Ukraine Shirt Fundraiser

As a fundraiser, Jim has created a T-shirt. It reads: PUTIN IS A D!¢K in Ukrainian. (It has had thumbs up from the Ukrainian refugees staying in our neighborhood and the protestors outside the Russian Embassy.) All proceeds go to the International Rescue Committee and World Central Kitchen. A shirt is $25 if you pick it up, plus $6 if you want it shipped. Sizes S, M, and L. If you are interested, email eachdayisacelebration@gmail.com.

What did one math book say to the other?

Terrible math jokes for Pi Day. And, a Pi Pie. (It’s cranberry-apple.)

Q: What did one math book say to the other?

A: Don’t bother me. I’ve got my own problems.

Q: Why should you never mention the number 288?

A: Because it’s two gross.

Q: Why do plants hate math?

A: It gives them square roots.

Q: Why did the student get upset when the teacher called her average?

A: It was a mean thing to say.

Q: How do you stay warm in a cold room?

A: Go to a corner. It’s always 90 degrees.

Q: What did the zero say to the eight?

A: Nice belt!

Q: Why did pi get its driver’s license revoked?

A: Because it didn’t know when to stop.

Q: What do you get when you take the sun and divide its circumference by its diameter?

A: Pi in the sky.

Q: What is a math teacher’s favorite vacation destination?

A: Times Square.

Q: Have you heard the latest statistics joke?

A: Probably.

Q: Why is it sad that parallel lines have so much in common?

A: Because they’ll never meet.

Q: Why is the obtuse angle upset?

A: Because it is never right.

Q: Why does no one ever speak to circles?

A: Because there’s no point.

Q: What do you call friends who love math?

A: Algebros.

Q: Why do atheists have trouble with exponents?

A: They don’t believe in higher powers.

Memory of Venice/Valentines Day

For this day, a painting, and a poem by Philip Booth.

Nightsong

Beside you,

lying down at dark,

my waking fits your sleep.

Your turning

flares the slow-banked fire

between our mingled feet,

and there,

curved close and warm

against the nape of love,

held there,

who holds your dreaming

shape, I match my breathing

to your breath;

and sightless, keep my hand

on your heart’s breast, keep

nightwatch

on your sleep to prove

there is no dark, nor death.

—Philip Booth

Groundhog Day/Candlemas

For this double celebration, a sketch, and the first verse of a poem by Lynn Ungar.

Celebrate this unlikely oracle,

this ball of fat and fur,

whom we so mysteriously endow

with the power to predict spring.

Let’s hear it for the improbable heroes who,

frightened at their own shadows,

nonetheless unwittingly work miracles.

Why shouldn’t we believe

this peculiar rodent holds power

over sun and seasons in his stubby paw?

Who says that God is all grandeur and glory?

—from “Groundhog Day” by Lynn Ungar

Chanson d’automne

For the first day of fall, a poem by Paul Verlaine. Translation by Arthur Symons.

Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l’automne
Blessent mon coeur
D’une langueur
Monotone.

Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l’heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure

Et je m’en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m’emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.

—Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)

When a sighing begins
In the violins
Of the autumn-song,
My heart is drowned
In the slow sound
Languorous and long

Pale as with pain,
Breath fails me when
The hours tolls deep.
My thoughts recover
The days that are over
And I weep.

And I go
Where the winds know,
Broken and brief,
To and fro,
As the winds blow
A dead leaf.