You all know what streaking is, right? It’s not all that profound: You take off all of your clothes and run down the street. But did you know the answer to 55A today: “Events akin to streaks?” It’s UNDIE RUNS. One notch below (above?) a streak: You run down the street in your underwear. Not by yourself — in an organized run with other participants. They are popular in some colleges as fund raisers.

The first photo above is from Cleveland. The second is from Washington DC. Undie runs should not be confused with No Pants Subway Rides, annual events where a group of people take a ride on a subway train while not wearing pants. Beginning in New York in 2002, the event spread worldwide to as many as sixty cities as of 2013.

The clue at 20A was “toadlike” and the answer was WARTY.

Linda was having a wart removed by our wonderful dermatologist Dr. Gruber several years ago and she asked him: “Does having a wart mean that I am turning into a witch?” And he looked at her in all seriousness and said: “Oh, no. I would not say that.”

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Owl Chatter, as usual, is far ahead of the traditional news. And so we discussed long ago the small piece of baseball history that is happening this weekend. Jen Pawol, proud Jersey girl, will be the first ever woman to umpire a major league game. She’s on the crew umping the Miami-Atlanta series in Georgia this weekend. Sunday she’ll be behind the plate. Brava, JP! Call ’em as you see ’em.

Sh*t, doesn’t she look like she was born to ump?

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This poem by Tony Hoagland is called “Migration.” It’s from today’s Writer’s Almanac.

This year Marie drives back and forth
from the hospital room of her dying friend
to the office of the adoption agency.

I bet sometimes she doesn’t know
What threshold she is waiting at—

the hand of her sick friend, hot with fever;
the theoretical baby just a lot of paperwork so far.

But next year she might be standing by a grave,
wearing black with a splash of
banana vomit on it,

the little girl just starting to say Sesame Street
and Cappuccino latte grand Mommy.
The future ours for a while to hold, with its heaviness—

and hope moving from one location to another
like the holy ghost that it is.

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At 52A, the clue for NORTH STAR was “Guiding principle, metaphorically.” It led commenter Anoa Bob to share with us these lines of John Masefield’s from “Sea Fever”

“I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship, and a star to steer her by.”

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Women are also making headway as baseball announcers. The Boston Red Sox made history Tuesday night when its first all-women broadcast team announced the game at Fenway Park as part of the team’s Women’s Celebration Night. Emma Tiedemann did play-by-play while Alanna Rizzo was the color analyst. Kasey Hudson was the sideline reporter, while Natalie Noury anchored the studio show with analyst Jen McCaffrey.

It was a first for Boston, but MLB earlier had an all-female announcing crew back in 2021 for a Tampa Bay-Orioles game.

Here’s the duo.

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May not be posting tomorrow. Wish me luck – I’ll be at Lollapuzzoola, the crossword puzzle tournament in NYC! Fun!

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Since I do a lot of puzzles, I notice when a common throw-in word gets a spiffy out-of-the-ordinary clue. So, today, for the answer DIP at 47A, Constructor Hanh Huynh stayed away from the guac or the salsa and clued it with: “‘”When I ___, you ___, we ___’ (lyric from a Freak Nasty hit).” The song (“Da’ Dip”) was released in 1996 and was Mr. Nasty’s only Top 40 hit. It’s a fun tune, if you like that sort of stuff.

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Hard to imagine, but if you know anyone who is still not clear on the sheer monsterism of Trump and his lackies, have them read the lead story in today’s NYT, not that it would make a difference. It’s on children being torn away from their parents. (If you thought that was taken care by the courts during the first go-round, think again.)

Here’s how they do it (an actual case): A mom and dad with their 8-year-old son, seek political asylum. ICE gives them the choice of getting the hell out, or staying in detention, with their son taken away to a separate detention center for unaccompanied children. The parents elect to seek political asylum — the whole point of their coming. So, bye bye son.

The son was terrified and has not seen his parents since May. And ICE says the family “chose” separation. As with everything else the government does now, it’s overlaid with a patina of dishonesty.

Meanwhile, all this talk about his poll numbers dropping to historic levels? He still has a 44% approval rating according to the NYT today. That’s not a typo readers.

Here is the family.

God Bless America.

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Steven Wright, who claims he has a rare photo of Houdini accidentally locking his keys in his car, says “No matter what temperature the room is, it’s always room temperature.” Hmmmm.

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I know enough (mostly from puzzles) to know at 2D that “Six-stringed instrument similar to a cello,” (4 letters) is a VIOL, having ruled out tuba, drum, harp and oboe, as stringless. But I only really learned what a VIOL is from commenter Andy today, who shared the following short video on it.

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From Poets.org today, by Leonel Sanchez Lopez.

What the Birds Do

Over the screech of the morning
traffic of Eagle Rock Boulevard
I thought I heard the rooster
from my parents’ backyard,
calling. They lived close enough,
it could have been. I’d been
awake for hours but was still
in bed looking out the window
where a flock of red-crowned parrots
skated through the blue.
The Echo Park Parrots.
The Pasadena Parrots. The Silver-
lake Parrots. Everyone wants
to own the birds, yet
here they were this morning,
serenading me.
They come and go, they came
and went. In my dreams, I’m sometimes
a chicken. I fly from one man
to the next, hoping their arms
are strong like guava branches,
strong enough to roost
in for the night, ripe with seeds.
I’m malnourished in my dreams
because there are no trees, just birds
in nonstop flight and song.

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Say you are young and single and have fallen for this young woman (who wouldn’t?):

She’s Sophie Cunningham of the Indiana Fever of the WNBA, aka Caitlin Clark’s team. Here’s how not to meet her: throw a bright green bouncy sex toy at her (rubbery male genitalia (the worst kind)). Some nut did, and, let’s just say, she’s not trying to get his number. Opponent Kelsey Plum kicked it back into the stands. Ouch.

You hear about this? It started at a WNBA game in Atlanta a few weeks ago and has become very unappreciated. It’s aimed at the league, and not Sophie in particular. It’s always the same bright green item. The moron who threw it in Atlanta was arrested, but no other details are known.

Sophie, btw, played college ball at U. Missouri and turns 29 next week. Happy Birthday, Soph! (We know what not to get her.) She’s single and straight. Hard not to fall for a girl in a uniform, amirite?

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Let’s close tonight with this recent headline from The Onion:

Watchdog Group Downgrades U.S. From Democracy To Whatever Political System Lobsters Have

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

This just in from The Onion:

Area Mom Hasn’t Ordered Favorite Pizza Topping In Over A Decade

WEXFORD, PA—Saying that “it’s fine, really,” local mother Catherine Reynolds told reporters Wednesday that she has not been able to order her favorite pizza topping, spinach, in nearly 12 years. “Tyler, what kind of pizza do you want? Spinach?” said Reynolds to her two young children, who have denied or outright ignored their mother’s requests for white pizza and spinach since 2002. “Maybe we get half spinach, half cheese? Okay, that’s fine. Half cheese, half pepperoni. I’ll call now.”

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Tom Espo, of Troy Hills, posted this on our local “Neighborhood Watch:”

There’s been some aggressive turkeys around Highland Avenue don’t fear them make a lot of noise and chase them don’t run away from them because you only end up falling which I saw somebody for today she was trying to run from them understand being afraid but you have to make them afraid of you turn around and chase them carry a stick if you want.

Thanks Tommy! I think I have a good stick around here somewhere.

There they are! Sh*t! — Linda! Get the stick!!

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“Satchel in Cooperstown” was the clue at 34A today. It reaches pretty far back so you might be forgiven for wondering what sort of luggage would the Hall of Fame be featuring? But, of course, the answer was PAIGE. Satchel Paige one of the greatest pitchers of all time, first in the Negro Leagues, and then, finally, the majors (thanks, Jackie!).

In 2013, I had some nice things happen to me at “work.” I was named one of the top 300 professors in the U.S. by The Princeton Review, and received a Presidential award for teaching excellence (from Hunter’s President, not the White House). The latter came with a monetary award and I celebrated by blowing $200 of it on a gorgeous autograph of Satchel Paige for my collection.

The guest blogger for Rex today, Clare, shared this quote by Willie Mays about Paige:

Oh, yeah. We were in Memphis, Tennessee. It was like a playoff game. It might have been ’48. Satchel had a very, very good fastball. But he threw me a little breaking ball, just to see what I could do, and I hit it off the top of the fence. And I got a double. When I got to second, Satchel told the third baseman, “Let me know when that little boy comes back up.” Three innings later, I go to kneel down in the on-deck circle, and I hear the third baseman say, “There he is.” Satch looked at the third baseman, and then he looked at me. I walk halfway to home plate and he says, “Little boy.” I say, “Yes, sir?” because Satch was much older than I am, so I was trying to show respect. He walked halfway to home plate and said, “Little boy, I’m not going to trick you. I’m going to throw you three fastballs and you’re going to go sit down.” And I’m saying in my mind, “I don’t think so.” If he threw me three of the same pitch, I’m going to hit it somewhere. He threw me two fastballs and I just swung…I swung right through it. And the third ball he threw, and I tell people this all the time, he threw the ball and then he started walking. And he says, “Go sit down.” This is while the ball was in the air. He was just a magnificent pitcher.

Here are his rules for a long and happy life:

1. Avoid fried meats, which angry up the blood. 2. If your stomach disputes you, lie down and pacify it with cool thoughts. 3. Keep the juices flowing by jangling around gently as you move. 4. Go very light on vices such as carrying on in society. The social ramble ain’t restful. 5. Avoid running at all times. 6. Don’t look back, something may be gaining on you.

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At 44A the clue was “You’re getting warmer!” for CLOSE. And commenter Son Volt used it to share this Aimee Mann song.

There was a farmhouse that had long since been deserted
We stopped and carved our hearts into the wooden surface
We thought just for an instant we could see the future
We thought for once we knew what really was important

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We sold our old Honda Odyssey, so I returned the license plates to NJ. [I once saw a bumper sticker on an Odyssey that said “My other car is an Iliad.”] I also had to submit a form explaining why I wasn’t turning in my registration. I did so, and checked off the box marked “Lost.” Next to that box it said “Explain.” So I wrote: I cannot locate it.

I swear I didn’t make that up.

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Headline in The Onion:

Desperate Trump Attempts To Flush 14-Year-Old Masseuse Down Toilet

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Commenter egs shared this charming personal Willie Mays story with us.

I was invited to sit in the owners box, which is actually a large indoor suite with windows facing the field, once while Bob Lurie owned the Giants. Willie Mays, who was certainly the best player ever, was a goodwill ambassador for the team and roamed around the box making small talk and signing autographs. He wasn’t good at small talk, BTW, but just meeting him was such a thrill. When he got to me, I said, “Mr. Mays, the first major league game I ever saw was the first year the Giants moved into Candelstick and you hit two inside-the-park home runs. I was 6 years old.” He said “You’re mistaken. No one’s ever done that.” I insisted, but he didn’t agree, and he just kept moving around. A couple of innings later I felt a tap on the shoulder and it was a beaming Willie. “Hey, guess what? I had someone look it up. I did do that!”

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At 42A the clue was “Competition that offers a lot of bucks?” Answer: RODEO. Here’s a tune by Blue Rodeo, a Canadian band. They’re going to send us off tonight. See you tomorrow!

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Good morning Chatterheads! I’ve signed up to embarrass myself again at a major XW tournament, Lollapuzzoola, in NYC on Saturday. This will be my third appearance. They are a lot of fun and I’m looking forward to it.

Speaking of puzzles, I had no idea what was going on in today’s NYTXW even after solving it. It’s by Patti Varol, who edits the LA Times puzzles that I enjoy. I recall Rex was happy when she landed the position, thinking she will lend a women’s perspective to the grids she edits.

Anyway, the five theme answers today were AARON JUDGE, AERIAL PHOTO, AIN’T GONNA HAPPEN, AORTIC VALVE, and AUDRE LORDE, pictured and discussed below.

See what’s going on? I didn’t. Each answer starts with an A followed by another vowel in the order of AEIOU.

Yankee fans will also note that ROGER Maris crosses AARON JUDGE via their shared G. Nice touch. The baseball mini-theme continued at 46A with SHEA Stadium, former home of the Metsies. Bobby Murcer of that era was on the Yankees and was very funny. While Yankee Stadium was being renovated, the Yanks played their home games at Shea for two seasons. And Murcer, who generally had good power, just couldn’t hit a home run at Shea. Month after month, no homer. As the season was nearing its end, Murcer drove a ball deep to right but it just tailed off and went foul. After the game he was philosophical about it. He said: “It’s just as well. If I hit a homer here this season, the fans would expect me to hit one next year too.”

Murcer got into trouble later in his career for publicly criticizing the Baseball powers for letting Gaylord Perry get away with throwing illegal spitballs. Murcer was fined by the league for his comments. As luck would have it, the Yankees were facing Perry shortly after that and Murcer hit a homer off of him. Naturally, the press wanted to hear what he would have to say so they gathered around him after the game. “I got hold of a hanging spitter,” he told them.

Murcer’s feet were tapped to fill Mantle’s shoes and he never quite managed that tall task, but he had a good career and the fans loved him. (.277 lifetime average, 252 HR, 1,043 RBI) Here’s a little statistic that speaks well for him. In MLB history only 24 players hit above .275 while also hitting 250 or more home runs, driving in more than 1,000 runs, and stealing more than 125 bases and totaling 45 or more triples. Among that elite group only Murcer, George Brett, and Rogers Hornsby struck out fewer than 1,000 times.

Murcer became a very popular announcer for the team after his playing days. Get this — he also appeared as a mystery guest on What’s My Line? Damn, I missed it. He married his high school sweetheart Kay when he was 20. They had two sons and were married for 42 years, until his death from cancer at the age of 62 in 2008. Like Mantle, Bobby was an Oklahoma boy, born and bred. A mensch.

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AUDRE LORDE the poet, was a true daughter of CUNY. She earned her undergrad degree from Hunter College in 1959 (Go Hawks!), and then taught at Lehman and John Jay from 1969 to 1981. In 1981, she went on to teach at her alma mater, Hunter College, as the distinguished Thomas Hunter chair.

She was born Audrey Lorde, but dropped the Y from Audrey when she was still a child because of the artistic symmetry of the two names ending in E.

This poem of hers is called “Who Said It Was Simple.”

There are so many roots to the tree of anger
that sometimes the branches shatter
before they bear.

Sitting in Nedicks
the women rally before they march
discussing the problematic girls
they hire to make them free.
An almost white counterman passes
a waiting brother to serve them first
and the ladies neither notice nor reject
the slighter pleasures of their slavery.
But I who am bound by my mirror
as well as my bed
see causes in colour
as well as sex

and sit here wondering
which me will survive
all these liberations.

She died at the age of 58 in 1992.

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ADELE is one of the most popular singers in Crossworld. When your name is 60% vowels, what do you expect? Today she was clued with “‘Skyfall’ singer.” Rex’s guest blogger Eli shared this compelling cover of it by Paul F. Tompkins. I can see why.

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The clue at 2D today was “Decluttering maven Kondo” and the answer was MARIE. She is 40 years old and 4′ 7″ in height. Married with three kids. I like this sentence from her Wikipedia writeup: After the birth of her third child, Kondo’s rigorous attitude towards tidying her home relaxed. [Yeah, like Dresden “relaxed” after the bombing.]

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Simon Pitts of the Dull Men’s Club (UK) shared the following with the membership: I just fitted a new wheel to my wheel barrow.

Phil Dent: Think you might need a cup of tea now, chap!

Murray Atkinson: In a few years you’ll fit a new bucket, then after that a new frame, but it’ll still be the same barrow. [The question of “Trigger’s broom” — if it has the head replaced and then the handle (leaving no original parts), is it still the original broom?]

Tony Allen: I have a mate with a brush like that. He has an old saying, ‘look after your brush’

Avi Liveson: Catchy. And easy to remember.

Liz Webster Goddard: Let the good times roll!

Avi Liveson: Should be able to cart those bodies into the woods after midnight now.

See you tomorrow! Thanks for dropping in.

So I shared my notes about the plural of octopus and circus with my Dull Men’s Clubmates. Christiano Belloni got pretty serious with it. (Or is he full of Belloni?) —

1) octopus is also the word in Latin, third declension (octopus, octopodis). Plural of the third declension ends in -es, so it would be octopodes, *which is still a latin word*. Octopi follows the wrong assumption that octopus is a second declension word (since most words ending in -us at their nominative are second declension) and it’s incorrect even in Latin.

2) Greek plural would be oktopodes, with a “k” (that doesn’t exist in Latin)

3) pluralisation of foreign words follows the host language rules, so it’s octopuses.

But this comment by Paul Clark was my fave: “I usually say ‘bring me an octopus’ then ‘sorry, make that two’ just to be on the safe side…..”

Richard Barley wondered how you would pluralize a Ford Focus (Foci?) and Belloni explained you’d used the pluralization method of the host language, English here, so it would be Focuses. To which I replied:

Yes, but if you have two Focuses and they both break down you can just say you’re out of Focus.

Here’s Belloni:

He’s funny. Posted this separately:

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The iconic Star Trek line “Beam me up Scottie” was never actually said in the original series or any of the movies based on it. Sort of like “Play it again, Sam” never said in Casablanca. But the beaming business was at the core of today’s impressive NYTXW.

THE ENTERPRISE snaked its way across the top in shaded letters, along with MISTER SCOTT running across. Then quotes from six of the characters (Kirk, Spock, Uhura, etc.) ran down the grid with their names working upward within the quotes in circles, as if being beamed up. Pretty amazing IMO and I managed to complete the puzzle even though I am not a trekkie.

For our Dirty Old Man Dept, the clue at 13D was “Way back?” and the answer was UNDOBUTTON. Phil came up with these for us:

Okay, but where are you, Phil? Just get out of there, let her go, and get back. We already have George in jail. We spoke to you about basements and attics before. Please try to be a little less deranged. Watch normal people and try to pretend you are one of them.

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In case you want to see what the woman who wrote this poem looks like, here is Diane Lockward.

She’s a former English teacher at Millburn HS, not far from Owl Chatter headquarters. The poem is called “My Husband Discovers Poetry” and it’s from today’s Writer’s Almanac. I don’t know what to make of it, but that’s not unusual for me. Duh.

Because my husband would not read my poems,
I wrote one about how I did not love him.
In lines of strict iambic pentameter,
I detailed his coldness, his lack of humor.
It felt good to do this.

Stanza by stanza, I grew bolder and bolder.
Towards the end, struck by inspiration,
I wrote about my old boyfriend,
a boy I had not loved enough to marry
but who could make me laugh and laugh.
I wrote about a night years after we parted
when my husband’s coldness drove me from the house
and back to my old boyfriend.
I even included the name of a seedy motel
well-known for hosting quickies.
I have a talent for verisimilitude.

In sensuous images, I described
how my boyfriend and I stripped off our clothes,
got into bed, and kissed and kissed,
then spent half the night telling jokes,
many of them about my husband.
I left the ending deliberately ambiguous,
then hid the poem away
in an old trunk in the basement.

You know how this story ends,
how my husband one day loses something,
goes into the basement,
and rummages through the old trunk,
how he uncovers the hidden poem
and sits down to read it.

But do you hear the strange sounds
that floated up the stairs that day,
the sounds of an animal, its paw caught
in one of those traps with teeth of steel?
Do you see the wounded creature
at the bottom of the stairs,
his shoulders hunched over and shaking,
fist in his mouth and choking back sobs?
It was my husband paying tribute to my art.

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The most frequent complaint we get from readers is that we don’t pay sufficient attention to the Jewish fast days. Guilty as charged! So let’s note by way of closing that today was Tisha B’Av, the ninth day of the month of Av. It’s the saddest day on the Jewish calendar, marking the two times the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed. The second saddest day, of course, was when Sandy Koufax retired.

My Tisha B’Av memories are sorta sweet. My parents sent me to a Hebrew-speaking summer camp for six summers. Massad. And I remember gathering in the assembly hall the night before Tisha B’Av and sitting around on the floor in the dark with a candle in a potato in front of each of us. That we didn’t burn down the place was truly a miracle. Apparently, someone sat around that day with a paring knife digging out a hole in an enormous number of potatoes big enough to hold the base of a candle. This photo is the closest I could come. The candles in Massad, if memory serves, were those white sabbath candles.

Hope you had a good day, Chatterheads. See you next time!

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What a strange word Miriam Webster’s “Word of the Day” is today. I’ve seen it before but have never known what it means. Palimpsest.

Yeah, you heard me.

In its original meaning it refers to a parchment manuscript (or other writing material) that is being reused after the original writing on it has been erased. The underlying text is said to be “in palimpsest.” Its meaning has been extended to cover something that has diverse layers or aspects apparent beneath the surface.

I can’t imagine using it — except that I just did!

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In this piece from tomorrow’s Met Diary, I like the moment at which the writer senses the weight of the chair has lifted. It’s by Sarah Gundle and is called “Big Leather Chair.”

Dear Diary:

I was rushing to the subway one day when I passed a big leather chair lying on the sidewalk. It looked perfect for my closet-turned-office. Its weathered brown leather and slight scuffing gave it plenty of character.

I was three blocks from my apartment, and the chair was very heavy. I tried dragging it, but the legs wobbled precariously. I tried lifting it and walking with it hermit-crab style, two steps at a time, but its unwieldy bulk made me feel as if I would topple over.

Unsure what to do, I suddenly felt the chair’s weight lift before I got a look at the stranger who had stopped to help me carry it.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

I nodded down the street.

“I got you,” she said. And from there we carried it down the block side by side.

“This was a good find,” she said when we got to my building. “Most people miss the treasures that are right before our eyes.”

“New York City is full of them,” I responded, gesturing in her direction.

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If you’re going to get into a good fight with your boyfriend, one that involves throwing things at him and pushing him over stanchions, the worst place to do it is in an airport security area. They have more cameras on your ass than an NFL replay booth.

And that’s how our favorite Olympic runner, Sha’Carri Richardson, wound up getting arrested at the Seattle-Tacoma airport. The boyfriend is also a sprinter, Christian Coleman. He holds the world record for 60 meters. Sha’ had just run 100 meters in 11:07 to finish second in the U.S. Track and Field Championships.

We asked Owl Chatter’s sports consultant, women’s hockey star Sarah Fillier, for her analysis. She doesn’t see anything wrong with Sha’s knocking his ass down. “Did he lose teeth?” Thanks SF! The hockey perspective is always informative.

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From The Onion:

Businessman Does His Work Lying On Bed Like Schoolgirl

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Ghislaine’s dinner tonight consists of a choice of a Caesar Salad or Vichyssoise to start off. The second course will be Penne ala Vodka or Ravioli. The Main Course is Mediterranean Chicken, Skirt Steak, or Wild-Caught Alaskan Salmon. All come with vegetables on the side. Dessert is a choice between Chocolate Lava Cake and Apple Pie.

Bon Appetite, Madame.

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The following has been copied verbatim from a story by ABC News:

The Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History removed references to President Donald Trump’s two impeachment proceedings from an exhibit on the “Limits of Presidential Power.” The exhibit now only includes references to the impeachment proceedings against Presidents Andrew Johnson in 1868, Richard Nixon in 1973 and Bill Clinton in 1998.

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The best plural of octopus is octopodes. That’s because octopus is Greek and podes is the plural ending for Greek words. But octopi has been used by mistake so often that it has become acceptable too. That’s the plural ending for Latin words which octopus is not. Octopuses is okay too — that’s the English plural ending that can be used since octopus has been adopted into English.

Circus hasn’t caused the same problems, as far as I know (admittedly, about as far as I can throw a Buick). No one has tried circi, or circopodes. It’s circuses. Its ancestry is Middle English, from Latin. Still no one tried has tried circi.

Why am I jabbering on about this? Because the guest blogger for Rex today jokingly tried circi and circopodes before circuses.

Hmmm, as I reread this portion, it seems dull enough for the Dull Men’s Club (UK). Maybe I’ll give it a try over there.

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Chuck Mangione passed away last Tuesday. He was honored with an appearance in the puzzle today, clued with “Flugelhorn player on the 1978 instrumental hit ‘Feels So Good.’” Did you know he was (still is) supervocalic? That means his name has exactly one of each of the five vowels.

Chuck was born and died in Rochester NY. He was 84. As a kid, his father took him and his brother to the Ridgecrest Inn in Rochester, where jazz luminaries like Miles Davis, Art Blakey and Dizzy Gillespie played regularly. “My father would walk up to someone like Dizzy and say: ‘Hi, Mr. Gillespie. These are my two sons and they can play.’ And we would sit in.”

“Then my dad would invite everyone to our house for spaghetti and homemade wine. Dad had a grocery store attached to the house, and Mother loved to cook, so we could have a party in a minute. This week it would be Dizzy, the next week Carmen McRae, then Sarah Vaughan, Art Blakey, Kai Winding.”

It worked dad.

Rest in peace, Chuck.

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Thanks for popping in — see you tomorrow!

This poem by Leo Dangel is from yesterday’s Writer’s Almanac. It’s called “In Memoriam.”

In the early afternoon my mother
was doing the dishes. I climbed
onto the kitchen table, I suppose
to play, and fell asleep there.
I was drowsy and awake, though,
as she lifted me up, carried me
on her arms into the living room,
and placed me on the davenport,
but I pretended to be asleep
the whole time, enjoying the luxury—
I was too big for such a privilege
and just old enough to form
my only memory of her carrying me.
She’s still moving me to a softer place.

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If you’re a girl and your name is Sydney, it would be good if you were beautiful. The actress Sydney Sweeney is. (Her middle name is Bernice, if you must know.)

Her ad campaign for American Eagle has caused a bit of a flap over charges that it contains racist dog whistles. Woof! I didn’t even know dogs could be racist. Although I have heard of race dogs.

An op-ed piece in the NYT by John McWhorter has a great title: Do These Jeans Make My Ads Look Racist?

The issue is the interplay between jeans and genes. In one spot, Sweeney says, “Genes are passed down from parents to offspring, often determining traits like hair color, personality, and even eye color… My ‘jeans’ are blue.” The ad says “Sydney Sweeney has great genes” with the word genes morphing into “jeans” a moment later. So — is this white nationalist crapola about blond blue-eyed folks forming a superior race?

McWhorter (a Black Columbia prof) raises the issue of whether there’s a statute of limitations on historically tarnished expressions. He’s inclined to let this one go. “Language changes, culture changes, labels are reassigned. And a blonde, blue-eyed actress talking about jeans–or even genes–is just a pun, not a secret salute to white supremacy.”

Sydney herself has caught some sh*t for staying silent about it. We asked Owl Chatter style and culture consultant Ana de Armas to weigh in. Ana’s Louis Vuitton ads have generated no controversies — only enough drooling to call for flash flood warnings. She says flatly: Leave the girl alone. She’s gorgeous. Let her work.

The Owl Chatter community, of course, is free to form its own opinion.

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The theme revealer in yesterday’s puzzle was at 39A: “Ones paying flat rates.” It’s a pun on a flat as an apartment, and the answer is TENANTS. But you need to read it as TEN ANTS, like the insects, because at ten points the letters ANT are smooshed into a square and function that way both down and across.

E.g., the answers L[ANT]ERN and REDUND[ANT] cross at the [ANT]s. Here’s what the completed grid looks like — crawling with ants. (See ’em?)

That HANA up there at 68A is Hana Mandlikova, the Czech–Australian tennis star who was ranked as high as #3 in the world back in the ’80s. She was inducted into the Int’l Tennis Hall of Fame in Newport RI back in ’94, but has avoided visiting the Hall because the tickets are expensive. She says she may pop in when she qualifies for the senior discount (she’s 63 now).

And the VERA up there at 54D is Vera Farmiga, the actress, a Jersey girl from Clifton. She’s Ukrainian. I missed her performance as a drug addict in “Down to the Bone” in 2004 but she got raves for it. Phil caught her pulling out all the stops (smoky eyes; bed head).

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From today’s puzzle I learned about suhur and iftar. I’ve long wondered about the long fast period of Ramadan. I can barely go 20 minutes without grabbing something. Well, first of all, Ramadan does last a month — from one crescent moon to the next (29 or 30 days). (The next one starts Feb. 19, the ninth month on a lunar calendar.) So it’s a month-long fast, but you only fast during the daylight hours. A pre-dawn meal is eaten called the suhur. That is why during the before Ramadan the sales of alarm clocks in Muslim neighborhoods soar. An evening (post-sunset) meal is also eaten, called iftar. Iftar was the answer in the puzzle, clued with “Evening meal during Ramadan.”

Did you know that female aphids that don’t enjoy the dating scene can have kids without mating with a male? It’s called telescoping generations. Aphids are small sap-sucking insects like the greenfly and blackfly. There is also a fluffy white wooly aphid. It’s pretty and is sometimes called a cotton fairy. Hope it dates.

The clue for APHID was “Insect that can reproduce with or without mating.”

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Riverdale Joe shared a story with us today. The topic of Rhode Island came up because Sam is there this weekend for his friend-also-named-Joe’s bachelor party. Sam is flying back to Motown on Sunday from the airport that serves four cities in the Providence area: The Rhode Island T. F. Green Int’l Airport. (T.F. Green was an RI Governor and Senator.) The four are Providence, East Providence, Warwick, and we couldn’t recall the fourth (Cranston). When we were guessing, I offered Minsk. Here’s the story it brought to mind:

A gentleman had to get to Minsk but did not have the money for a train ticket. He got on the train nevertheless and started heading to Minsk. When the conductor asked for his ticket, he said he did not have one, so he was kicked off at the next stop. He waited for the next train there, and got on it when it came. Again, when he told the conductor he did not have a ticket he was kicked off at the next stop. When the third train arrived, he got on and the scene repeated itself — he was kicked off at the next stop. While waiting for the fourth train he ran into an acquaintance and they started chatting. His friend asked him where he was heading. He said “Minsk, if my ass holds up.”

Joe then explained that as the tale crossed over the Atlantic to the new country, the destination morphed from Minsk to Winnipeg. “Winnipeg, if my ass holds up.”

Now, Minsk, obviously, is perfect. Winnipeg we’re not sure of. So your assignment, dear readers, is to see if you can come up with something funnier than Winnipeg in the U.S. or Canada. So far all I can think of is Boise.

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We reached convicted sex monster Ghislaine Maxwell sipping a marguerita by the side of her private pool at her federal facility, livid. “What the f*ck is with this goddamn chef they got me? I had to return my steak twice this week. Can someone instruct the idiot on the difference between medium and medium-rare? Jesus! There is a difference you know.” The President’s lawyers apologized and have assured her it’s being taken care of.

(You know you’re spending too much time on this topic when you can spell Ghislaine correctly from memory. Oy.)

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Special Owl Chatter farewells and thank yous to ex-Gnats Kyle Finnegan and Alex Call, both of whom we enjoyed watching play ball very much. Two menschen. Happy to see KF heading to Detroit, his hometown, where he will certainly see playoff time. And Alex is heading to the World Champion Dodgers. Not too shabby.

See you tomorrow Chatterheads.

If you are searching for America, you could do worse than look for it at a minor league baseball game. I was at one by myself years ago, eavesdropping on ten or so thirty-somethings who came to the game from work. They seemed like tech people and sharp. At one point, one of the young women needed to jot something down but couldn’t find anything to write with. She turned around and said to her workmate behind her: “Is that a pencil in your pocket?” I perked up — she had presented him with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Would he fumble it? “No, I’m just happy to see you,” he said. Nailed it! Bravo!

On a solo baseball trip to Detroit about ten years ago, I made stops for ballgames in Altoona, Pittsburgh, and Cleveland, before finishing up with a Tiger game with Sam. The team in Altoona is the Curve, named after a famous curve in the railroad tracks near town. Their mascot, needless to say, is a big fish: Al Tuna. I grabbed a pregame dinner and beer at a bar and grill in the middle of a run-down neighborhood that promised me (online) a good sandwich. I was the only diner. The beer-tender made friendly conversation, and the sandwich was indeed good.

The previous night’s game was a rainout, so they were playing two on my night, and I arrived around the third inning of the opener. The crowd was sparse and I settled in on the first-base side. A foul ball landed in the row in front of me! How great is that! There was no one nearby, I could snare it calmly. But suddenly I spied another fan streaking towards me at breakneck speed. So I did have to hurry, but I snatched it in time. The games were great. It was a terrific baseball night and I slept okay in my dumpy Motel 6 room.

Altoona has come up again because they are hosting their fifth annual Awful Night, where all the cliches of minor league ball are subverted. For example, the “give-away” item is a spork, you know, a combination spoon and fork. In this case, it’s a plastic spoon duct-taped atop a plastic fork, with “Curve” written across the handle with a thick black marker.  Each fan receives one upon entering. A collectible for sure. Instead of t-shirts fired into the crowd, underpants are. When the lineups are announced, all the names are mispronounced.

After the lineups are announced, “Captain Awful” (groundskeeper Matt Neri) runs onto the field to deliver an awful first pitch. Wearing a black mask and cape, and with his chest hair shaved into a letter “A,” Captain Awful fires a pitch into the screen behind home plate and quickly runs back into the stands. For part of the game, a young “valley girl” takes over P.A. duties. Her player introductions are along the lines of “It’s totally Jason Bowers” and “Vic Butler? For sure!” 

The announcement of fans celebrating birthdays includes “former president Andrew Johnson.” (It was actually the anniversary of his death, however.) The injury report focuses solely on front office personnel and various ailments they complain about. Instead of a “kiss cam” between innings, there is an “alone cam,” focusing on solitary fans sitting in the stands. There is also a “fan cam” in which various fans are featured: ceiling fans, oscillating fans, portable fans, etc.

Instead of the “Guess the Attendance” Quiz, there is “Guess How Many Fingers I’m Holding Up Behind My Back.” The contestant failed to guess correctly even though the answer was posted on the scoreboard the whole time and the fans were all screaming it.

After the game the fans stayed behind for a Laaser show. That’s not a typo: The lights go dim, and the dramatic strains of “The Final Countdown” fill the stadium. With the tension mounting, front-office employee Jon Laaser appears on the field. Glow sticks are attached to his body. Laaser then entrances the crowd with his slinky, seductive dance moves, until the music is mercifully cut off, and the lights go back on. Awful Night V has finally concluded.

Stick a spork in it. It’s done.

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This is one of the July Poetry Winners in The Writer’s Almanac.

I never had much luck with that line when I was single: Are you fertile?

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Breaking news: Trump pardoned Ghislaine Maxwell today and appointed her to a seat on the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals. Senators Collins and Murkowski voted against confirmation after making sure it wouldn’t matter.

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Roger Allen, of the Dull Men’s Club (UK) writes: Split my thumb nail recently, got catchy.. Had to trim and file further back than normal…Sat at work now trying to peel 2 oranges with the ‘wrong hand’ thumb nail…..It’s not happening.

Lesley Bates: Could anyone else peel them for you? Although obviously too late now. Lesson learnt, no oranges until said nail grows back.

Avi Liveson: Why is it too late? The oranges may still be unpeeled.

Roger Collier: I had a thumbnail that kept splitting in the same place. I tried everything: superglue, Araldite etc. but nothing worked. Then I hit it with a hammer; it turned black and fell off. Now it’s grown back perfectly. I don’t recommend this treatment.

Roger Allen: In engineering parlance that’s call ‘root cause corrective action’… (pun intended)….

Avi Liveson: Once you split the nail on a finger you will bump it into something painfully with every action you take the rest of the day even if those actions have nothing to do with that finger. You can move your foot and still wind up bumping that finger. My wife told me to trim that nail as short as possible and I did. A bit later the rest of my nails needed trimming, but not that one, since I had trimmed it fairly recently. But a few days later, I needed to trim that one but not the others.

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The puzzle today contained four cookies: four DOUBLE STUFF OREOS. Do you see them in the grid, below?

There are four double letters (SS, TT, UU, FF) sandwiched between two pairs of black squares representing the cakey parts of the cookie. The double letters represent the creme, of course. (E.g., look at the squares between 3A and 4A.)

If the thought of an OREO moves you to crave dunking one in milk, the constructors provided some for you at 28A: MILK, clued with “Beverage served alongside the treats in this puzzle.”

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Dave Parker, baseball great, lived long enough to know he got into the Hall of Fame but died before the induction ceremony. He wrote a poem which his son, Dave Parker II, read at the ceremony. Here’s the last part of it:

That statue better look good —
you know I got a pretty face.
Top-tier athlete,
fashion icon,
sex symbol.
No reason to list the rest of my credentials.
I’m him, period.
The Cobra.
Known for my rocket arm,
and I will run any catcher over.
To my friends, families: I love y’all.
Thanks for staying by my side.
I told y’all Cooperstown would be my last ride.

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See you tomorrow. Thanks for popping in!

A couple of items from Frank Bruni’s “For the Love of Sentences” feature. First, In The Seattle Times, Danny Westneat sympathized with Senator Lisa Murkowski, who said she felt “cheated” by Trump’s reneging on a deal with her: “If only there had been some clue, some sign, that a politician who cheated with his charity, cheated on taxes, cheated on his wife, cheats at golf, cheated his contractors, cheated his customers and then attempted the biggest cheat of all — on the American election system — might eventually work his way around to cheating you, too?”

And there was one about Jack Draper, the very handsome British tennis star. Sam Knight in the New Yorker took note of how subdued British audiences are. After Draper closed out one game, they “erupted in polite conversation.”

He’s single, ladies, and not gay, as far as we know, not that there’s anything wrong with that.

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The theme of yesterday’s puzzle was Open Seas, meant to focus on the letter C. So all of the theme answers were limited to words starting with C, e.g., Caitlin Clark, cash crop, card counting, and Coca Cola Classic. It was Caitlin Clark’s first appearance in the NYTXW. But, get this — even more impressive IMO — every single clue, across and down, started with the letter C! 78 clues. This trick was handled so smoothly that I didn’t even notice it until it was pointed out by Rex in his blog. Bravo Brian Callahan. Mr. C.

At 61D, for TAUT, the clue was ‘Completely stretched.” Egs noted: “I’m stretching myself very thin these days, but then I’m self-TAUT.”

Reminds me of when Tom and Ray of Car Talk asked a caller how long he was unemployed. When the caller said he was a consultant, Ray said “Oh, so you’re self-unemployed.”

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Some of you will recall that as you were mourning friends who were victims of AIDS, many churches “reasoned” that it showed God hates gays. In 1993, the Reverend Billy Graham asked an audience rhetorically, “Is AIDS a judgment of God?” He then answered his own question: “I could not say for sure, but I think so.”

Gotta love that he “can’t say for sure.” The man is humble. Of course, it’s a statement that is so perfectly idiotic, it’s surprising the man could tie his shoes.

In any event, it’s pretty clear now that God hates Christian girls. How else to explain the recent deadly floods in Texas? Among the dead were 27 campers and staff members at Camp Mystic, a century-old Christian summer camp for girls.

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The heat wave has been unbearable up here. Maybe this poem from last Friday’s Writer’s Almanac will help. It’s by Terri Kirby Erickson and is called “Ice Cream Truck.”

From blocks away we heard the mechanical
music the ice cream truck chimed all over
the neighborhood, calling to kids like the Pied

Piper as we darted into our houses begging
our parents for change to buy Nutty Buddies

and banana popsicles, orange pushups
and ice cream sandwiches. Once the truck

stopped on our street, we swooped like seagulls
around the open window so the ice cream man
could take our money and hand out whatever

treats we asked for, which were always better
than we remembered from the last time his boxy,

hand-painted truck rolled around—the cold,
creamy confections freezing our tongues and

sliding down our parched throats as fast as we
could eat them—the taste of summer lingering
just long enough to make us wish for more.

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31A: “Hamlet’s ill-fated love interest.” OPHELIA, of course.

Jesus! — get a grip, girl.

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Headline from The Onion’s sports section:

Moment Of Silence At Wrigley Field Followed By Hot Dog Race

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That will have to do for today. The heat has knocked me out. See you next time!

Phil had a good time with this assignment and ended up chatting with poet Ross Gay longer than he thought. He said they had absolutely nothing in common — which, of course, is high praise and a relief for Gay.

Ross is turning 51 this Friday. He was born in Youngstown, OH, and raised in Levittown, PA. When friends of his were getting married, he wrote this poem for the occasion. We can’t imagine a nicer gift, except maybe a good toaster. It’s called “Wedding Poem” and says it’s “For Keith and Jen.” It was today’s Poem of the Day from the Poetry Foundation.

Friends I am here to modestly report
seeing in an orchard
in my town
a goldfinch kissing
a sunflower
again and again
dangling upside down
by its tiny claws
steadying itself by snapping open
like an old-timey fan
its wings
again and again,
until, swooning, it tumbled off
and swooped back to the very same perch,
where the sunflower curled its giant
swirling of seeds
around the bird and leaned back
to admire the soft wind
nudging the bird’s plumage,
and friends I could see
the points on the flower’s stately crown
soften and curl inward
as it almost indiscernibly lifted
the food of its body
to the bird’s nuzzling mouth
whose fervor
I could hear from
oh 20 or 30 feet away
and see from the tiny hulls
that sailed from their
good racket,
which good racket, I have to say
was making me blush,
and rock up on my tippy-toes,
and just barely purse my lips
with what I realize now
was being, simply, glad,
which such love,
if we let it,
makes us feel.

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It’s been hot as hell lately. This piece from today’s Met Diary by Nechama Stein is called “Summer Soup.”

Dear Diary:

On the last day of a heat wave in June, I was killing time between appointments at the Whole Foods near Bryant Park.

I savored the air conditioning and gulped cold water as I gazed down at the park below.

Suddenly, a woman sitting next to me gasped, and I turned to look in her direction.

“Oh,” she said, explaining the reason for her exclamation. “I just spilled soup, but none made it onto my blouse!”

I said it was her lucky day.

“I’m impressed you’re eating soup in this weather,” I added.

“It’s part of my new philosophy,” she said. “That the weather is not so bad. Say, ‘How’s the weather?’”

“Could be better,” I said, thinking she wanted my take.

“No, no, ask me how the weather is,” she clarified.

“OK,” I said, gamely playing along. “How’s the weather?”

“Not that bad!” she replied before returning to sipping her soup and putting her new philosophy into action.

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Today’s puzzle by veteran constructor John Kugelman relied heavily on our old friend Anna Graham. There were four grid-spanning (22-letter) anagrams, one of which was a bit controversial.

At 99 across, the clue was “Real chess playa?” And the answer was CHECK MATING CHICK MAGNET. Each pair of words is an anagram of the other.

At 47A, “Attire for Larry Page and Sergey Brin when visiting Google incognito?” was TECHNOCRATS TRENCHCOATS. (Larry and Sergey are the founders of Google.)

The controversial one was my favorite. It came near the bottom at 126A with the clue “Greeting from a famous Italian character to a famous Italian American actress?” The answer is MARISA TOMEI, IT’SA ME MARIO.

Anony Mouse noted: As an American of Italian descent, I found the “It’s a me…” insulting. That’s a hundred-year-old stereotype of how Italian Americans speak. Can you imagine if there were some similarly grotesque clue using Spanglish or Ebonics?

And commenter Beezer replied: I understand your feelings, but that insult derives from Nintendo because when Mario would appear he would always say “It’sa me, Mario!”

It was also controversial because the exact anagram of “Marisa Tomei” appeared in a NYTXW before!! Should it have not been replayed? Or perhaps credit should have somehow been given?

Commenter Lewis added a favorite anagram of his: DECIMAL POINT: I’M A DOT IN PLACE.

Way down at the bottom, the puzzle threw us a curve ball. The clue was “magical symbol,” 5 letters. Answer: SIGIL. You ever hear of it? I didn’t. The dictionary calls it: an inscribed or painted symbol considered to have magical power.

Here’s the Archangel Michael’s sigil. Be careful with it — my nose just turned into a carrot for a few minutes. Scared the sh*t out of me.

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Cancel the herring! The Yankees no longer have Herring in their system. That’s Griffin Herring, the minor leaguer they traded to Colorado for third baseman Ryan McMahon. May you swim in peaceful waters, Griff — we’ll keep an eye on you here at Owl Chatter.

And, speaking of herring, the NYT had a large feature on a recent “herring pairing party” at Russ and Daughters. Forks were available, but the purists held their catch by the tail, tipped their heads back, and lowered the fish right into their mouths.

There was Scandinavian-style mustard and dill herring on crisp bread, paired with everything-bagel-flavored aquavit; curried herring with Medjool dates and roasted cashews, served with a blond ale; towers of pickled herring with pickled onions and cream sauce, served daintily on slices of Baltic rye; and herring ceviche, which goes with a tequila/mezcal cocktail.

But the purists were there for the New Catch Holland herring, or Hollandse Nieuwe, imported directly from the Netherlands during the fleeting stretch of summer when they’re caught in the North Sea. In Holland, the fish — traditionally served raw and garnished with chopped onion and cornichon — has its own national holiday. Vlaggetjesdag (“Flag Day”) heralds the arrival of the first New Catch of the season, which typically runs from mid-May to July, when the herring are at their peak omega-3 fat content and “are most delicious.” (As OC readers may recall, Linda and I sampled some wonderful herring on our recent trip to Holland.)

If you’ve got a spare $125 lying around, you can go to the repeat event this Tuesday (July 29), at Russ & Daughters Cafe on Orchard Street. (Herring plus drinks included.)

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See you tomorrow, Chatterheads!