Good and Bad Cryptic News

So, I got the inevitable bad news last week: My cryptic was rejected by the Times. Their criticisms were very fair, and I appreciated their (briefly stated) insights. It was still sad. They published a cryptic on Sunday, though, and it was a very neat one: Show about meat (6) = REVEAL; Musical instrument tossed into breach (9) = VIOLATION; Starts to cry after performing extremely risky stunt (5) = CAPER. Tidy clues like that. I was very happy that I still loved doing the cryptic, even after mine was rejected. I've had negative experiences with things I love after which I can't really look at the thing for a while. It's always bugged me, and I like to think I'm getting over that.

In other good news, I got into another vibrant center of UU studies, and they're giving me mad incentives. Incentives are tempting, so I will be considering this particular UU institute more closely. Yay, them.

And I've discovered a new pet peeve: Jargon. (OK, it's actually an old pet peeve that's resurfaced.) I understand things need names, and shorthand can be very convenient...so, yes, there is a time and place for jargon. But I feel like people and ideas are often unfairly excluded by jargon. People will, say, have an idea about what it means to act ethically, and someone will respond, "Oh, that's utilitarianism." And that way whatever subtle differences existed between the person's original idea and utilitarianism proper get eliminated. It's kind of like how victims of a crime will describe the perpetrator to a sketch artist, and from then on in, their image of the perp is the one drawn, not the one they saw. Everyone's ideas kind of get sifted into preexisting categories. Maybe this is fair...maybe the currently existing categories are the optimal versions of these theories...the ones that have withstood the test of time. But I have a hard time believing they're truly an orthogonal basis of philosophy. I think it might be better to let people's ideas flourish for a while without categorizing them. Maybe it could actually lead somewhere.

As for excluding people...well, I just see so many blog comments telling people the name of the fallacy they're committing, or the theory they're ignoring, or the concept they've overlooked. And by handing them the jargon (affirming the consequent! logical positivism! the patriarchy!) they're putting them out of the conversation. Usually these concepts are simple enough that they could take the time to explain and thus continue to engage the person. But they don't. They just tell them to "look it up." In this way jargon prevents learning, and it pisses me off.

So, here's my quick thought for the day: Jargon is a necessary and convenient evil for people who spend large amounts of time dealing with a topic, but in general, the use of jargon shows a lack of understanding and does not in any way indicate that the speaker belongs to the group that should be using it. If you can explain an idea simply, always do it. Ultimately the name of the idea isn't as important as the idea itself.

And now I am tired. Good night.

Status Que?

When Greg leaves comments on my last post cryptically hinting that I should perhaps update my blog, I figure it's time. The bad part about going two months without updating is that I have two months worth of updating. So you're getting a cumulative update rather than an event-by-event update.

So, the months. I finally finished my cryptic crossword and sent it in to he who wears short Shortz last week. It's not without its flaws, but I think there are some fun and creative clues in there. I'm battling serious odds—he may not even take unassigned cryptics—but until I hear back, I can live safely in that quantum superposition of "accepted" and "not accepted." And if the function collapses to "not accepted," you, my dear reader, can look forward to trying the puzzle...on this very blog! Unless I decide to submit it elsewhere. Gee, I hope I get some personal comments from the man himself. That would be an honor, indeed.

Our apartment has settled, and it is good. Chayes has beautified her room—it's great to be spending some quality time with her—Betsey has moved into Megan's old room and is fitting in beautifully, and Greg's the same sunny delight as ever. Greg and I saw a super-exclusive run-through of Cry Baby last weekend (yay, thanks, Mark!) This particular performance was not "up for review," so I will only review it with the most inscrutable puzzle I can think of: _T W_S _W_S_M_. G_ S__ _T WH_N _T'S _N T_WN.

Work's been crazy as ever. There's been lots of talk about the, er, inappropriate comments made by a certain, unnamed James Watson. If you haven't already read the massive press coverage, you can get the latest at the links I put in the first half of the sentence. The whole to-do prompted me not only to fashion a harness for my jaw to wear whenever reading Watson's comments on black people, women, fat people, gay people or, oh yeah, Rosalind Franklin, but also to do some reading on race and IQ.

It's apparently well-established [most of the following assertions come from that linked report] that the average IQ of black people in America is 15 points lower than the average IQ of white people in America. There are two major questions that come out of this: What are the reasons for this difference? and What the heck does IQ mean anyway? Neither one of these has yet been answered especially thoroughly. While IQ is highly heritable, this doesn't mean that the IQ variations between races is largely genetic. There are plenty of other factors, many unknown, that go into intelligence, and it seems likely that these largely account for differences that we see. Yes, racists, it's conceivable they don't. Someone, sometime will do solid research and we'll have a better idea. The other question, about what IQ actually measures, is just as hazy. It's definitely a solid predictor of academic achievement. In this sense, the test isn't biased toward white people...it's an equal predictor for black people and white people. As the APA report points out, the test is biased against black people in the plain sense that they, on average, do worse. You might say, well, that's not really bias if it still predicts the same stuff, but hey, IQ tests are designed so both sexes necessarily have the same average. It's explicitly not biased toward men or women; I don't know if it's an equal predictor for both sexes, though. This paragraph's getting long, so let me sum up my point: IQ tests are a good but imperfect predictor of academic achievement. There's no great reason to think they measure some ineffable quality of "intelligence." That concept isn't well-defined, anyway. There would probably be some correlation between IQ score and anything measuring some kind of intelligence—probably a fairly strong correlation—but who knows how strong or how consistent between tests? I don't. What I'm saying is we don't know all that much about this topic. And I think people without an agenda should research it, mostly because I'm a curious person and it's an interesting topic. So there.

Oh, and the UU apps are coming along swimmingly. Hopefully those will be out the door in the next couple of weeks. I'm actually feeling very good about this decision. I'm reading One U, a book about UU school, and it's scaring me, but it's also getting me very psyched for the kind of thinking I'd be doing.

All right, friends. I have an episode of Dirty Sexy Money to watch. Emily points out the show's egregiously absent commas. Normally, I would be unforgiving, but somehow Donald Sutherland and Peter Krause have won me over.

Midnight Madness X

What more could I want from life than 18 hours of sleepless, delirious puzzle solving? Well, 18 hours of well-rested, clear-headed puzzle-solving would be nice. But that's not what I got from Midnight Madness X, an alternately frustrating and exhilarating puzzle hunt that started Saturday at 8 pm and ended Sunday, just before 2 pm. Greg had participated the past two years (he's also done a few Microsoft hunts) and brought me onto Team Plaid, otherwise comprised of people who work with him at the hedge fund. I will now tell you the exhaustive and exhausting tale of Team Plaid's glorious victory (over teams who finished in eighth place or later), complete with pictures, provided by flickr users who actually took them.

After a sushi dinner with Jess and her friend Jack, Greg and I headed over to the (misleadingly) convenient starting point, Riverside Park, just west of 103rd St. I gradually met Greg's coworkers (and the one other female who came along) and we got a map of the Columbia campus (our area!) and our first two clues. One was a clear box that revealed a poem (I didn't work on this one), and the other was this (courtesy Brian of Team Red):



One guy quickly realized the abbreviations referred to places on the Columbia campus, and Greg quickly realized it was a tangram (you have to cut it up and rearrange the pieces). It took him about 10 minutes to convince everyone of this, and they never actually believed my solution of the tangram (it wasn't perfect), but we were both right. When we got to the (very general) location, there was a hangman puzzle on a whiteboard. It very clearly was going to spell out "TIME MACHINE" when it was solved, and there were some econ equations scribbled next to it. We spent a few hours trying to solve this puzzle. One problem: IT WASN'T THE REAL PUZZLE. I kept on saying to Greg, "wouldn't it be funny if this weren't the real puzzle," and he did not approve of my sense of humor. Without finding the real puzzle, we couldn't solve the other puzzle, because they relied on each other. Eventually we found out we were working on the wrong thing and found the other half of the puzzle. We solved it too late...by the time we got the next puzzle—a hilarious craigslist ad for a BBW (big-breasted woman, apparently) looking for a VGL (very good looking, that one I knew) man—we were off to Union Square, where we were all supposed to be at midnight.

We got there around 1 (we hadn't originally bought the Union Sq thing as not-a-trap) and waited for the rest of the game to start. Teams that had done better in the first half got a head start. We got two digital pictures: one of a street, one of a storefront. So part of our team went to the storefront (14th and C) and the other part went to the street (9th, just E of Bway). And we looked for the clues. And looked. And looked. And Game Control was MIA. So we looked some more. Shortly before FOUR FUCKING AM we managed to reach game control, who told us that there were no clues there and the direction of the photographs mattered. So with that we got that we had to head to the intersection of the two sightlines: 9th and C. While hunting for the clue there, I ran into a drunk coworker, which was fun. I also realized it was kind of strange that I was out at 4 am and neither drunk nor somebody else, which together would have made the situation make sense. Anyway...

That almost ended the excruciatingly frustrating portion of MMX. There was just one more. The packet at 9th and C sent us to the lower east side and contained three clues. The easiest of the evening (there was a dude in a Subaru), a tough but ultimately satisfying one (explanation TK), and this (thanks Strle):



Greg and I easily translated the wingdings by pattern. Greg then suggested that it was probably an intersection, so the middle word should be "AND." (Go, Greg.) I plugged that in and found that the Ds fell in the first word in such a way that ELDRIDGE fit perfectly. That put an R at the end of the 6-letter last word. I looked on the map they gave us. BROOME was the only 6-letter street crossing Eldridge. Alas! We had solved it incorrectly! Well, either that or their map just wasn't detailed enough to include Hester. UGH. Turns out the numbers indicate the letter in the name of the font (Times, Courier, Wingdings or Helvetica) to use there. Grr. In any case, had Hester been on that map, we would have gotten that one an hour earlier than we did.

In any case, we wound up working on "statements" (via Brian, again):



Our team figured out that it had something to do with states. Game Control eventually clued to us that an official state abbreviation is hidden in each line. We went through them, and I realized (Go, me) that the states were all kind of contiguous, and we should try tracing a line through the states in each stanza. When we did this, we came up with ESSEX + BROOME.

There we found a line of animals...each animal present twice. Here, Greg again solved the puzzle but with an execution that they didn't want (he took the difference in the animals' positions, not the number of animals between them, heaven forbid, and found that number letter in the animals' names), so the answer didn't work. Oh, the pain!

As we were working on that, around 6am, we ate breakfast, and about half of our team left. Greg was fading fast. We soon got my favorite puzzle of the day (Strle, again):



You're probably thinking what we were thinking: "What in God's name do we do with this?" Greg was apparently thinking, "Why am I sitting on concrete in a desolated area of Chinatown when I could be sleeping?" because he departed. I was left with three guys (a fourth would rejoin us). We perhaps too quickly got a hint on the clue: The spiral is the key to solving the strip. See if you have any inspiration...

We sat down at base camp and stared. And then I started folding the strip. I folded on every line indicated in the spiral. And when I was done with the segment between the outermost two black circles there was a "K" in my hands. Turns out the inside was the beginning, but we got it, and the bikers biked off to 103 Norfolk.

Much of the rest of the game was blurry for me, less because of exhaustion than because things got very fast very quickly, and the three guys on bikes got places much more quickly than myself and Jaime, the other pedestrian on the team. Other highlights included a fake crossword that gave us GPS coordinates, a video of a woman dancing in 22 dance segments that gave an intersection when we took the first letters of all the dances (Josh and I—mostly Joshmdash;managed to get enough of the dances that we could figure it out), and an awesome puzzle using the dongles that kept track of how many hints we had where the dongles responded to the angle they were placed at. Awesome.

At long last, when my legs were completely shot and I could feel the blisters forming, we got a direction to the amphitheater in East River Park. When Jaime and I arrived, our biking crew—Peter, Andrei and Josh—had come in 7th, seconds behind 5th and 6th, but an hour and a half behind the winners, who may have somehow gotten there without figuring out all of the clues. Everyone there felt good about finishing, and people from different teams were warmly congratulating each other (a girl I'd been scribbling down dance moves with clapped for me as I walked up the path).

Peter suggested going out for a drink, but it was 2 o'clock, and I was ready to treat myself to a cab and take a shower. Which I did. Thank God.

Sadly, this was the last Midnight Madness. Despite the early frustrations, I would love to do it again. It was a marathon, but the few times I figured things out were incredibly gratifying, and I got to know the LES pretty well, which was cool. And puzzle people rule. But I knew that already.

UPDATE: Kevin of Team Cerulean posted a picture of Team Plaid on flickr! You can see a little bit of me behind Greg:

Riddle Me This

I was reading The Yiddish Policemen's Union yesterday (highly recommended), and there's a character in the book who's really into chess but hates puzzles. Reading that, it struck me that I've never heard of Shortz doing anything with chess. Heck, I love puzzles, and I despise chess. Is there really a divide between chess people and puzzle people? I guess Reiman likes both puzzles and chess...but I don't know. There is something kind of different between doing a solitary and non-competitive activity where you have to solve something concrete and battling someone else where the point is to work a strategy around them. I dislike competition and, frankly, strategy, and I love cleverness and puns and math, so I guess my preference makes sense. But maybe this is a solid way of splitting people up in two—like Cavaliers and Roundheads—or at least a way of splitting nerds in two. Are you a proud, vindictive, autism spectrum hyper-male with a love of battle, or are you a someone who finds the purest fun in clean cleverness and the satisfaction of rushing toward a victory that won't be tempered by someone else's loss? Do I sound biased in my descriptions?

Obscure and Cryptic Old Cube: A Cryptic Crossword Primer

It's actually a square, not a cube. But today, with a whoosh of satisfaction, I completed this weekend's cryptic crossword. I swear, I could build a frickin' bridge, and I wouldn't feel half the sense of accomplishment that comes with every answer in this beautiful, beautiful puzzle. Woo!

If you're one of the many people whose faces drop as soon as they turn to the back of the magazine section and see barely parsable clues, this post's for you. If you DO like, say, the regular Saturday puzzle, and you treasure great puzzle themes, you'll probably love the cryptic, once you get the hang of it.

The first thing to know about the cryptic is that almost every clue has both a physical clue and a definitional clue. The definitional clue is exactly what it sounds like: the meaning of the answer. The physical clue is a little bit trickier—it somehow describes the word either through its syllables or through an anagram...somehow it lays out the letters of the word for you. A classic cryptic clue that's purely physical is "senselessness (1)." The answer has one letter (that's the number in the parentheses). Give up? The answer is "e." If you take the word "sense" less (i.e., minus) "ness," you get "e." It's the only letter remaining when you take the letters n-e-s-s away from the letters s-e-n-s-e. Get it? Good. If not, I'll go through a few examples soon. Occasionally clues are doubly definitional—"Plain hot dog (5)" points to "frank"—but that's not too common and usually fairly easy to spot.

Now it's time to learn a few conventions. Woo! These may seem superfluous, but it can be a huge pain in the ass if you don't realize, say, a proper noun often just points to its first letter. So here are a few. If any (of my legions of) commenters suggest more, I'll put them in:

Fuck punctuation. It means nothing to you. OK, that's not true, occasionally punctuation is meaningful in cryptics, but know that it really, really doesn't have to be. If there's a comma between two words, they may still be a phrase. Perhaps more importantly, your definitional clue and your physical clue can break without any indication in the punctuation. They'll just flow right into each other. When you assume you make "an ass out of you and me" an appropriate clue. (Ok, that's not true: "An ass out of you and me" would probably put "ass" or a synonym around "we" or something. Anyway...)

Anagrams are everywhere. Something like a quarter of your answers in a given puzzle will be straight-up anagrams of something in the clue. Look for three things if you want to anagram:1) Words or phrases with the same number of letters as are in the answer. Anagrams are always directly from the clue, so you'll never have to find definitions of words and then anagram those. If you don't have any words or phrases with the right number of letters, it's not an anagram. 2) A word that gives you an excuse to anagram. These words can vary from the relatively obvious ("mixed up," "stirred," "disorganized") to the bizarre ("sad," "broken," "fixed," "hurt"). If you get a clue like "windy east central Manhattan thoroughfare (11)," you can look at "windy" as an excuse to anagram "east central" and get "Canal Street," a Manhattan thoroughfare. 3) A hella-awkward phrase. If two adjacent words just make absolutely no sense together, they might be an anagram.

Sometimes, instead of anagramming, you need to actually find the answer within two words that run together. I'm pulling this off the top of my (dirty) head, but "Shorten the hard organ to create passion (5)" might be a clue for "ardor," which you can find when you shorten the phrase "hard organ." And it means "passion." Look out for those in awkward phrases as well.

More often then not, your physical clue will just spell out syllables for you. More from the top of my head: "Pleasant odor for each stew (7)" could be "perfume." Pleasant odor would be "perfume" itself, and "for each" would be "per" and "stew" would be "fume." Like, in the anger way. So there you go. Per. Fume. Perfume. I don't think the syllables you decipher have to be pronounced or spelled in the same way as they'll appear in the ultimate answer. One of the two, always, but not necessarily both.

Look for Roman numerals. They'll show up. And as I mentioned briefly, sometimes proper names just turn into their first initial. Sometimes other words go by their first initial, but there will be some indication that you're looking at the start of that word.

Look for other physical clues. Often (very often in this week's puzzle), one word will go inside another: "Woods around California make predictions (9)" would be "Forecasts." "Forests" goes around "CA" (for California) to make a synonym for "predictions." Other times you might be clued to read a word backwards. Be flexible about this stuff.

Did I mention, "be flexible?" It's really the most important thing and the whole reason these puzzles are so much fun.

OK, enough tips. Now to go through the ENTIRE puzzle. Answers and explanations are in black. Highlight them to read:

1A. Guide the woman in spring (6)
Sherpa
Meaning = guide. "The woman" points to "her," which is inside "spa," a synonym for spring.
4A. Roof application to set in spring (8)
Housetop
Meaning = roof application. I believe "set" here points to "use to," which is inside "hop," another synonym for spring.
10A. Say, Harry Potter's pal in spring (8)
Pronounce
Meaning = say. Harry Potter's pal is "Ron," and he's in "pounce," yet another...synonym for spring.
11A. Discourage Democratic relative (5)
Daunt
Meaning = discourage. Just take the D from Democrat (that proper noun). Your aunt's a relative. Send her flowers.
12A. "Superman" actor taking part in free verse (5)
Reeve
Christopher Reeve played Superman. If you take part of free verse, you get Reeve.
13A. Grabber of winks – or a lynx? (9)
Catnapper
This one's just cute and plays on the double meaning of "nap," sleeping or stealing.
14A. Wastes what you've got coming (7)
Deserts
This is just a double definition, I believe. Wastelands are deserts. And what you deserve are your deserts.
15A. Broadcast medium misrepresented diorama (2,5)
AM Radio
Finally, an anagram! AM Radio is a broadcast medium. "Misrepresented" should clue you into the anagram. Play around with diorama, it should come quickly.
17A. Song about villain in an idyllic spot (7)
Arcadia
Meaning = an ideallic spot. "Song" points to "aria," and "villain" is "cad." About means one's outside the other.
20A. Soldier talk – it gives you a lot of info (7)
Gigabit
This one took me a while. A gigabit is a lot of info. "GI" is a soldier (no trouble there), "gab" is talk (right-o), and in true cryptic fashion, the next word after "soldier talk" is "it." Just stick in on.
22A. Old Greek restored a lost rite (9)
Aristotle
He was an old Greek! And you have to "restore" (i.e., anagram) "lost rite" to get his name.
24A. Neckwear for a companion of Burns (5)
Ascot
Really, how many five letter neckwears are there? And good ol' Rabbie Burns was a Scot. His friends were, too.
26A. Private meal not starting (5)
Inner
"Inner" and "private" can be synonyms. The meal is "dinner." It's without it's start. Womp womp.
27A. Former medicine for John Jacob in spring (6,3)
Castor Oil
That was a medicine at one point, right? A spring is a coil. Barring Mr. Jingleheimerschmidt, Astor's the only John Jacob around.
28A. Superficial need changed in spring (4-4)
Skin-Deep
Meaning = superficial. The spring here is "skip" and you stick a "changed" (again, anagrammed) need in there.
29A. Approach of the French in spring (4-2)
Lead-Up
Meaning = approach. Leap is clearly spring. I don't know why "du" is the French. "Le," is "the" in French, right? If you know, tell me.

Downs!
1D. Great new purse (5)
Super
Meaning = great. Make "purse" new by anagramming it.
2D. Runaway lovers break up or sleep (7)
Elopers
Meaning = runaway lovers. You break up (anagram) "or sleep."
3D. Started with π + 1 before 500 (9)
Pioneered
This may be my favorite clue in the puzzle. Meaning = started. π = pi, 1 = one, before = ere, 500 = D (Roman). String 'em together.
5D. Orioles trainer somewhat fat? – not really (7)
Olestra
Great exercise in how to kill punctuation. The physical clue is "Orioles trainer somewhat." Take part of Orioles trainer to get something that's not really fat.
6D. Singer's first thought for 45-r.p.m. feature (4,1)
Side A
Meaning is "45-rpm feature." Singer's first (letter) is S. Thought is idea. Ta-da!
7D. Beat time like Quasimodo? (7)
Thumped
Meaning = beat. Time just turns into "t" here; it's one of those things. Quasimodo was humped.
8D. Sadly, our septet loses pep (6,3)
Peters Out
Meaning = loses pep. "Sadly" is one of those anagram cues. Do it to "our septet."
9D. N.B.A. team said no (6)
Knicks
They're an NBA team. "Said" clues you in to a homophone. Say "nix," a synonym for "no."
14D. Shot a jerk's overtheatrical behavior (9)
Dramatics
Meaning = overtheatrical behavior. "Shot" is "dram." "Jerk's" = "tics." And, love those cryptics, "a" = "a."
16D. Arrange mom part in confusing procedure (9)
Rigmarole
This took me a while, too. Meaning = confusing procedure. Arrange = rig, mom = ma, part = role. There ya' go.
18D. Greek character opposed to Italian wine (7)
Chianti
So elegant! Chianti is an Italian wine (a delicious one, no less). One Greek character (letter) is chi. "Opposed to" is "anti."
19D. For example, a botched recital (7)
Article
Meaning = example. Botch (anagram) "recital."
20D. Oil country, from the sound of it (6)
Grease
I'm not sure if you can REALLY know this is "Grease" and not "Greece" from the clue, but the acrosses tell you. You've got the "sound of it" homophone clue. "Oil country" is pretty clear.
21D. Obscure and cryptic old cube (7)
Becloud
It's the title of the post! Meaning = obscure. Both the word "cryptic" and the weirdness of the phrase "old cube" should clue you into the anagram.
23D. Shot, like a car's wheels? (5)
Tired
I hope you got this one :) It's a double definition, woo!
25D. Oddly lit up item in a bed (5)
Tulip
Meaning = "item in a bed," because, you know, there are beds of flowers. "Oddly" tells you to anagram "lit up."

And that's the puzzle. I've spent way too much time on this. I hope some poeple actually use the examples to learn how to do cryptics. They're the puzzler's puzzle. They're Will Shortz's puzzle. Spread the endless joy!