook your elbow just so, put your weight into the throw, follow through after release. We fell into a rhythm and played for hours on our dead-end street.

    We also weren’t talking. I am a writer who loves putting things into words, but Will doesn’t always love my questions or my boring mom-talk gambits. Here our closeness was measured in tosses, not words. Best of all, by the simple necessity of keeping the ball in the air, we were both fully present.

    Our game, miraculously, continued even after lockdowns were lifted. I still love the satisfying smack of the ball into the mitt, the almost magical feeling of stopping it midair. I like the thrill of reaching some number of consecutive catches, the singular focus of our combined concentration. Most of all I love spending the time, outside, with my son.

    Will is 12 now, and on a travel baseball team. We have reversed roles: Now I’m the one asking him to get up off the couch and play.

    Parenthood is so full of letting go — not just of children turning into young adults and leaving home, but of so many little selves along the path to adulthood. The smiley, round-cheeked toddler becomes the shy 7-year-old; the thoughtful, shaggy-haired kindergartner becomes the clean-cut fifth grader. Sometimes the urge to hold on feels almost frantic. The only way to pin time down is to remember: this moment, this boy, this place. Ritual and repetition.

    When we first started playing, we would begin a few feet apart and with every completed catch take a step back, expanding the distance between us. Now when we play, I’m all the way up by the neighbor’s pine tree, and Will is down by the mailbox. He is almost a foot taller than he was at the start. Even if it’s been a while, the muscle memory kicks in: Catch, draw your arm back, crook your elbow, let go.

    Phil was sober just long enough to snap this Mother’s Day shot for us before keeling over. A young mom and her daughter in the traditional garb of Ukraine. Hang on tight, Mom.

    See you tomorrow!

  • Goat Yoga

    I’m wearing my classic Brooklyn Dodgers cap today. The Dodger blue offsets my bright fire-red shirt nicely. I grew up within earshot of Ebbets Field for the last few seasons the Dodgers played there. I could hear the shouts of fans from the back porch of my house. But I never got to a game at Ebbets. The first game I went to was at Yankee Stadium a few years after the Dodgers left Brooklyn. I saw some games at the Polo Grounds, but those were Mets games before Shea Stadium was ready for them. The Giants were long gone for SF by then. Anyway, like Moses, who got to see The Promised Land but was not able to enter it, I was able to hear the shouts from Ebbets Field but never walked through its gates.

    This story from tomorrow’s Met Diary is by Linda Cahill.

    Overjoyed at seeing a fantastic play on Broadway, I exited the crowded theater and headed for the curb.

    As I stood there waiting for my husband to pick me up, I felt a gentle tug on my sleeve. I turned to see a small, older woman standing next to me and smiling.

    “Are you crossing the street?” she asked. “Will you take me with you?”

    “Oh, no,” I said, laughing. “You don’t want me to help you. I’m legally blind.”

    She replied that she could see but was terribly afraid of falling. If I held onto her as we crossed so she could get her bus, she would watch the traffic for both of us.

    I hesitated but agreed, and clinging to each other, we crossed the street successfully.

    My husband drove up and was surprised to see me on the other side.

    At 33D today the clue was “Fitness class often put on by a farm.” You hear about this? It’s GOAT YOGA. I thought G.O.A.T. must stand for something, like it sometimes does. But it doesn’t. This is yoga that is done amidst goats. You heard me.

    “Goat yoga classes typically take place in a farm or outdoor setting, allowing participants to connect with nature while practicing yoga. The session starts with an introduction to the goats, where participants have the opportunity to meet, pet, and bond with them. This initial interaction helps create a relaxed and joyful atmosphere.

    “Once the yoga practice begins, the goats freely roam around the participants, sometimes even joining them on their mats. While the goats may climb on participants or nudge them playfully, their presence is meant to bring laughter and joy rather than distract from the yoga practice. The goats’ unpredictable behavior adds an element of surprise and excitement to the session, making it a truly unique and memorable experience.”

    A commenter named Gaius Maximus wrote: Now that I know that goat yoga is a thing that exists, the world seems like a slightly worse place than it did when I got up this morning.

    Well, thank you, Mr. Grumpypants!

    Way up there at 1D, this was a great clue: “‘No, you’re the one getting worked up!’” The answer was I’M CALM. I remember seeing Forum on Broadway with my mom. Zero Mostel was out that day, so Dick Shawn took over. Didn’t matter – we had a blast.

    I couldn’t get 15A for the longest time: “Asked for the fish, say.” I knew it started with M and ended with ED. It was MEOWED. Of course.

    And 33A was terrific: “Was treated unfairly, informally.” Answer: GOT THE SHAFT.

    And 6D: “Gross home?” NPR (Think Terry Gross.) Ever wonder what she looks like? The face that goes with the voice?

    Phil! C’mon – really. Cut it out!

    That’s better.

    OK — let’s close with a bang. At 43D, “Rocks” was FISTS. What? You know, from rock, scissors, paper. That’s your cue Mick!

    See you tomorrow!

  • A Pina Colada at Trader Vic’s

    So my doctor says I shouldn’t swim in the ocean. He’s worried about harpoons.

    Ba da boom.

    But, yikes, I just learned how deadly the seas are for whales — and that’s without us even trying to kill them. A cruise ship docked in Brooklyn last week with a 50,000 pound endangered sei whale pinned to its bow, dead. It was a 44-foot adult female (and kinda cute, according to our panel of male whales). She was well-fed and healthy, so a collision with the ship was the cause of death.

    According to the Atlantic Marine Conservation Society, 30 large whales met this same fate last year, just along the NY/NJ coastlines. And worldwide the loss of whales runs (swims?) to 20,000 annually. WTF!! In this particular instance, in its defense, the operator of the ship, MSC Cruises, said the company has protocols to avoid crashing into whales. Deck officers receive training on protecting marine life and the company sometimes alters its itineraries to avoid areas where whales have been spotted.

    Good! And it should help that they are kind of big, no?

    Rep. Frank Pallone Jr. (D-NJ) is seeking to tighten enforcement of ship speed restrictions in the NY/NJ ports. While white-bellied sei whales usually live far off shore, climate change has brought more whales closer to shore.  Here’s one now! Wow — what are the odds?

    How’s that for a cheery opening?

    Well, I’ve blubbered on long enough.

    So whadya think? Will the lady of the hour alter the course of history? Somebody has to or we’re f*cked up the kazoo. Here’s a nice shot Phil copped for us of SD with her daughter.

    “Any other weaknesses?”

    At 41D today, the clue was “Italian seaport that’s home to Miramare Castle,” and many of us did not know TRIESTE, in part because it “looks” French, not Italian. But commenter Steve shared this, putting us to shame: On March 5, 1946, Sir Winston Churchill delivered “Sinews of Peace,” a message heard round the world that went down in history as the “Iron Curtain Speech.” “From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic an “iron curtain” has descended across the continent.

    At 12D, “Snowdrops, for spring” was EARLY SIGN. They are flowering bulbs. Also known as Galanthus. Here you go. Thanks Phil!

    Even better — commenter Andy shared this: Tchaikovsky wrote a set of 12 piano pieces, one for each month of the year. The April piece is called “Snowdrop.” 

    Did you know that “Lie, in slang” is CAP? That was news to me. It means “to lie (duh), set up a false front, bullshit.” It’s from hip-hop as far back as the 80s and often appears as “no cap,” meaning, no lie or it’s true. Here’s Rex on it (he’s an English prof): I am quite certain that CAP will have put nails in more than a few solvers’ tires today. Hard, hard generational divide there. I forget where I (recently) learned that meaning of “(No) CAP,” but I know that after I learned it, I marched into class and asked my students if they knew the term, and yeah, they all knew it (and laughed at me, I presume affectionately).  [OC note: I ran it by Lianna too. She knew it.]

    8D generated a great back-and-forth. The clue was “Who soliloquizes ‘The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run.’” The answer is AHAB, you know, from Moby Dick (see whale discussion, above). It set Rex off, as follows:

    “My only other significant gripe with this puzzle is the clue on AHAB (8D: Who soliloquizes ‘The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run’), specifically the use of the term ‘soliloquizes.’ I know you want to misdirect people, it’s fun, etc., but that is a term for drama. ‘Hey, remember that famous AHAB soliloquy?’ No, you absolutely do not, because there’s no such thing. Hamlet has soliloquies, Macbeth has soliloquies, and almost certainly IAGO has soliloquies, which is what I (and, please tell me, many of you?) put in there at first. That quotation sounds very poetic, Shakespearean, even, and if you’d told me IAGO’s soul was grooved to run on iron rails, I’d’ve said ‘yes’ (and also ‘why are you talking like that?’). I love good misdirects, but that was a cheap one.”

    But commenter Joe Dipinto laid waste (IMO) to Rex’s stance (albeit with quotes from Cliff Notes and SparkNotes):

    Note that this chapter (37) has stage directions at the beginning and in the middle. From now through Chapter 40, the novel will take on the style of a play. The novel shifts into first-person narration from Captain Ahab himself. Since the novel is temporarily turning into a play anyway, you can think of it as a soliloquy, a dramatic monologue laying out the internal reflections of a character.
    — from SparkNotes

    and —

    In these chapters [37-40], Melville continues to present dramatic scenes, using brief stage directions, soliloquy, and dialogue.
    — from CliffsNotes

    Anony-mouse tossed this in:

    i think soliloquy was fine. so does merriam webster
    https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/soliloquy

    1 the act of talking to oneself
    2 a poem, discourse, or utterance of a character in a drama that has the form of a monologue or gives the illusion of being a series of unspoken reflections

    I loved 1A: “Pop of color for an interior designer.” Answer: ACCENT WALL. Neat, right?

    7D was well-liked: “One who can’t handle their moonshine well?” Answer: WEREWOLF. 34A was strong too: “Evidence of a past personal connection?” Answer: NAVEL. (Get it?)

    Son Volt treated us to the Jerry Garcia Band’s version of the appropriate song. but I like how Elle and Toni treat it:

    And how about “Verklempt” at 24A as a clue for TEARY? Gotta love it.

    So Linda and I drove out to Sellersville PA last night to hear Alasdair Fraser and Natalie Haas perform. Incredible traffic doubled the drive time to 3 hours, but we built in enough of a cushion, so it worked out. A tractor-trailer turned over on Route 78, nailing 4 cars and shutting down all three lanes for hours. Yikes! We drove through a lot of nice local areas. Traffic was still backed up as we sped past it in the other direction 6 hours later!

    The show was terrific: they were at the top of their game. They saved Josefin’s Waltz, featured on Owl Chatter recently, for their encore. At the end, Alasdair said, let’s all dance our way out of the theater and into the streets and stop traffic and go on all night. Then he said, Or maybe just lock down the place and play in here all night. Alas, it wasn’t to be. The average age of the audience looked to be about 85, so we were all pretty tired as it is. But I had mentioned Alasdair in a comment on Rex’s blog relating to a puzzle clue for “fiddleheads” and this morning I found this response:

    “I love Alasdair Fraser. Saw him (and his ‘anarchist’ – I think that’s what he called them – band of fiddlers) at the SF Opera House once where he never really ‘ended’ the concert. Just continued playing as he & his band walked off the stage, up the aisles, and out onto the sidewalk where they continued to play for another half hour or so.”

    Here’s a nice reel to send us off tonight. Thanks for stopping by!

  • Dick Rutan Runs Out Of Gas

    Lindbergh’s Spirit of St. Louis is on display at the National Air and Space Museum in DC along with the Wright brothers’ Flyer. And a third plane there is the Voyager, in which Dick Rutan, along with Jeana Yeager, made their historic flight around the world without refueling in 1986. Rutan died on Friday, at age 85, in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.

    The flight took nine days to complete. This is what Trip Gabriel wrote in Rutan’s obit in today’s NYT: “Putt-putting at low altitudes, taking catnaps to steal sleep, nearly slamming into a mountain in Africa and almost ditching in the Pacific Ocean, the Voyager and its crew limped home on fumes from empty fuel tanks two days before Christmas.”

    Jeana is not related to Chuck Yeager, and a background story is that Rutan and Yeager were on very bad terms by the time they made their flight together. Just last year, Rutan, recounting their feat, stated that after they landed, Jeana “got out of the airplane and went back to Texas, and I’ve never heard from her again.” Ouch.

    Dick Rutan’s brother Burt designed the ultralightweight plane, first sketching it on a napkin in a Chinese restaurant in Mojave, CA. The advent of new material made it possible. The success of the historic flight revolutionized the airline industry, leading directly to today’s wide-bodied 787s and Airbus 350s.

    Dick’s brother said that when Dick was born he didn’t have a birth certificate — he had a flight plan. He earned a pilot’s license at 16 and joined the Air Force at 19. He flew 325 combat missions in Vietnam, earning the Silver Star, Purple Heart, and five Distinguished Flying Crosses. He is survived by his wife Kris, his brother, sister, and two daughters. His sister Nell, a retired flight attendant, flew more miles than either of her brothers.

    While being interviewed by the LA Times in 2001, Rutan rolled up the sleeve of his flight suit and rubbed the arm he used to control planes. “See this right here?” he said. “This is the velvet arm. It is without equal in the universe.”

    Rest in peace, Commander.

    This poem by Suji Kwock Kim is from The Poetry Foundation. It’s called “Montage with Neon, Bok Choi, Gasoline, Lovers & Strangers.”

    None of the streets here has a name,
    but if I’m lost
    tonight I’m happy to be lost.

    Ten million lanterns light the Seoul avenues
    for Buddha’s Birthday,
    ten million red blue green silver gold moons

    burning far as the eye can see in every direction
    & beyond,
    “one for every spirit,”
    voltage sizzling socket to socket
    as thought does,
    firing & firing the soul.

    Lashed by wind, flying up like helium balloons
    or hanging still
    depending on weather,

    they turn each road into an earthly River of Heaven
    doubling & reversing
    the river above,

    though not made of much:
    some colored paper, glue, a few wires,
    a constellation of poor facts.

    I can’t help feeling giddy.
    I’m drunk on neon, drunk on air,
    drunk on seeing what was made
    almost from nothing: if anything’s here at all
    it was built
    out of ash, out of the skull-rubble of war,

    the city rising brick by brick
    like a shared dream,
    every bridge & pylon & girder & spar a miracle,

    when half a century ago
    there was nothing
    but shrapnel, broken mortar-casings, corpses,

    the War Memorial in Itaewon counting
    More than 3 Million Dead, or Missing—
    still missed by the living, still loved beyond reason,

    monument to the fact
    that no one can hurt you, no one kill you
    like your own people.

    I’ll never understand it.
    I wonder about others I see on the sidewalks,
    each soul fathomless—

    strikers & scabs walking through Kwanghwamoon,
    or “Gate of Transformation by Light,”
    riot police rapping nightsticks against plexiglass-shields,

    hawkers haggling over cell phones or silk shirts,
    shaking dirt from chamae & bok choi,
    chanting price after price,

    fishermen cleaning tubs of cuttlefish & squid,
    stripping copper carp,
    lifting eels or green turtles dripping from tanks,

    Hanyak peddlars calling out names of cures
    for sickness or love—
    crushed bees, snake bile, ground deer antler, chrysanthemum root,

    bus drivers hurtling past in a blast of diesel-fumes,
    lovers so tender with each other
    I hold my breath,

    dispatchers shouting the names of stations,
    the grocer who calls me “daughter” because I look like her,
    for she has long since left home,

    vendors setting up pojangmachas
    to cook charred silkworms, broiled sparrows,
    frying sesame-leaves & mung-bean pancakes,

    men with hair the color of scallion root
    playing paduk, or GO,
    old enough to have stolen overcoats & shoes from corpses,

    whose spirits could not be broken,
    whose every breath seems to say:
    after things turned to their worst, we began again,

    but may you never go through what we went through,
    may you never see what we saw,
    may you never remember & may you never forget.

    There’s a story about baseball autographs in the NYT Styles section today, not Sports. It’s about ballplayers seeking autographs from each other — typically, from the current stars. A clubhouse attendant may be drafted to make a request of a visiting team member. Rookies are hesitant to bother big stars. Graciously, when Derek Jeter entered his final season with the Yankees, he let it be known that he’d be happy to sign for any major league player, i.e., rookies needn’t be shy. Conversely, pitcher Zack Greinke is known to be a big Mr. Grumpypants about it.

    Did you know Derek and his beautiful wife Hannah have three daughters? Good luck when they are all teenagers at the same time, Captain.

    Steve Albini passed away on Tuesday in Chicago. He was only 61. Steve was a very well-respected musician, producer, audio engineer, and journalist. He was critical of the music industry, arguing that it exploited and stylistically homogenized artists. He refused to take royalties from artists he worked with, arguing that it was unethical. He credits his career in music to hearing the Ramones’ first album when he was 14 or 15. One of his bands was Big Black. Here’s one of their tunes. Turn it up, and give it a minute to get going.

    Rest in peace, Steve.

    Headline in The Onion: Trump Drapes Jacket Over Head So Nobody Can Tell He’s Sleeping In Court

    The puzzle was pretty crafty today. It used roman numerals as words. For example, at 30A, the clue was “‘Everything will be fine,’ in old Rome?” and the answer was DONIIRRYABOUTIT. If you replace II with TWO, it becomes DON'[T WO]RRY ABOUT IT.

    For “Do a judge’s job,” the answer was WVIIIHEEVIDENCE. Replacing the VIII with EIGHT gives you W[EIGH T]HE EVIDENCE.

    At 51D, the clue was “Like the smell of a pub:” BEERY. Some would have preferred Noah BEERY, Jr., the dad from the Rockford Files.

    Thanks for popping in. See you tomorrow!

  • Cocoa Beach

    Story in The Onion: Bored Riot Cops Break Up Calculus Class.

    LOS ANGELES—Kicking down the unlocked classroom door after listlessly wandering around campus, bored riot cops reportedly broke up a calculus course at the University of California, Los Angeles, on Tuesday. “Hey guys, look—there’s some students in there,” said Los Angeles Police Department Lt. Thomas Larkins, who led a team that stormed the lecture hall, tearing laptops and calculators from the surprised undergraduates’ hands and dragging them away in handcuffs. 

    “Objection, Your Honor! The witness is using a Trump Bible!”

    Regarding yesterday’s RINGS A BELL puzzle, this extraordinary post by Anoa Bob:

    When I saw the RINGS A BELL reveal, I literally groaned and lamented “Oh no! The NYTXW has perpetuated one of the biggest myths in psychology.” IVAN PAVLOV didn’t use a BELL when he conditioned dogs to salivate! He said that a ringing bell was aversive to their sensitive hearing and would upset the dogs and interfere with his studies. He most often used the audible click of a metronome as the stimulus to be associated with food being put into the dog’s mouth.

    The erroneous belief that it was a bell has been attributed to a misunderstanding or misinterpretation of PAVLOV’s writing. Daniel P. Todes’ definitive biography Ivan Pavlov: A Russian Life in Science, winner of the 2015 Pfizer Award from the History of Science Society, opens with this sentence: “Contrary to legend, Ivan Pavlov (1849-1936) never trained a dog to salivate to the sound of a bell.”

    Where else but in Owl Chatter can you find such an earth-shattering revelation, I ask you. An afterthought: need we worry that the acronym for the History of Science Society is HISS? Nah.

    In the puzzle today, the clue at 1D is “Doomsday prepper’s stockpile,” and the answer is AMMO. In the Jewish version of the puzzle, the answer is BRISKET.

    At 23D, the clue was “Having a baby bump, slangily,” and the answer was PREGGO, which sounds like a combination spaghetti sauce/fertility drug, IMO.

    At 20A the clue was “City on Florida’s Space Coast.” COCOA BEACH. It was new to me, and I’ve put some time in down in FLA visiting my mom, back in the day (aleha hashalom). It sent Rex off on a mini-rant. He noted it’s pop is only 11,539, and “that is the one and only fact about it in the entire opening paragraph of its wikipedia entry, beyond the fact that “[i]t is part of the Palm Bay–Melbourne–Titusville, Florida Metropolitan Statistical Area.” It’s a minuscule town (“city?” come on…) inside a metro area I’ve never even heard of.” He damned it with the label “not crossworthy.”

    But he’s wrong.  It’s where Major Nelson and Jeannie lived in I Dream of Jeannie. Quite crossworthy.

    Verbatim, from my tax class last week, after a brief interruption:

    Me: Where were we? I have no idea.

    Student: You said, “This is very important.”

    Me: Oh, man? Did I really? Darnit. Well, how important could it be? It’s not life and death.

    (I eventually remembered.)

    Gotta keep it short tonight. Tired. See you tomorrow!

  • My Bra Is Chafing Me

    This poem, from today’s Writer’s Almanac is by Ingrid Swanberg and is called “on my way to Santa Rosa.”

    my father and I stood
    in the still heat
    of the churchyard
    grown wild with tall grasses
    and red-winged blackbirds’
    burrs &
    loops
    of song

    the pews inside were gone
    bees hived in the rafters above the altar,
    the anger of the Baptist long silent,
    and the boarded windows let in streams of moted light.

    my father was a man who read
    the gentleness of the mountain
    in the clear stream

    I was afraid he was ashamed
    that his old church stood so small
    in the wild grass,
    but he smiled
    with an easy heart

    Rex addressed a pet peeve of mine yesterday, viz., how you write a laughing sound. The clue at 70A was “[giggle]” and the answer was HEHE. Here’s Rex: “I have never liked HEHE as a plausible laugh sound. It’s HEE, that’s the syllable. Maybe HEE-HEE or TEE-HEE. I’d also accept HEH if it’s a kind of sneering laugh or chortle. But HEHE just doesn’t wash. Never seen it anywhere but crosswords.”

    Amen to that, Big Guy. I’m okay with “ha ha” too, or even “har.” I often go with “tee hee,” unhyphenated (and unhydrogenated).

    At 30D, the clue was “Faint from emotion.” I put SWOON down right away, and it was correct. Rex said he tried PLOTZ first — a great word, but less likely as the answer.

    The theme was “I’M ON A ROLL.” In three places, the letters IM appeared in circles in a short answer on top of a longer answer that was a type of roll. The IM in IMPS was on top of SNAKE EYES, which is a “roll” of the dice. The IM of RIMS was on top of CLASS ROSTER, which is a class “roll.” And the IM of IMAGE was on top of CINNAMON BUN, a sweet “roll.”

    TINA from Bob’s Burgers was a puzzle guest. I’m not familiar with the show, but she sounds like a neat character.

    And here are a few quotes: “I have an announcement: my bra is chafing me.” “Do horses get songs stuck in their heads?” “My heart just pooped its pants.”

    On Saturday, in a subtle, carefully worded, nuanced dig at his bete noir, Trump called Jack Smith a fucking asshole. It was in the same rant in which he likened the Biden administration to the gestapo.

    Here’s Trump on Stormy’s testimony:

    There’s a growing concern in Swiftdom that Taylor’s boyfriend, footballer Travis Kelce, may be starting to feel the effects of all those bruising tackles he has received over the years. The issue was addressed head-on, so to speak, by The Onion in this report:

    Taylor Swift Begins Day By Playing Video Reminding Travis Kelce Who She Is, How Long They’ve Dated

    LEAWOOD, KS—Urging her boyfriend to calm down after he woke up and immediately began to panic, Taylor Swift reportedly began her day Friday by playing a video reminding Travis Kelce who she is and how long they’ve dated. “Hi baby, I know you don’t know who I am right now, but my name is Taylor, and I love you very much,” said Swift, who, for the 200th time since the two started dating, played a 30-minute video that explained who the Kansas City Chiefs tight end was, how he woke up in a mansion, and why he was lying in bed with one of the world’s most famous singer-songwriters. “See, that’s you as a baby. And that’s you on the Kansas City Chiefs, with all your friends like Patrick Mahomes and Andy Reid. And that’s me. You thought I was pretty, so you gave me a friendship bracelet with your phone number on it. Now you’re dating a 14-time Grammy winner slash billionaire. To be honest, I don’t know how you pulled it off either!”

    I sent an entry in to Frank Bruni’s “For the love of sentences” feature today. It was on Kristi Noemi, who shot her dog and goat. It was on her lying about meeting Kim Jong-un. Bret Stephens: “I don’t think she’s going to be our next Republican vice-presidential nominee, because even Trump knows he needs to surround himself with more competent liars.”

    And, speaking of Kristi, it’s no stretch of the imagination to conclude that her brutality to animals is a sign that she’s a pretty poor excuse for a human being in general. But a letter to the editor in The Times today from John Miraglia of Old Bridge, NJ says there’s research to back that conclusion up. “Is how we treat our dogs predictive of how we would treat people? Research says yes. “75% of abused women who have companion animals report a history of their companion animal being threatened or intentionally harmed by their intimate partner,’ according to an article published by the FBI.”

    Woof, woof.

    In today’s puzzle, 48D was APRIL, clued by its being the cruelest month, per TSE. It gave Son Volt the opportunity to remind us how beautiful this song is. And how sad. For anyone who has ever let love slip through his fingers, it’s a devastating two minutes. “A love, once new, has now grown old.”

    A big flap arose over 10D where the clue was “Features of deerstalker hats,” and the answer was EARLAPS. Many folks wanted an F in there. Here’s how egsforbreakfast put it: I like my hats with EARLAPS and my gloves with ingers. M-W has a one word definition for EARLAP: earflap. Welp, I better get my comment finished cuz Mrs. Egs has a mess of lapjacks waiting on the table.

    The puzzle’s theme was “RINGS A BELL.” So the long answers were WILLY LOMAN, QUASIMODO, SANTA CLAUS, and IVAN PAVLOV.

    It generated some grumbling from the American Nitpickers Association and League, which noted that Willy Loman sold his wares directly to department stores and so did not “ring bells” door-to-door.

    I have to say I don’t particularly associate Santa Clause with bell ringing either. The clue tries to make up for that by linking him to the Salvation Army’s endlessly annoying ringers: “Whom a Salvation Army volunteer might dress as.”

    Both are close enough for crosswords, though.

    Oooh, and I think those last few bells are signaling the end of this nonsense for today.

    See you next time!

  • Canephori

    This “Tiny Love Story” from today’s NYT is by David Shock.

    My wife died in 1991. Her best friend and I grew close in mourning. That blossomed into love. But was it a good match? And so soon, just months later? After a Chinese dinner, we opened our fortune cookies. Hers: “He likes to flirt, but toward you his intentions are honorable.” Mine: “You or a close friend will be married within a year.” Married 32 years now, she struggles with cognition, and has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. On a trip before that diagnosis, I stopped alone at a Thai diner. My fortune: “Embrace the change that is coming.” Love abides.

    Here’s a shot Phil took of the two of them outside of Yankee Stadium. (Well, very very very far outside.)

    With the Russian army taking an approach in Ukraine akin to feeding paper (i.e., its own men), into a shredder, it’s no surprise that Russia is running out of soldiers. So a front page piece in the NYT today revealed that it’s encouraging women to join up. Of course, on March 8th Putin said: “The most important thing for every woman, no matter what profession she has chosen and what heights she has reached, is the family.” But upon being informed that all the men are dead, he said “Fu*k that sh*t. Sign ’em up.”

    Recruiting officers are circulating through Russian prisons offering women inmates a pardon and $2,000 a month — 10 times the national minimum wage — in return for serving in frontline roles for a year, no military experience required. Hmmmmmm. There’s a catch there somewhere — sounds like too good a deal.

    Can you find the lady in this platoon?

    Ouch. That has to hurt — Phil! Help her up! That’s Sunisa “Suni” LEE. She was chosen for the puzzle today over Ang, Robert E., and Spike. Good choice! Her last name at birth was Phabsomphou, which is a smidge less crossword friendly than LEE.

    Suni was the 2020 Olympic all-around champion, and the 2019 world championship silver medalist on the floor. She was a member of the teams that won gold at the 2019 World Championships and silver at the 2020 Summer Olympics. In 2021, she was named Female Athlete of the Year by Sports Illustrated. Lee is the first Hmong-American Olympian, and the first woman of Asian descent and first Asian-American woman to win the Olympic all-around title. After Suni’s spectacular wins, her team adopted the motto “A giant walks Hmong us.” [No it didn’t.]

    Suni is not related to the gymnasts Ginger Lee or Hungra Lee. Red Sox pitcher Bill Lee once said “Kansas is so flat you can stand on a chair and watch your dog leave you for three days.”

    Crossworld bids a sad goodbye to Nancy Schuster, crossword solver, constructor, and editor, who passed away at age 90 in Newburgh, NY on April 26. Nancy “burst onto the scene” in 1978 when she won the first ever American Crossword Puzzle Tournament in Stamford CT, and walked off with a whopping $125 in prize money. (The grand prize this year is $7,500.) She said the hardest clue was in puzzle #3 (of 5) and was  “Greek festival maidens with baskets on their heads.” The answer, of course, is CANEPHORI.

    Nancy was born in the Bronx and went to the Bronx High School of Science (Hi Joe!), and then earned a BS degree in chemistry at Adelphi. The editor of the PTA rag at her son’s elementary school asked her to write XW puzzles to jazz up the publication. She was quickly hooked and jokingly said “my house never got cleaned, my dinners never got made, my children were filthy, and my husband was furious.”

    She graduated to more serious publications and was one of three candidates to replace Eugene T. Maleska in 1993 as the XW editor of The Times. But she believed Will Shortz was more deserving of the job because he could dedicate himself more completely to it than she could have. For most of the past 30 years — until her 90th birthday last year — Mrs. Schuster tested and proofread The Times’s crosswords for Will Shortz. [BTW, that’s Shortz in the white shirt behind Nancy, below.]

    Nancy had 12 puzzles published in the NYT and recalled in particular one that was rejected by Margaret Farrar, the first NYT editor. The theme was the “kissing bug,” or mononucleosis. “She definitely did not approve of that,” Nancy recalled. “She was horrified!” [As a measure of how times (and The Times) have changed, today’s puzzle contains two “feminine hygiene product” clues for TAMPON and PAD, and, separately, BRA and TEAT.]

    Nancy is survived by her daughter and son and four grandchildren. Irwin Schuster, a songwriter and music publisher whom she married in 1955, died in 1984. She left instructions for her burial to be carried out six down and twelve across.

    Rest in peace, Nance. Crossworld is richer for your good work.

    And we will let that shayna punim send us off tonight. So joyous! See you tomorrow.

  • Gas Station Sushi

    Here’s a headline from The Onion: Trump Watching Movie On iPad During Trial Without Using Headphones. The story goes on to state: “According to court transcripts, Judge Juan Merchan repeatedly attempted to get Trump’s attention to ask him to turn off the 1994 Harrison Ford CIA thriller Clear And Present Danger, but the former commander-in-chief’s eyes remained locked on the screen, seemingly unbothered by the disturbance he was causing.

    This is a terrible poem that was submitted to Met Diary by Lou Craft. Or maybe it’s not terrible after all. You decide.

    Anything is possible in Coney.
    Everyone believes that dreams come true.
    It’s an Eden of Illusion,
    That indulges your confusion,
    A mystery without a clue.

    Everything is wonderful in Coney.
    The Ferris wheel will bring you to the sky.
    As you gaze across the ocean,
    You can somehow get the notion,
    You will soar and you will fly.

    I found my love, she’s gone now, in Coney.
    In Coney.

    Everything is possible in Coney.
    In Coney Island all your dreams come true.
    You must never ask what is it,
    But just know that it’s exquisite,
    And all you’d ever want
    Is there for you.

    In today’s puzzle the clue at 31D was “Ball handler?” and I was about to fill in POINT GUARD which would fit. But that question mark tells us it’s got to have something cutesy about it. So I waited for some crossing letters to appear, grudgingly — it was a hard puzzle. It turned out to be PODIATRIST. I guess it’s the ball of your foot that’s being handled. (UROLOGIST wouldn’t fit.)

    My favorite was 17A: “Iconic line on 1950s TV.” Remember it? — LUCY I’M HOME. Actually, however, in the entire series, Desi only said “Lucy I’m home” once (in the fur coat episode). He typically said “Honey I’m home.” People think he said “Lucy.” It’s an example of the Mandela Effect (discussed in earlier OC posts).

    35D was new to me. The clue was “Japanese aesthetic that embraces imperfection,” and the answer was WABI-SABI. From Wikipedia: It’s a world view centered on the acceptance of transience and imperfection. It appreciates beauty that is “imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete” in nature. It’s derived from the Buddhist teaching of the three marks of existence: impermanence, suffering, and emptiness or absence of self-nature. [The Jewish version adds the ungratefulness of children.] Characteristics include asymmetry, roughness, simplicity, economy, austerity, modesty, intimacy, and the appreciation of both natural objects and the forces of nature.

    Rex noted that Wikipedia includes a warning not to confuse WABI-SABI with wasabi, the spicy sushi condiment. He writes: “WABI-SABI is obviously a term that is getting used carelessly by non-Japanese speakers; otherwise, why would Wikipedia warn me ‘Not to be confused with wasabi?’ Hey, Wikipedia, you’re not the boss of me. If I wanna apply WABI-SABI to my tuna roll, I’m gonna apply WABI-SABI to my tuna roll.”

    Hrrrrrrumph!

    But never mind all that. Very sexy TARA REID paid her first visit to Owl Chatter in today’s puzzle. Hey TR!

    She was clued with her role of Bunny Lebowski in “The Big Lebowski.” You may also remember her from “Sharknado.” I missed “Sharknado,” but this trailer is pretty informative. It’s sort of a cross between Jaws and Singin’ in the Rain.

    How’s this for a pairing? Rainer Maria RILKE with MR T. They crossed in the grid at their shared R.

    Jeez Louise — lighten up, guys. Rilke said the following:

    “For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.”

    Amen to that, Bro. I’m sure T is with you on that, RMR.

    You hear of Dan Bern? Word of him had not reached me under my rock until yesterday. In yesterday’s puzzle, at 42A the clue was “Pip’s love in ‘Great Expectations’” and the answer was ESTELLA. It led Son Volt to share this pretty amazing (IMO) Dan Burn song called “Estelle.” Before we hear it, this is the first para in his Wikipedia entry: “Dan Bern (also known as Bernstein; born July 27, 1959) is an American guitarist, singer, songwriter, novelist, and painter. His music has been compared to that of Bob Dylan, Woody Guthrie, Bruce Springsteen, Phil Ochs and Elvis Costello.”

    This song is very much ala Dylan; the words reward close attention, if, you know, you like Dylan.

    Everybody’s favorite clue/answer yesterday was “Shell fish?” The answer was GAS STATION SUSHI. (It’s probably not too bad with wabi-sabi on it, amirite?)

    Rex wished that the Japanese beer ASAHI which appeared elsewhere in the grid, were more closely paired with the sushi. He wrote: “After that GAS STATION SUSHI you are definitely gonna want something to wash it down, and ASAHI seems fitting. The SUSHI / ASAHI crossing would’ve been the cherry on top (which, coincidentally, is how they serve GAS STATION SUSHI. Me: [looks dubiously at plastic container of sushi next to the beef jerky jar] “Maraschino cherry?” Cashier: “Yup. It’s sweet. Kinda hides the fishy taste, you know? You want a Miller Lite with that?” “Uh … you got any ASAHI?”). 

    Now, that is some goddamn Grade A puzzle commentary. I can’t top that sh*t.

    See you tomorrow!