I share an office with three other people (as it happens, they're three straight dudes--an arrangement that required a period of adjustment for me, seeing as how I am accustomed to living with women, who, as a rule, do not smell bad or talk about fantasy football). Every day at 3pm, we test our wits against my coworker Andy's Jeopardy! day calendar. So far, I am killing it. We're only a month into 2012, and I have already racked up some $24,000 in imaginary currency, far outpacing my competitors.
One of them tried to argue that I have gotten lucky with the categories, which have covered such allegedly gay-friendly topics as ballet, Eva Peron, and nuts.
I do not agree, especially since I have only a passing familiarity with all but the last of these. But I will admit that if I'm ever required to know anything about fantasy football, classic rock, or cunnilingus, I am doomed.
ELSEWHERE:
My short reviews of The Whiskey Rebellion's Tennyson Spade and Madkap Productions' Clutter are in the current Chicago Reader.
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