Friday, 4/29/11

Southern Californians, if you haven’t already registered for Sunday’s Crosswords LA tournament, fret not! You can sign up as a walk-in. Just get yourself to Loyola Marymount University before 11 a.m. I’ve test-solved all the Crosswords LA puzzles (constructed specifically for the event) and they’re excellent. Especially Tyler Hinman’s crossword, which plays the role of the ACPT Puzzle #5 here (but is a good bit less likely to evoke tears of rage and frustration)—that is one cool puzzle.

David Quarfoot’s New York Times crossword

4/29/11 NYT crossword solution 0429

This was the finals puzzle at the Boston Crossword Puzzle Tournament last weekend, and it’s got the standard Friday NYT difficulty level (meaning close to the Thursday level of rigor, but themeless). When I test-solved the Crosswords LA finals puzzle, it took about 20% longer than the Quarfoot—but was still markedly easier than an ACPT A Division finals crossword, which is generally Saturday NYT plus. And then there are the smaller regional tournaments that use a Thursday NYT for the final round. Isn’t it lovely that there are so many events for solvers of different levels?

Anyway! Am I the only one who finds that Quarfoot and Nothnagel themelesses have a similar vibe? Both guys started getting published around the same time and both favor super-zippy fill. Let’s call them The Themeless Twins. Me, I’m a fan of both of ’em. Highlights in today’s puzzle:

• 1a. Holy cats, SNOOKI from Jersey Shore! I love that she’s clued as a novelist and TV star. Makes her sound all classy-like.
• 7a. [Bass alternative]…hmm, cello, electric guitar, baritone, salmon? No, SAM ADAMS, alternative to Bass Ale. I love a clue word with a multiplicity of meanings.
• 15a. Why stop with two bang-up Across answers in a row? Keep it rolling with KEN-KEN.
• 19a. Who knew PRAY FOR RAIN would have topical currency? The governor of Texas declared last weekend to be an official pray-for-rain weekend. Wait, did it work? I heard Texas had rain this week.
• 34a. EXAM ROOMS are best when the tables are lined with butcher paper, in case you need to wrap up any pickles or meat while you’re in there.
• 48a. [Green grp.?] may have made you want EPA, but it’s the PGA and golf-course greens. I want to play a prank on a golf course and fill the greens with salad greens and/or collard greens.
• 54a. This is an oddball answer, isn’t it? THE POSITION isn’t quite a lexical chunk outside of the phrase “assume the position,” but the clue, [It may be assumed], tries to get the “assume” in there indirectly.
• 57a. SUBPRIME mortgages, good entry, not-so-good entity.
• 63a. Why not place SEXTED opposite SNOOKI in the grid?
• 5d. I love the word KERFUFFLE and its synonyms. One of the finest pages in any good thesaurus—hullabaloo, hubbub, ruckus, brouhaha? Every one of these words is fun to say. Now, in the wrong sort of company, people will just look at you funny if you use the word kerfuffle.
• 7d. ST. CROIX! Not only does NYT columnist Paul Krugman have a house there, but that’s where I honeymooned. My 20th anniversary is next week. Dang, I should’ve booked another trip there.
• 35d. You know what else goes nicely with SNOOKI? REFUDIATE.
• 40d. [Troglodytes] is another of my favorite words. I had SOLID in lieu of VALID and plunked in an S plural for this answer so you better believe I was confused by CASEMES. Um, no. CAVEMEN.

Four and a half stars. Lots of fun stuff, nothing ugly.

Michael Ashley’s Chronicle of Higher Education crossword, “Meaty Novels”  — pannonica’s review

Chronicle of Higher Education April 29, 2011 – solution

On the menu this week: classic novels for the carnivoracious reader, prepared in a demi-glace and exhibiting a distinct pungency.

• 20a. [Meaty Thomas Mann novel?] DEATH IN VENISON (Death in Venice)
• 32a. [Meaty D.H. Lawrence novel?] SONS AND LIVERS (Sons and Lovers)
• 40a. [Meaty Jane Austen novel?] MANSFIELD PORK (Mansfield Park)
• 52a. [Meaty James Hilton Novel?] GOODBYE, MR CHOPS (Goodbye, Mr. Chips)

The puns themselves aren’t so bad, but I found that the theme stuck in my throat rather than to my ribs. It’s my contention that overall consistency is paramount when putting together a theme, even more so than the intrinsic quality of each thematic entry. In that regard, this puzzle has a variety of consistencies and inconsistencies:

Consistencies:
• Each themer uses as its foundation a well-known novel generally considered to be a classic.
• The pun is an alteration of the final word in the title, and in each the consonant sounds are unchanged.

Inconsistencies:
• One of the themers, “Death in Venison,” is distinct from the other three in that it adds an extra syllable. As this the most satisfying pun of the lot (and probably the seed entry), it’s excusable but somewhat unfortunate.
• Two of the answers are types of meat (vension, pork) while the other half are cuts, or preparations, of meat (livers, chops).

To my thinking, this last aspect outweighs the others because it involves the fundamental nature of the theme, and somehow undermines the spirit of the endeavor.

Divisions, decisions

I feel the constructor should have chosen one or the other, either types or cuts. This of course would make things more difficult, for the types used have a specific quality; they’re meats that have a different name from the animal itself. Few meats meet this criterion. Those that come readily to mind are venison (deer), pork (pig), ham (also pig), bacon (pig again!), mutton (sheep), beef (cattle), and veal (cattle calf). The first two are already in the puzzle, and the next two aren’t kosher because they’d put the whole thing in danger of becoming a pig-themed affair (in which case a fourth pigmeat would be needed: gammon?). That leaves three possibilities for two more entries, which would have to conform to the technical aspects of the punning. Not so easy.

The alternative approach, cuts of meat, provides more options (cutlet, loin, filet, ribs, shank, et al.), but of course it would still be difficult to create theme entries given the other constraints. The best I can come up with is “[The] Tin Drumstick” for 12 or 15 letters. It would also prevent “Death in Venison” from being unique in its construction. But it’s still messy. Butchery can be that way sometimes. Problems like this are why all my overambitious attempts at creating puzzles end up three-quarters finished.

The hitherto undescribed Macropus microcephalus

The rest of the fill is strong but unremarkable. It’s cute that 30a. is clued as Lady BRETT Ashley, who shares the constructor’s last name. The symmetrically balanced AMAZE and SNORE (1a & 67a) bookend nicely. Row two, BOXER ROO RINGO, is evocative in its inadvertent imagery. The black sections composed of five squares, especially the two shaped like Utah (okay, reflected and rotated) are distracting and perhaps disruptive.

Perhaps these quibbles seem somewhat rarefied; nevertheless I can only BRAND (51d) this puzzle as “medium” and not “well done.”

Jeff McDermott’s Los Angeles Times crossword

4/29/11 LA Times crossword answers

In this theme, four familiar phrases get an AB- appended to the beginning of their first words:

• 17a. [Entrance exam study guide?] clues ABOUT DOORS. I love the disconnect between “entrance exam” and entrance DOORS here. The answer’s AB + OUTDOORS.
• 62a. [Behar’s home?] is ABODE TO JOY. The View‘s Joy Behar is evoked here. I liked the wordplay, though it occurs to me that “house to joy” is a meaningless phrase, that you can’t have an abode that is TO anything.
• 11d. [Steal office supplies?] clues ABDUCT TAPE. Cute. Who doesn’t love duct tape? (Sometimes spelled duck tape, but that would interfere with our wordplay here.)
• 28d. [Missing letters?] are ABSENT MAIL.

I like that there’s no fifth entry with an overly wordy clue explaining how the theme works. On the other hand, there’s also no specific rationale for adding AB to the original phrases. (Addis Ababa? No.) Some people are bothered by the inclusion (or perhaps the exclusion) of a helper answer explaining the theme. Some people demand a reason behind the theme’s wordplay (while others scarcely notice themes in the first place). Some people are utterly agnostic on these issues.

Five faves:

• 21a. [“Break a leg”] means “GOOD LUCK!” to an actor.
• 51a. The Belgian ANTWERP is clued as a [Flanders city]. No relation to Ned Flanders.
• 67a. [Six-sided rooms] are ELLS. You were thinking of six walls with congruent angles forming a beehivey hexagonal room, weren’t you?
• 7d. [Throat trouble] is a metaphorical FROG in your throat.
• 38d. KEY WORDS are [Googling elements].

Other clues:

• 49a. [Squash relative] means sports, not vegetables. I have no idea what sort of sport RACQUETS is. Same as racquetball?
• 61a. [Man __] O’ WAR makes for an ugly fill entry.
• 66a. [Maternally related] clues the crosswordese word ENATE. Your relatives on your dad’s side are your agnate kin. Now, if you have two moms or two dads, I don’t think the crosswordese vocabulary has caught up to distinguish between your two parents’ families.
• 53d. [Its maker claims it won a blue ribbon in 1893] clues PABST. Ergo, Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. This brew has been embraced by hipsters who, perhaps ironically and perhaps cheapskatedly, like its low price.

Threeish stars from me. It’d be closer to four if OWAR and ENATE hadn’t found their way into the grid.
Updated Friday morning:

Bob Klahn’s CrosSynergy/Washington Post Crossword, “In-Tern-Al Affairs” – Sam Donaldson’s review

This puzzle is for the birds. At least I think that’s the intent, for each of the theme entries is a well-known name or phrase with the letter sequence T-E-R-N appearing somewhere in the middle, and the tern is second only to the erne as the favorite bird of crosswords. In this puzzle, each T-E-R sequence is at the end of the first word and the N- starts the second word (bonus points for this consistency):

• 17-Across: The [Head Hermit of the ’60s] is PETER NOONE, lead singer of the rock group, Herman’s Hermits (he was “Herman”). Check out the pictures below. One is of Noone, the other is of Blue Collar Comedian Ron White. Seperated at birth?
• 26-Across: Another term for [Poppycock] is UTTER NONSENSE. Perhaps that’s the term you’d use to describe my comparison of Peter Noone to Ron White.
• 42-Across: The [Unfailingly friendly fellow] is MISTER NICE GUY. Lots of people say “No more Mister Nice Guy,” but no one ever says “Time to start being Mister Nice Guy.” Looks like the Mister Nice Guy title is well out of favor.
• 56-Across: [Naiad, Nereid, or Oceanid] refers neither body parts nor to words that induce one to say “Bless you.” In fact, each is a WATER NYMPH. Nymphs aren’t gods, says Wikipedia, they are “beautiful, young nubile maidens who love to dance and sing.” As opposed to “old nubile maidens?”

The fill is perfectly adequate, but, as is often the case with Klahn puzzles, the clues really shine. Here are some answers and clues of note:

• I struggled for a little while with [3/15 but not 1/5], stepping right into the trap laid to make me think of both as fractions. Sure, as fractions, 3/15 and 1/5 are equal, but as dates, March 15 is quite different than January 5, as the former falls on the IDES of the month. That was a well-disguised trap (wasn’t it? I hope I’m not the only one who fell for it.).
• It helps to read the words carefully here: the [Cel block occupant] is not a CON, a FELON, or a PRISONER, but a TOON.
• I never realized that POLO is a [Game never played left-handed]. I’m guessing this is mostly for the safety of the rider and his or her mount.
• Both [“Hair” producer Joseph] PAPP and [“The Year of Magical Thinking” author Joan] DIDION were unknowns to me, so I had to rely heavily on the crossings.
• I love that OMNI, the [Science magazine founded by Bob Guccione], sits directly next to SPIN, the [Pop music magazine founded by Bob Guccione, Jr.].

Liz Gorski’s Wall Street Journal crossword, “Branch Office”

Wall Street Journal crossword solution 4/29

“Branch Office” is the WSJ-friendly, business-minded title of a puzzle with a tree rebus, celebrating not branch offices but Arbor Day. “PLANT A TREE,” Ms. Gorski exhorts us, because it’s Arbor Day today. She herself has helped each solver plant eight trees in rebus squares—ASH, PEAR, FIG, PINE, FIR, OAK, GUM, and ELM.

Most of the long answers containing the tree letters are a lively bunch: the M{ASH}ED POTATO dance, {PEAR}L EARRINGS, the movie THE {FIG}HTER, {FIR}ST LADY, {GUM}MY BEARS, and the fun, appropriate-outside-of-a-song-title “PE{EL M}E A GRAPE.”

The best part of this puzzle is the upper left corner, where the STATUS QUO and ORRIN HATCH are stacked on M{ASH}ED POTATO, with a TR{ASH}Y UTAHAN crossing Sen Hatch (R.-UT). Not that he’s trashy. He seems rather genteel, actually. I like the demonym echo between UTAHAN and OMAHAN, too.

Mystery entry:

• 59d. [West Sumatra’s capital] is PADANG. Dang! I had never heard of that. I wanted PENANG, which is a Malaysian island rather than an Indonesia seaport.

Four stars.