Another nice review:
A reminder, if you’re looking: almost every physical bookstore I’ve visited has Trebekistan not under Humor, Autobiography, or TV, but under "Puzzles & Games."
Usually it’s mixed in with the crosswords, Sudoku, and Texas Hold’em books.
As I’ve said, though, there’s also something weirdly satisfying about seeing a book about your own life categorized under "Puzzles."
I mean, yes. Exactly.
Guy once dropped by my high school — a bastion of upper-class privilege, with the exception of a few working-class kids like me who were there on scholarship — and played a surprise free concert during what was supposed to be a lunch assembly.
Looking back, I think he probably did it just for the ironic kick of bringing authentic blues into a place where it seemed least likely to register.
But that day was the main reason I picked up a guitar when I was fourteen, just to try to make sounds like that with my own confused fingers. Thirty years later, I’ve never come even close. But it’s still a frequent source of joy and some happy frustration, and my futility has given me even more respect for those who can.
You know what music I’ll have on for the rest of the day.
If it were up to me, after these kind words about Prisoner of Trebekistan, Ken Jennings would get his official iron-on patch for what he calls the Jeopardy! "club" in the mail next week. Plus a map to the tree fort, and the secret password we use to keep those Millionaire kids out.
The
timing of his praise is also a bit remarkable — I spent a bit of Thanksgiving Day working on a list of books I’m giving (and will shortly recommend here) as gifts during
the looming holiday ritual shopping fiasco season, and Brainiac was already right up by the top.
I’m
a big advocate of books as gifts: you can
usually find cool choices for everyone on your list — even people who rarely read (they get books about their favorite sports, TV
shows, or in extreme cases, smells) — and at appropriate prices for any implied level of affection;
they’re simple to wrap (or order gift-wrapped) and carry to somebody’s house; and (best of all) they’re easy to order — you can probably knock off half your shopping without moving your kiester from that chair.
Plus, you’re usually supporting
writers you actually respect, while encouraging people to read more. And any leftover books take about a century to go bad, even without
refrigeration.
Anyhow, my list isn’t quite done in time for the start of the post-Thanksgiving shopping bloody nightmare
rush. (I’m already being crushed by the deadline on the next book.) But here’s what I was already gonna say about Brainiac, even before Ken beat me on the buzzer just now:
it’s surprisingly funny, it’s surprisingly modest (coming from a guy
who has lots of reasons not to be), and it’s the most entertaining book
about the world of trivia I’ve ever seen.
It’s also a very different book from Trebekistan,
in at least a dozen ways you can find out for yourself if you’re curious. A bookstore manager in Anaheim once described it as "the way Kirk was
different from Picard," if that’s any help. Although she didn’t say who was who, and I wish
now that I’d asked.
I think it depends on which one of us goes bald with dignity.
PS: Ken’s book hasn’t sent any women into labor yet that I know of. So, pregnant Ken Jennings fans… you now have a project.
No, not quite:
The writer is an American expat living right in the middle of things. Worth a regular visit to see what he’s seeing, first hand.
Beware, the giant robot pudu!
Which is actually probably more of a fallow deer, I guess, or maybe a red deer, but whatever. I’m going with robot pudu. Just, well, beware, the giant robot unspecified cervine ungulate! doesn’t quite ring the same way.
From this delightful artist via the directory of wonderful things.