NYT 9:25
PI 8:23
LAT 7:28
BG 7:12
WaPo 6:58
CS 4:58
NYT Second Sunday cryptic 10:25—check out Will Johnston's annotated answers that outline how each answer's derived from the clues, step by step
Mike Nothnagel's Sunday New York Times puzzle, "I Need My Space," adds a little breathing ROOM in or at the end of seven phrases. I liked the theme until I got to the sixth theme entry, when my cruciverbal ardor increased—NO RESTROOM FOR THE WICKED would be an awesome [Sign outside a church lavatory?]. I'm guessing that was the seed entry, and all the rest are there to give this bon mot a raison d'etre. (No, there's no reason for using French here, other than that French offers le mot juste.)
Juicy entries include K.T. OSLIN, the [Singer with the #1 country album "80's Ladies"]; THE OMEN, the [1976 horror film whose score won an Oscar]; FLOWN IN, or [Imported by plane]; BORDER TOWN, such as [Laredo or Nuevo Laredo]; IRA GLASS, the [Host of public radio's "This American Life"] (before he moved to New York, my best friend used to see him at the gym and swoon); DEN MOTHER, the [Cubs' protector] in scouting, not the forest; SPAZ, or [Extremely inept person, slangily]; and a slew of short, Scrabbly words like WAX, JERK, ROUX, ZORBA, and JOG. The [Attempt to trick] is a PUT-UP JOB, which isn't a phrase I've heard before—is it old-fashioned slang? Regional? Newfangled? British? My other answers o' mystery include VOSTOK [1, Yuri Gagarin's spacecraft], and BERNICE, [Eccentric friend on "Designing Women"].
I was too busy noticing the fill to note any clues I especially liked, so I'll turn my attention back to the theme. [Beer sources for genteel guests?] are POWDER ROOM KEGS, but if you were genteel, would you want to (a) drink beer from a keg, and (b) visit the john to get said beer? I think not. You might wish to visit a dainty powder room after having a few beers, but the beer should be poured from bottles or a professional-quality tap into a frosted glass suitable for that particular brew. The clue for THE BALL'S IN YOUR COURTROOM, [Reminder to a forgetful judge on bowling night?], makes me wonder whether constructor/judge Vic Fleming likes to bowl, and whether he'd ever leave a bowling ball in his workplace. DAVY JONES' LOCKER ROOM is my other favorite theme entry, because who doesn't like a Monkees reference?
This weekend's Second Sunday puzzle in the Times, a cryptic by Rich Silvestri, might be the best NYT cryptic I remember. The clues tended to rely much less on anagrams, it seemed to me—far more reliance on charades, double meanings, and containers (using the terminology that our Aussie regular commenter, DA or David Astle, uses in his roundup of his favorite cryptic clues at his blog). For example, [They make lace rags] is TATTERS(highlight text with mouse to see hidden words), which means both "people who make lace" and "rags" (double meaning). A charade clue is [Former French island outcast]; EXILE is EX, or "former," plus ILE, French for "island." An example of a container clue is [Rolling pins in center plot]; roll PINS into NSPI and put them inside CORE, or "center," to get CONSPIRE, a verb that means "plot." Silvestri included so many different clue types—just three anagrams (9A, 5D, 20D) and one straight embedded word (LENORE). This puzzle is still worlds easier than the (London) Times cryptics I've been doing of late (and have put aside until post-ACPT), but I liked it a lot.
Speaking of David Astle, he's devoted one post to his favorite "Tee-Hees," oblique or lateral or twisted-thinking clues. Some are British cryptic clues, but "Several hail from the American maestri, such as Ben Tausig, Francis Heaney, Henry Hook and Patrick Blindauer, among others." I haven't savored them yet, but plan to.
Updated:
I hadn't noticed that the NYT crossword had a supersized 23x23 grid. And still, Stella Daily finished in in 7:04 on the applet. (!)
Henry Hook's Boston Globe puzzle in Across Lite, "Link Letters," is quite good. The fill has more than a dozen 8- and 9-letter answers in it (e.g., NO-HITTERS, XENOPHON, and EUPHONIUM), and there's not a clunker in the bunch of eight theme entries. Two theme entries intersect in the center square on a Q. The "link letters" are individual letters that stand as a separate word or component in the two halves of each theme entry, as with MR T and T-SQUARE, joined together to be a MR T SQUARE. (Technically, Kmart lacks a space or hyphen, but the K's pronounced like the letter name, so SPECIAL K MART works just as smoothly as the rest.) SHEILA E COLI gets special mention for the breakfast-table violation. KENNY G FORCE, SUZY Q TIPS, MALCOLM X RAYS, and STANDING O HENRY were other favorites of mine. The fill had some gnarly spots, too. [Mercurous chloride] is called CALOMEL? It sounds like a cross between caramel and a Mallomar. Beside that was OPAL, with the obscure clue [Geyserite, for one]. On the other side of CALOMEL is EGGCUPS. If you opted for TEACUPS and blanked on the other two, the Across clues wouldn't be much help.
Pamela Amick Klawitter's Washington Post crossword, "If It Fits, Wear It," suggests nine kinds of occupational garb that could be alternate definitions of existing phrases. An astronomer might don an ASTEROID BELT, a train conductor has a RAILROAD TIE, and a meteorologist's feat could boast WIND SOCKS. We've probably all seen old jokes involving FREUDIAN SLIP as a piece of lingerie, but the other eight theme entries feel fresher. Taken literally, the theme entries would be the most boring assortment ever (HEAT PUMPS and a FINISH COAT?), but I like the apparel twist.
Damien Peterson's syndicated LA Times Sunday puzzle, "Stress Management," chills out with six phrases that might go with a LAID-BACK PERSONALITY, such as RELAXED-FIT JEANS and EASY LISTENING music. The clue that took me the longest to understand was [Canine event, in more ways than one]. DOG-something, but what? And why? Ah, DOG BITE, canine animals and canine teeth (yes, dogs have canines, too).
In his Philadelphia Inquirer crossword, "Animals House," Merl Reagle commits animal cruelty by pun. Some are real groaners, like changing bygones to pythons in LET PYTHONS BE PYTHONS. I do like the sheer lunacy of MARCH OF THE PANGOLINS (swapping out another animal, penguins). Pangolins are odd-looking scaly mammals; you can see one in the Los Angeles Zoo or a zoo in Taiwan, but no other zoo. The seal's résumé says it PLAYS WELL WITH OTTERS, which I think is the most successful pun in the puzzle.
Today's themeless CrosSynergy puzzle's by Bob Klahn. There was plenty I didn't know, but the crossings generally has easier clues and let me fill things in much faster than in a Klahn NYT themeless. Favorite clues: ["Mark twain" Mississippi measure] means DEPTH, and no, the measure wasn't named after the writer. Rather, the writer chose the measure as his nom de plume. I never knew that! He should've kept the Clemens name—he's a distant, distant cousin of mine. [Athlete more likely to take second than third?] is a base STEALER. The ["Apocalypto" language] in the Mel Gibson movie (I almost typed "Mel Brooks") is YUCATEC. [Come up quickly] is LOOM, but first I opted for ZOOM and then BOOM. [Dirt ball] is the literal CLOD of earth.
January 26, 2008
Sunday, 1/27
November 29, 2007
Friday, 11/30
NYS 10:12
NYT 5:09
LAT 4:29
CHE 3:35
CS 3:29
Jonesin' 3:12
WSJ 8:47
The Friday New York Times crossword by Henry Hook was a good bit easier than his other recent NYT and Sun themeless offerings, and that's just fine with me. It also relates a fun tale in several of the longer Across answers, this exhortation: CLERGYMEN, CROSS-DRESS MINDFULLY—LOOK BETTER! Add "GEE, YA THINK?!" and cartoonist R CRUMB, and you've got all my favorite fill here.
Favorite clues: [Indication of stress] for UNDERSCORE—I was thinking more along the lines of SWEAT BEADS rather than typographical stress. (Speaking of which: There's a Chinese restaurant in the neighborhood that emphasizes a word in a hand-lettered sign with an overscore. Don't try this at home, kids!) VONDA is clued as [Sci-fi author McIntyre] (never heard of her) rather than that other Vonda of Ally McBeal song fame, Ms. Shepard. [Minimal change] is CENT; I first went with DENT, but hey, my second-grader's math homework today was calculating change in pennies so it should've come to me sooner. CLERGYMEN are [Cloth workers?]. [Sculptor Oldenburg] was the gimme CLAES; my favorite of his sculptures are Batcolumn and Spoonbridge with Cherry. [Direct] could mean a number of things, but here it means NONSTOP, as a flight. PROM is a [Senior moment?]. [One who's happy when things look black] isn't that perverse—it's a BOOKKEEPER. CROSS-DRESS is clued [Undergo a change of habit?]. [Pompadour, for one] is MADAME (bet you also tried HAIRDO there). [Prerecorded] has an extraneous "pre," so it's an apt clue for the oxymoronic LIVE ON TAPE. The lettuce CRISPER is [Where cooler heads prevail?]. I even liked the ODER-NEISSE [Line (German/Polish border)]; at last, payoff for all those [__-Neisse Line] clues.
The New York Sun puzzle, Matt Ginsberg and Pete Muller's "Squeeze Play," sure did start out slowly. After a minute and a half of perusing clues, I had a whopping three letters in the grid.
Given the crossword's title, I suspected there was some squeezing going on, but which entries? How many letters squeezed into a box? Having been the sort of kid who dug those informational cards about animals and whose mom bought her a subscription to the cards, I knew the [Largest rodent in existence] was likely the CAPYBARA, but the space was seven letters. So I conjectured that the squeeze happened in the middle entry and tried out CAP[YB]ARA, and that got things rolling. There were not many gimmes—David LYNCH directed Eraserhead, and USERS are who go to methadone clinics. The three longest entries, two 10s and an 11, are actually two 20s and a 22 since each square's got two letters. They're double-themed, too: [YO][U T][WO][MA][KE][QU][IT][E A] [PA][IR], DOUBLE-ENTRY BOOKKEEPING, and YOU'D BETTER THINK TWICE. All but eight of the Down answers cross squeeze-play squares, too. "With construction constraints like these, Orange," you say, "surely the fill is blah." Au contraire! We get ZOOMING crossing the longish ADMITTI[NG], CLINTON and HEDGING; LL COOL J; COO[KT]OP beside RED [WI]NE ([Cab, e.g.]), "Rikki-TI[KK]I-Tavi" with the double-K.
Favorite clues: [Word with dead and zone] for DROP (no Dead Zone tie-in); [Like a flâneur] for IDLE; [Prep for dragging] for REV the engine before a drag race, along with [Dragged things] for computer ICONS; 38-Across, [With 38-Across, where you might end up if you don't 38-Across], for SING (Sing-Sing prison); [Overnight letter?] for INN (a place that lets rooms overnight); ODS-[bobs (mild oath)] (here's a fun read about minced oaths, ranging from zounds and crikey to drat and ods-bobs); [Heat source?] for MIAMI, home of the NBA team the Heat; [Crowded womb member] for [QU]AD; [Quinsy symptom] for ABSCESS; and [City once known as Lugdunum] for L[YO]NS. Definitely a well-crafted crossword, fellas!
One advantage the weekly indie puzzles have is the ease of timeliness—the lead times appear to be much shorter than most of the daily crosswords, so fresher fill and more current references can pop up. To wit: In Matt Jones's Jonesin' puzzle ("Town Wot?") has PRICE clued as [Drew Carey figure]—Drew having recently taken over as the host of The Price Is Right; SAM is [Brownback who withdrew from the 2008 election]. Other recent indie crosswords have included YouTube sensations DON'T TASE ME BRO and TAY ZONDAY—now, if you included one of those entries in a puzzle for Will Shortz, the phrase may well have fallen into the pit of obscurity by the time the puzzle is published—but for now, they're golden. I do enjoy the super-contemporary bits that this post-Maleska, post-Shortz breed of puzzles offers. This week's Jonesin' combines geography (American city names) with palindrome action. There's a RENO LONER, FARGO GRAF, MESA KASEM, and TULSA SLUT. The fill talks, with "I RULE" and "NO DUH" and "UH-UH." Pop culture gets the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles' SEWER home, "Bop GUN" (a Parliament song I don't know), and Idol punchline, "SHE Bangs." I also like the SEA SLUG, NUEVO Latino cuisine, and learning that an INCH is [1/63,360th of a mile].
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The 11/16 Chronicle of Higher Education crossword, Rich Silvestri's "Grade Inflation," is a fun one, and made easier by the inclusion of previous letter-grade themes in this publication. Here, each theme entry moves up one grade: a full professor becomes a DULL PROFESSOR, drag racing becomes CRAG RACING, car pooling is BAR POOLING, and bone porcelain (more commonly called bone china) is A-ONE PORCELAIN.
Merle Baker's LA Times puzzle drops an R from each of six theme phrases, yielding things like PEP SCHOOL and DIVE-IN MOVIES. Took seemingly forever to notice what was happening in the theme entries!
The theme in Patrick Jordan's CrosSynergy puzzle, "Western Wordplay," involves four flagrant puns that work Western words into existing phrases. Seattle Slew become SADDLE SLEW, and a lhasa apso becomes a LASSO APSO. Ouch. Puns too painful. Cannot bear it.
Moving to the 21x21 size, Larry Shearer's Wall Street Journal puzzle, "Symbols of Success," translates six corporate or brand names into special characters. Across Lite can't handle all of them, but I'm grateful to Lloyd Mazer for finding a solution to that problem (and for tirelessly converting each week's WSJ crossword for our free amusement). A star (* or ★ in the newspaper?) is a TABLOID MAGAZINE. Cross (†?) is a brand of FOUNTAIN PENS. Omega (Ω) makes WRISTWATCHES. Equal (=) is a SUGAR SUBSTITUTE. Diamond (♦) sells CHOPPED WALNUTS. And # is a brand of TELEVISION SETS. But what on earth does # stand for? Pound TVs? Octothorpe TVs? Ah! Sharp TVs. Got it. Great theme! (Those manufacturers should be sure to send Larry Shearer and editor Mike Shenk some free pens and televisions in exchange for the plugs.)
