A. 風邪　B. 結核　C. 天然痘　D. 破傷風　E. 水疱瘡　F. 流感

Life has a funny sense of humor sometimes.  Last weekend I created a challenge about diseases.  Based on this, the universe decided that I am extremely interested in diseases and would like to learn more about them, preferably by experiencing them firsthand.  So, this week, when I am responding to a challenge about diseases, I have caught a kaze, one of the six sicknesses featured.

Dragon started off by assuming that kanji are nothing more than a funny way of writing the Latin alphabet.  To be fair, for someone who has no actual knowledge of kanji, this is probably as good a strategy as any.  Unfortunately, she didn’t read it quite right.  That last “letter” there may look like a B, but in fact it is a dented D, representing the fact that people are not in tip-top shape when they are sick.  Then, moving to the left, you can clearly see a large, somewhat angular letter C that has been rotated clockwise, and inside it is the letter O with an L running through it.  So you see that A is obviously a COLD, which is my current predicament.

Shirley engaged in a comparison study, with sadly predictable results (based on the general helpfulness of kanji in KYPC).  F may look somewhat out of the ordinary, but it is the all-too-common influenza virus.  And while A and D share a character, they have little in common, other than both being illnesses.  A, as already mentioned, is the common cold, and D is tetanus.

Theoman started off by assuming that a disease that can be caused by more than 200 different types of viruses can be accurately labeled as “simple.”  But he got it right anyway, coming up with the only successful diagnosis of the week, proving true the age-old trope of medical TV shows, in which first you have to make a mistake in order to eventually get things right.  His second guess, however, was off the mark.  We’ll assume that he meant to write “D” rather than “C” because of his reference to matching characters, though it doesn’t really matter, as neither one is the flu.  C and E are our two poxes, small and chicken, respectively, who have decided most unhelpfully to not look anything like each other.  And B is TB, so it’s a shame that A Fan chose not to ring in this time.

Now, I know some of you might think this challenge is unfair, given that one regular participant knows some Japanese and the rest do not.  So I’ve decided to even the odds a bit this week.  I also believe that those regular participants who do not know Japanese consider themselves fairly knowledgeable about literature.  Thus, this week’s challenge is about Japanese literature, and that way everyone will be familiar with half of it.  Specifically, the options will all be things that I studied this quarter in school, covering primarily works of the medieval and early modern periods.

Since I’m guessing you won’t be familiar with most of the titles, I’ll give you summaries to go on instead.  One is the first imperially-commissioned poetry anthology.  One is the memoir of a hermit who decided to abandon life in the capital and live in a hut in the mountains.  One is an epic war tale depicting the rise and fall of a mighty warrior clan.  One is a series of seemingly random and often contradictory observations written down by a monk.  One is the autobiographical tale of a woman forced into service as an imperial concubine.  And one is a combination travel log and poetry collection composed by a haiku master as he journeyed through northeastern Japan (a region that is very much in our thoughts and hearts this week).  So use either your knowledge of Japanese or your knowledge of literature and pick out whichever of those you would most want to read.

A. 奥の細道　B. 古今集　C. 徒然草　D. 問わず語り　E. 平家物語　F. 方丈記

He coughed into his fist, an awkward, contrived gesture that he had never before used in a public speaking situation.  “Good morning.  Or, um, if you’re watching this in the afternoon, then good afternoon, I guess.  And if you’re watching it at night . . . no, why would you be watching it at night?”  A not-so-faint groan could be heard coming from somewhere off-camera.

The cough was repeated.  “In any case, my name is Peter Hamlin, and I am here today to introduce my sister, Louisa.  She has been playing the trumpet since she was eight years—”

“Seven,” said the off-screen voice.  The number was delivered in a tone of exceeding obviousness; it was not the “seven” that was the answer to “In what year was Publius Quinctilius Varus appointed governor of Germania?” but rather the one that follows “What comes after six?”

“Right.  Seven.”  At this point the actor became flustered—well, even more flustered—and wondered if perhaps he should have spent more time—any time—memorizing his lines.  A more expensive camera (this one had been purchased for $35 at a garage sale) might have picked up the cold front of sweat that was forming along his forehead and preparing to rain into his eyes.  But Peter Hamlin was a fighter, so he continued his valiant but ill-advised struggle against the evil red light.

“She has performed in the Laragheny County Youth Band for four years, and was recently awarded the Most Promising Musician, uh, award.”  He looked up hopefully, but the light refused to wink out, meaning his trial was not yet done.  His script, however, was.  Peter Hamlin, who had once come up with a ten-minute speech on financial deregulation off the top of his head, improvised.  “Um, her parents are Paul and Joan Hamlin . . . her grandparents are—”

If this had been a full-scale feature film production, he might have heard a “CUT!”  Instead he got, “I don’t know what to do with you.”

Peter took the opportunity to collapse on a nearby ancient couch beyond the bounds of the impromptu film studio.  Free from the camera’s terrible gaze, he could relax, at least as far as a man in a suit and tie can relax.  “Let me go?”

“Oh no.  You’re not getting away until we finish this.”

Jimmy S. was a hero, all right
For his lost cause he fought the good fight
But the rest of the time
It’s not quite so sublime
Talking all day, and on through the night

Event: U.S. Senate introduces the cloture rule, allowing filibusters to be cut off
Year: 1917
Learn more: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cloture_rule
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Filibuster_in_the_United_States_Senate

A. 駆逐艦　B. 航空母艦　C. 巡洋艦　D. 戦艦　E. 潜水艦

Theoman led off this time, and he did a fine job, sinking the battleship at D in the first shot.  He used actual knowledge of the language to guide him, which is unofficially frowned upon, but the knowledge was vague, and his source amusing, so all is forgiven.  Actually, I believe the song he is referring to is about not simply a battleship but a space battleship, which would presumably require a three-dimensional board and make the game even more excruciatingly long than it already is.

Next came Dragon, who seems to think that children are not supposed to have fun when they play games.  Perhaps this is a reflection on her own childhood, a bleak, soulless period of time in which board games were inflected upon her as a source of torment while she hovered in that featureless void.  Or it could be that her problem is simply with children getting excited over what is, at heart, an extremely violent event: the sinking of a ship.  Call me a cynic, but trying to get kids to stop thinking that blowing things up is cool sounds like a lost cause to me.  Her targeting strategy, however, was not a lost cause, at least not entirely.  She correctly identified that the Carrier, the only 5-hole ship in the game, is the longest kanji compound at B.  After that, though . . . Miss, Miss, Miss, Miss.

A Fan’s guess was brief, and thus our response is brief: Miss.

Just as in the real game, the Carrier turned out to be the easiest to get a hit on; after Dragon, both Shirley and Theoman on his second pass lodged red pegs in its dull gray hull.  The other ships ended up being considerably more elusive, except for E, the submarine, which Theoman sank through clandestine, undisclosed methods (we suspect Jack Ryan may have been involved).  But the destroyer (A) and the cruiser (C) live to fight another day.

I would like to apologize again for the lack of an entry last Monday; my computer was inflicted with a virus.  Rather than get down about it, however, I have decided to make the event into the theme for this week’s puzzle: diseases.  We’ve got the common cold, the slightly less common flu, TB, tetanus, and a couple of kinds of pox.  Grab your canes and your whiteboards, folks: it’s time for differential diagnosis.

A. 風邪　B. 結核　C. 天然痘　D. 破傷風　E. 水疱瘡　F. 流感

The lead actor turned away from the director, got into his poorly defined character, and turned his gaze toward the camera.  In physical terms, this change of eye angle was very slight, but the psychological ramifications were huge.  Before, he was merely standing in the vicinity of filming.  Now he was on film.

People have many difference reactions to being on camera.  Some love it.  They live for it.  They feed off the energy of an imagined audience and become incandescent, transforming into someone they’d never before dreamed.  A recording device grants quickness to their words, grace to their feet, and a variety of mystical qualities to their hair.  They say the camera adds ten pounds—and for the true actor, it’s ten pounds of confidence.

Of course, there are others who do their best impression of Flick, the kid in A Christmas Story who got his tongue stuck to a light pole.

The camera is fickle.  It chooses the targets of its awful awkwardness-inducing powers at random.  The semi-willing lead in this production, for example, seemed competent enough.  He wore a suit, which—though slightly too broad at the shoulders and much too broad around the waist—had recently been ironed to within a thread of its existence.  His tie was done up in the rare Atlantic knot, which looks so silly that people only tie it to show off that they can.  Before he opened his mouth, at least, he appeared perfectly comfortable with a script in his hand.

There were other factors that didn’t show up on camera as well.  As captain of his high school debate team, he had gotten first place in both the Policy and Lincoln-Douglas Debate categories at the NFL (National Forensics League) National Tournament.  As valedictorian, he had given a graduation speech that a number of adults called the best they’d ever heard—to be fair, most of them saw his mother on a regular basis, and may not have been able to afford to say otherwise.  In college, he had stood up to present issues before the student congress so many times that he had been unofficially banned from their meetings.

In short, this kid was no stranger to the spoken word.  But in front of the camera, he delivered his lines with all the elegance of a man with a mouthful of ice cubes who was getting over a hangover while trying to impress a woman and learning to ride a unicycle.

With its geysers, so eruption-prone
It’s a wonder this place hasn’t blown
But it’s pretty, and thus
We go by car and bus
To the glory that is Yellowstone

Event: Yellowstone is established as the world’s first national park
Year: 1872
Learn more: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yellowstone_National_Park

No KYPC this week. The Wordsman is wrestling with computer difficulties. Sorry.

Some people think cinema is an exclusive domain.  If it’s not filmed on a Hollywood sound stage, if it’s not based on a bestselling novel, if it doesn’t have a special effects budget with at least seven zeroes and star actors you can read about in magazines, then it’s not a real movie.  For the purpose of determining punishments, however, the Universal Court of Good Taste has decided to adopt the broad definition: any clip recorded on a camera is a movie.  Any movie that someone else has to watch is cinema.

Much of it is awful.

The fancy trappings of a “real” movie, while not required, certainly do help.  Your chances of producing something watchable are much better on a soundstage than they are in, say, your basement.  It’s considered good practice to hire some actual screenwriters instead of having your mom write the whole thing.  You’re much more likely to impress with CGI than by throwing a faded old bedsheet over an even older bookcase.  And, while you don’t have to go to the A-list, you’re always better off not using an actor just because he has some spare time on his hands.

“And . . . action!”

Unfortunately, most directors disregard this helpful advice.  Fortunately for them, the Cinema Bureau of the UCGT can’t keep up with the pace of new productions any more than an aged tortoise with a broken leg has a shot at catching a bullet train.  In fact, they’re so busy recording crimes that they never get around to enforcement.  They work 90-hour weeks, spend their brief breaks staring at the wall because at least it doesn’t move, and liken the coming of YouTube to the Ten Plagues of Egypt.

“You don’t have to say ‘action.’  I can see the red light go on.”

“Apparently I do, because you’re still not in character.”

“Character?  I have a character?”

“A character that’s in danger of being killed off if he doesn’t show up soon.”

“Sorry.  He’s distracted, wondering why he keeps talking to some mysterious off-camera voice.”

“Oh, I’ll edit this out later.”

“Are you sure you can do that?”

“Just . . . read.”

First the Russians went up in a trice
In the third, the U.S. team scored twice
Left the Russians bereaved
Al asked if we believed
In miraculous vict’ries on ice

Event: The “Miracle on Ice”: the U.S. Hockey team defeats the heavily-favored Soviet team in the Winter Olympics at Lake Placid, New York
Year: 1980
Learn more: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miracle_on_Ice

A. アイロン　B. 靴　C. 乗馬者　D. シルクハット　E. 指貫　F. 榴弾砲

In Monopoly, cheating is a way of life (and often the only way to make the game end).  Anyone who says, “I’ll be the banker” is as trustworthy as someone who proclaims, “I am not a crook!”  This being the case, I half-expected contestants this week to be looking up answers left and right, but it appears for the most part that people remained honest, or at least were skilled enough to be subtle about it as they slipped handfuls of $500 bills into their money piles.  Let’s see if that honesty paid off for you.

Theoman is correct in saying that both “horse” and “shoe” are one character (and “horseshoe” is two, but that’s a subject for a later puzzle).  So his kanji knowledge holds up.  Unfortunately, his Monopoly knowledge let him down.  The playing piece is not a horse but a man on horseback, which can be found at C.  Still, he was close; B is the shoe.  So we’ll say he had the right pair but put them on the wrong feet.

Shirley, however, spotted the shoe fairly easily, and she nearly pulled off the hat trick.  She correctly identified A and D as our two most stylish transportation options, but she picked D, the shirukuhatto (from “silk hat”), as the iron when it is in fact the top hat.  A is the iron.  These, by the way, are once again katakana rather than hiragana.  In the context of this game, if it’s used in conjunction with kanji, it’s probably hiragana, but if it stands on its own it’s probably katakana (that’s four correct uses of “its/it’s” in one sentence!  A new internet record!)

A Fan thought that A might be the boot because boots are old, and I suppose that’s true–the boot in Monopoly isn’t exactly shiny and new.  And iron is pretty old as well (call it 3,000 years or so).  The iron, however, is pretty new, and that’s the only thing that airon here can refer to.  Misfits this week include the poor, neglected thimble (E) and the Howitzer (F), which was perhaps too intimidating for its own good.

People may be wondering why I left the battleship, another classic Monopoly piece, out of last week’s challenge.  As a matter of fact, it was because I was saving it for this week.  It’s time for open warfare on the high seas, which, as my childhood taught me, consists primarily of random guessing.  So really, it’s the perfect topic for KYPC, which returns this week to its original all-kanji all-the-time format.  Can you sink my battleship?

A. 駆逐艦　B. 航空母艦　C. 巡洋艦　D. 戦艦　E. 潜水艦