Wikipedia: the Page-Guessin' Game

Emotion. Somatic. Affective. Adrenaline. Noradrenaline. Fight or flight. Old Norse. Facial expressions. Aggression. Well-being. Displays. Manipulation. Social influence.

Over the years, Wikipedia has done so much for scholars, vandals, and the United States House of Representatives. Wikipedia also provides the ideal playing board for restless surfers of the interwebs. You may already know the game in which competitors individually open a mutually agreed-upon random Wikipedia article on their own computers and race to find a page relating to sex.

But whether or not you have ever played the WikiGame (WikiGame>Teletubbies>sexologist), you are guaranteed to love Wikipedia: the Page-Guessin' Game, or WPGG.

Last night I was engaging in mature conversation with a number of bosom friends when, spontaneously, we discovered an urgent need to apprise ourselves of the distinction between "second" and "third base." Luckily, one in our group knew precisely the Wikipedia page to turn to in such a circumstance, and, having satisfied our longing for wisdom on the matter, we took it upon ourselves to peruse the rest of the page.

This was one of those pages that could only benefit from the humorlessness of Wikipedia editing. So, apart from finding out that "second base" comprises "aggressive stimulation between the neck and waist" (so where does aural* fit in?), we also learned that these running-the-bases euphemisms arose during the aftermath of World War II. While trying, with little success, to correlate the Cold War with open-mouth kissing (well, it's French?), we were tickled by the eclectic set of Wikipedia pages that were linked to from our particularly instructive article: adolescents, baseball, euphemistic, metaphor, sexual intimacy, and aftermath of World War II.

Thus was Wikipedia: the Page-Guessin' Game brought into this world. One Reader is beset with the task of navigating to a salient Wikipedia page, the identity of which he or she keeps secret. To the gathered Guessers, the Reader recites the page's internal links in order, skipping any that might be particularly identifying. The first Guesser to correctly name the article then takes the position of the Reader.

What is the name of the page whose links are at the top of this blog post?

Good luck!

A Concerned Friend











*So, according to Google, I was apparently not the first to discover this dialectally-engendered homophone...

Quite-Live-Blogging of the State of the Union! The Second

7:45 PM: On C-SPAN, they're talking about the designation of a Cabinet official to be excluded from the Chamber in case everyone else dies. It reminded me of this spectacular episode, where Jed Bartlet totally chose the wrong invincible Ascending mayor to take over the government in case of such an apocalyptic circumstance.
7:49 PM: I learned a mildly interesting fact about the SotU this morning. Apparently, Woodrow Wilson was the first President since Adams (J., not J.Q.) to give his address in person.
7:51 PM: Oh, gross, John.
7:53 PM: I totally thought that military servicewoman was making a queer love connection in the balcony, but perhaps not. Still, that's totally legal now!
7:56 PM: Gabby Giffords, American hero, for real.
7:57 PM: I wonder if she's sick of the attention. She sort of looks it.
7:58 PM: Michelle is a hottie with a bottie!
8:02 PM: It's past 8! What could be keeping him? I wonder if he and his speechwriters threw away his whole speech a half hour ago and rewrote it.
8:05 PM: It's Obams! Seemingly without an introduction--was this a screw-up on behalf of C-SPAN or the House Chamber?
8:10 PM: Those are some fancy manila envelopes. I would like some presidential envelopes of my own one day...
8:12 PM: Safer and more respected? I don't know about that, B.
8:12 PM: I thought we were done with cheering over Bin Laden's death? 
8:15 PM: Really, B? Your grandfather was in Patton's army? Let's see THAT certificate.
8:18 PM: "THOSE ARE THE FACTS. BUT SO ARE THESE."
8:20 PM: Made in USA, baby!
8:21 PM: Say it, B. We need more American ingenuity in the auto industry --  ELECTRIC CARS.
8:23 PM: For real. Tax those outsourcing assholes.
8:25 PM: "SEND ME THESE TAX REFORMS, AND I WILL SIGN THEM RIGHT AWAY."
8:28 PM: Is it Republican to worry about a lower level of competition within the United States? I'm not a Republican, right?
8:29 PM: Jackie needs to work that hair out, that's for sure. 
8:30 PM: Raising test score standards does not equate to raising standards for learning!
8:31 PM: "TEACHERS MATTER."
8:32 PM: "STOP TEACHING TO THE TEST." 
8:34 PM: You hear that, _____ College/University?
8:37 PM: WOMEN!!!!!!!!1111
8:37 PM: Clearly Obams did not read that Steve Jobs bio. 
8:39 PM: Ditch the off-shore! Electric is the answer.
8:40 PM: We clearly are choosing between our environment and our economy. Chipmunks and beavers do not use "NATURAL" gas.
8:43 PM: Flight (sic) climate change. Do it.
8:45 PM: Yes, let's think ahead! $10 billion over 10 years is good. But that natural gas is going to run out in 100 years. 
8:47 PM: Repay that goddamn deficit of trust, banks.
8:49 PM: I don't know; I kind of like regulations.
8:50 PM: What a cute smile.
8:52 PM: "THE REST OF US ARE NOT BAILING YOU OUT EVER AGAIN." 
8:53 PM: I wonder how often Holder grooms his mustache. 
8:54 PM: Obams just sort of cursed on C-SPAN. I don't know--that might be legal. 
8:55 PM: Warren Buffett's secretary has some nice glasses. 
8:56 PM: "OUR FAIR SHARE." 
8:59 PM: You're wrong, Obams. I'm not thinking that. I believe in Washington! Just look at how well-dressed our Congresswomen are.
9:01 PM: Fix it!
9:02 PM: Well siree, Mistur Obamer, you just rewraitin' that conistutin.
9:04 PM: Awww, well, that's cute. Just like this.
9:07 PM: Please take a few of those options off the table. Like invasion. 
9:10 PM: Half a trillion, bitches!
9:10 PM: Cyber threats like these? 
9:12 PM: ...OR GAY!!!!!!!
9:15 PM: Elena Kagan is totally not wearing one of those fluffy collars that R.B.G. wears. 



The takeaway: there's nothing we can't face, except for some types of bombs.

The Sociology of Breakfast

I am a stranded hiker on a mountain of term-end work, so obviously I spent twenty minutes composing a graph that documents my eating habits.

The website of _____ College/University has a handy feature that tells you the precise minute you swiped your ID to get into the dining hall (it also tells you when you did laundry, so keep on the lookout for a laundry-graph-sequel-blog post!). I thus decided to investigate potential patterns in the swipe-in times of all 48 weekday breakfasts I have enjoyed and/or eaten so far this term.

There are grid lines in the background, which makes it official.

Check out that linear trend all up in my breakfast business. Sadly, though, my results are actually not as scintillating as they might first appear. When the two outliers of post-morning-class breakfast are excluded, my average swipe-in times for the first and second halves of the term differ only by a minute, 7:59 AM vs. 8:00 AM.

The power of science teaches us that I arrive at the dining hall at pretty much the same time each morning.

Too Much of a Good Thing

Dear Friend,

If you know me personally, which you very likely do if you read this blog--in fact, I'd say that you are quite potentially a creeper if you started reading this blog after finding it somewhere in the digital netherworlds of the Googular realm--you know that I consider The West Wing to be the grand embodiment of everything television can and should be. It's got smart white women talking, smart black women talking, smart white and black women talking to each other about things other than gender, sex and race, smart Republicans, stupid Republicans, and speeches that simultaneously elicit tears, laughter, and longing for a world in which Josiah Bartlet is really President and C.J. Cregg silences enemies of all that is righteous with a a little snappy Sorkinese.

Then there is Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the second-best thing that television producers ever had the good sense to broadcast. High school girls (who care about grades!) and high school boys (who don't care about sports!) take down arrogant vampires and Jabba the Hut lookalikes with a certain irresistible ratio of wit, brawn and cunning that is far too rare in mass media. Plus, Buffy features some very feminist ass-whooping: it's the women who slay and the men who just sort of watch.

Actually, this one Watches.

So, yes, The West Wing and Buffy: two extraordinary pieces of extraordina. But you know how chocolate and lasagna really don't work well together at all? Or how, if you eat too many cookies, all you want to do is sit in a chair, jiggle your legs and groan? I could go on, but all I have are food-related analogies, so instead I'll just get to the point: this is totally unacceptable. Get rid of it, Internet, and while you're at it, take hashtags with you.

Thank you for your consideration.

A Concerned Friend

The Scourge of Humanity

Humanity is afflicted by more than a few scourges, but I have one in particular in mind on this balmy fall afternoon: leaf blowers.

There is something deeply unsettling about leaf blowers. Maybe it's that their very existence is predicated on the WALL-Eesque goal of removing all remnants of nature from human settlement. Yet rakes and hoes, in my opinion, are just fine. No, what's so outrageous about these noisy-ass lawn tools is how unnecessarily and how excessively they pollute our otherwise pleasurable autumn air.

What exactly does the man above hope to accomplish by using a leaf blower? There are no leaves in that photo. All he seems to be doing is displacing some poor earthworms from their homes--oh, yeah, and elevating sea levels, driving polar bears, penguins and other perennial Pixar stars into extinction, flooding New York City, and generally bringing about a secular, human-induced Armageddon.

In conclusion, leaf blowers are the scourge of humanity.

An Original Joke

Knock-knock.
Who's there?
Harry Potter.
Harry Potter wh--
EXPELLIARMUS.

There are at least three dimensions to this one; think about it!

A Pottermore-Inflicted Existential Crisis

I finally received my Pottermore early access last night. Digital events ensued, and now I have some proverbial things to get off my chest. So let it be written, so let it be done.

I'll stop mincing words. Let them stay roughly chopped instead. There were not a number of digital events that I found disturbing, bewildering, strange and demeaning--there was really only one. I got Sorted into Hufflepuff.

Badgers are easily run over by cars.

I am a pretty tolerant and accepting person. I have friends who claim to dislike J.K. Rowling's masterworks. I even have friends, if it can be believed, who have never cracked open one of her sacred texts yet who have seen every single one of Warner Bros.' cinematic heresies.

But when I found out that I am, in fact, a Hufflepuff, and that I have been deluding myself for twelve years about having qualities of wisdom, daring or even cunning, I let out one giant obscenity. Hufflepuff, after all, is the house of "the rest," taking every magical (and, yes, fictional) 11-year-old from the British Isles who does not exhibit any remarkable demonstration of a personality. It has the common room in closest proximity to the kitchens, presumably so that its gluttonous students can snack between meals. I'm also pretty sure that each of the other house mascots eats badgers.

There is no conclusion to this sad story. My intellectual capacity is probably not strong enough to develop one.