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Nick's Off Market 1556 Northwest 56th Street Seattle, WA 98107 Mondays: 8:00 PM View All Posts |
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Round 1: Mystery Round
Comment: Bamm-Bamm had nothing on Pebbles.
Top Score: 8 (It’s Plausible, Steve Holt!!!, Trivial League of Trivia)
Bottom Score: 3
Round 2: Bad English
Comment: My favorite wrong answer in a while was that Gary Glitter’s “Rock and Roll (Part 2)” is the theme song to Dr. Who.
Top Score: 15 + Joker (It’s Plausible)
Bottom Score: 6
Round 3: Sooner or Later: Five Ways to Die
Comment: I do wish that the Saw question was about one of the sequels, just so I can watch people squirm about torn torsos and drowning in pig guts and the like.
Top Score: 14 + Joker (Steve Holt!!!)
Bottom Score: 3
Round 4: BRB
Comment: I don’t know who Roald Amundsen is (aside from the question itself), but that’s an awesome name.
Top Score: 7 (Hjarta Heroes)
Bottom Score: 2
Round 5: Hotties of Yore
Comment: Damn, that Josephine Baker’s got it going on.
Top Score: 8 (Hjarta Heroes, Prime)
Bottom Score: 4
Round 6: She’s a BRIC House
Comment: Other good wrong answer: The “Miracle on Ice” is apparently also known as “Royal Russian Fuckups.”
Top Score: 6 (It’s Plausible, Steve Holt!!!, The Sea-Adderall Seahawks)
Bottom Score: 3
Round 7: It Came from the ‘90s
Comment: No snarky comment. I just adore My So-Called Life, and love any excuse to reference it at quiz. And if you haven’t watched it yet, all 19 episodes are currently on Hulu.
Top Score: 6 (It’s Plausible)
Bottom Score: 2
Round 8: Random Knowledge
Comment: Ain’t nobody give a shit about palladium.
Top Score: 14 + Joker (Hjarta Heroes)
Bottom Score: 10
See you next week!
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Nick's Off Market 1556 Northwest 56th Street Seattle, WA 98107 Mondays: 8:00 PM View All Posts |
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Scores
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Round 1: Short Film Credits
Top Score: 8 (Djinn & Phonics)
Bottom Score: 3
Comment: The clue was “Vincent D’Onofrio: FMJ.” Actual answer: Full Metal Jacket. Best wrong answer: Fuck My Junk.
Round 2: This Doesn’t Sound Like Mariah Carey
Top Score: 12 (Djinn & Phonics, Hjarta Heroes)
Bottom Score: 4
Comment: I sadly love Chris Brown’s song “Forever.” I am ashamed. But I’m glad that one team decided the song was called “Wifebeatin’.” I especially appreciate the apostrophe at the end of that fake song title.
Round 3: Which Came First? Junk Food Edition
Top Score: 6 (Great Odin’s Beard)
Bottom Score: 2
Comment: I like to imagine that the debut of Cheetos in 1948 was a direct result of the war. “Congratulations, boys. Here’s tasty poison.”
Round 4: A Man, A Plan, A Canal, Panama!
Top Score: 8 (Hjarta Heroes)
Bottom Score: 4
Comment: Man, questions about grammar do not go over well at drunken pub quizzes.
Round 5: The Road to Fame
Top Score: 6 (Djinn & Phonics, Hjarta Heroes, It’s Plausible, Sassage Flare!)
Bottom Score: 5
Comment: This was a good test of what teams wanted to see certain people naked. Hell no, Macauley Culkin has never been nude on camera. Perverts.
Round 6: Abracafuckingdabra
Top Score: 6 (Sassage Flare!)
Bottom Score: 3
Comment: You are right, Hjarta Heroes. Luxor is the lamest hotel ever.
Round 7: From Hollywood to Arlen
Top Score: 7 (Sassage Flare!)
Bottom Score: 2
Comment: Correct. Carl Reiner is in fact “Jewish Guy.” That doesn’t get you a point, but it made me laugh.
Round 8: Random Knowledge
Top Score: 15 + Joker (winners Trivial League of Trivia)
Bottom Score: 6
Comment: Ishtar is a great movie. Screw the mainstream. Elaine May is a goddamn genius, and I hate that the poor reaction to that film killed her directorial career. How dare you, America. HOW DARE YOU!
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Nick's Off Market 1556 Northwest 56th Street Seattle, WA 98107 Mondays: 8:00 PM View All Posts |
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Important things first: Hjarta Heroes became the first team at Nick's Off Market to win first place three weeks in a row! Congratulations, yo!
And now onto nerdy shit.
The Great Gatsby comes out this Friday, and while I’m a big fan of Baz Lurhmann’s nonsense, I care much, much more about F. Scott Fitzgerald, who I consider America’s greatest author. And as with most celebrated American artists, he was a complicated fellow with a crummy life and almost nothing to show for what fleeting bits of fame impressed themselves upon him.
And he chronicled each and every bit of it.
Now, everything Fitzgerald wrote was about himself. From his early stuff, to the shit he wrote drunk and impoverished in a Hollywood bungalow, it was all about him. He grew up a middle class kid from St. Paul who was lucky enough to go back East to school with kids far richer than he could have ever hoped to be. And he wanted to be just like them. He wanted to dress like them and play football like them and go on hayrides with girls like them. And so did Basil Duke Lee. Basil Duke Lee is Fitzgerald and Fitzgerald is Basil Duke Lee. The Basil & Josephine Stories. Basil Duke Lee. F. Scott Fitzgerald.
He wrote about his college days. Princeton. The original title of This Side of Paradise isn't "The Romantic Egotist" for nothing. Little Basil D. Lee grew up to be Amory Blaine. This Side of Paradise. Armory Blaine. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Then he moves to Long Island, and infiltrates the rich and parties of the Jazz Age socialites, but being in debt, never entirely fitting in. And what is Gatsby ostensibly about? A man infiltrating Long Island high society in the 1920s and watching it crumble around him.
Final line: "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." We can't escape our past. You know where that line shows up again? Fitzgerald's tombstone. The Great Gatsby. Nick Carraway. F. Scott Fitzgerald. But then what happens? Fitzgerald goes to Hollywood, and Hollywood murders Fitzgerald. He spends years slaving away at studios rewriting other people's scripts and becomes the kind of hack writer he creates in Pat Hobby. Hobby is a loveless, penniless drunk, and Fitzgerald dies the same way. The Pat Hobby Stories. Pat Hobby. F. Scott Fitzgerald.
But I’m not sure how much people know, or how much they even care. I used to work in the film industry, and like a conceited prick, I quickly grew weary of people who had no concept of literary and cinematic history. People didn't come to Los Angeles to forward the artistry of the written word or the moving picture. They didn't come for the intellectual. They came to make money. To gain respect from the wrong people. To bang famous actresses.
But that's not how things really work out, is it? The best these people will get is a 10th place finisher on America's Next Top Model who has a drug problem, or the first voted off the island on Survivor that nobody can remember. Busted ass strippers. As the unforgiving sun beats down on you 12 months a year, you hear the deafening noise of youth, distracted by pretty lights and designer drugs, stimulated day and night. But that scream you hear isn't actually life. It's their insecurities and neuroses struggling to be heard. It's the sound of a million plastic breasts popping in unison. Because within ten years, they'll be a shell of their former selves. In Los Angeles, a terrible city with miserable traffic, a confused freeway system designed by greedy car companies, its smog-choked atmosphere, its false fronts and its rotten interiors, that's how things really are.
In short, I hated Los Angeles.
Fitzgerald had one final trick up his sleeve. His last novel, The Love of the Last Tycoon, is about somebody else. And his life ends before he can finish it. What's it about? The muck, the horror, the lies of the industry that Hollywood people live every day, and how it eats away at all of us from within. He had it right.