Jo Craven McGinty Writes About NFL Cleats for the Wall Street Journal, and Thus a Poem is Born

Ms. McGinty crunches numbers for the Wall Street Journal. She can also count backwards from 100 in Esperanto. 

Grass fields don’t present the same hazard because the natural surface can tear away before an injury occurs, but artificial turf may grip a cleat without letting go, causing limbs to twist in unexpected and potentially harmful ways.    Jo Craven McGinty writing for the Wall Street Journal. 

On football fields the cry remains:

"That phony turf gives us the pains!"

"Our cleats prefer the grass so green,

and not some stuff made by machine!"

For cleats keep football players nimble,

and has always been a symbol

of their prowess and their speed,

and bermudagrass is what they need.

Sly AstroTurf and all its ilk

may seem to be as smooth as silk.

But it will hold a cleat in place

and rob a player of his grace.

So give the players fescue, please,

to stop them falling on their knees.

If that don't work, perhaps hot air

will keep them upright, fair and square.

  

"Dang football players get more attention than a baby."

Min Tull. Wednesday. October 17. 2018.

Strive as I may, sinking into a persnickety morass of disaffection appears to be my fate this evening -- as it is most evenings. A combination of mental blurriness and lower back pain, along with acid eyeballs and not enough social interaction with others during the daylight hours, leaves me feeling like a constipated honey badger. The world is dull and the people inhabiting it are blanks. 

Rather than attempt an artificial cheer that I know I cannot sustain past 6 p.m. from counting my blessings, I will, instead, list my complaints and pet peeves -- which may, considering how contrary I am, actually cheer me up for real.

This morning I wrote a religious poem, inspired by a Washington Post story on women-only worship services. In the last line I made mention of Maenads, the female followers of Dionysus in ancient Greece, and Bacchus in old Rome. I thought it was pretty good, so I shared it with a bunch of reporters and some personal friends. Didn't hear a peep from the reporters, but some of my friends complained they didn't understand the last line of my poem. They didn't know what a Maenad was, and couldn't be bothered to look it up, I guess. That has depressed me all day -- my friends, my good friends, who I fancy will stick with me through thick and thin, would rather stay ignorant than look up one measly word. The next one of my so-called 'pals' who does that to me, I'm gonna send 'em a blank postcard -- that'll worry 'em until the cats come home, it will, it will.

I am going to be stoic concerning my physical condition tonight. Not a peep out of me will you hear about my dyspepsia; marthambles; emerods; water on the brain; tennis fetlock; hardening of the stem cells; unregistered mollycoddles; borborygmi; and recurring heebie-jeebies. But I suffer . . . oh, how I suffer.

6:12 p.m.
My mood is perceptibly lighter right now, because my dinner was excellent. But I'm not going to tell you about it, since these same fair-literature friends I have mentioned above so often like to tease me about my obsession with cooking and consuming food. So youse guys can GUESS what I ate tonight -- nyah!

Ah, but that old familiar black mood, those ever-lovin' blue devils, are making a valiant attempt at a comeback. From my recliner in the living room, where I am writing this, and where, in fact, I do all my writing, I can see a sink full of dirty dishes. Drat! There is a small pot stained with turmeric, a ceramic bowl with grains of this and that hardening on the inside, and a flimsy tin frying pan that is full of congealed Crisco. 

I do not want my tombstone to have my name or any dates on it. All I want chiseled on it is this:  HAVE YOU DONE THE DISHES YET?  The anguished reactions of passersby will afford me a grim chuckle as the worms do their duty on me. 

Rather than get up to attend to the rancid dinnerware, I will start a new complaint:  The upkeep of my vinegar pool. A gallon of vinegar now costs $2.46 per gallon. I had to change the vinegar today, since my current scientific experiments were done and the pool was distressingly filthy. I discovered that several rocks dissolved into sand and that several others did nothing. I have discovered that horse chestnuts do not react in any way to vinegar. And I have found that on average the vinegar in my pool (which holds 3 gallons) evaporates at the rate of about a pint every other day. Currently there is nothing in the fresh vinegar except the indestructible horse chestnuts, six white plastic ping pong balls floating on the surface, and a handful of juniper berries, which I just added an hour ago. I calculate that at this rate I will have to buy a gallon of white distilled vinegar every week for the rest of my life. And with the looming tariff war, who knows how high the price of vinegar will go? Most of it comes from the squeezings of peasant socks in China. Shocking, and depressing.

6:51 p.m.
I just stubbed my toe on the living room couch. That is certainly a valid excuse for ill temper. Probably several major wars in the past two thousand years have been caused by a short-tempered leader who stubbed his or her toe on the divan and went into a fury until war was declared on somebody for some paltry reason. Especially when you consider how often people used to walk around in open toed sandals; such foot gear leaves the toes wide open to assault and battery. I bet if we dug up a bunch of old Mesopotamians their toe bones would look like they were hammered in with a mallet. 

I haven't heard any more about the sale of my poetry book since I spoke to Adam last week. 8 sold, as of last week. Curiously, this does not make me very upset or downcast -- not tonight anyways. I'm afraid that the pleasant aftereffects of a good dinner are still with me. It's difficult to be temperamental or petty when I've been well fed. The best meal I ever had in my life was at Amy's parents' house in Tioga, North Dakota, on Christmas Eve 1980. She and I had walked down the deserted Main Street hand in hand as a few tentative snow flakes danced around us. I had already asked her to marry me -- she had said yes, but . . .  And we finally got that 'but' taken care of during that walk. When we got home we were cold and warm at the same time, and I had a roaring appetite, inspired by love and chilblains. Amy's mother made a big pot of spitzen, Norwegian dumplings, in a chicken broth loaded with diced celery and carrots. I had 3 helpings. Ever since then dumplings of any kind have comforted me and given me confidence. In Thailand they sell Chinese dumplings at the front counter, like they do hotdogs here in the States. Only difference being the dumplings were actually edible. I used to get a half dozen of 'em whenever Joom and I had an argument that we couldn't find our way out of with a laugh.   

But even the memory of that spitzen cannot bring about a change in my black bile tonight as I ponder the rotten uncomfortable benches in the bus shelters in Provo. The one above is located 2 blocks from my apartment building, on State Street. Avoid it at all costs. And if you must wait for the 850 bus there do not sit down for any reason. The bench is angled so your butt is elevated and your feet can't touch the ground; at the same time the back of the bench is angled so it cuts into your vertebrae like a scythe. It is not made for sitting, but for sciatica. Of course fat people like me cannot find a comfortable seat in a public place, ever. Park benches are too hard. Waiting room chairs squeeze the hips like a Bismarck ringed python; and the folding chairs they put out for Provo City Council meetings were designed by Torquemada. (And if you don't know who that is, just Google it for the cat's sake!)

7:40 p.m.
Those dishes, those evil crafty dishes in the sink; they begin to settle, making sly tinkling sounds as if someone were walking on crushed glass. I must go wash them -- otherwise I can't brush my teeth. Six months ago I had Sarah come over to clean up my apartment prior to a Federal inspection (since I live in a rent subsidized building, the Feds can barge in whenever they feel like it) and after she finished the bathroom sink was so clean and sparkly that I stopped using it for shaving or brushing my teeth. I don't even wash my hands in it anymore. I use the kitchen sink for everything. And I won't spit used Colgate foam on my own bowls and spoons -- I'm not that depraved yet. And if I stub my toe again on the way into the kitchen I'm going to blame pretty much everyone I can name and hate them for the rest of the night. 
So put THAT in your pipe and smoke it. 

Why don't more people mind their own beeswax?

Addendum:  My friend in Thailand emailed me back thus:

For the record, I did look up Maenads.

I almost always look up odd words you put into your works!

Please find out how big the carbon footprint is on your vinegar pool! The ethical thing to do!

I took your order and put it in my pipe and smoked it. I think I saw Hugh Nibley walking sown the sidewalk!!!

Trump the Indian Giver, from an Article in the Washington Post by Amy B Wang and Deanna Paul

Ms Wang covers breaking and national news for The Washingto Post. Her favorite color is Monday.

Ms Paul covers national and breaking news for the Washington Post. She does not like the nickname 'Muffy.'

“I’m going to get one of those little [DNA testing] kits and in the middle of the debate, when she  [Warren] proclaims she’s of Indian heritage … ‚” Trump said. “And we will say, ‘I will give you a million dollars to your favorite charity, paid for by Trump, if you take the test and it shows you’re an Indian.’ "

(On Monday Trump denied he had ever made such a promise of a donation)

Although the promise out he flung,

the Donald speaks with forking tongue.

He no longer has much to say

about the truth of DNA.

Should he decide the test to take,

it just might show his blood is fake.

For I do doubt he's really human;

I think his blood is made of cumin. 

A Poem about Starbucks, inspired from a story by Rachel Abrams in the New York Times

Rachel Abrams is a business reporter for the New York Times. Her favorite word in English is "thunderstone."

Starbucks plans to thin out its executive ranks as part of a corporate reshuffling that it hopes will help revitalize sales and hasten its growth overseas.

Rachel Abrams, writing in the New York Times.

When top heavy, companies tend

their peons' employment to end.

But Starbucks has said

they'll start from the head

and various VPs suspend.

Women Only Religious Services -- A Poem inspired from a New York Times story by Lela Moore.

Lela Moore is an audience writer for The New York Times. She raises rutabagas in her spare time.

Women-only religious services are increasing in popularity among evangelical Christians; there are similar services for Jewish and Muslim women as well. 
Lela Moore, writing in the New York Times. 

Some time apart can really bless

a Christian union under stress.

Although in love as man and wife,

the two in tandem will find strife.

And so a time and place reserved

for women keeps their love preserved.

For let us face it, all you guys --

sometimes we are not such a prize.

But have a care, you celebrants,

to shun those ancient revenants 

whose women-only cultish fads

led to the excess of Maenads! 

The Hubble Space Telescope -- A Poem inspired by a story from Dennis Overbye in the New York Times

Dennis Overbye is a science writer who specializes in physics and cosmology. He also raises sea cucumbers.

The Hubble Space Telescope, NASA’s jewel of the skies, is temporarily out of service. On Friday, the telescope stood down from observing and put itself into “safe mode” after one of its gyroscopes, which keep it aimed at objects of scientific interest, died.

Dennis Overbye, in the New York Times.  

A gyroscope's a tricky thing, that often goes kerflooey;

in outer space if it goes bad there's nothing but chop suey.

So if you use a gyroscope to navigate your world,

make sure it is in good repair or you just might get knurled.

The End of Sears -- How Expendable are Journalists? -- Your DNA May be Under Attack -- Catholic Church to Print ID Cards for Immigrants

It’s also difficult to turn around such

 a large company. Many critics argue 

that Lampert made a fatal mistake

 in merging Sears with Kmart.

 “He merely compounded the problem

 by having two big sick companies

 with many incompatibilities.

 The merger probably doomed Sears.

 K-Mart was already a dead carcass

 when he bought it,” said Rorabaugh.

Jon Talton, in the Seattle Times.

Who killed the Sears Roebuck, I'm wanting to know;
with Kenmore and Craftsman they kept me in tow.
At Christmas their catalog filled me with glee;
their almond bark seemed to grow right on a tree.
They packaged enchantment, to my simple mind;
something with Amazon you will not find.
I pose it again: Why did they go kaput?
It must be the Russians, who wanted their loot.
Or maybe the Chinese sent some Fu Manchu
to sow major discord like fertile fescue.
I've got to blame someone, I can't let it go;
I'm sure Trump will tell me who dood it, y'know . . . 


The Turkish government has arrested more than 200 journalists. More than 40 are in prison in China. Those who can get away with more extreme tactics will use those, too. Precisely because we now live in a global information network, the death of a single journalist could usefully frighten the rest — not only in one country but around the world.     WaPo

Why frighten a journalist when

they're laid off again and again?

How can they survive

the newspaper's drive

to use algorithms, not pen?

****************************************

In morning tweets, Trump claimed a DNA test shared by Warren on Monday was “a scam and a lie” and called on her to “apologize for perpetrating this fraud against the American Public.”    WaPo

With ancestors no longer free

from rabid demagoguery,

a man's DNA

had better just stay

full cloaked in complete mystery.

*******************************

The Archdiocese of Baltimore will create its own form of identification card for members of churches, an alternative to government-issued identification that church leaders hope will make immigrants and others who have trouble obtaining identification feel safer in the city.

The mayor of Baltimore has endorsed the plan, and Baltimore’s police force said it will recognize the new “parish ID” as a valid form of identification.

WaPo

An immigrant in Baltimore

confessed to his priest he was sore

he had no ID;

The priest said "We'll see"

and pulled out a badge from his drawer.

The Happy Uighur Tribesmen

In Western China Uighurs now have barracks by decree

where they can learn in comfort how to sew and filigree.

They're fed and clothed unstintingly by Beijing's open hand,

in air conditioned cell blocks with kind teachers fully manned.

Formerly a savage race of nomads with a creed

that needed to be modified and then brought up to speed,

the happy Uighur tribesmen now rejoice in pleasant camps

where they are learning Mandarin beneath bright paper lamps.

Reeducated and reformed to spurn hostility,

the Xinjiang inhabitants now seek gentility.

So many of them have been blessed, their modest homes vacated,

they hardly notice that their way of life is terminated. 

Trump has a drink with Abraham Lincoln -- Mob Rule by Democrats -- Robot Slaves and their Infant Masters -- Kavanaugh Faces Witch's Hex

“The only way to shut down the Democrats new Mob Rule strategy is to stop them cold at the Ballot Box. The fight for America’s future is never over!” Ben Shapiro @realDonaldTrump

The future of America is worth a fight or two;

and since I like a rumble, that is what I'm gonna do.

I'll battle in the White House and I'll riot in the streets;

I'll smash the foe in combat with my military tweets.

Let the D-crats try to rule by mob -- I'll stop 'em cold

with ballot box restrictions that are like a thick blindfold!

********************************

*****************************************

CHIBA, Japan—A startup that has drawn investment from Toyota Motor Corp. showed off a robot that can pick up toys and clothes off the floor and put them in their proper places.

WSJ

Little Mary is a slob, her brother is a pig;

but when their rooms begin to smell they do a little jig,

and robots come a-scurryin' acrost the polished floor

to gather up banana peels and marbles by the score.

What will they do when they grow up, as drones in cost increase?

I guess they'll wallow in their filth and solitary grease!

*************************

“Now, you’ve got witches that are placing a hex on [Supreme Court Justice] Brett Kavanaugh,” Kremer said, putting particular emphasis on the word “hex.”  WaPo

There once was a judge, name of Brett,
who caused voodoo ladies to fret.
So they cast a spell
to send him to hell --
He's on his way, but ain't there yet . . . 

****************************

Previously spotted in D.C. gift shops and jigsaw puzzle boxes, a fantasy print of President Trump entertaining Abraham Lincoln while every other Republican president in history watches now hangs outside the Oval Office.

The portrait was shown hanging in Trump’s personal dining room during his “60 Minutes” interview Sunday, and the freeze frame instantly went viral . . .

WaPo

When Trump sits down with Nixon in a painting, that's okay.

Let him sit with Khrushchev, Mao, Atilla, or OJ.

But having him palavering with good old Honest Abe

is something not a soul would buy, not even a wee babe.

I think he would look look better and not seem so mediocre

if he were in a canvas of large dogs all playing poker.