February 27, 2009

NT's greatest hits, vol. 4

Yet another entry from my list of favorite songs of all time. I'm like a Facebook meme, but with superfluous detail."Mr. Tambourine Man" by the Byrds
Someone (else) is going to get on me for this, but I far prefer this version of the song to Bob Dylan's original. It's a folk-rock masterpiece, a soaring, sharp-edged song with a palpable folk grounding; I love Dylan, sure, but at least in his early incarnation, it's hard to find genuine examples of him rocking out. (Hence, "Judas!")

Roger McGuinn's guitar in this cover version, a jangling 12-string electric Rickenbacker, packs an incredible amount of texture into its recurring riff, giving a lot of fire to what's really a fairly simple song. And then, of course, the lyrics are Dylan at his best: concise and beautiful psychedelia, wide-eyed but not naive. The Byrds excise an entire verse from the Zimmy's lyrics, but I think the tune really benefits from the economy (it runs only 2:20); by making this trip upon a magic swirling ship a brief one, it avoids a slide into pretension.

"Mr. Tambourine Man" was a monster hit in 1965, became a staple of forward-thinking oldies radio (where I discovered it in the '90s), and is a strong testament to what a lot of people were calling the Byrds the American Beatles for several years of the '60s. Far out, in all the best ways.

Earlier editions of NT's greatest hits:
"OK Apartment" and "Just What I Needed"
"Objects of My Affection" and "Crimson and Clover"
"Reelin' in the Years"

February 26, 2009

Whopper lust, part 3: Sated


I finally had that Whopper. Long week, I deserve it.

It was delicious.

I feel like llama shit now. Nothing but wheatgrass for me till 2011.

But let me say that I was pleasantly surprised by my first visit to a Burger King in many years. The store was clean, bright, well-designed. The people behind the counter were courteous and competent. My sandwich was served quickly and looked reasonably appetizing.

This is somewhat surprising. I rarely visit fast-food places (not counting Subway and Dunkin' Donuts, both of which I should keep a cot in), but usually when I do, the stench of depression fills my nostrils with acrid viciousness. Some time ago, I patronized a Wendy's, and it felt like a peacekeeping mission to Kosovo. And please, don't get me started about my annual trip to White Castle; PTSD is real, you know.

So big ups to the BK, despite my llama-shit-ness at the moment. Here's another ad, a classic. My stomach might be wobbly, but my heart is warmed:





February 25, 2009

Men. Watched.


I saw Watchmen today. Can't give much away (bad form in the journalism biz). But liked it; not crazy, ecstatic love, but definitely intense like. Very faithful to the book (to its detriment at points). There's even one major element that I think improves upon the graphic novel. So I think we can call this a geek victory.

A few things to keep in mind…

—Six hours after leaving the screening and I've already heard/read three joking references to Doctor Manhattan's blue penis (which is quite visible at many points in the movie). This will be the juvenile Watchmen meme in our pop culture of the coming weeks, mark my words.

—One actor in the movie gives an especially bad performance, nearly ruining the character. I will not say whom for now, but this person is my new archnemesis (the hated Alex Trebek is laying low at present).

—That crappy actor is not Jackie Earle Haley; dude is awesome. He shares my birthday: He's 14 years older, and 14 is my lucky number (we were born on the 14th). I am cosmically linked to Rorschach. Back to therapy for me!

—I plan to see it again at some point, after the mania has died down a bit. Who wants to organize a BQT fan outing?

—Some trivia (how about that?): The Watchmen characters were based on heroes DC purchased from Charlton Comics in the early '80s; Alan Moore was given them to play around with, then DC changed its mind, deciding the work the heroes into the fabric of their fictional universe. Basically, the Comedian = The Peacemaker (Moore has said that Watchmen started as a murder mystery, "Who killed the Peacemaker?"), Rorschach = The Question, Nite Owl = Blue Beetle (both), Doctor Manhattan = Captain Atom, Silk Spectre = Nightshade, Ozymandias = Thunderbolt, and the Squid Monster = Mr. Muscles (might be wrong about that last one). I'd love to post photos/links of all these characters, but it's late and I'm hungry, and you know how to use the Google.

February 20, 2009

NT's greatest hits, vol. 3

Continuing a series about my all-time favorite tunes. For the time being, I'm going to limit it to one song per entry. Perhaps it'll now take longer for me to make it through the whole list, but then again, smaller entries might encourage me to post more often. (Six of one, half dozen of the other—I've always liked that saying.) This week's randomly selected song…


"Reelin' in the Years" by Steely Dan
Like a lot of music geeks, I discovered this band by listening to classic-rock radio as a teen, and then ordering A Decade of Steely Dan from Columbia House. I like them, though not as passionately as many, many I've met over the years; I find that the most ravenous Steely Dan fans tend to also be jazzheads, of which I most certainly am not (I can spell Thelonious, but that's about as far as my expertise goes). Becker and Fagen approach music from a very experimental viewpoint, and they used to do a shitload of drugs, so I see the connection.

But I am some kind of fan—at last Monday's quiz, in the adultery-themed audio round, you heard my second-favorite Dan song, but "Reelin' in the Years" takes the prize. I find this song has a lot more forward momentum than most of the band's other hits, more rocking, less noodling (partly thanks to a stunningly masterful guitar part by Elliott Randall). Plus, it tackles (or at least touches upon) my go-to lyrical theme, lost love and frustrating women. But the narrator of "Reelin' in the Years" seems more wistful than bitter, making this a nice counterpoint to most of the breakup songs on my salt-in-wounds playlist: "Well, you wouldn't even know a diamond if you held it in your hand/The things you think are precious I can't understand." Becker'sFagen's offhanded, rambling vocal performance gets a lot of credit for that mood. "Reelin' in the Years" is the closest thing to an exact hybrid of jazz and a perfect pop song.

Going to keep it short, and going to avoid making a fool of myself if there are any Dan nuts out there. You definitely know who you are.

February 18, 2009

If Presidents were porn stars…

It's kind of bizarre that last Monday's show was on Presidents' Day, yet there was almost no presidential-trivia content (other than Q: In terms of area, what’s the smallest state John McCain won in the last presidential election?). When it comes to presidential trivia, my mind is extremely cluttered; one might even say my propensity for presidential factoids extends into overkill (had to use that word; that's the title of the song that just came up on Pandora on the Squeeze station). I proved it here last week on Lincoln's birthday, but not at the show. That's the way my mental dice fell.

But my Presidents Weekend was not without presidential minutiae of the trivial sort. In fact, Saturday night, along with my friends Erik Seims (former BQT champ) and Sarah Reynolds, we played an especially trivial game that one could accurately title, "Think of an Immature Porn Star Name Based on the Name of a Former U.S. President." Enjoy!

Presidential Porn Stars
Engorged Washington
Andrew Jacksoff
William Henry Hairysack (we started with "Hairysnatch," then realized the gender confusion)
James K. Pork
Zachary Nailher
Abraclam Lickin'
Ulysses Less Pants (maybe the best)
Chesty A. Arthur
Gropeher Clevage
William Howard Shaft
Warren G. Hard-on
Pervert Hoover
Dwight Naked Thighsenhower
Lickin' Johnson (better yet: El BJ)
Gerald Whored
Rim-me Harder
George Pervert Wanker Bush
Bill Clit-on

This should put a complete and permanent end to people saying they're intimidated by the quizmaster…

February 17, 2009

Reginald VelJohnson: Your god


At last night's BQT–a very fine one, if I may say–we all enjoyed the premiere edition of "Character Actors on Parade." But for some reason, Reginald VelJohnson got the greatest response. Why? Residual Urkel love? Twinkie cravings? The fact that, yes, as I offered in the question about him, his name does sound like a parody of someone at a stuffy old country club? These are the mysteries of life, and of quiz.

And to answer your question (and some context): The BQT's two perpetually winningest teams, the Fantastic Fournicators and Strippers for Stephen Hawking, both got a perfect score on that video round, but, they offered differing supplemental information for No. 7, Tiny Lister. Tom or Tony? His actual full name is…

Thomas "Tommy" Lister Jr. (born June 24, 1958). So there.

Otherwise, we had a good time with our annual anti–Valentine's Day audio round—"The Sounds of Adultery" this time. (Yes, yes, I should have included this song; cheesy goodness.)

I thankfully made few mistakes last night, apart from calling Time magazine's Person of the Century "Alfred Einstein." So I'm happy.

And the big tiebreaker: Steven Steve of Fantastic Fournicators versus Chrissy of Sugah Titz. Steven took the victory with Q: What’s the common description?: The sixth child born to any of the Beatles and Belgium’s No. 1 most exported beer.

The standings…

1. Fantastic Fournicators (at least they earned it this time)
2. Sugah Titz
3. Strippers for Stephen Hawking
4. Cash Cab for Cutie
5. Incontinental Congress

We're back March 2 with some new fun: "The Proverbial Proverb Thesaurus," plus audio delights with "We're Broke!"

February 14, 2009

Whopper lust, part two

As promised, more on Whoppers. More on Burger King. Specifically, Burger King advertising.

In 1985, BK was in trouble, with Wendy's gaining fast-food market share thanks to the success of the "Where's the Beef?" campaign (which naturally, led to Walter Mondale's crushing victory in the 1984 presidential election). So the King tried something new. Watch this ad:



Several more ads followed. Then we finally got a look at Herb:
That's the guy playing Herb posing with one of the many cardboard cutouts of him in BKs nationwide. He was your garden-variety nerd. Not a lot of imagination here, despite the fact that the chain spent $40 million on advertising.

Clearly, consumers were confused—I was a dumb little kid, and even I knew it didn't make sense. This was the only guy in the country who's never had a Whopper? That couldn't be possible. I was an absolute culinary junkie, an acolyte at the altar of fast-food and manipulative advertising, and even I'd eaten at Burger King only a handful of times (we were more a McDonald's family). There had to a lot of people who simply never made it in. And would someone who at ate Burger King look like that? Wouldn't be more likely be a sandal-wearing granola vegetarian hippie? Or at least the Jainist kid in my social studies class?

The campaign flopped. $40 million down the tubes, despite the fact that Herb himself played guest timekeeper for the epic Roddy Piper v. Mr. T showdown at Wrestlemania 2.

So I've been reminded of Herb lately, witnessing Burger King's new campaign, "Whopper Virgins":



That's really all you need to see. This series of ads is pissing a lot of people off, and rightly so. First of all, "Whopper Virgins" is a horrible phrase—associating sex with Burger King is incredibly unappetizing, both culinarily and libidinously.

Second, yes, you could view this as further exploitation of the world's indigenous people (they're also covering Greenland Inuit and Hmong tribesman), but I think that misses the point. This is a stupid endeavor, from a marketing standpoint. Appetities and tastes are so dependent on cultural context that what a guy from middle-of-nowhere Greenland thinks about food is completely irrelvant to whether I might enjoy it or not. He could serve me the absolute greatest food made by the finest chef in his village, and I assure you I'd puke it up onto the ice within seconds (then again, I have the palate of a protozoan). Sure, it might be interesting to see the reaction of anyone who's never eaten a hamburger—something so elemental to me and my culture—just as I'm sure Mr. Inuit would get a kick out of watching me puke up his haute cuisine. But interesting isn't always persuasive, and it wouldn't do much to persuade me how I spend my hard-earned and carefully wasted fast-food dollar. When it comes to food, people are not the same wherever you go; we might as well be thousands of different species.

Clearly, putting a Whopper in the hands of a superhero works much better. BK should stick with that.

And no, I still haven't eaten the Whopper I've been craving. At this point, I'm holding out just to prove that I'm a man.

February 12, 2009

Abe Lincoln, 20 decades young!


Today would have been Abraham Lincoln's 200th birthday. I love it when people say that: "it would've been his" some impossible number birthday. Yeah, he was so close. Besides, let's face it, Lincoln was great, but the dude looked like death by the time he was 40. If anyone was making to to 200, it would not be him.

Apropos of this, some interesting presidential birthday factoids:

– Your homeslice and mine, George W. Bush, was born on July 6, 1946 (a Cancer, like me–no pun intended). This was the exact same day that Sylvester Stallone was born.

– Three Presidents have died on the nation's birthday, July 4: John Adams and Thomas Jefferson famously both kicked it on 7/4/1826 (famously, the 50th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence), and James Monroe followed them five years later to the day. But the only President born on July 4 was Calvin Coolidge: July 4, 1872.

Barack Obama was born on August 4, 1961. This makes him only four days older than the Edge of U2. And this guy is the fucking President!

–November 2 is the only birthday shared by two different Presidents: Warren G. Harding (lame) and James K. Polk (awe-soooome!)

John F. Kennedy will always be thought of as a "young" President: first Prez born in the 20th century, little kids running around the Oval Office. But he was 43 when he took office, making him the second youngest ever (the first is the best; Obama clocks in at fifth). Interestingly, while it's hard to remember him as anything other than a jowly old codger, Richard Nixon was also considered young during the 1960 election; only four years older than JFK, and a fellow WWII vet.

–I share my birthday with Gerald Ford. And Ford was President when I was born. I was born on the President's birthday. I am a presidential trivia buff. Coincidence?

I swear, more Whopper lust later.

February 9, 2009

Whopper lust, part one

You know it, you love it: the Facebook meme "25 Random Things About Me." Being a performer and a self-described quizmaster, it's hardly surprising that I participated. My No. 23 was the following:
"23. I have been craving a Whopper every single day since last summer, yet I haven't had one (despite walking by a Burger King to and from work)."

This is true, as is everything on my list. A detail I omitted: The event that set off my Whopper lust was seeing Iron Man. There's some very prominent product placement, when Tony Stark returns from the Middle East, says his first order of business is acquiring "an American cheeseburger," and is soon after seen with Burger King wrapper in hand. I'm usually so scornful of brazen product placement, so maybe part of the reason I've resisted temptation is that I don't want to feel like I'm a sucker for Big Marvel.

The last time I consumed a Whopper was probably seven years ago, when I was working nights in Chinatown and the dining options were limited (yes, I'm one of those people). It was delicious, well indicated by the picture above. I'm a hamburger fan anyway, and between this memory of tastiness, the allure of advertising, the residual childhood joy of any fast-food restaurant, and the continual desire to spend as little as humanly possible on food (I told you), the desire has been a steady one, if unfulfilled.

Oddly, I consumed a Whopper in my dream just last night, as I sat in a motel room with my childhood friend Roger Heller. That sandwich was absolutely disgusting, better indicated by this:

Now that just looks sad. (That's Wikipedia's Whopper illustration, BTW.) Perhaps part of the reason I've resisted the enticements of the King is that I'm afraid to be disappointed. The Whopper lust is a greater joy than the sandwich itself, which will probably not be much of a joy, come to think of it.

Speaking of which: In response to my "25 Random Things" post, my friend Hollianna Bryan—one of the most acerbically witty women I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, and yes, a distant relative of the three-time Democratic nominee for President—wrote:

#23. let me explain how that works.
1. you walk up to the door of Burger King
2. open it
3. enter
4. walk up to the disaffected cashier
5. request in a clear voice "I'd like a Whopper please" (politesse not optional)
6. pay for it
7. and then wait until the other disaffected worker gives you one, which you take.
it's really very very simple. of course, i might have led you to the Whopper but i can't make you eat it.

And I responded…

Ah, but you left out the next seven steps…
8. Eat the Whopper. Halfway through, realize it's pretty disgusting.
9. Throw away the last eighth of it, along with the wrapper, continuing the despoiling of our environment.
10. Have a stomachache
11. Not want to eat for the next three days
12. Some personal biological processes that you can figure out for yourself
13. Fall yet another step down the fitness ladder
14. Feel like a sucker every time I walk by Burger King for the next six months

I've gone on too long, and the original ostensible point of this post was to comment on Burger King's history of bizarre Whopper advertising: from Herb to Whopper Virgins. More to come, as Carson said.

February 8, 2009

I wuz robbed by comics geeks!

This weekend is New York Comic Con. I am not attending, never have, though every year I swear next time I will. (It's one of those things.) I used to be a huge comics geek, though I did overdose on comics conventions when I was in high school, and I gave up reading them almost entirely several months ago. But next year, definitely.

I still borrow paperback compilations of comics from friends, and I recently completed the entire run of the critically acclaimed Y: The Last Man, the story of a young man who is the only survivor of a mysterious plague that wipes out every other male human on earth. It was very well done, but my reading of it was tinged with a bit of regret, even annoyance. You see, it was my idea.

Not really. But sort of. Possibly.

About eight years ago, I was somewhat friendly with a fellow named Kevin Maguire, a professional comic book artist. In fact, he was responsible for one of the most iconic comic covers in history. This:Pretty cool, right? I was in an improv class with this guy, and one night, postclass over drinks, I discovered he was this guy whose work I'd drooled over in junior high. Only in New York, kids.

We became somewhat friendly; he was very nice, very mellow. Eventually, we drifted apart, though we recently became Facebook friends, so I'm sure we'll be bestest buds ever of all time before you know it.

But backtrack: During our friendship, one night, we sat idly on my rooftop, having a drink and enjoying the Manhattan skyline. Being a virulently raging comics geek, and fancying myself for a possible career in writing comics stories, I was throwing at him all my various ideas, especially Elseworlds concepts. ("Elseworlds" stories denoted DC Comics mucking around with their characters in "alternate" contexts: Superman in Arthurian England, Batman fights Dracula and permanently becomes a vampire, and so on. Fun.)

I told Kevin what I considered a particularly potent idea: a world in which only women became superheroes. What if, for whatever reason, the gamma rays, the secret formulas, etc., that make ordinary people into supercharacters in the comic book world affected women only? He declared it an interesting idea, our evening ended, and soon after, we lost touch.

Several months later, I found this at a comics store:
A plague kills every man on earth, except Superman (Kryptonian DNA, naturally). The female superheroes try to keep things together, while the world holds its breath that Supes and Lois Lane can produce a child. And guess what? It was drawn by Kevin Maguire! And not written by me!

Was I mad? Not really. I had no real legal claim, and Kevin actually acted on the idea, whereas I just sat around blabbing about it. Besides, the comic kind of sank like a stone. I think I once tried to milk sympathy out of my erstwhile friend by sending him a spec script about Batman fighting a serial killer, but I never heard anything back and moved on. (These days, the idea of writing a comic book has lost almost all appeal. Editing one, however…)

Anyway, several years later, the conceptually similar Y: The Last Man, also published by DC, appeared, and began reaping oodles of popular and critical praise. I was reminded of "my" JLA story. Still, it was written and drawn by completely different people, so there was almost certainly no direct link to JLA: Created Equal (especially considering that the idea of gendercide is not exactly fresh with the morning dew; Mary Shelley tackled it 180 years ago).

But, I stand by my belief that the JLA story was my idea, and like to tease that Y is indirectly my doing. I really should go to Comic Con, with a bullhorn, and loudly declare to the world that I am personally responsible for Y: The Last Man. I'll annoy the geeks to no end, get myself thrown out, win the momentary enmity of DC Comics, a company I idolized in my youth. Next year, definitely.

February 7, 2009

The Super Mega Ultra Hard Question of the Week

Yes! Another! And like last time, we've changed the rules: Not the first person to respond correctly, but a randomly selected person who responds correctly in the next week. I'll be making my drawing on Friday, February 13. Ooh! Spooky!

Here it is. E-mail if you think you know. More soon.





February 6, 2009

I need some space


A BQT plea: I'm planning a special event. A very special event. I can't divulge all the details at the moment, but when it happens (and it will…), it will be big. You will be invited. And you will loooove it!

But here's the problem: Part of the bigness is weirdness. This will be no ordinary quiz event. As such, I've been having some trouble finding a suitable venue. Ars Nova was into it, but they couldn't make it work for them logistically. The Zipper Theater wanted too much money (maybe the reason it met its demise). Bowery Poetry Club couldn't make the scheduling work.

I need a place for a solid 24 hours. Preferably Saturday night through Sunday night. There should be capacity for at least 100. I do not have limitless funds for this. The other requirements are flexible—I'd like a bar and a sound system, but I could bring all that in if need be; I got peeps.

So theaters, bars, lofts, event space—I am flexible. Can you be helpful? E-mail info@bigquizthing. com with your suggestions and/or leads. The world is waiting…

February 5, 2009

NT's greatest hits, vol. 2

Hey-o. I'm going to continue my ever-so-brief commentary about entries on my list of favorite songs ever. Earlier I tackled "OK Apartment" by the Oranges Band and "Just What I Needed" by the Cars. Behold, another random two:

"Objects of My Affection" by Peter Bjorn & John
Oh, man. This is probably my favorite tune of the past couple years, and it is an absolute gem of simplicity. PB&J are a Swedish trio that had a monster international hit in 2006 with "Young Folks" (yes, that song; great video); "Objects of My Affection" was the following single from that same album, Writer's Block. A martial repeating drum pattern, a frantic guitar strum, and a distant, echoing whistle, and the narrator: a laconic, defeated man, who engages in a bit of nostalgia, which always gets to me. His thoughts are loopy and nonspecific, ideally nostalgic. In the second verse, he describes his dejection and ennui in the plainest terms ("Some days, I just lie around and hardly exist, and can't tell apart what I'm eating from my hand or my wrist"). But then, in the chorus, he collects himself and comes to this fairly profound realization:

And the question is,
Was I more alive
Then than I am now?
I happily have to disagree.
I laugh more often now.
I cry more often now.
I am more me.

There's a slight awkwardness to the lyrics, perhaps due to the band writing in their second language, but it only makes the words more endearing. Too often, when a rock band writes about depression, the emotion takes a simplistic, clichéd form, as if nothing could be worse and all hope it gone. But it's the indecision and negotiation of "Objects of My Affection" that makes it so powerful, and truly inspiring. (By the way, the video I've linked to above is great, but it's an inferior version of the song, so you should seek out the album recording; try Songza.)

"Crimson and Clover" by Tommy James and the Shondells
First, this is absolutely the greatest make-out song ever. Tommy James and the Shondells were a garage band from Pittsburgh of the late '60s—actually, Tommy James wasn't from Pittsburgh, and it's a pretty interesting story how he ended up there. They were huge at the time: the original versions of "I Think We're Alone Now," "Mony Mony," "Crystal Blue Persuasion," all big hits. And "Crimson and Clover," which is an incredibly economical distillation of the pop-psychedelia era into three minutes and 30 seconds. If you don't believe me, believe every one of the thousands of TV shows, commercials, and movies that have referenced this song over the decades when they needed to effortlessly get across any kind of "hippie" vibe. I know of what I speak.

There's not much to "Crimson and Clover" lyrically, but there wasn't much to psychedelia other than faux profundity and weirdo effects, and that's precisely what you get here. It's a very soothing song, a delightfully surprising one, and even a little funny (dig the echoing vocal effect at the end). And seriously; listen to it while you're making out. Not having sex—making out.

More to come: 15 more parts in this series!

February 3, 2009

Win some, lose some

DON'T PANIC!

People didn't like "The Trivial Secrets of the NYC Subway." I worked on that shit for, like, six months, rethinking it, reconfiguring things. It sort of became my white whale—perhaps it was ultimately a folly. Nonetheless, I'm glad I finally harpooned it onto the Crash Mansion stage; the beast is dead, and I have survived. I'm always trying something new, though. (And I do think there's something to this game; perhaps it would be fun in print.)

Anyway, Fantastic Fournicators won again and Slumdog Millionaire turns out to have been based on a novel. We carry on into the trivia beyond.

To look forward to: Next show, February 16: "Character Actors on Parade." You're going to fucking love this shit! (Seriously, no joke.) And our annual Valentine's Day audio round: Instead of another generic "Anti-Love Songs" round, it'll specifically focus on adultery. 'Cause we all love that.

To come on this blog: Another Super Mega Ultra Hard Question, another in my series of posts about my all-time favorite songs, more more more. I love you.

This week's standings…

1. Fantastic Fournicators (AAAAHHHH!)
2. Strippers for Stephen Hawking
3. Gerard Depardouche
4. Incontinental Congress
5. Sugah Titz/ Recreational Chemistry (tie)