Nothing remotely rocking about this week's quiz; nothing pop-tastic; nothing Gen-X specific. Just a bit of history.
What commercially produced, consumable substance takes its name from the village in Germany in a region once known as Hesse-Nassau which is credited with creating it as a commercial product back in the 18th Century?* At the time it had a more or less medicinal purpose, no longer applicable. It goes by a couple of names now, but we're looking for the one that reflects this town of (real or putative) origin.
First correct answer to comments wins a check for an amount, in U.S. currency, equal to the cost of a one-day supply of the stuff for a single adult person.
*This date represents the first recorded use of the original term in English, which is in 1741 -- the town and its product almost certainly go further back.
Gavin sent a note today to excoriate us for forcing him to listen to Billy Squier's 16 Strokes: The Best of Billy Squier after his victory in last week's marathon quiz. We express regret that Mr. Edwards was driven to such extremity, but suggest that our bringing back the memory of Emotions in Motion cannot possibly constitute a reasonable compulsion to endure same in 21st century digital stereo.
However, we understand compulsion, and in fact suffered from a little ourselves. All that talk about the lame derivative Big Rock of the early '80s somehow took us back into the junkyard of memory to find the crushed but recognizable remains of a single hit by a band called Diesel. Remember "Sausalito Summernight"? It was in heavy rotation on the Biloxi, Mississippi station that was our only connection, in 8th grade, to the world of rock. Listen if you dare.
In the middle of the beeping, flashing seizure-inducer that is the Harrah's casino in downtown New Orleans, we saw this weekend one thing which made our half-hour journey into the headache machine forever worthwhile -- a bright yellow "slot machine" with a logo of familiarly ugly design we know from its viral infection of nonfiction bookshelves everywhere. Yes, it was...
'Winning For Dummies. With its instant brand recognition, advanced interactive technology and hugely entertaining game play, the Winning For Dummies EVO video slot is a "no brainer" for casino operators who want to increase their slot operations' overall "IQ" (Income-generating Quotient).'
Unfortunately, the Bally PDF which confirms we didn't dream it contains only a logo (see page 7) and not an image of the machine itself. But now we know that the Culture of Stupid is without a doubt our official one. If you have any doubts, by the way, about how to use the device, you can always get help from the usual source.
Why? Why that face? Why that smirky glower? That characterlessly jutting jaw? The Cruise-perfect-quality self-seriousness? That frat-boy dull bark of a voice? That Brow-Lowered-As-If-to-Head-Butt to signify, like, anger?
Why must he stare down over 8th Avenue like some constipated god of lazy-ass fame? Why?
WHY BEN AFFLECK?
After last week's quasi-debacle, how could we return to the Quiz without asking to ourselves, "Do we have what it takes? Can we really be counted upon to deliver the kind of well-researched, correctly spelled Quiz material that our readers count on? Are we, in the words of a former employer, truly adding value?"
We listened carefully to ourselves; and looked deep inside, back in the rear of the sock drawer of the mind; and we knew that the answer was almost certainly no.
And then, on the back page of an advertisement lying around in the St. Clair diner on Atlantic Avenue, we saw it. While we waited for a grilled cheese sandwich, we saw it. The bit of trivia that will redeem this quiz. A quotation from a truly unpredictable source. Here are the details, the quotation, and the question:
Beginning in the very early eighties, this individual had a small string of major rock hits (not that he hadn't been rocking out prior to this -- rather, these were simply the "breakout" years); he toured as opening act for various arena-rock bands, but his anthemic and righteous songs brought him a following in his own right. Like many late-seventies cock-rockers, he vanished from the mass consciousness nearly as quickly as he came, leaving behind only the memory of a couple of less-than-complicated choruses, and a small but dedicated core of fans who pray for his commercial resurrection.
A quote from this gentleman appears on the back of a catalog for a popular NYC writing program. He writes of this program:
"I've gained tremendously, both in knowledge and understanding of the craft. My confidence as a writer has soared, and I've already completed three drafts of a full-length screenplay. The results speak for themselves -- I'll be back."
Who is this once-mighty axe-wielder-turned-writing-program-blurb-provider?
You could, in fact, find the quote by Googling: but that would be cheating. Look deep inside yourself. Visualize the early days of MTV. Repeat the formula: "Columbia House. Columbia House. Columbia House." Let the answer rise up like fog from a backstage smoke machine.
First correct answer to comments gets a surplus WFMU pledge drive bumper sticker. As we fly off to New Orleans this afternoon to attend the wedding of Guest Quizmaster Gavin, if no one gets the correct answer before about 2:30 PM (EDT), then you'll just have to wait for judgement until Monday night.
On the subway last night at around 10:20 PM, we were dying to ask our fellow passengers the following questions:
The fine people at Streetwise Maps not only make fantastic maps, they are truly lovely human beings. Please purchase a large quantity of their merchandise.
Returning to the ferry at the end of the day involved a certain sordid ritual; the sense of escape from the campus was heightened by the need to pass between two suburban houses guarded by aggressive dogs which looked as if they had been fed on human thyroid glands; the bus that staggered down the hill into St. George, Manhattan momentarily visible at the crest, an island stronghold. The wait in the prisonlike, windowless terminal, for the massive doors to open; futile paper-grading attempts made on a bench next to a dozing junkie; the purchase of a single guilt-laced doughnut. The pointless insistence on standing, with the rest of the sad-looking crowd, in front of the door, all together displaying a collective, childish impatience. The hope that it's a car ferry with the peaceful deck in back.
And then on the ferry, and the mingled smell of the million dying things that make up a harbor's edge, and the boat's throbbing, and then off and enveloped in the serene white noise of a ferry engine, deep hum below and high-frequency churn behind. On the rear deck of the boat there is no wind at all. Eat the doughnut; watch the gulls surf the air-wake; the sun is collapsing into somewhere far beyond Bayonne, New Jersey. We pass our orange twin ferry, busting with stockbrokers and receptionists heading back. We're the empty one, the inverse commute: one teacher and a small crowd of students and Russian cleaning ladies leaving the suburbs for the city.
Look up in the sky over the Narrows: hanging aloft in a line stretching into the blue-black, airliners stoop, landing lights ablaze. (The first evening I noticed this, I swear, they appeared to me perfect embodiments of the uncanny, angel-devils that hovered in a wonderful and malevolent sky.) Stand on the deck, marveling at such infernal creation, science+industry= magic. We pass Roosevelt Island, and I stand to go get in line again, to wait my turn to tunnel myself below the glass cliffs.
My last ride on that route was two years ago. It was in many ways the best thing about that job. I don't know if I'll ever go back.
Ahem.
We had something of a problem with Friday's Quiz (see below); to wit, another of the errours inn speling with which this outfit is sadly plagued.
Our question: If you have proposagnosia, what are you unable to do? should have read: If you have prosopagnosia, what are you unable to do? Note the reversed s and p; curse us as we have cursed ourselves, and pity us in our continuing humiliation.
Clearly, "proposagnosia" is "the inability to recognize spelling errors." We will say that of the answers attempted so far (contained in the comments to Friday's post), we have one that damn near nails it; and we'd award the prize thusly but since everyone has been cheated so far out of a legit question, we reopen the gates and urge you to consult your wits again: what is it that the prosopagnosia-sufferer cannot recognize?
Today's Quiz question is a little dysfunctional:
If you have proposagnosia, what are you unable to do?
First correct answer posted to comments wins a picture of Dr. Art Stukas thinking very hard.
If you're playing for the first time, the only rule is that we ask you to eschew Googling for the answer or going to the reference shelf. Multiple guesses are welcome.
The Rabbit was blowing her own horn the other day as regards verbal cleverness, and we have to admit she has a point. Among people with more developed letter-shuffling skills than our own, we've always particularly envied those who can seemingly at will coin words. Although the venerable Fowler points out the dangers inherent in the indiscriminate creation of a new word just because "he merely has a fancy to it," people find enough pleasure in the activity that the Washington Post holds a monthly contest devoted to same.
Then again, we found Sniglets really annoying. (Oddly, Sniglets.com seems to be the name of a consulting firm.) The goal of the Great Coinage is to anticipate the disposable slang of tomorrow, not to merely create a pile of portmanteau words. We seek the coinages that stimulate via the shock o' recognition. Ahhh! That's the stuff!
Therefore, if you've a coin you've been unable to spend elsewhere, feel free to deposit it in the verbal piggy-bank of the comments below. We promise that we'll save it for a rainy day.
Ever since we found a promotional postcard at work for Power Animal Meditations, we've been thinking a lot about the subject. (Mind you, we realize that thinking is not the same as meditating. We're taking it slow. We're not yet fully ready to work with "totem essences" and even animated gifs of wolves rubbing together can't hurry the process along. Let us be quiet like the Cedar Tree, which, according to Nicki Scully, the author of Power Animal Meditations, is a legitimate choice as a Power Animal, although we wonder whether that means you could also maybe choose a cedar hot tub or a cedar-paneled breakfast nook.)
But we're daunted, really, by the whole idea of choosing a Power Animal. Let's face it, if we go around telling people our Power Animal is a Mountain Lion, we'll be laughed right out of the drum circle. People can tell when you're not a Mountain Lion. But if we choose something like a Mule Deer, it's like saying to the Bear and Wolf people "Hey! You pursue and eat us for energy! That's the cycle of life! Wow!" And really, that's the whole dynamic we imagine you'd get into Shamanic Essentialism to avoid, right? (Oh, and please don't even suggest a Power Wombat, which sounds like something you rent at Wal-Mart and use to apply sealant to the garage).
We're feeling like we need something more essential; more 21st century; a Power Animal that triumphs in a postmodern fashion -- and having been invaded by teensy replicants, maybe that's what we need to meditate on here: a Power Virus. Instead of fighting a losing battle against these little revolutionaries, we should open ourselves to their spiritual teachings! Like endless replication of our core material and the use of docile cells as vessels through which to spawn and then when the sneezing comes we are projected gloriously out through the Cosmic Nose...
What's that? We sound a bit feverish, do we? Well, that's probably the case...in fact, upon reflection and a cup of ginger tea, we've decided that we'll choose
this as our Spirit Guide for the moment. Dreamtime, here we come.
Yes, yes, everyone links to Jason Kottke. We try not to recycle the fave memes of the weblogging world here on the File, but we do suggest that this post on Kottke.org has provided an interesting jumping-off point for a discussion (contained in the comments on that post, which we would link to if we could) about the limitations and possibilities inherent in the world of individual publishing on the Web; specifically, how to fix/deal with/ignore the limitations inherent in the organization of all of this information weblogs typically publish -- to say nothing of the often similarly idiosyncratic information contained in websites published by organizations.
(Boy, that's a long sentence.)
Much of the discussion, incidentally, flies right straight over our barely-know-HTML heads, but there's considerably more than technical talk about metadata and DTDs goin' on. One more innovation the Web provides is that its future is not being (wholly) decided elsewhere. It is being hashed out in places individuals who don't run telecom companies or hold office can access -- like comment threads on weblogs. Do we sound very 1997 about this? We probably do. And yet, there it is.
This week's quiz is a bit of a softball -- we expect to see a correct answer before teatime. Chalk it up to fatigue.
This author's first book won a Pulitzer Prize, and became the only Pulitzer winner to inspire a massive hit musical on Broadway. The author went on to become one of the small group of people with six or more New York Times number-one bestsellers in their career.
Name the author.
First correct answer to posted to comments wins a large, red squishy six-sided die.
Note: if you're new, the only rule is that looking it up is not cricket. Multiple guesses are acceptable.
The account of the White House Correspondent's Dinner in this week's Observer is so chockablock with the evidence that there is nothing redeemable in our society that we can offer no comment. Except to say that the only thing that can make us feel any sympathy for Ari Fleischer is the thought that he probably has to deal with Ann Coulter on a regular basis.
The highlight:
Ms. Sevigny said her favorite moment of the night was when Mr. Bush addressed Mr. Osbourne at the dinner. "He's made a lot of big hit recordings: 'Party with the Animals,' 'Sabbath Bloody Sabbath,' 'Face in Hell,' 'Last Skies' and 'Bloodbath in Paradise,'" Mr. Bush said. "Ozzy, Mom loves your stuff." The line brought Mr. Osbourne out of his seat-as well as many in the audience, who threw the MTV star devil-horn gestures.
"I loved hearing the President rattle off the titles of Black Sabbath songs," Ms. Sevigny said. "That was the most subversive moment of the evening."
Our drug-war-critical pals over at Equatorial may not know that they have some potential allies with an unlikely set of religious affiliations.
As recently discussed in this space, I've been on the receiving end of quite a few items from the old homestead of late. (Yes, the Legos arrived.) Most recently, the UPS truck brought a package containing a battered but complete set of the Chronicles of Narnia.
It's safe to say that The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe was my first truly compelling experience with narrative fantasy. The first time Iread them through I was simply beguiled by the whole package: the journey to another world, getting to be knights with swords, talking animals, and the most competent parent-figure ever invented in literature. By the time I got the news that there was a layer of Christian allegory rather smoothly woven throughout, I was too happy with Lewis's world to mind very much -- it made a touch less personally magical, but later added a certain level of interpretive puzzle to work on. Even Lewis's version of the Apocalypse seemed more reassuring than the grotesque vision of the Rapture that sprung up in the evangelical pamphlets I found in my friends' homes.
Rereading the books now, two things strike me as worthy of comment. The first is how much Lewis owed to (and attempted to transform) the rhetoric and setting of Victorian and Edwardian books of the post-Tom Brown's School Days variety. The moral lessons imparted to children in Narnia distinctly partake of the fair-play, no-squealing ethos of the boarding school world. While the narrative frame of The Silver Chair is explicitly concerned with the tyranny of school bullies, Lewis's children in general must learn to suffer their privations with honor, and though he doesn't blame them for crying when homesick, he privileges "pluck" over tenderness.
Leaving behind Lewis's didactic concerns, though, what's striking in comparison to the work of a contemporary and friend is how narratively speedy Lewis is. The man knows how to keep a story going, and though he'll pause a moment or two to remind one of how impressive Aslan's mane or the deliciousness of a large breakfast (Never was there a fantasy series so repeatedly devoted to the pleasure of a big breakfast, by the way. More of the scarring of the old public school education of poor old Clive, one supposes), there's little lingering. Event follows event, Narnia is saved ---and before one knows it, it's a quick lecture from Aslan, and back through the bloody wardrobe. It's a good thing he turned out a whole pile of these books, or he'd have had a lot of very frustrated children on his hands. And please don't tell me to follow the last one with a romp through Mere Christianity. In case you didn't know, the Lion ain't in it.
Joined the text-grazing herds. Picked up some swanky-looking catalogs and the odd free book. Met some nice people from Drawn and Quarterly. Passed within a few feet of two noteworthies. And one nightmare.
We would like to do our part to create a bit of public consciousness about Verisign and the horrible things they've been allowing to happen to domain names registered with them. Detailed discussion can be found here.
Apologies for the late start, but it's been another day of technology on the ropes here.
But perhaps our source of subjects has prompted divine intervention and blessed our beleagured office network. Here's the spiritual scoop: The phrase "the handwriting is on the wall" comes to us from one of those trippy scenes in a volume that we don't talk about very much on this site o' secular sarcasm, the Good Book. The writing in question is that resonant phrase MENE MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN, which apparently meant in context something like, "The party is over, folks."
Today's question is a two-parter:
First, in what book of the Bible does this display of God's graffitti take place?
Second, what debauched empire is being put on notice?
First correct set of answers posted to comments wins a Jack Chick religious tract about the evils of school lunch programs.
Because of the invasion of our office network by this or something like it, we had Life Without Computing today at the office; which is pretty notable considering that the company's business involves, well, that Internet thingy. We arrived to printed notices announcing that we Should Not Be Alarmed to find various mysterious stickers adorning our monitors -- this had all the reasssuring power of a John Ashcroft "high alertness" press conference. All the bad things, we were told, had been stomped to death in the night, we were assured, and only those whose computers had been marked with a big red A needed to be shunned by the township. But be alert!
The more keen-eyed among us were alerted a few hours later by the fact that sending an email was a process that executed with a disturbing langour. This phenomenon spread to other applications -- windows closed and opened in an insolently leisurely fashion, like teenagers shuffling lethargically to class when an ineffictive hall monitor appears. And then it all stopped. The plugs had been pulled. No network for the kids, we were told, for the rest of the day. The normal humming quiet of a plugged-in workplace erupted in verbal back-and-forth. Programmers who hadn't been seen away from their desks in weeks began congregating in knots, leaning together for mutual support.
We mention this because it kept us from our promise to write something earlier, something about the way that running in the park in a cloud-shadowed Spring dusk is a transporting event that takes us to the landscape of our dreamlife. Something about how the newly restored boathouse, lit up with floodlights, is more ghostly and ominous than it was as a deserted semi-ruin. How the little black dog that darts in pursuit of an invisible stick, when seen out of the corner of peripheral vision, conjures the dream-dogs of our late childhood, murder-missiles that would suddenly appear in the midst of an otherwise low-level anxiety scenario, streaking toward us out of that place on the edge of vision, sudden wolf scattering the soul's sheep.
Something about how a pink dogwood plays a neon tune in the strange greening of the park at night, and its a head full of oxygen that lets you hear it. Something about how it doesn't make any sense at all, but some Belle and Sebastian songs actually work okay for when you're running, and who'd have guessed?
