I saw one last night on an episode of Designated Survivor. To qualify this, I'm not normally bothered by product placements. Sometimes they can even add to the scene. But this one was bad, really bad. Agent is busy hunting for baddies. Finishes questioning one naughty person who climbs in his Ford F150 and speeds off. So far, so good - it is the sort of vehicle a country-living billionaire bad-guy would drive. The agent then pulls out her phone and Move to close up of phone screen showing Ford app already loaded (and screen unlocked!). Agent slowly moves finger to app. Does something. Pause as app does fancy graphics. Cut to car interior. Shot of dash, showing Ford logo on steering wheel. It's bright blue - are they not normally grey or more subtle? Pause for a second Zoom in on dash. Dash light up. Car starts. Show pretty dash lights for a second or so. Cut to agent Agent walks to car, gets in drives off. Lingering shot of rear of car. It was just so clumsy. Massive halt to the flow of the scene to show it. In most films you never see anyone starting cars, putting on seatbelts or similar unless this is part of the plot because it's unnecessary and not interesting to watch. I sort of expected the remote start function to have some sort of relevance later but no, it was totally ignored. Added to that: There was no password or security on her phone - and this is an agent investigating super secret stuff. If you don't show her unlocking the phone, why show her lovingly prodding the app? They are as relevant. She unlocked and started the car while she was 2030 paces away, on the grounds of a suspect ranch. Someone could easily have jumped in the car. Not very security conscious. Question: Where did the agent head in the truck? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- sped off the ranch after somebody
- to go get a sandwich
- not enough information
- to chase a stray dog

Answer: sped off the ranch after somebody

Problem: OPTIONS:
- Pa
- not enough information
- The Susanne River
- Black Dutch
Q: It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. Question: What was always a mystery to the writer of the story? === The answer to the above question is
Answer: not enough information

input with options: He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio. "Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars. "I don't really know." "You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately. "I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins." "Those sins being...?" "I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?" This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time. "It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us." "You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?" "Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?" "In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely. "Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." Question: Why was Phillip picking up the narrator? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- To cram their ears full of garbage.
- For a second date
- To bring him/her to a rock concert
- not enough information
output:
For a second date