“Good morning. We are a week into the war in Ukraine, and my inbox is filled with requests for recipes for borscht.” —Cooking column in The New York Times
We will defeat the Russian Bear
with mushroom, onion, beet.
We’ll beard him with our strongest fare.
We will defeat the Russian Bear
and show him we are brave and care
through what we make and eat.
We will defeat the Russian Bear
with mushroom, onion, beet.
Our recipes will do the trick.
He will turn tail and run.
If not, we’ll make him weak and sick.
Our recipes will do the trick.
We know what will upend and lick
his missile, tank, and gun.
Our recipes will do the trick.
He will turn tail and run.
He’ll learn that he has met his match
and no more will invade.
We’ll act with purpose and dispatch.
He’ll learn that he has met his match.
He’ll cringe when he observes this batch
of borscht that we have made.
He’ll know then he has met his match
and never more invade!
“Revealed: leading climate research publisher helps fuel oil and gas drilling” —The Guardian
We have to play the odds the best we can:
Get money from the Left to sound a warning,
Then speak directly to the oil man
And get it from the Right before next morning.
Don’t think that we don’t take a side. We do,
But in the end it all comes down to money
(The green, the beans, the clams, the revenue)
Or we’ll be out of work, and that ain’t funny.
No doubt to you it looks a little strange;
Who knows how long this crisis will outlive us?
Yet we’ll go on promoting climate change
As well as trying to stop it. Please forgive us.
“Hank the Tank, the giant 500-pound black bear who stands accused of breaking into over 30 Lake Tahoe-area homes in search of food— often while the residents are still home—may actually be a three-bear operation.” —Los Angeles Magazine
The Ursa Major proved to be
Not just a single bear, but three, Tres osos snuggled in a cave—
And pizza was the thing they’d crave.
They craved it till they couldn’t wait:
No time to stay and hibernate.
And cutting short their wintry snooze,
They ended up on network news.
The wildlife folks said, “What to do?
Euthanize this gluttonous crew?
But surely folks would raise a stink,
So relocation’s best, we think.”
We Hong Kong expats want to know:
Should we stay or should we go?
Some say lockdown will be fine,
And add it won’t last for all time.
How are we supposed to know?
Should we stay or should we go?
It’s nonstop test, test, test
Since Omicron was not suppressed.
Hong Kong’s closed off, and now we’re stuck.
Few flights depart. We’re out of luck—
Can’t even get into Guangzhou.
Should we stay or should we go?
Should we stay or should we go now?
Should we stay or should we go now?
If we go, that could be wisdom
But if we stay, there’s always dim sum…
So someone tell us, if you know:
Should we stay or should we go?
Your luxury car’s in the drink.
(Some batteries shorted, they think.) You’ll never say “Howdy” to your Bentley or Audi
and we’re fathoms deep in red ink.
As a boy, great music was the holy grail.
Fortune didn’t matter much to me.
Now I’ve gotten older,
I need more than thanks.
All the best notes, baby, are in banks.
Have you seen this check?
I couldn’t believe it!
There’s not a speck
Of doubt in my mind.
Gotta say: Hey! I’m an achiever
(Got more than Bob I think you’ll find….).
“Edgar Allan Poe’s pocket watch among donations to museum” —The Guardian
Once within my mournful mansion, while I cursed my choice of scansion
With my face against my pillow and my clothes upon the floor—
While I burrowed, semi-sleeping, suddenly there came a beeping
As of someone smugly cheeping, cheeping like a total bore.
“’Tis some nightmare,” I protested, “’tis 6:30, I am sure!” Quoth the timepiece: “8:04.”
Then this witchy watch compelling my sad fancy into yelling
By the self-important aspect it rebarbatively wore,
“Though your face be scratched and glassy, thou,” I said, “art bold and brassy;
Would thou wert in Tallahassee and myself in Elsinore!
Do not tell me what your name is, we have not the least rapport.” Quoth the timepiece: “9:04.”
And that timepiece, eardrum-stinging, still is pinging, still is pinging
On the grimy undergarments that adorn my chamber floor;
And its tone has all the beauty of an owl’s that’s extra-hooty—
Nothing delicate or fluty—and my very brain is sore;
Though I know it’s still 6:30, in a voice I can’t ignore Quoth the timepiece: “10:04 …”
“Ukraine warns of cyberattacks on banks…” —Reuters
“One result [of Russia’s attack] would be to push Russia to have closer economic ties to China… ‘Russia is likely to pivot all energy and commodity exports to China’…” —The New York Times
Jiggery-pokery,
cybersecurity
vulnerabilities
threaten the banks;
geopolitically,
Machiavellian
actors are banking on
Vladimir’s tanks.
“Reef ball burials: the new trend for becoming ‘coral’ when you die… Most of the world’s reefs are at risk—from ocean warming and acidification, pollution and overfishing…” —The Guardian
Full fathom five please let me lie:
Of my bones be corals built;
Then, I take it, when I die,
I’ll lose this never-ending guilt.
