Spoke briefly to Ben today about borrowing the sequel to Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic, an Xbox game often affectionately (and phonetically) referred to as KOTR. I tried playing KOTR earlier this year, but the disk was scratched so I couldn't get past a certain point.

KOTR2 it is. Someday. I suppose I have work to get to, now that I'm done with the impressive Resident Evil 4.

KOTR, incidentally, had one of my all-time favorite videogame characters. His name was HK-47, and he was an evil robot. An assassination droid with a shady past.

There was something endearing about HK-47's childish inability to refrain from evil in the otherwise black-and-white Star Wars universe, but it was his classification of every utterance that really drew me to him.

I tried to repair him, to learn more about his backstory, so many times that I can still hear his "Supplication. Perhaps it would be best if you gave up your attempts for now?" in my head a month after my last attempt.

Supplication. Statement. Evasion.

I wish I thought about what I said that far in advance. Well, maybe I don't.

But it would be a fun quirk to have when I was drunk, possibly even more fun than Peter Griffin's decision to narrate his own life. Possibly.

Had the long-awaited "That Doesn't Fit You" party last night, after holding off Fall Term because Miß Sarah was in London and waiting until eighth week this term because Jonas, who thought of the theme, wasn't around most weekends.

As I've observed dozens of times over the past few weeks, the great appeal of this party is in its multiple interpretations. I'm a sucker for high-concept parties (see: '40s 40s) and I love how moving around the emphasis in "That Doesn't Fit You" can dramatically change the meaning of the phrase. Though the emphasis-initial version works for prettymuch everything; let's ignore that.





Here's Ben in drag, on the Internet for all to see. That's really what this page is all about: posting compromising pictures of sophomores at parties. Ben, your girlfriend's clothes don't fit you, though you did coordinate admirably. The makeup was a nice touch. Ben's girlfriend, also pictured, went for a classic "that doesn't fit you" in an oversize jersey.

The party was ostensibly BYOB, an especially useful arrangement since we'd inadvertently emailed an invitation to the hall director. That said, Jubb bought a 24-pack of Jacob Huckstein beer for about $4. For a $4-a-case beer, it's not as bad as you'd think, but then again how could it be?

Each can has a surgeon general's warning but nothing about the alcohol percentage, and each boasts, rather vaguely, that it was "Brewed in the Finest European Traditions." Just south of St. Cloud, in Cold Spring, Minnesota.

Anyone daring enough was welcome to try them. Knowing in advance that this was the only liquor we had, I bought myself a private reserve of Köstrizer schwarzbier, always a good decision, and a cheap bottle of peach schnapps to share with gold and platinum club members.

We made the mistake of telling everyone the party started at 10-10:30, failing to compensate for Lawrence Time. The first group of guests showed up a little after eleven, and most came even later. Because god forbid a Lawrentian should be the first to show up at a party.





Here's Jagger, our campus Christian Scientist, in one of my favorite costumes. Jagger, that doesn't fit you! Her roommate also came as something she'd best avoid: Jinx dressed up as a giant nut, allowing me to — finally — use the Almond Joy slogan as a pickup line.

The costumes based on the "That doesn't fit you" interation were instructive.





Alan, for example, wore an all-denim outfit. I thought he was going for a biker look, and accidentally insulted someone while under that impression, but that's a long and relatively uninteresting story. Zack, a loyal resident of St. Paul, decided to support the Pack for a night. Sockless Pete, who graduated last year, bucked expectations by not cross-dressing, in fact, not dressing up much at all.

I was occasionally surprised at the clothing people thought was antithetical to their personalities. To give one example, Nora dressed in cheerleader pink, but I can see her wearing that if she had fallen in with a different group at college. Maybe it's because I don't know her very well, but it reminded me of a piece of historical fiction I once read, where the British ruled America and Lincoln was a revolutionary leader. Why couldn't he support the British, if that's what he grew up with?

I had no idea what to wear. Jonas, protective of his theme, demanded that departures from the basic premise (clothing that doesn't fit) not be lame, and I couldn't think of anything justifiably creative. Jinx and Jagger hooked me up, and I spun my lack of creativity as a moral victory.





Here's the least-gay picture of me. Jubb couldn't get anything cool from Amelia II, so he ended wearing his form-fitting bodysuit, first with shorts to spare our eyes, and then without shorts after someone complained that his costume wasn't thematic.

Note my costume, which I found not only fun but, in the particular way it didn't fit me, especially apt. French writing and adorable pink belts are unlikely to find their way into my wardrobe.

We were loud and danced and some foolish people (they drank from the jug of Carla Rossi) threw up, but we didn't get busted. It was a good party, by some accounts our best this schoolyear, though I need to think about that one. Well, I had a good time.

Early Friday night we finally had the Trivia wrapup dinner, which had been repeatedly delayed because of schedule conflicts. There are a lot of connie trivia masters and the conversation naturally tended towards concerts and compositions, but I managed to steer the conversation towards The Lawrentian every now and then.

Once we realized that neither of us was saying anything, Trivia Master Sean and I talked about The Simpsons and various video games, topics he apparently never discusses with his roommates.

What a world we live in. I'm watching the Season 6 episodes with Jubb right now, because he's never seen some of them. It's a joy.

The dinner was at Casa de Mexico, a decent enough place, but I'm annoyed by the small size of todays chimichangas. I once ate a pound and a half chimichanga in one sitting; these little half-burritos that you get almost everywhere are too small.

I also had an awkward moment early on, when I realized I was the only person in our party of 10 ordering an alcoholic beverage with his meal. They were out of one of the ingredients, though, so I changed my order to root beer. Root beer is filling: I couldn't finish my fried ice cream later.

Trivia Master Meara and Sockless Pete, who graduated last year but was in town visiting today, both joined the table a bit later and ordered stiff drinks. So I got my wish after all, because one of them couldn't finish their drink.

Representative Man and I split a margarita soda fountain style and I walked over to Flannigans to buy stuff for the "That Doesn't Fit You" party.

Sometimes I read like taking drugs.

What's that game where you take different drugs in lieu of powerups? Some GTA ripoff, I can't place the name. No matter.

When I read Faulkner a few years ago, one side effect was vivid colorful dreams. Falling asleep while reading Faulkner is especially trippy.

That kind of strictly recreational use is the exception though. Most of the books I enjoy are performance-enhancing. They calm me down, they focus me, they provide the rage dumps I need every now and then to keep from murdering you all.

Take Lorrie Moore's Birds of America, a collection of short stories I'm reading for Prof. Hoffmann's class.

Moore understands endings. I wish I could write natural, brilliant endings like hers. What's more, she sprinkles her stories with injections, subtle puns, and various other bits that make you pay attention. So when I left the library tonight, I was paying attention. Really seeing, as Dillard might say.

It was a rush. Side effects include heightened senses, shocking lucidity, apophenia.

Is it good luck, or a bad omen, to see Prof. Goldgar's light, invariably the last in Main Hall, go out for the night?

Now I'm down again, of course. Our Bold Hero with his mind full of clutter.

Got done with The Lawrentian at 2 tonight, but I'm up at 3 anyways.

So three things:

1. It's good to be done before sunrise. Realized that many of the copy-editing mistakes people have been mentioning were in fact from the issue before last, which I knew was an abomination. The last one didn't really get delivered anywhere. It's moderately clean, but I think this coming issue is cleaner because I was awake. Wrote an editorial, too.

2. I missed Senior Night, which is Wednesdays, but Monday Night Bar Night at the VR is dearer to my heart. Good chance to get to know people I normally see only briefly and usually in a large group, at dinner or at parties. Also, I went with the Politician this Monday, the bar being the only place we really talk these days. His first Bar Night, though.

3. We ordered pizza again tonight. I think I'm putting on weight this term, what with my malt at every dinner and two desserts at every meal. Cursed slowing metabolism and complete lack of exercise.

Jubb, talking in his sleep early this morning, said something that sounded like "honorable things in a racist way." But that's not the craziest thing I've heard today.

The Feminist showed up for my Contemporary American Lit class today, something she deigns to do every week or so. She's busy. Single-mother, etc.

Naturally she had sat in someone else's spot, starting a chain reaction that ended up with me sitting in the patriarch position across the long table from Prof. Hoffmann, next to the Feminist herself.

"It figures everyone would come on the one day I'm feeling uncomfortable," muttered the Feminist.

Fond of justifying her opinions with autobiographical details, the Feminist soon noted that her dad was in the Special Forces during the Vietnam War, the subject of Tim O'Brien's "The Things They Carried."

O'Brien's book is unusual in that it's a fictionalization of the author's own experiences. The main character is an author and ex-vet named Tim O'Brien, and like the other Tim, he had difficulty deciding whether to go to war or to Canada.

In the book Tim O'Brien travels up to the Canadian-American border and stays with an old man at a fishing lodge. The old man gives him everything he needs and doesn't pressure Tim either way about the choice he has to make. After a few days of deliberation Tim decides to go to Vietnam.

In real life, there was no lodge, no long drive up north. It's a fictionalization.

Beside the point, though. I think that the rest of the book could function as autobiography, given the author's emphasis on the relativity of truth in wartime. But the invented trip seems out of place. Why, I asked, would he fabricate something so mundane?

Sometimes I wonder what it's like in the Feminist's head. Cold and certain, like a dentist's office? Or hot and balmy, frantic with life like a primeval swamp?

The Feminist, appalled: "You thought that part was mundane?"
Our Bold Hero: "Yeah."
The Feminist, with disdain: "That must be a man thing."
Our Bold Hero: "He's fishing. There are no explosions, there's no killing. It's not like the rest of the novel."
The Feminist, flabbergasted: "But what about the psychic torment? Maybe it's because I'm an author — Dintenfass is my advisor — but I thought that part was really great…" etc.

I won't insert snappy comebacks that weren't there. I will note that to my knowledge the Feminist can't really claim to be an "author" quite yet.

So if I'm arguing with someone and I can't get them to understand what I'm talking about (e.g. my recent argument with Frisbee Matt that 20/16 vision is better than 20/20) I usually feel disappointed and frustrated afterwards.

But somehow I still feel great whenever the Feminist browbeats me, mainly because she has a knack for making herself look ridiculous in the process, and I know she takes herself much more seriously than I do Our Bold Hero.

(See, for example, her over-the-top reaction to my tough-in-cheek WNBA joke back when we had Freshman Studies together.)

It's even better disagreeing with the Feminist when the subject is English. She was right: I don't know anything about the WNBA, outside of what I've heard on Futurama, so if I'd been serious I should have shut up.

With English I have the twin pleasures of both knowing and meaning what I say. So when the Feminist says something like:

"I think it's a mixture of essay, short story, and novel, combining all of them without being any of them."

I can dismiss it as the sort of fence-straddling claptrap you hear in English classes all the time. Give an English major a choice, and she'll split it right down the middle. Louise Erdrich wrote Love Medicine, clearly a novel-in-short-stories; the divisions we have here are what most people would call "chapters."

In this case I let more tactful students make the point for me, though I was disappointed by their restraint.

I hope the Feminist starts coming more often.

So yesterday was Grace's birthday. She's a regular at Monday night bar night at the VR, so as a fellow regular I got invited to her birthday dinner in addition to the downtown festivities planned for later that night.

The dinner was only a block away from campus, at Ben and Kay Schneider's house. Ben is a former professor of English at Lawrence, specializing in Shakespeare. He retired years and years ago, but he's still known around campus as the English professor in this anecdote:

Professor Chong-Do Hah, who teaches government at Lawrence, doesn't speak English as his native language. Once, after receiving (in most versions of the story) a "D" on an essay, a student became irate and suggested that, because he "can't speak English," Hah was ill-equipped to judge student work. Hah suggested that they submit the paper to Prof Schneider, whose English skills were never in doubt, and allow him to judge whether the grade was fair.

Prof Scheider read the paper, looked at the grade, and gave it back to Hah.

"You're right," he said, "this paper does deserve an F."

Before giving it to Schneider, Hah had changed the grade.

Ben still remembered the event when I mentioned it to him, and added that he and Hah had discussed it recently. Curiously, he seemed surprised when I mentioned that Hah had supposedly changed the grade, though he was certain that he'd certified the essay as an "F-"

There was hors d'oeuvres and wine before dinner, and in a subtle affirmation of traditional gender roles, the women guests did most of the work in the kitchen, setting the table and bringing out the food.

The Schneiders, for various reasons, can no longer drink alcohol themselves, but Kay said that they loved to see young people drinking. Carry-Out Carrie uncorked the bottle of white wine that I ended up more-or-less monopolizing for the five hours we were there. I'm useless with bottle openers.

The house was perfect for entertaining, somehow warm. Maybe it's because I feel strangely comfortable around large quantities of books, and there were full bookshelves everywhere. In any case, everyone was dressed up and it felt like a real dinner party.

After chat and hors d'oeuvres (I'd write "appetizers," but I associate that word with jalapeno poppers and Buffalo wings, not hummus and crackers) we sat where the little cards with our names on them told us to sit. The table was actually a big round piece of plywood on top of a much smaller table, concealed by a tablecloth. That innovation struck me as more clever than it is, at the time.

It was Thanksgiving in February: stuffing, turkey, ham, bread, and salad, though not in the massive quantities typical to that holiday. There was a prayer before the meal, but it was so bland and godless that I decided I could join in without patronizing anyone's beliefs.

More sparkling dinnertable conversation. I only slipped up once, when I mentioned how annoying it was that Jubb had been drinking straight from a wine bottle last time we played King's Cup. Those waterfalls were murder.

The Lawrentian a few seats removed from me was a Parsi, a fact I'd kinda known but never realized the implications of before tonight. Especially after he demurred from putting out a candle, everyone found themselves very interested in Zoroastrianism.

Between dinner and dessert we spent about 30 minutes or so telling stories, after Kay insisted that each of us tell the group about an interesting performance, of whatever sort, that we'd once seen.

Carry-Out's fiance, an Australian, described how he was almost conned out of his airline tickets during a trip to India. Ben Schneider described a Kabuki version of "King Lear" he'd seen in Berlin. Meg(h)an described a play on the Bodensee in Germany, near where I lived as an exchange student. Everyone seemed to have a good story to tell.

You know where this is going. It was mildly embarrassing not to have a good story to tell, but I haven't witnessed any incredible performances. I resisted the temptation to describe Graham's commitment his amnesiac persona back in grade school, even when I was lying on the ground bleeding from my head. That story isn't essentially about a "performance."

I opted instead for the Eels concert I went to in D.C. the summer before last. The aforementioned Indian, the last to speak, upstaged me with his description of a packed Michael Jackson concert in Bombay.

We sang to Grace and she blew out the candles, then, following a tradition passed down from Kay's family, each person took a lit candle, made a wish for Grace, and blew it out. I have never had cake and ice cream as good as what I had that night, and I fear I never will again. Angelfood with a heaping tablespoon of cocoa in the batter, paired with high-quality vanilla ice cream. Pecan sauce dribbled over all of it.

I finished my bottle of wine and drank the requisite glass of champagne with the group, then we left for Lawrence.

I had a little time to sober up and change before Grace's group called again, done with the preparty in ORC and ready to meet up with others at Park Central, a mildly sketchy complex of dance clubs located a few blocks west of campus.

The dancing was fun and the old music videos were hilarious, but I only stayed for an hour or so, leaving with Rock Show Girl, Frisbee Matt, and Jinx's roommate, Jagger. Alan left even earlier than I did, probably after realizing that he had no desire to dance.

While we were at the club Frisbee Matt and Rock Show Girl both got hit on, and I tried to start a contest with Jinx to see who could get hit on by the most townies.

Carry-Out got checked out (there was obvious nudging) on the stairwell, and I called her "chotchbait," a coinage I still consider hilarious. She thought it less so.

Back at Lawrence I had an ill-advised (because of the price) glass of Blue Moon at the VR, then wandered home. Slight headache today, for some reason.

I should be sleeping. Instead, I tracked down the etymology of "chotch," or "chach," a noun used to describe anything from "a cheesy male who thinks he's got game" to a straight-up jerk.

The last represents an extended sense of the word, as people use it for its negative connotation rather than because it's the best choice, and it becomes synonymous with other general insults. Compare "decimate," which people now use to mean "devastate" because it gets the point across.

Fellow English major Zack hypothesized that the term may come from Office Space, Chotchkie's being the name of the restaurant where Jennifer Aniston's character works. I can see that, but I'm not about to look through hundreds of webpages to verify that none of them used some variant on the word "chotch" before that movie came out.

Here's my (folk?) etymology, which I fished from urbandictionary. The term comes from "Happy Days," and originally likened guys to the character Chachi Arcola, who, especially for modern viewers, seems to epitomize some uncool qualities. I haven't seen the show so I can't elaborate.

The great thing about this word is that the negative connotation is easy to pick up. Maybe because it sounds like crotch. So we have "He's a real Chachi" from speakers who know what they're saying.

Eventually others pick it up and, like me, think the word is spelled something like "chotchy." Because that E-sound at the end makes it sounds like an adjective, they move "chotchy" or "chachi" in front of the noun, giving us sentences like "he's a real chotchy guy."

Then comes the fun part, backformation. Now conceiving of chotchy as an adjective or adverb, speakers get rid of the E-sound to form a noun, "chotch" or "chach." As is often the case with backformation, speakers begin to assume that the new word came first.

As for its modern usage, I usually think along the lines of something like the British word "chav", mixed with the old American standby "prep." Except in its broadest pejorative uses, the word describes a vague social class, in the same way that "geek" or "jock" might.

Though I can't really see members of that class adopting this label and making it their own, which makes it a bit different from my examples — and also explains why Lawrence's "Fantasy Chotch" league must remain forever secret.

Still no clue why we sometimes call jungle juice "wop."

Another German essay I don't want to write, though this time my reluctance is driven by laziness and not a philosophical objection to the topic. It's a little 500-word thing, no big deal. It'll probably be fun to defend the faith of a Judas figure.

Listening to some songs from the upcoming Eels CD, "blinking lights and other revelations." Could be good: the first two tracks have really grown on me. Took me four listens to catch the dirty bit in one of them.

Though I'm not sure I like the latest preview, a song called "last time we spoke."

Or the seemingly intentional lack of capitalization on this album. We're not all teenagers reading E.E. Cummings for the first time. Well, that might grow on me too.

Another thought: who owns all these bikes? I see so many bikes on this campus, thrown in the bushes and buried in snow. Whence came the bikes? Whence?

So I'm talking to Danielle, one of my old God Squad (in Technicolor) pals from high school; it's been a few years since I talked to her. She's getting married this summer, something we all saw coming years ago. I might be attending two weddings, now.

Also, September is married, as I'd long suspected.

The "God Squad" appellation was Graham's invention, so I can't be sure about this, but I always assumed that Our Bold Hero, September, Danielle, and Martha were the main members. At this point I think only Martha, who always had a nunnery air about her, is still seriously religious.

You've heard more than enough about my beliefs, I'm sure. September and I were co-conspirators in doubt my senior year, swapping qualms over burgers and shakes. I still can't believe how often I ate out in high school. Perkins, Burger King, and the 371 diner, maybe. I seem to remember September liking KFC, though.

Danielle's case, on the other hand, seems to stem from a real conflict and not the slow erosion I experienced. Here's the idiocy:

Danielle works at a camp in a forgotten corner of the Brainerd Lakes Area known as Legionville. That's the farthest north Giovanni's Pizza will deliver. For a long time she was the only one of my old friends — after a few years of mockery, the finer classifications I use for friendship have become part of my secret language — still in town over the summer. We'd see each other every now and then.

So anyways, she met a guy at camp, years and years ago. And now they want to get married. True story. So the wedding is at the camp. Perfect.

Unfortunately, though they'll recognize as valid a wedding in a different religion's church with a different religion's priest/pastor, the powers-that-be at our local Catholic church told Danielle that she can't get married outside by the lake, even if the priest is Catholic.

Apparently Jesus needs a roof; it's some sort of carpenter thing.

Granted, I want the Church to be more inflexible. But this isn't exactly want I meant.

So now Danielle is church-shopping. Catholicism's loss.

Now, I don't think the word "blog" is unnecessary or ugly. But here's one neologism that's both: "blogpack." It was coined by some other internet denizen, but I suspect that Mark Liberman at Language Log wasn't aware of that when he used the word yesterday and today apropos Easongate:

Well, perhaps blogpacks have their role to play in maintaining a healthy intellectual ecosystem, just as the wolves are good for Yellowstone. Or so I read.

That first time, he was continuing a metaphor from a quote. I thought it was a one-shot deal and I'd never see the word again. What's the term for that kind of word? Google says "hapax legomenon," but I was looking for an I-word. It's back today, though.

Of course, amateur lexicography is only one of the reasons people flock to my page by the thousands. There's also the Lawrence gossip.

I usually don't make a big production out of my birthday, and this year was no exception. Today's the actual day, but everyone is gone.

So yesterday: Our Bold Hero went to dinner with Alan, the Politician, Ben, and his girlfriend at a high class German restaurant called the Old Bavarian. Very good, though pricey. I had soup, spätzle, and schnitzel smothered in sauce, swine, and spargel. They also had German beer, but at steep import prices; I paid dearly for my Salvator double bock.

Because it was ostensibly my birthday, I got a free shot of high-quality apple schnapps. Probably the tastiest shot I've ever taken.

The proprietors are from a small town in northwest Bavaria, so of course I couldn't help but wonder what their politics were. Those tiny Bavarian villages are notoriously myopic.

Back at the dorm, we started up a game of King's Cup with special guest Zack, who seems to have at least a dozen different nicknames at this school. I'm loathe to choose one. Would calling him "Zeustis" diminish Our Bold Hero's glory?

One of Jinx's friends ended up drinking the cup after joining late in the game. Highlight: the Politician's "Alan can only speak in Chinese" rule.

Though we were running out of alcohol even then, a decent-sized group had gathered. Jinx and Rock Show Girl came over with a few others. Jubb and his climbing buddy reappeared. Had to do something.

We watched Josie and the Pussycats and played the simplest drinking game we could think of: send three drinks everytime you're the first to spot a new product placement. Ran out of booze before the movie was over.

Incidentally, the Alan M. subplot is a lot easier to endure when you're drinking. It's like all the misguided dramatic scenes just faded into the background.

The alternate movie was Labyrinth. I still want to see that at some point.

Out of booze, we walked back to the Bavarian, which doubles as an expensive bar. We took over what appeared to be a large picnic table. I had the Spaten Optimator — in one of those thick glass mugs like they use at Oktoberfest — and pontificated about Germany.

The biggest thing to come out of last night was a decision to have more theme parties. Remember our theme parties? I'm thinking it's time for "Goth" or "Germans: You can't stay mad at them" or that one we've been saving since last year, "That doesn't fit you."

Slept on the couch last night instead of my bed, which was unfortunate: I missed the late-night IM from Representative Man telling me to meet at 7:05 instead of 7:45. I think I was up then, but I was probably in the shower.

Should have just gone on the bus yesterday. The VR wasn't as incredible as I thought it would be: there was only a deal on two brands of Wisconsin light beer. I've drunk enough cheap beer out of plastic cups for one lifetime.

And now I have this strange day, out of nowhere.

Not at Bjorklunden with the rest of the Lawrentian editorial board. No good reason to go, no good reason not to go. So I split the difference and I'm driving up early tomorrow morning with Representative Man and some Lawrence Christian Fellowship bigwig. Staying a night, then coming home. Should be fun.

Tonight might also be fun: some sort of Reading Period kickoff party at the VR with supercheap drinks. I spent about two or three misguided hours there yesterday night with the Politician, having one of our old school talks and snitching free Mardi Gras food from upstairs instead of writing our philosophy essays. This will be decidedly less low-key.

Went to the VR last night. And the night before. I love having a campus bar: it's cheap, it's close, and you can usually find people to go. I went with Zack and the Politician, and we were joined soon enough by Jubb and Frisbee Matt.

Good times, good times.

Talked about the wedding and the future. Jonas and I are in the Politician's wedding party, Jubb and Freshman Matt (that's the other, smaller Matt) are going to be ushers. It's in July or something.

Everyone is living in town this summer. Jubb is staying on-campus, and the Politician wants to rent a place in Appleton before the wedding. Depending on how my grad school plans work out — I got rejected by Duke yesterday, but I haven't heard back from the three other schools yet — I might stick around too. Maybe a copy-editing gig at the Post-Crescent?

Very tempting to go back home and eat for free and make gobs of money delivering pizzas for the third summer in a row. But it's time to get some experience I can apply to a career. Have I said that before?

I bet I've said that before. I kinda hope I haven't.

There's a certain charm to drinking beer. There, I said it.

For anyone interested, here's the usage information I obtained from the company that hosted Triviaxl.com during the latest Great Midwest Trivia Contest, Trivia XL. We had bought the smallest possible account, and before I could cancel the account I had to pay $20 for going way way over our bandwidth allotment.

Triviaxl.com referred people to the Lawrence page, and blog.triviaxl.com was where we posted pictures and scores throughout the contest. This is the combined usage data for both. Here's a translation for those unfamiliar with Webalizer data.

"Unique Sites" is probably the best measure of individual computers visiting our webpage. There were 1,175 unique visits, but since players share computers during the contest, it's a good bet that more people saw the page. More computers accessed our pictures and score files than visited the page itself, which might help explain the huge discrepancy between total requests for the webpage (14,632) and our amazing "Total Hits" number (132,627).

I heard that one action question picture, of a skantally-clad girl, received about 7,200 views on Flickr. I wouldn't be surprised if it generated similar interest on the Trivia blog.

Other interesting tidbits: the number of people going the really nerdy route and viewing the webpage with an RSS reader. And all the livejournal pages that linked to us.

Bought a new AP stylebook on Wednesday because mine was lost or stolen. It's useful, and I need it to be a better copy editor. But the conservative nature of the stylebook still bugs me.

To pick the best example: the AP stylebook prefers the spelling "adviser" to the more popular "advisor." Historically, the former is probably the "correct" version, so there's a slight justification for preferring it.

Still, as the copy chief at a college newspaper, I see that word way more often than most daily editors, and it's invariably spelled "advisor." A quick Google search shows that advisor is by far the more popular form. Most dictionaries list it as a variant.

I'm fine writing "Canada geese" instead of "Canadian geese" and complimenting the stalwart by noting that they're real "troupers," but those are the kind of corrections that a reader can look at and come to understand as correct. People complain about adviser, or they continue reading and silently suspect that the writer has made a mistake.

Luckily, I have the AP stylebook as a defense. We only allow two exceptions to the stylebook at Lawrence: "professor" can function as a formal title and "internet" is (following the lead of Wired) not capitalized as a concession to its air-like ubiquity. Anything else we do by the book.

It's very useful to act shackled by the stylebook when I don't have a strong opinion or when I think a correction is valid but don't have the wherewithal to explain myself. It's a great justification. But the AP stylebook itself needs to start justifying its claims, when common usage conflicts with them. Anything else is mindless prescriptivism.

That's a slur I've picked up reading Language Log, the internet's best linguistics-centered blog and one of my new favorites. They're (fundamentally?) at odds with some of the copy-editing blogs I read, Blogslot and A Capital Idea.

Why do people think "blog" is such an ugly word? Am I just too used to it?

On a similarly esoteric note, I've disappointed that Trivia is behind us. I no longer have any justification for researching the trivial. I'll never know who wrote the note that was found inside one of the specially-made boxes Stanley Kubrick stored his research materials in. Or what Sherwin-Williams color most closely approximates International Klein Blue. Or what brand of television once inadvertenly broadcast a Navy distress signal. All questions that could have been.

I'm still interested, but I have no justification whatsoever to find this stuff out.

And if I tried to find out, I'd look like a freak and not merely an obsessive, as would have been the case earlier. During the contest I actually tried to find out the answer to the Kubrick question, which would have been my Garuda (of obscure origin, this word denotes one of the notoriously impossible final questions of the contest), but you had to call England. No one in England is awake when I'm awake.

I still plan to plug away at the Trivia webpage — at present woefully short of armadillos — as the year progresses. But that's about all I can do.

There is homework of course. Speaking of.

Am I in a senior slide? I didn't finish that German essay last week, I didn't prepare (or do) my English presentation for today. I have excuses for both: an unprecedented lack of interest in the German book I was supposed to write on (the essay I did write was a hate letter to Romanticism, and needs to be rewritten) and Trivia Weekend.

I didn't set an alarm because I didn't think I was that tired, and I didn't think I was tired because I wasn't thinking (there are stories) because I was tired. I got four hours of sleep all weekend, which I think amply proves my trivia master mettle.

(I also wasn't thinking last week, when I decided that I could do Monday afternoon's homework the morning after the contest. Stupid.)

Ever since I missed video game hour last year, Trivia has reminded me of that one Modest Mouse lyric: the loud sound of fun when I'm trying to sleep.

And it was fun, naturally, though I did spend an unhealthy amount of time handling disputed point totals on the complaint line (a cell phone with spotty reception) and cloistered away in the computer room updating those same scores. Not to mention answering phones: there's a better way to run that system. Running the trivia blog wasn't that bad, and I felt like I was at my most useful when I posted scores and pictures there.

As I think I've said before, people like me might not be meant to be trivia masters. Probably good to have a few of me around as "inside" people, but the one thing the founder of Trivia and this year's Grand Master seemed to share was a casual approach to the whole crazy thing.

I can't see our Grand Master bothering to look up correct answers in our shoebox of notecards: he'd probably just give the points out. It seemed like he only bothered to investigate some allegations of cheating because he was bored, and even when it seemed likely that some foul play had occurred there was no question of his zeroing the point totals for any major team.

As for the founder, he gave away some answers himself, and didn't seem to worry much about whether his own questions were incredibly easy or impossibly hard. Now some of the old masters from way back, the ones who have an unhealthy fixation on the game, do seem a little more serious about Trivia. But there's even a Trivia Credo to tell everyone to relax: "Trivia is meant to be entertainment and should be perceived solely in that light."

So Trivia is fun. The geek in me can't help but go overboard (isn't that geekdom? an intensity of attention?) and worry about all the other things Trivia can be about, but I don't think anyone is supposed to care that much about any of this. A bit disillusioning to see the rusty nuts and bolts that hold the contest together, is all.

A few people told me a was overly brusque on the phone (I was under the false impression that jamming the phone lines was a serious problem this year), and quite a few teams seemed angry that they couldn't interrogate me and get the answer that way.

I had a lot more fun on the air, reading questions and entertaining the audience with another trivia master as co-host. I was on the air with trivia masters Jonas, Sean, Jinx, Sando, and Representative Man, and enjoyed my time with all of them. I was still getting the hang of Trivia when I went on with Jonas. Hosting the hour with Sean was a pleasant surprise; I've never spoken to him outside of Trivia but he turned out to be a "chill" (to use the common tongue) guy.

That hour was pretty low-key, but the tone of the broadcast varied widely. Representative Man and Our Bold Hero dug into each other passive-aggressively during our "Slightly Unnerving Hour" and it was great to work with someone so committed to conscious self-parody. He seems to have trouble reading me, but we had a brief chat during the break to confirm that I did not really secretly despise him, and after that everything was cool.

I'd like to think that the audience enjoyed our acting, but after one concerned contestant called in to find out what happened to trivia master Meara — who had ended "Death and Destruction" hour by claiming the police had arrived to take her to jail, presumably for causing death and destruction — I remembered that not everyone has the power to notice what seems obvious to me.

Sando and I hosted the infamous "Drunk Hour," with Representative Man acting as our token drunk. Yes, people called in, advising that we take the drunkard off the air immediately. I'll bite my tongue though, because as a contestant last year I fell for the same act. I just didn't call in and complain.

That was a great hour. I'd written a bunch of alcohol-related stuff so I had the added pleasure of reading and explaining my own well-researched questions on the air. We also played a few of the pre-recorded skits, or "carts" — I keep saying "cards" — that some of the other masters had made over the past few weeks. My respect for Representative Man was even higher after hearing the cart he made to herald midnight, that magical time when we could say almost anything on the radio, FCC or no FCC.

Jinx and I hosted an hour, but I can't remember us doing anything interesting. That might have been when I made a flippant comment about our university president's "hot dancer legs" (or something to that effect) only to realized later that she was in the room.

Sando and I didn't get a chance to do anything special because people were still performing their answers to the action question from "Blues Hour" for most of our time on the air.

Otherwise, since I didn't leave to watch any of the outdoor action questions (the "perform a play based on a livejournal entry" one looks hilarious on tape) my other favorite moments for the weekend are small things. Quips on the air, little luxuries from sponsors (I rarely think to buy chapstick, but it came in handy down in the studio), the camp-style camaraderie between masters, watching the horserace as I recorded the scores, good jam-team names…

My team from last year, rechristened the Nerds with Hooterphobia after the restaurant decided to sponsor them, called in with jam teams zinging Jonas and myself. A series of jam teams claiming that I'd missed an ever-increasing amount of errors in the latest issue of The Lawrentian were especially funny. Representative Man backed me up by parodying Ann of Stillwater's recent campus evangelical campaign: "I stand by Dan!" he shouted. There were jokes about posters and T-shirts.

Maybe I tired, but I thought it was hilarious. The Nerds placed second, by the way.

Would I rather be a contestant? Probably not. I'm too much of a control freak and I honestly believe that my questions were good, and that the contest was better with 30 questions from me than it would have been with 30 from some random student. And the excitement of the final questions, the Garudas and the Super Garuda — trivia master Adam was right to liken that event to a religious experience.

That last hour or so is also great because harder questions are finally worth more points. Meritocracy?

Waiting in near-silence while the Grand Master reads the questions on the air. Sitting at the phones, imagining the drama on the other side of the phone lines. No one got our hardest questions right, but they came tantalizingly close.

Time to sleep though. Past time. I need to get back into the swing of things and start doing some schoolwork.