Have I not seen a pharmaceutical ad for an eczema treatment called OREOCONE? Seems plausible. Is the cone made of Oreo? Is there an entire frozen dessert product called the OREOCONE? The more you look at it, the more it looks like a steroid. All I know is that once again, as with 1-Across, the puzzle is back to trying to get its "relevance" and "currency" from corporations-in this case, by just mining every damn product in the OREO line. And as for OREOCONE, I have no idea what that even is. I mean, it's a cute coincidence, but that's all it is. Loved seeing POMODORO, but OLIVEOIL is the equivalent of EPEE where eight-letter answers are concerned, so I don't know that the corner is really elevated by pretending that you meant for those two answers to be thematically complementary. It tries to do a little pasta dance there in the NE, but for me all that does is detract from from the only really interesting Down in the whole puzzle. Nothing really wrong with this puzzle (besides the repulsive 1-Across). And it opens so badly-with a faux-chummy corporate slogan for a company whose dystopian "smart devices" essentially have much of the world voluntarily treating a powerful surveillance company like a friendly household assistant-that the puzzle would've needed a whole lot of oomph to recover. Not enough marquee punch to really get off the ground. “It is a rite / Of finitude,” he wrote, “a picture in whose frame / Roc, oast, and Inca decompose at once / Into the ABCs of every day.” Even if you find that you have to look up a few words (oast: “a usually conical kiln used for drying hops, malt, or tobacco”), we hope that the ritual provides you with some pleasurable procrastination.Two good answers ( "THE SKY'S THE LIMIT!" / "YOU WON'T REGRET IT!") with a lot of Yawn in between. The great Richard Wilbur, who died last fall, once published a poem in The New Yorker about doing a crossword-“a ghostly grille / Through which, as often, we begin to see / The confluence of the Oka and the Aare”-on a train. If you have any questions about how the puzzle works, you don’t need to mail us an envelope: just visit the F.A.Q. Five constructors will take turns crafting the puzzles they are crossword experts whose answers and clues exhibit the same qualities we aim for in all of our writing: wit, intelligence, a wide-ranging interest in the world, and a love of language. It’ll be weekly, just like the magazine: a new one every Monday morning. In that spirit, we’re launching another crossword, online this time, and in the American style. Most of our readers have e-mail addresses now, and the Web has given us the space to try new things-and to try old things again. The lucky few who already had e-mail addresses could request instructions electronically. Knowing that the form was unfamiliar to many of our readers, we also offered “ The New Yorker’s Guide to Solving Cryptic Crosswords,” two thousand words of explanation available to anyone who sent us a self-addressed stamped envelope or a fax number. Our cryptic had an unusual shape: we tucked it into a single column, a third of a page, in the magazine. (What better way to procrastinate when facing a deadline?) We débutedĪ crossword puzzle once before, two decades back-a so-called cryptic crossword, a fiendishly difficult variation more commonly played in the U.K. But the linguistic pastime had proved remarkably persistent, the piece observed: “though they are not much talked about nowadays, they continue to have their millions of ardent addicts.”Ī fair number of those addicts have worked at The New Yorker. More than half a century ago, a Talk of the Town piece in this magazine confidently dated the height of “ the great crossword puzzle craze” to 1924.
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