The Wellington Files

  • Ol’ Rocky Top

    An article on the front page of today’s NYT sounded like Ray and Tom’s Car Talk theory that holds that the earth’s rotation is caused by billboards, i.e., when wind hits a billboard it causes the earth to rotate. It’s hard to argue against a view that is so strongly anchored in common sense, right? Similarly, Ki-Weon Seo, a geophysicist at Seoul National University, explained why the earth’s axis is going “off-kilter.” The wind is just part of it.

    As it moves through space, “the Earth wobbles like a poorly thrown Frisbee” because it bulges at the Equator, water is sloshing around in the oceans, and air masses are whirling. [Oddly, the article does not mention billboards.] Well, now it’s been discovered that the Earth’s axis is “wandering” due to imbalances caused by glaciers and ice sheets melting, and because trillions of gallons of water are being pumped up from underground annually.

    The effect has been pretty small so far — I certainly haven’t felt anything, though I do keel over from time to time. So, e.g., there has been no effect on the seasons (which are determined by the planet’s tilt). But navigation systems may be off. The next time you think your GPS is taking you to that new restaurant in West Orange, but you wind up in Lawrenceville, you know what to blame — that f*cking wandering axis. Or maybe this enormous woman. Or the billboards.

    Bobby Osborne died on Tuesday at age 91 in a hospital in Gallatin, Tennessee. Besides his accomplishments in Bluegrass music, he fought with the Marines in Korea where he was wounded in combat and awarded a Purple Heart.

    His brother Sonny and he formed the Osborne Brothers in 1953 and revolutionized Bluegrass music with innovative harmonies, instrumentals, and an expansive repertoire. Bobby was also a brilliant and innovative mandolinist. Almost single-handedly, he fought off the effort to rename it the persondolin.

    He and Sonny were the first to record “Rocky Top,” written by hubby-and-wife team Felice and Boudleaux Bryant. It was the Osbornes’ biggest hit and was adopted as one of Tennessee’s state songs. It’s also the fight song of the U. Tenn Volunteers. “Ain’t no smoggy smoke on Rocky Top: Ain’t no telephone bills.”

    I can’t decide which of two versions I like better, so I’m including both. (Neither is the original – sorry Bobby.)

    The song appears to be celebrating the murder of federal agents.

    Once two strangers climbed ol’ Rocky Top
    Looking for a moonshine still.
    Strangers ain’t come down from Rocky Top
    Reckon they never will.

    Bobby was born on Dec. 7, 1931 in Thousandsticks, an unincorporated Appalachian enclave near Hyden, Kentucky. He is survived by his wife Karen, four children, a sister, five grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren, all of whom, he would be pleased to know, are still tapping their toes.

    In the puzzle today “Captain’s emergency quarters” was SEA CABIN. I hadn’t heard of it in all my years on the sea (none). But commenter LTJG John said:

    “The Captain’s SEA CABIN is a real thing. It’s a small space adjacent to the bridge on a warship where the Captain can sleep when the ship is under way. Allows him to jump into action quickly when there is an event that requires his immediate presence on the bridge. Otherwise, he would have to be fetched from his fancy Captain’s quarters, which would take many crucial minutes. Saw frequent use of it during 3 years aboard the heavy cruiser USS Saint Paul during the Vietnam war.”

    Have you heard the word “dysphemistically?” It’s the opposite of “euphemistically.” In the latter, you use a nicer word; in the former, you use a less nice word. It came in the clue “‘Free to pursue other opportunities,’ dysphemistically.” The answer was AXED. Nicer ways to put it might be “let go,” or “in between jobs.”

    How about: “French clog … and the root of an English word meaning “disrupt.” The answer was SABOT and the word that stems from it is “sabotage.” It does come directly from the shoe, per Wanderlust: SABOTage became an English word in the early 20th century, coming from the French saboter, which means “kick with SABOTs, willfully destroy.”

    From the Owl Chatter Nit-Picking Dept: 5D today was “First name in pilsners,” and, that being my “wheelhouse,” as they say, I wrote STELLA right down. But it rubbed commenter okanaganer wrongly: “The clue for STELLA grated a bit… Stella is not a first name, it is actually THE name of the beer, latin for ‘star.’ And Artois was the name of the first brewery to make it.”

    OK. Thanks! (Burp!)

    This is nice — Crossworld doffed its cap to honor Gilda Radner whose birthday it was yesterday (as Owl Chatter noted). In today’s New Yorker puzzle, the clue at 5D was “Gilda Radner ‘S.N.L.’ character based on an iconic journalist.” (Eight letters, and you should know the answer.)

    Happy 6th Birthday Leon! What an incredible little guy! To 120, Buddy! (Isaac on the side, uncharacteristically quiet.)

    Can’t beat that for an ending. See you tomorrow!

  • Gilda

    In yesterday’s Pirates-Padres game, Pirate pitcher Rich Hill got the win (his 7th), lasting 6 innings and giving up four runs. He faced Nellie Cruz three times, twice retiring Cruz, and once yielding a run-scoring single. When Cruz reached first, he may have turned to first-bagger Carlos Santana and said “Oy!” The reason these confrontations are noteworthy is that Hill and Cruz are the two oldest players currently in MLB. Hill turned 43 on March 11, and Nelson will celebrate his 43rd on Saturday. Cruz has 464 lifetime home runs. In the six-year period 2014-2019 he averaged over 40 HR and 105 RBI a year. Hill’s lifetime record is 89-66 with a 3.89 ERA.

    Hill looks like your Uncle Morty up there on the mound after a sleepless night from his enlarged prostate. Cruz is graying but still looks pretty spiffy.

    In the puzzle today, 33D was “Like a free ride when you’ve already paid, per a 1996 hit,” and the answer was IRONIC. It’s a line from the Alanis Morissette song Ironic. At the time, a big topic of discussion was whether the examples she used in her lyrics are actually ironic. Rex noted NPR had a segment with an English professor on the issue. I wish I had heard it. Here are ten examples from the song, most of which don’t seem ironic:

    (1) An old man turned ninety-eight
    He won the lottery and died the next day
    (2) It’s a black fly in your Chardonnay
    (3) It’s a death row pardon two minutes too late

    (4) It’s like rain on your wedding day
    (5) It’s a free ride when you’ve already paid
    (6) It’s the good advice that you just didn’t take

    (7) A traffic jam when you’re already late
    (8) A “No Smoking” sign on your cigarette break
    (9) It’s like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife
    (10) It’s meeting the man of my dreams
    And then meeting his beautiful wife

    For one thing, aren’t (2) and (4) just bad luck? Where’s the irony? Comedian Ed Byrne said the only thing ironic about the song is that it’s called Ironic. Alanis herself admitted that she was using the term very loosely.

    If your subscription to Fig City News has lapsed, then you missed the neat story on friend Alan’s pollinator garden that is in full bloom and was celebrated with a ribbon-cutting ceremony recently, the surprising part of which was that Alan is apparently trusted with scissors or some sort of sharp instrument. Along with the leader of an Eagle Scout troop, Alan spent months planning the garden, securing funding, and engaging the City’s Parks, Recreation & Culture Department. It’s in Cold Spring Park in Newton, MA; Alan is the Prez of the Friends of CSP.

    As the article notes, the garden is composed of native plants that attract and nurture native birds, insects (including bumblebees and 10 species of butterfly), and amphibians. Insect pollinators — which are needed to support the procreation of 85% of plants — are in danger of significant decline, and gardens like this one counteract that trend locally. 

    Thanks to Owl Chatter friend Andreae, Newton Councilwoman (Councilor?) for this story! Easy with that blade, Alan!

    It’s the birthday of the widely-loved Michigan girl Gilda Radner today. Gilda would have been 77, were it not for her untimely death way back on May 20, 1989, at age 42, just over 34 years ago. The cause of death was cancer. Gilda also struggled for many years with bulimia.

    Rolling Stone said of her: “Gilda was the most beloved of the original [SNL] cast. In the years between Mary Tyler Moore and Seinfeld’s Elaine, Radner was the prototype for the brainy city girl with a bundle of neuroses.”

    Here are several things she said:

    I base most of my fashion taste on what doesn’t itch.

    I’d much rather be a woman than a man. Women can cry, they can wear cute clothes, and they’re the first to be rescued off sinking ships.

    Adopted kids are such a pain – you have to teach them how to look like you.

    And this line of hers may be the best I’ve ever heard on overeating: “I’m so full I can’t hear.”

    Happy Birthday, Gilda!

    Owl Chatter Nit-Picking Dept.

    The puzzle today had “Harbinger of danger,” for CANARY in a COAL MINE.

    smalltowndoc asked: “Is a CANARY in a COAL MINE really a harbinger of danger? Shouldn’t it be a dead CANARY in a COAL MINE?”

    Mr. Grumpypants replied: “The canary keels over before it dies and before humans would be affected, so, yes, that was accurate.”

    Okay. Thanks fellas.

    If you’re not familiar with Randy Rainbow, try this one.

    That will do for today. See you tomorrow.

  • If I Could Only Fly

    Below is today’s grid. Note the circled letters. Can you infer the theme from them? The “revealer” is at 59A: MUSTACHE. The circled letters spell out four types of mustaches, and their shapes! Quite a feat of construction, IMO.

    The best one is right in the middle: HANDLEBAR. The other three are FU MANCHU, DALI, and PENCIL. Happily, the Hitler mustache was excluded. Here’s a nice handlebar: it’s Rollie Fingers, Hall of Fame pitcher.

    Rex liked the puzzle, but thought the clue for the revealer was blah. It was “What each set of circled letters in this grid represents.” Yup. Blah. Well, the constructor, Anthony Gisonda, chimed in to defend himself! He said he submitted the puzzle with a different clue, but Will Shortz changed it. The clue (for MUSTACHE) was originally going to be something about the puzzle’s “participation in MOVEMBER.” (What?) Here’s what Wikipedia says: “Movember is an annual event involving the growing of mustaches during the month of November to raise awareness of men’s health issues, such as prostate cancer, testicular cancer, and men’s suicide. It is a portmanteau of the Australian-English diminutive word for mustache, ‘mo,’ and ‘November.’”  The NYT editors must have thought that was too hard for a Tuesday.

    And now for something completely ridiculous, check out this video offered up by Rex commenter Mack:

    The clue at 33A was “Famed 1990s TV psychic,” and it’s MISS CLEO. Her actual name was Youree Dell Harris. You may have seen her in late-night TV ads long ago, shilling for the Psychic Readers Network. She answered the big questions of life for callers. It was a total fraud, of course. Callers were charged by the minute, even if they were promised a free trial. She got into that only after failing in more legitimate theater — she wrote and produced several shows in Seattle, but fled the city leaving creditors and unpaid cast-members behind when the shows failed.

    When the psychic scam blew up she managed to avoid indictment. The owners settled by releasing callers from $500 million in fees and paying $5 million to the FTC. It had been a billion-dollar business. Harris was very likeable and popular. She used a phony Jamaican accent it was easy to develop due to her Caribbean heritage. She said she never made much money herself as Miss Cleo. But she enjoyed having fans:

    “If I’m standing in line somewhere and I’m talking, someone will whip their head around and look at me. People give me mad love, sweetheart. They’ll say, ‘Do you see anything? Where do we find you? When are you coming back? We miss you.’ I get a lot of love.”

    Harris died from cancer at only age 53 in 2016. She is survived by two daughters. She can still be reached at an 800 number. Have your credit card ready, Honey.

    At 49A, “Baby shower guest of honor,” was MOM TO BE. Here’s a surprise! If you think her dad was mad before over the legs business . . . .

    And here’s a real one. Awwww. . .

    Phil! Make sure she’s comfortable before you leave.

    Here’s a note from mathgent I love:

    I just found this on last Friday’s puzzle page. I think it’s the answer to the Thursday cryptogram.

    “Have you checked out that chic new bistro, Karma? There’s no menu. You get what you deserve.”

    Jim in Canada shared this nice note:

    Interesting(?) personal trivia… I met my husband because of his mustache. I searched that term on a dating site and his profile popped up. He has a glorious big HANDLEBAR and looks a lot like the Monopoly guy. Had to quit my job, sell my house, and move to Canada to marry him…. Nine years ago now. Totes worth it.

    [Sweet.]

    If I could only fly
    If I could only fly
    I’d bid this place goodbye
    And come and be with you.

    The answer at 9D was BLAZE, and it led Son Volt to share this song by Blaze Foley, called “If I Could Only Fly.” If you can spare five minutes, you might find it to be beautiful.

    So — Owl Chatter fans — we’re coming up on our 250th post soon! I know — hard to believe. Don’t get your hopes up, but the staff is working hard on getting Yevgeny Pregozhin to stop by. It would be quite a coup. (Literally.) The hope is he’d bring some fancy eats — as you may know, he started out in the catering business before becoming a ruthless warlord, which is actually not a very uncommon path for warlords. Word is he’s in Jersey anyway, so it shouldn’t be too big an ask. Hope to see you YP! (If we can get Taylor to show, the men might forgive your gutless cave-in, amirite?)

    Thanks for stopping by, folks — see you tomorrow!

  • Myca and Renee

    We’ve heard back from Owl Chatter’s Director of Puns, Brookline Carl, who conceded that his eyes glazed over when he heard the topic was pottery. His first response was to go out and get plastered. But he is deep into his research now, starting with No Joy In Mudville, the acclaimed novel about a community of disconsolate potters. He’ll also be reading the speeches of Henry Clay and the entire Harry Potter series, as well as looking into the exploits of Sir Amic, Knight of the Round Table. He’ll keep us apprised of how things are shaping up.

    Here’s a young lady in a neat Harry Potter outfit:

    Today’s puzzle has the theme at 61A: PICKY PICKY PICKY, and it’s about folks who “pick” things: VEGETABLE FARMER, BANJO PLAYER, and TEAM CAPTAIN. It also sticks in a couple of things you pick as short answers: NITS, SPOT, PEA (as in pea-pickin’), and ACNE(?). Missing is NOSE! Boo!

    Here are two of our finest banjo “pickers:” Bela Fleck and Tony Trischka.

    An ANGORA CAT was in the puzzle today: Meow!

    As much as Owl Chatter tries to avoid becoming a platform for Trump, once in a while there is a quote so delicious it can’t be ignored. This time, it’s his version of the notion that “Christ died for you.” Speaking at the Faith & Freedom Coalition gala in DC on Saturday (for 90 meandering minutes, according to the Times), Trump said: “I’m being indicted for you.” Hallelujah!

    Forty years ago this week, Twilight Zone: The Movie opened to, at best, mixed reviews. Vincent Canby called it a “flabby mini-minded behemoth.” But do you remember this? — On the same day it was released, grand jury indictments were unsealed against five of the filmmakers, including director John Landis, in connection with a stunt that went bad and killed three people: 2 children, ages 7 and 6 (Myca Dinh Le and Renee Shin-Yi Chen) and actor Vic Morrow.

    Morrow’s character was a loud-mouthed bigot who was transported into various scenes in which he is the victim of bigotry, e.g., the Klan-era South, and a Vietnam battle scene. In Vietnam, he’s carrying two kids to safety across a river as a village explodes behind them. But the effects were f’cked up and the explosion caused a helicopter to crash and kill them. It later emerged that use of the kids violated child labor law provisions. Also, Landis was abusive on the set towards everyone and cavalier about safety requirements. Get this — he ordered the use of live ammo because he didn’t like the effect of fake gunfire. All five were charged with involuntary manslaughter, a felony. But, as the NYT put it, all were acquitted “thanks to a somewhat bungled prosecution and a seemingly star-struck jury.”

    Despite the horrifying and damning elements of the case, Hollywood rallied behind Landis. Sixteen major directors — including Francis Ford Coppola, Ron Howard, John Huston, George Lucas, Sidney Lumet and Billy Wilder (but not Spielberg)— signed an open letter of support for him, and his career was not at all derailed. Landis directed the music video for Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” and the feature comedies “Trading Places” and “Three Amigos” in that period. After the trial, Eddie Murphy hired Landis to direct his 1988 comedy “Coming to America,” though they clashed during production; while promoting the film, Murphy was asked if he’d ever work with Landis again, and he (tastelessly) said “Vic Morrow has a better chance of working with Landis than I do.” But the film was a gigantic hit, and six years later, Landis again directed Murphy in “Beverly Hills Cop III.”

    The Times says people are still dying on film sets as budget concerns take priority over safety. Those poor children died needlessly. Their parents filed civil suits and settled out of court. The same occurred with a suit filed by Jennifer Jason Leigh — Vic Morrow’s daughter. In an Owl Chatter exclusive, here’s Morrow carrying the kids in the scene before they were all killed.

    Let’s end on a brighter note: The lovely Duchess of Sussex, Meghan MARKLE visited the grid today. What in the world does Harry see in her?

    See you tomorrow!

  • Shark Attack

    On this date 85 years ago, the federal law was passed establishing a minimum wage, time-and-a-half pay for overtime, and proscribing child labor. And it all started with a pretty girl! What doesn’t? FDR was campaigning for re-election when a young girl was held back by security trying to pass him a note. He asked to see it, and was at first disappointed that it didn’t contain her phone number. He went on to read it nevertheless. It said “I wish you could do something to help us girls.” She described her pay in a sewing factory as just $4 per week. Yikes, that’s almost as bad as CUNY faculty salaries! Roosevelt decided then that he needed to act on child labor and minimum wage laws.

    I couldn’t come up with a photo or name for that girl, but another story popped up — the Anna Sklepovich story (that was her real name). In 1941, Anna wrote a note to FDR wishing him a happy birthday and noting that they had the same birthday (Jan. 30). FDR’s secretary, Margaret LeHand, sent a nice note back to Anna. Here’s where things run off the rails: Anna’s brother intercepted the note and added a phony invitation to the White House at the bottom. He must have done a convincing job, because two days before the birthday, Anna took a train to DC (from Gary, West Virginia), and showed up at The White House! FDR’s staff explained that the invitation part of the note was a scam, and settled her in with the DC police for the night and arranged a trip home for her.

    Bummer, right? Well, that’s not the end of it. The story hit the press and FDR read about it the next morning. He had his staff transfer Anna to a fancy hotel and arranged for her to visit him for real (they talked about fishing), and to attend his birthday party. That’s Anna on the left and ER on the right with the knife.

    Lana Turner is standing next to Anna and a bit of a flap arose between them. According to Anna, Turner was not happy with Anna stealing some of her limelight and pushed her aside for the photo. Anna told the press, “She poked me in the ribs and tried to get me to move out of the way.”  She added that Lana “isn’t so pretty.  She’s artificial-looking.” ER smoothed things over. Here’s a shot of Lana — you decide.

    The puzzle today was roundly disliked by Rex and most of the Commentariat, who I thought went a little overboard. It included the following great clue/answer at 81D. The clue was “Stop hiding behind?” The answer was MOON. (Get it?) (Think tuchas. When you moon someone, you stop hiding your behind.)

    Another good one was at 72A: “Famous drawing of a ship?” The answer was SIREN SONG. (The Siren “draws” the ship to her.)

    I was glad Rex rated it “challenging” because I crashed at several points and couldn’t finish. I didn’t know BRIAN MAY (79A) — he’s the “Lead guitarist of Queen, who has a PhD in astrophysics.” (Wow!)

    97A also nailed me: “Like much prized blue-and-white porcelain.” It turned out to be MING ERA, a WOE for me (what on earth?).

    And 75D, “Old timer” turned out to be SAND GLASS. Ouch. (Like hourglass: Old timekeeper.) The letters I had led me to SANDAL ASS, which I like better. It seems like a good name for a 70-year old (“old timer”) who spends a lot of time in the sun. Hey Sandal Ass — pass the Fresca!

    The baseball fans among you may have heard that the LA Angels beat the hapless Rockies last night 25 to 1. LA scored 13 runs in the 3rd inning and 8 more in the 4th. It was 25-0 going into the bottom of the 8th but Colorado rallied for a run. All the runs were earned: the Rockies made no errors. The third Rockie pitcher gave up 9 runs and may have felt he was drowning: His name is Noah (Davis). Glug, glug.

    The 21 total runs scored in the 3rd and 4th innings tied the all-time record for runs scored in two consecutive innings — it was only done once before: By the Pirates on June 6, 1894.

    Rockies’ infielder Mike Moustakas didn’t play in the game, but after watching it, he said, “Shit, I’d rather be on that team.” So he was traded to the Angels. [I made up the quote, but the trade did occur.] Here’s Mike with his pretty wife Stephanie. Start packing, Steff!

    This poem from today’s Writer’s Almanac is by David Romtvedt and is called “Sunday Early Morning.” (It’s a week late for Father’s Day, but I’m in a forgiving mood.)

    My daughter and I paddle red kayaks
    across the lake. Pulling hard,
    we slip easily through the water.
    Far from either shore, it hits me
    that my daughter is a young woman
    and suddenly everything is a metaphor
    for how short a time we are granted:

    the red boats on the blue-black water,
    the russet and gold of late summer’s grasses,
    the empty sky. We stop and listen to the stillness.
    I say, “It’s Sunday, and here we are
    in the church of the out of doors,”
    then wish I’d kept quiet. That’s the trick in life—
    learning to leave well enough alone.

    Our boats drift to where the chirring
    of grasshoppers reaches us from the rocky hills.
    A clap of thunder. I want to say something truer
    than I love you. I want my daughter to know that,
    through her, I live a life that was closed to me.
    I paddle up, lean out, and touch her hand.
    I start to speak then stop.

    The poet David Romtvedt’s daughter, by coincidence, is (like mine) named Caitlin, which she spells “correctly.” He is 73, was born in Portland, OR, and grew up in ‘Zona (see pic, below). He lives, writes, and teaches in Wyoming with his wife, Margo Brown, who is a potter. When she says something funny, his response is “Stop! You’re kiln me!” [No it isn’t.][Carl! — Send more pottery puns!]

    This is for those of you, who, like me, would like to read another one of his poems about his Caitlin. It’s called “Surprise Breakfast.”

    One winter morning I get up early
    to clean the ash from the grate
    and find my daughter, eight, in the kitchen
    thumping around pretending she has a peg leg

    while also breaking eggs into a bowl—
    separating yolks and whites, mixing oil
    and milk. Her hands are smooth,
    not from lack of labor but youth.

    She’s making pancakes for me, a surprise
    I have accidentally ruined. “You never
    get up early,” she says, measuring
    the baking powder, beating the egg whites.

    It’s true. When I wake, I roll to the side
    and pull the covers over my head.
    “It was too cold to sleep,” I say.
    “I thought I’d get the kitchen warm.”

    Aside from the scraping of the small flat shovel
    on the iron grate, and the wooden spoon turning
    in the bowl, the room is quiet. I lift the gray ash
    and lay it carefully into a bucket to take outside.

    “How’d you lose your leg?” I ask.
    “At sea. I fell overboard in a storm
    and a shark attacked me, but I’m fine.”
    She spins, a little batter flying from the spoon.

    I can hear the popping of the oil in the pan.
    “Are you ready?” she asks, thumping to the stove.
    Fork in hand, I sit down, hoping that yes,
    I am ready, or nearly so, or one day will be.

    Thanks for dropping in.

  • An Honest Opinion

    When Owl Chatter throws its weight around, there’s no limit to what can be accomplished. Happily, our recent story excoriating the LA Dodgers for caving to right-wing pressure and dropping the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence from their Pride night lineup helped the team see the error of its ways.

    After a vehement backlash from LGBTQ+ groups, their allies, and Owl Chatter, the Dodgers reversed course — re-inviting the Sisters’ LA chapter to be honored for its charity work and apologizing to the LGBTQ+ community. Bravo team!

    In a brief ceremony held on the field, the Dodgers gave a Community Hero Award to the Sisters. The public-address announcer said the group supports meal programs in the LA area and cited “their outstanding service to the LBGTQ+ community.”

    The team was lambasted in a statement from Archbishop José Gomez of LA, Cardinal Timothy Dolan of NY, and the president of the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, Archbishop Timothy Broglio. They asked Catholics to pray on Friday “as an act of reparation for the blasphemies against our Lord we see in our culture today.”

    “A professional baseball team has shockingly chosen to honor a group whose lewdness and vulgarity in mocking our Lord, His Mother, and consecrated women cannot be overstated,” the archbishops said. “This is not just offensive and painful to Christians everywhere; it is blasphemy.”

    Cannot be overstated! Owl Chatter questions where the outrage was when children by the hundreds were sexually abused by the Church whose consistent response was a wide-ranging cover up. Are you kidding me? That these f*ckers still pretend to hold any moral office is chutzpah with a capital chutz.

    But don’t get me started on the Church, puh-lease.

    Sister Jeannine Gramick, has ministered to LGBTQ+ Catholics for more than 50 years and is a co-founder of New Ways Ministry, which advocates on their behalf. She publicly shared a letter she wrote to the Dodgers, welcoming the re-invitation. “I believe that any group that serves the community, especially those who are less fortunate or on the margins of society, should be honored.”

    Let’s leave the last word to Mike Milligan of West Hills, CA, who wrote to the LA Times. He reassured the right-wing haters that there was no way the Dodgers sold their soul on Pride night. If they had, he reasoned, they would have come out of it with a much better bullpen.

    Amen to that, right Mookie?

    Crossworld is all in a snit over the developments in Russia. How the hell is YEVGENY PRIGOZHIN going to fit into a grid? There’s a reason why Mstislav Rostropovich never shows up — these f*cking Russians are impossible to cross clue.

    Yevgeny — where is the anger coming from? Use your calming tools. Breathe. Breathe. He’s damn photogenic, though — I’ll give him that. The eyes aren’t smoky, but they’re knockout eyes. You nailed him Philly.

    Maybe we should slip into some YOGA PANTS to calm down? A pair was in the puzzle today at 19A, clued with “Relative of leggings.” Girl! — Where your mat at? That floor doesn’t look very forgiving.

    The puzzle had two nice 15-letter answers that spanned the grid. One was clued with “‘Elvis has left the building,’” and the answer was EVERYBODY GO HOME! The other was “Words accompanying a snap, perhaps,” and the answer was QUIT DAYDREAMING! (I’ve been there. I live there.)

    Also, it was a “pangram,” which means all 26 letters of the alphabet were contained in the grid. That only happens a handful of times during the year, it seems to me. As a point of pride, I was the first commenter on Rex’s blog to point that out today. And if you’re thinking I have to dig pretty low to score a point of pride these days, I can only say — you got that right.

    Poet and essayist John Ciardi was born on this date in 1916. Some of you may remember him (as I do) from his short segments on the language on NPR in the mornings, a long time ago. His 1959 book How Does a Poem Mean? is still used in high school and college English classes.

    Born in Boston, Ciardi touched some Owl Chatter bases, earning his graduate degree at U. Mich, and living for many years in Metuchen, NJ. He once said: “The reader deserves an honest opinion. If he doesn’t deserve it, give it to him anyhow.”

    Back to the Church, favorably, for once. The Times reported on a goodwill meeting between the Pope and a bunch of artists from various parts of the world to mark the 50th anniversary of the opening of the Vatican’s art collection, which includes works by Matisse, Van Gogh, and Marc Chagall. The Pope called on the artists to strive for social justice.

    Among the invitees was the American Andres Serrano whose photo “Piss Christ” is an image of a plastic crucifix submerged in a tank full of urine. It was considered blasphemous when it debuted in 1987. Yet on Friday, as reported by the Times, “Francis blessed Mr. Serrano and gave him a cheery thumbs up.” Serrano was delighted and said he was sure the Pope knew exactly who he was. “It was a great, mischievous smile,” he said.

    Owl Chatter’s Phil was one of the honored invitees, of course, and he managed to catch the Serrano moment.

    According to the Times today, a federal judge in Florida, Gregory A. Presnell of Orlando, essentially called DeSantis a hateful idiot in blocking one of his ridiculous anti-gay laws: the one penalizing businesses that allow children in to see drag shows. Is that really where Florida is these days? Sheesh. Florida has also been busy restricting the discussion of personal pronouns in school — clearly a life-and-death matter — and forcing people to use certain bathrooms.

    The State filed a complaint against a theater that hosted a Christmas drag show that had three kids attending with their parents. But undercover agents found no lewd behavior occurred. So there.

    Hamburger Mary’s, a restaurant that hosts drag shows, sued the state claiming the law violated its right to free speech. Anybody remember that one? It’s, like, the first. The judge agreed, and noted that existing obscenity laws were sufficient to protect children from whatever the state was worried about. Of course, there’s a lot of hate out there — who knows what will happen on appeal.

    Here you go, DeSantis: Public Enemy Number One.

    This is from Met Diary this week, shared by Lenny Shine. It took place on Broadway and 19th.

    Characters: Me, walking north in a hurry while eating a sandwich, and a woman walking south at a quick pace, also eating a sandwich. We make eye contact.

    Me: “Two fried eggs on a toasted roll, no meat, no cheese.”
    Her: “Ham, egg, and cheese on a roll.”
    And on we went.

    I was on a walk once and was on a long stretch where you can see the people coming towards you for quite a distance. A couple was down the way a bit walking towards me. They were in their 40’s, and had a nice look about them. Suddenly, the wife turned and punched the husband on his arm, quasi-playfully. When they got up to me, I said to the wife: Don’t hit him! And the husband said to me: Tell her!

    Rex noted that PRIDE FLAGS was in the grid today, but that there was also (probably unintentionally) a British gay slur: PONCE, clued as the Puerto Rican city. Apparently, it’s a derogatory word for an effeminate male. One commenter took umbrage at Rex for “advancing the gay agenda.” But Weezie shot back: “There’s no such thing as ‘the gay agenda.’ There’s just human rights, and we’d like to have the same ones as everyone else, thanks very much.”

    See you tomorrow! Thanks for putting up with the rants today.

  • Eyes Up Here, Rudy!

    This beautiful woman with smoky eyes is Anna Akhmatova, the poet, born near Odessa on this day in 1889. С днем рождения, Anna! Her major work was Requiem, a tragic masterpiece on Stalinist terror.

    In Paris, she met the artist Modigliani, who painted more than 20 paintings of her, several of them nudes. He was passionately in love with her, and for the rest of her life, no matter where she lived or what her circumstances, she kept one of his nude portraits of her above her couch.

    Folk singer Iris Dement’s album The Trackless Woods is comprised of songs the lyrics of which are poems of Akhmatova’s in translation. Here’s a short one called “Prayer.”

    Give me comfortless seasons of sickness,
    Visitations of wrath and of wrong
    On my house; Lord, take child and companion,
    And destroy the sweet power of song.

    Thus I pray at each matins, each vespers,
    After these many wearying days,
    That the storm-cloud which broods over Russia
    May be changed to a nimbus ablaze.

    Anna’s popularity kept Stalin from arresting her, although he imprisoned her son and common-law husband. She spent 17 months in line outside the Kresty Holding Prison with thousands of wives and daughters, waiting to catch a glimpse of their loved ones and to give them bread. Her son once refused a loaf of rye from her because she forget to ask for it with seeds. [No he didn’t.]

    She worked on Requiem for over 30 years, fragment by fragment. Terrified of being discovered, she had friends memorize the fragments, and then she would burn the pieces of paper. There is now a statue of Anna across from the Kresty Prison. She died in Moscow in 1966, at age 76.

    Owl Chatter is blessed today with another beautiful woman, Golfer Michelle Wie West, who visited the puzzle at 42A. [I don’t know what Phil said to her that she was so miffed about for this shot — he’s generally a whiz at getting pretty smiles.]

    Since she was clued with her married name (West), a Rex commenter opined that he hoped she didn’t marry Kanye West, God forbid! Well, the good news is I was able to let him know:

    Michelle Wie married Jonnie West, the Director of Basketball Operations for the Golden State Warriors, — he is the son of legendary NBA player Jerry West. Wow! Stephen Curry attended the ceremony, but only gave them a shitty blender as a wedding gift. (I made up the last part of that sentence: I’m sure he was quite generous.)

    Wie and West have a gorgeous little girl named Makenna Kamalei Yoona West. She’s two years old and dribbles (except when using a sippy cup).

    Wie got into a flap with Rudy Giuliani, of all people. BTW, the hapless men of my generation owe Rudy a big Thank You. No matter how boorish and loutish we are, we can only look good next to Rudy, and I’m not even talking about the black dye dripping down his head.

    Anyway, Giuliani told a story on Steve Bannon’s podcast. He and Rush Limbaugh attended a women’s golf tourney, and Limbaugh complained that there were too many photographers on hand because of Giuliani. So Rudy said, “It’s not me – it’s because Michelle Wie is playing. She has an unusual putting stance in which she bends over and you can see her panties — so that’s why the photographers are here — it’s not for me.”

    Wie shot back:

    “What this person should have remembered from that day was the fact that I shot 64 and beat every male golfer in the field leading our team to victory. I shudder thinking he was smiling to my face and complimenting my game while objectifying me and referencing my ‘panties’ behind my back all day.’’

    She added: “What should be discussed is the elite skill level that women play at, not what we wear or look like. My putting stance six years ago was designed to improve my putting stats (I ended up winning the US Open that year), NOT as an invitation to look up my skirt!”

    Hrummph! You tell ’em, MW!

    From the new New Yorker. We’ve all been there:

    One last guest today, from the puzzle — Marie OSMOND at 19A. Hi Sis!

    Phil! — What the hell kind of pose is that? — It can’t be comfortable. Help her up!! — She’s 63 and has eight kids! — what the hell’s wrong with you??!! She may never walk again!

    See you tomorrow folks! Thanks for stopping by.

  • Roet and Bohr

    If you attend a Holocaust Remembrance ceremony and the names of victims are read aloud, it is due to the efforts of Haim Roet, who survived the Holocaust and died on May 22 at age 90 at his home in Jerusalem. Look at this sweet face.

    It started with a protest in front of the Dutch Embassy in Tel Aviv in 1989. The Dutch Government had released two Nazi war criminals from prison. Mr. Roet and a group of like-minded Israelis of Dutch descent read some of the names of the 107,000 Dutch Jews who had died in death camps.

    “It was a very moving event,” Mr. Roet said. “People cried. You see the names, and suddenly you see what’s behind it. You see the date, you see the children, how each of the victims had a life of their own.” He created “Unto Every Person There is a Name,” a memorial project that involves annually reading the names of Nazi victims in public around the world. He spoke at the UN.

    Roet himself survived the Holocaust, hiding in Nieuwlande, a small village in the Netherlands that sheltered more than 100 Jews during the war despite the threat of execution by the Nazis. He lived with Alida and Anton Deesker, who had three children and introduced him to strangers as their nephew.

    Before the Resistance placed him there, the Nazis picked up his sisters and grandfather, whom he never saw again. The next morning, the SS officers returned for the rest of the family. But his mother, who spoke German, shouted and argued with them so vehemently that they left. Remarkable. He was eventually reunited with his parents and brothers, moved to Israel, married, and worked for the Ministry of Finance.

    In addition to his daughter Vardit Lichtenstein, VP of an OB-GYN group, Mr. Roet is survived by his wife, Naomi Echel; another daughter, Avigail Omessi, a manager for a CPA firm; a son, David Roet, the head of a division of Israel’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs; a brother, Abraham; eight grandchildren; and two great-grandchildren, every one of whom has a name.

    The puzzle today was very cute, if you like babies. The central across answer was THE BABY IS ASLEEP, and in four places the letters SHH were squooshed into single square. [When that happens it’s called a “rebus.”] For example, there was RO[SHH]ASHANA, and BRITI[SHH]UMOR. Rex included an hysterical Talking Heads video of the song “Stay Up Late,” which it is not beneath Owl Chatter to steal shamelessly.

    BTW, I just learned that Talking Heads bassist Tina Weymouth married their drummer Chris Franz in 1977 and they have two sons and are still married, kinahora. Here’s the band in the hospital room soon after one of the boys was born.

    Since ROSH HASHANA was in the puzzle today, boringly clued with “First of the Jewish High Holy Days,” I couldn’t resist posting one of my favorite jokes on Rex’s blog. I hope it’s not viewed as racist, anti-Semitic, or both.

    Here it is:

    Two Black gentlemen are talking.

    Hey, I have off tomorrow — do you?
    No, it’s Tuesday — why are you off?
    My boss is a Jew and it’s Yom Kippur, we’re closed.
    Yom Kippur? What’s that?
    Damn — you don’t know what Yom Kippur is?
    No — what the hell is Yom Kippur?
    Well, you knows what Shabbos is, right?
    Sure — I knows what Shabbos is.
    Well, next to Yom Kippur, Shabbos ain’t shit!

    The pioneer in atomic theory at 44A was Niels BOHR, born in Demark in 1885. He won the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1922. His dad was a physiology professor (not Jewish); his mom came from a wealthy Jewish banking family. He loved soccer, as did his brother, who played on the Danish national team in the 1908 Olympics.

    Despite finding him to be a great Bohr, Margrethe Norland married him in 1912 and they had six sons. Get this — their son Aage became a physicist and also won the Nobel Prize in Physics (in 1975).

    After Denmark was occupied by the Germans, word reached Bohr that he was in danger of being arrested because of his Jewish mom. The Danish resistance helped Bohr and Margrethe escape by sea to Sweden. The next day, Bohr persuaded King Gustaf V of Sweden to make public Sweden’s willingness to provide asylum to Jewish refugees. The mass rescue of the Danish Jews by their countrymen followed swiftly thereafter. Some historians claim that Bohr’s actions led directly to the mass rescue, while others say that, though Bohr did all that he could for his countrymen, his actions were not a decisive influence on the wider events.  Eventually, over 7,000 Danish Jews escaped to Sweden. Bohr eventually reached Britain and was part of the British mission to the Manhattan Project.

    He received numerous honors, including postage stamps and bank notes featuring him. An asteroid and a lunar crater were named after him, as was a chemical element, Bohrium, with the atomic number 107. No Barbie doll (yet). He died in 1962, back in Copenhagen, at age 77.

    Here’s Niels and Margrethe, and then Niels with 5 of the boys.

    See you tomorrow!

  • I Yam What I Yam

    Owl Chatter’s Dirty Old Man Division perked up whatever it can still perk up upon learning that the U.S. Army announced that it developed its first combat-ready bra. It’s addressed in The New Yorker of June 26 in an article by Patricia Marx called “Show of Support.” Marx confessed that she decided early on that she needed to try one on. It’s called the Army Tactical Brassiere (“ATB”) and, not surprisingly, is still being tinkered with, because, well, who wouldn’t want to tinker with a bra?

    BTW, how about a special Owl Chatter shoutout to Robert Shurtleff, of the Revolutionary War’s Light Infantry Company of the 4th Massachusetts Regiment, the first American soldier ever to wear a bra! He served for close to a year and a half before losing consciousness from a fever. While receiving treatment, it was discovered he was actually Deborah Sampson – a woman. Sampson disguised herself so she could serve her country — women were not allowed in the army back then. As to our topic, for a bra, she bound her breasts with a linen cloth. (She was kicked out when she recovered, of course.)

    The Army says the ATB will improve “overall performance and lethality.” Marx’s comment: “Gadzooks! Yes, it’s flame-resistant, but what else can it do? Shoot bullets? Hypnotize the enemy? Turn its wearer invisible?”

    It’s made of proprietary compression-knit fibers designed to wick moisture and dry quickly, and is designed to remain intact after 100 launderings, since mending is tricky when you are being shot at. Its hardware and seaming placement is designed for compatibility with other military garb. The really complex part is the sizing: the Army tried to fit the fifth through ninety-fifth percentile of its population, by taking a zillion measurements from female soldiers. The Army also polled soldiers and learned that some bind themselves with tape or Ace bandages to reduce bounciness, buy sports bras smaller than they usually wear, or wear two or three bras at once to increase support. Everyone said they wanted the bra to be black so it won’t show dirt and grime. The men who were polled all stressed that it should be very easy to take off. [No they didn’t: they weren’t polled.]

    The Army was hesitant to let Marx try one on, for fear she’d give it a bad review. But she persisted and was given the chance. Her report: “I pulled up the zipper with ease and immediately felt cozily swaddled. The synthetic support was robust and made me think I might enjoy being a mummy.”

    As exciting as it has been to write about bras, Owl Chatter questions whether the project was worthwhile and a good use of taxpayer funds. As a female officer from Kansas told Marx: “Everyone has different wants and needs when it comes to a bra. I’d rather get a stipend to buy my own.”

    Here’s a photo released by the Army. Could it possibly be less sexy? It’s followed by one much preferred by Owl Chatter for obvious reasons.

    Federal District Court Judge James M. Moody, Jr., is Owl Chatter’s Hero of the Day. His vigorous 80-page decision protecting the rights of trans children lays bare the perfidy of GOP efforts to target them. At issue was an Arkansas law forbidding medical treatments for trans kids. To his credit, former Governor Asa Hutchinson vetoed it, calling it “off course.” (Not to his credit, though, he called it “well-intentioned.” Gimme a break.) He recently said he stands by the veto, calling the law an intrusion into parental rights. In any event, the troglodytic legislature overrode the veto and Hutch has since been replaced by Trump sycophant Sarah Huckabee Sanders.

    But never mind them. Here come da judge! Moody held that the law discriminated against transgender people and violated the constitutional rights of doctors. “Rather than protecting children or safeguarding medical ethics, the evidence showed that the prohibited medical care improves the mental health and well-being of patients and that by prohibiting it, the state undermined the interests it claims to be advancing.”

    The challenge was brought by the ACLU of Arkansas and argued that the ban violated transgender people’s constitutional rights to equal protection, parents’ rights to make appropriate medical decisions for their children, and doctors’ rights to refer patients for medical treatments.

    “There is no evidence that the Arkansas health care community is throwing caution to the wind when treating minors with gender dysphoria,” Judge Moody wrote, adding that “the state has failed to prove that its interests in the safety of Arkansas adolescents from gender transitioning procedures or the medical community’s ethical decline are compelling, genuine or even rational.” (Owl Chatter emphasis.) Good job, Your Honor!

    Frank Bruni includes the following in his “For the love of sentences” feature this week. It’s by Andrew Coyne, writing about Trump in The Globe and Mail of Toronto. Re: How Trump in the wake of his federal indictment, is trying “to bring the whole U.S. justice system down around him. This is not the reaction of a normal person. It is not even the reaction of a mob boss. It is the reaction of a Batman villain.”

    I was today years old when I learned that ACHOO (in the puzzle today at 37A) is not only a made-up word that mimics a sneeze. In the medical world, ACHOO is an acronym (backronym?) for a sternutation disorder called Autosomal Dominant Compelling Helio-Ophthalmic Outburst Syndrome that results in uncontrollable sneezing. The D and the S are sort of fudged. [Sternutation means “the act of sneezing.”] Stand back!

    Yesterday’s puzzle revealed an interesting connection between Popeye and Shakespeare. “ET TU, Brute?,” of course, is what Caesar famously said to Brutus as he was getting stabbed. And BLUTO was “Popeye’s burly foe.” The two answers (ET TU and BLUTO) crossed each other in the grid yesterday. I didn’t see any connection, but it turns out that the comic strip character Bluto had his named changed to Brutus when Popeye went on TV as a cartoon show. The producers wrongly thought they couldn’t use the name Bluto for copyright reasons. The name later reverted to Bluto for a Popeye movie and other productions. Popeye may have been able to say “I yam what I yam,” but for Bluto/Brutus, it was more confusing.

    Don’t get up! I’ll let myself out. See you tomorrow.

  • Sixteen and College-Bound

    Who among us is not painfully aware of Billie Joe McAllister’s death by suicide; of his famous and fateful leap from the Tallahatchie Bridge? “It was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty Delta day.” BJ must have been the unluckiest guy in the world: according to Leflore County records, 40 to 50 other men jumped off that 20-foot high bridge and not one of them died. The county established a fine of $180 per jump. Even in 1969 dollars, it seems like a bargain, although maybe not in Mississippi. The bridge was destroyed by a fire set by vandals in 1972 and has been rebuilt. It crosses the Tallahatchie River at Money, MS, ten miles north of Greenwood. It sure meant money for Bobbie Gentry, who is 80 years old now, with a net worth estimated at $110 million. The very first clue in the puzzle today, for the word ODE, referenced the famous song. Here’s a nice photo of her. Jeez Louise! – what size shoe does she wear — 28?

    Here she is crossing that bridge (when she got to it).

    As you may recall, Billie Joe and his girlfriend threw something off the bridge, but the song does not say what it was. It raised quite a fuss. Was it a baby? (God forbid!) A wedding ring? Given the era, some suggested a draft card or LSD. Gentry says she knows what it was but she never told anyone — not even her mom. She says it doesn’t matter — it’s not important. The point of the song was the nonchalance which which the family treated the horrific news. In an interview Gentry called the song “a study in unconscious cruelty.” Gentry, it should be said, was not a brainless country-western star. She majored in Philosophy at UCLA before transferring to the LA Conservatory of Music, where she studied composition, music theory and arranging. Here’s a live version of the Ode to Billie Joe:

    Bob Dylan, on his Basement Tapes, wrote and sang a parody of it called Clothes Line Saga. The event bandied about in his ballad, as the laundry is discussed, is the Vice President going mad. It’s worth a listen — you’ve wasted so much time on this already — what’s a few more minutes?

    The Taylor Swift phenomenon has more than spilled over into the mainstream — at least as Owl Chatter taps into it, — it’s a deluge. We discussed the New Yorker review recently. Today, TS was the subject of a glowing lead story on the editorial page of the Times.

    It’s a guest essay by Suzanne Garfinkle-Crowell, a psychiatrist in private practice and the founding director of the Academy for Medicine and the Humanities at Mount Sinai. Clearly a moron and a hack.

    Many of her patients are adolescent girls and young women and, as the tour was approaching, they were having trouble calming down. Garfinkle-Crowell was already a casual fan, but, she says, “I couldn’t really understand why this artist and this tour were so powerful — and so disruptive. So I started listening. And listening more. And then I went to the show with my daughter. And now I, too, cannot calm down. Swiftmania is a very different kind of high from what I experienced listening to music as a teenager — a high that is worth the pain. It’s not just the plethora of songs to discover, but the nonstop Swiftie culture itself — a party that is raging all day and all night.”

    “’What would Taylor Swift do?’ is a refrain among certain patients in my practice. Teenagers suffer for many reasons. One is being fragile and in formation — a human construction site. Ms. Swift articulates not only the treachery of bullying but also the cruelty just shy of it that is even more pervasive: meanness, exclusion, intermittent ghosting. She says: Borrow my strength; embrace your pain; make something beautiful with it — and then you can shake it off.”

    Most importantly, Garfinkle-Crowell goes on to highlight the same aspect that the New Yorker reviewer did – the community Swift engenders. She writes:

    “What is singular about this artist, in this time, is the access she has created to a cohesive community, particularly for the pandemic generation, whose social connections grew tragically elusive. Whatever you are upset about, the poet laureate of this generation has got a song somewhere describing that precise feeling. She is not going to solve whatever problem you are having, but she is going to sit with you in it until the passage of time does its work: Look at her now. You may dress up as a “1989” party girl, but it’s understood by everyone here that you are also heartbroken and rageful and forgiving and brave.

    She goes on,

    “We will all eventually calm down, but for now, I am leaning into this fever dream, this restlessness and sleeplessness and decline in focus on anything else. Sometimes it’s good to let yourself be disrupted, to be a little less productive, to stay stay stay in an enchanted place as long as you can. Especially when there is someone new in your life who shows you colors you can’t see with anyone else.

    “My patients have their own dedicated professional to listen to them for 45 minutes a week. But few teenagers have access to this kind of support. It’s confusing to be human and to be female, and I’m glad, both for my patients in their midnights and for their populous, shimmering community, that they have someone so articulate, so generous and so endlessly present to talk to.”

    Here’s a poem from The Writer’s Almanac about a summer job before starting college. It’s called “Patty’s Charcoal Drive-In,” and it’s by Barbara Crooker.

    First job. In tight black shorts
    and a white bowling shirt, red lipstick
    and bouncing ponytail, I present
    each overflowing tray as if it were a banquet.
    I’m sixteen and college-bound;
    this job’s temporary as the summer sun,
    but right now it’s the boundaries of my life.
    After the first few nights of mixed orders
    and missing cars, the work goes easily.
    I take out the silver trays and hook them to the windows,
    inhale the mingled smells of seared meat patties,
    salty ketchup, rich sweet malteds.
    The lure of grease drifts through the thick night air.
    And it’s always summer at Patty’s Charcoal Drive-In—
    carloads of blonde-and-tan girls
    pull up next to red convertibles,
    boys in black tee shirts and slick hair.
    Everyone knows what they want.
    And I wait on them, hoping for tips,
    loose pieces of silver
    flung carelessly as the stars.
    Doo-wop music streams from the jukebox,
    and each night repeats itself,
    faithful as a steady date.
    Towards 10 p.m., traffic dwindles.
    We police the lot, pick up wrappers.
    The dark pours down, sticky as Coke,
    but the light from the kitchen
    gleams like a beacon.
    A breeze comes up, chasing papers
    in the far corners of the darkened lot,
    as if suddenly a cold wind had started to blow
    straight at me from the future—
    I read that in a Doris Lessing book—
    but right now, purse fat with tips,
    the moon sitting like a cheeseburger
    on a flat black grill,
    this is enough.
    Your order please.

    More nonsense tomorrow. Thanks for dropping in.