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HEY.

YOU'RE 
DOING GREAT 
AND WE 
know you 
can do it. 

Don't give up!

By Jeff Stillman
©2019 Tribune Content Agency, LLC
04/17/19

Los Angeles Times Daily Crossword Puzzle

Edited by Rich Norris and Joyce Nichols Lewis

04/17/19

ANSWER TO PREVIOUS PUZZLE:

Release Date: Wednesday, April 17, 2019

ACROSS
1 Another name for 
hopscotch
6 Naysayer
10 West Coast 
salmon
14 Curly-tailed guard 
dog
15 Brought into 
being
16 Intl. oil group
17 Develop hives
20 Golden years 
group
21 Wedding invite 
request
22 Wedding vow 
word
23 Tablecloth 
material
25 Snake, 
periodically
26 Part with a 
gesture
31 Red __
32 Inexperienced, as 
a recruit
33 “I should add ... ”
37 Easter 
beginning?
38 Glittery bit on a 
dress
42 Uber info
43 Like Tommy, in 
the rock opera
45 “That hurt!” cries
46 Swell up
48 Be a second-
stringer
52 Eucharist plates
55 Hops-drying 
oven
56 Protestant 
denom.
57 Close buds
59 Spanish hors 
d’oeuvre
63 2002 Spielberg 
film ... and a 
hint to the start 
of 17-, 26- and 
48-Across
66 Cuatro times dos
67 Red Sox star 
Big __
68 Phased-out Apple 
messaging tool
69 Takes in
70 Vane spinner
71 Lecherous looks

DOWN
1 Bygone 
sunscreen 
ingredient
2 Fried side with a 
po’boy

3 Organization 
chart level
4 Fastening 
gadget
5 Chatter
6 One taking 
advantage of 
privilege
7 Rule during 
homework time, 
perhaps
8 Word with road 
or side
9 Traveler’s rest
10 Toyota compact
11 Dizzying 
pictures
12 State bordering 
Bavaria
13 Orangy-yellow
18 Seal predator
19 Object of a mil. 
search
24 Siesta hrs.
25 Cry weakly
26 Beauxbatons 
Academy coat of 
arms symbol, in 
Harry Potter
27 With 28-Down, 
hand lotion 
ingredient
28 See 27-Down
29 Dadaist Max
30 Bit of a tail flip
34 Boxer Spinks

35 Legato’s 
opposite, in mus.
36 Hand-on-the-
Bible promise
39 Vanilla 
containers
40 Leave 
dumbstruck
41 Drops off
44 Paintings on wet 
plaster
47 Salad green
49 Go very slowly
50 Go on foot

51 “Slow down!”
52 Rio Grande 
tributary
53 On the double
54 10% donation
57 Steady guy
58 Places for patches
60 Yoga aftereffect, 
perhaps
61 Carson 
predecessor
62 Little scurriers
64 Rd. efficiency stat
65 Engine need

I’ve always been Becky. I 
think it’s because my parents 
felt weird calling an infant 
such a large and syllable-filled 
name like Rebecca. First I 
was Baby Becky then Becky 
Boo then Miss Becky then just 
Becky. I liked being Becky, 
mostly because it wasn’t basic 
like Rachel or Sarah or Leah. 
Becky was also temporary, a 
name that I would outgrow like 
my Velcro light-up sketchers or 
my cheetah print Limited Too 
camisole.
I thought one day, I would 
wake up and know today 
was the day I would become 
Rebecca. I would develop a 
slight affectation and go to an 
Ivy League school and marry a 
man named James or Henry or 
William. When college rolled 
around, I tried Rebecca on for a 
while. I let her come with me to 
parties and dates and even The 
Daily’s mass meeting. My first 
article was published under the 
name “Rebecca,” but I could 
never fully take ownership of 
it because it didn’t feel like me. 
I wasn’t Rebecca, I was Becky.
But Becky has not been 
an easy name to bear. Every 
Starbucks order, every job 
application, 
they 
wonder. 
Becky, really? Yeah, the name’s 
Becky, what’s it to you, Denise? 
From Sir Mix-a-Lot’s butt-
gazing Becky to Beyoncé’s 
“Becky with the good hair” to 
the criminal behavior of our 
once beloved Aunt Becky, my 
name has become one heavy 
with 
cultural 
significance. 
When I was in middle school, 
the hottest thing to do was look 
words up on Urban Dictionary. 
People 
would 
look 
up 
everything from “hairbrush” 
to “flogging” and giggle to their 

dirty little prepubescent selves. 
One day, a boy in my class 
thought it would be “funny” to 
look up every single name in 
our class (easy coming from a 
dude named David). When he 

looked up my name he found 
that Becky is synonymous with 
oral sex or “a stereotypical, 
basic 
white 
girl; 
obsessed 
with Starbucks, Ugg boots and 
trying to have a bigger butt.” I 
think that was the first time I 
felt insecure about my name, 
anxious and eager for the time 
I would become Rebecca. For 
a few weeks, my name would 
provoke explicit gestures and 
catcalls, but like anything in 
middle school it went out of 
vogue almost as quickly as it 
entered it.
A few weeks ago, The Wall 
Street Journal Opinion section 
published an article with the 
title 
“Notable 
& 
Quotable: 
Beckys.” My mother sent me a 
picture of it because, obviously, 
she 
gets 
the 
Wall 
Street 
Journal (and what college 
student actually subscribes to 
the Wall Street Journal). The 
blurb highlighted a symposium 
at the American Education 
Research 
Association’s 
annual conference in Toronto. 
The 
symposium 
addressed 

fanfiction 
about 
“Beckys.” 
The panel on said “Beckys” 
was 
titled 
“Critical 
Becky 
Studies: Critical Exploration 
of 
Gender, 
Race 
and 
the 
Pedagogies of Whiteness” and 
included a variety of essays and 
discussions on the topic.
One paper titled “Becky 
Book 
Club: 
White 
Racial 
Bonding in the Living Room” 
considers book clubs in white, 
suburban living rooms and the 
underlying white supremacy 
and 
surveillance 
that 
lurk 
beneath the charcuterie board 
and 
chardonnay. 
Another 
paper titled “Border Becky: 
Exploring 
White 
Women’s 
Emotionality, 
Ignorance, 
Investment 
in 
Whiteness” 
explores white women who 
may be found on the edge, on 
the border of choosing to be a 
“race traitor” or “repledging 
their 
allegiance 
to 
white 
supremacy.”
OK, so I thought Critical 
Becky Studies would be more 
about uncovering the true 
identity of Jay-Z’s accomplice 
in 
his 
extramarital 
affair 
(Rachel 
Roy? 
Rita 
Ora? 
Me?) and less about white 
supremacy. Nevertheless, it’s 
interesting to see how far the 
concept of Becky has come. The 
Becky has surpassed tabloids 
and song lyrics and has now 
officially entered the point of 
no return: academia.
Say what you will about 
the 
stereotypical 
Becky; 
the 
bleach-blonde-haired 
Becky, the Juicy sweatsuit-
wearing Becky, the Pinot in a 
Swell bottle Becky. But I am 
reclaiming Becky. I am my 
own Becky and my Becky is not 
those Beckys, she is her own 
goddamn Becky goddamnit.

BECKY
PORTMAN

DAILY HUMOR COLUMN

Call me by my name: On
learning to love ‘Becky’

One 
of 
the 
most 
unforgettable 
scenes 
from 
“The 
Breakfast 
Club” 
is 
when each student reveals 
their juiciest secrets. Now, 
take that same scene and 
imagine it without all of the 
context that precedes it: no 
impromptu dance sequence, 
no racy banter between Claire 
and Bender and 
no recollection 
of 
the 
nerd, 
jock, 
burnout 
and 
princess 
archetypes that 
each 
character 
embodies. 
Without 
these 
previous scenes, 
which 
are 
fundamental 
in 
establishing 
the characters’ 
personalities 
and backstories, 
we would have 
zero 
reason 
to 
invest 
in 
any 
of 
the 
protagonists, 
and 
this 
infamous 
classic would be just another 
mediocre 
’80s 
teen 
flick. 
“Who Would You Take to 
a Deserted Island” is this 
hypothetical Breakfast Club 
failure. 
Unable 
to 
create 
multidimensional characters, 
and 
providing 
a 
minimal 
frame of reference for the 
characters’ 
relationships, 
the film is nothing short of 
lifeless, earning itself the 
label of just another low-
quality drama.
On a hot, summer day 
in Madrid, tensions fizzle 
between twenty-somethings 
housemates Celeste (Andrea 
Ros 
“[Rec] 
2”), 
Eze 
(Pol 
Monen 
“Loving”), 
Marcos 
(Jaime 
Lorente 
“Money 

Heist”) and Marco’s live-
in girlfriend Marta (María 
Pedraza “Money Heist”), as 
they each prepare to enter 
new life chapters and go their 
separate ways. Determined 
to celebrate their friendship 
with one last hurrah, the 
gang hits the town for a wild 
night saturated with alcohol 
and drugs. Though intending 
to dance the night away, 
their spirited evening quickly 
turns sour upon returning 

to their apartment for a 
nightcap. As the drinks flow 
freely, the roomies strike up 
a seemingly innocent game of 
what-ifs, but soon suppressed 
secrets bubble to the surface, 
tears are spilled and the very 
fabric of the foursome’s bond 
threatens to tear.
Central 
to 
the 
film’s 
flimsiness is its practically 
non-existent plotline. It is 
almost insulting to viewers to 
suppose that we would latch 
onto a drama crafted under 
circumstances as stupid and 
immature as a party game. 
Yes, the game was just the 
spark that blew up the layers 
of resentments and hostilities 
beneath, but the fact that the 

bonds shared between these 
longtime friends were able 
to topple faster than a house 
of playing cards seems quite 
unrealistic and excessively 
melodramatic. 
Despite assumed attempts 
to wow audiences with high 
drama and attractive actors, 
the hard truth is that this 
film is literally about nothing. 
The majority of its scenes 
feel pointless and without 
direction because, with such a 
barebones plot, 
there truly is 
nowhere to go 
but in circles. 
The 
film 
is 
a 
dangerous 
combination of 
puddle-deep 
characters 
mixed 
with 
reality 
TV 
level 
drama. 
The year-long 
resentments 
and 
heated 
love-triangles 
that are thrown 
our way seem 
to 
come 
out 
of 
nowhere, 
making 
the 
theatrically-
staged 
argument 
scenes 
appear 
more dull and confusing than 
profound. Further, without 
exploring 
the 
intersection 
and history of the characters’ 
stories, the film makes the 
costly mistake of expecting 
us to put together the pieces 
ourselves. This leads us to 
disconnect entirely.
Harsh or not, there is 
honestly not much that can be 
said on behalf of “Who Would 
You Take on a Deserted 
Island.” 
Lacking 
rhythm, 
direction or tang, though only 
a mere hour and a half long, 
the film feels unbearably 
slow, ultimately coming off 
as a tedious and valueless 
muddle.

FILM REVIEW
‘Deserted Island’ was a
terrible film experience

SAMANTHA NELSON
Daily Arts Writer

Who Would You Take to a Deserted 
Island

Netflix

Canica Films

The 
legend 
of 
Orpheus 
recounts the tale of a musician 
— the best musician of all time, 
according to legend. Son of 
the muse Calliope and taught 
how to play the lyre by Apollo 
himself, it is said his music had 
the ability to charm animals 
and make trees dance. I didn’t 
see 
any 
hypnotized 
Diag 
squirrels or dancing oaks, but 
the Orpheus Singers certainly 
lived up to their name. Directed 
by Eugene Rogers, the smallest 
of the School of Music, Theatre 
& Dance choirs put on a night of 
beautiful classical choir pieces 
that charmed their audience.
Admittedly, 
the 
concert 
was off to a rocky start with 
“Christ lag in Todesbanden, 
BWV 4” by Johann Sebastian 
Bach. Though the sections 
had perfect blend, flawless 
harmonies and angelic tone, 
the 
performance 
lacked 
enthusiasm. With few vocal 
dynamics 
and 
no 
facial 

expression, the first section 
of the concert was relatively 
unengaging. 
There 
seemed 
to be no passion for these 
hauntingly beautiful pieces. 
Though 
singing 
pieces 
in 
different 
languages 
are 
typically less engaging, the 
best performances can convey 
meaning even through the 
language barrier.
However, 
the 
enthusiasm 
increased 
as 
the 
concert 
progressed. The remaining two 
pieces, “Fern Hill” and “Five 
Mystical Songs” were much 
livelier. Halfway through the 
concert, it seemed as though a 
switch had been flipped, and lo 
and behold! Dynamics! There 
were so many shifts in the 
music, designated by the sharp 
crescendos and decrescendos, 
skillfully 
and 
beautifully 
executed.
The 
many 
soloists 
throughout 
the 
evening 
particularly embodied those 
strong 
connections, 
really 
bringing the pieces to life. All 
of the singers had beautiful 
voices, but SMTD Master’s 

student Meridian Prall was 
particularly impressive. She 
didn’t just sing with exquisite 
tone and impressive vibrato — 
she performed. By the end of 
her solo, I had chills.
Another stand out soloist 
was University alumni Sam 
Kidd, 
who 
was 
featured 
strongly 
in 
“Five 
Mystical 
Songs” to end the concert. His 
powerful voice rang through 
the 
auditorium 
and 
could 
even rival the choir when they 
joined him. Some of the best 
parts of the entire concert were 
when the orchestra dropped 
out and the choir harmonized 
with hums in the background 
as Kidd continued his solo. 
Those few moments seemed 
almost magical.
While the concert at times 
wasn’t quite as engaging as it 
could have been, the Orpheus 
Singers made up for it with 
their incredible sound. Very 
rarely have I heard such a pure 
tone and the perfect blend 
between sections. If Orpheus 
is the best musician of all time, 
this choir is aptly named.

The Orpheus Singers live
up to their legendary name

COMMUNITY CULTURE REVIEW

DANA PIERANGELI
Daily Arts Writer

Though singing pieces in different languages are typically 
less engaging, the best performances can convey meaning 
even through the language barrier.

6A — Wedensday, April 17, 2019
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

