Why did it take me 20 years to finally cross the threshold of The Lockspot? Some of the things I still haven't done in Ballard make me feel like a fraud. I've never been to the Tractor Tavern or shot pool at the Lock n'Keel. I've never tasted lutefisk or marched in the Syttende Mai parade. I meant to go to Sunset Bowl at 3 a.m. but put it off too long. But since I started writing this column I have finally eaten at Mike's Chili and ordered pitchers of beer while playing Monday night trivia at the Lockspot Caf/.

The Lockspot is ridiculously close to my house yet entering the crowded dining area and bar I felt like I'd landed in another country where I didn't know the language. Two servers kept rushing by, always bearing full plates and I was always in the way. I'd strong-armed friends from West Seattle into attending and at 8 p.m. all of us (except for our ringer) looked like we should already be at home in pajamas.

"Is this the trivia?" I asked a long table of people. "It's everywhere," they chorused. "But these seats are taken," a woman added. Five of us wandered the tight spaces looking for a table, a chair, a reason not to just sneak back out into the cool air and quiet. One man was at the end of the largest table, awaiting his team while fending off those who were literally and figuratively clueless and just wanted to sit down. My friend Venetia found the table where teams were registering and placing $5 in a pint glass. A father and daughter left a booth and one of our group slid into it, an action that was contested by two men also circling the room trying to park their team. We squished five into a booth for four, committed as Team Scuttlebutt.

"Welcome to pub trivia," said a man with an Australian accent so thick I could see it suspended in the air above his handheld microphone. There were cheers from all corners as he announced the teams, alarming innocent diners sandwiched between teams. The rules were unintelligible to me but we'd been given a pencil and three sets of papers. Our server was wearing a t-shirt with IPA written in letters that looked bigger than him; "a pitcher of Imperial Pale Ale" I ordered; it was the only recognizable acronym so far.

"The governor of what state recently threatened to put all State workers on minimum wage if the budget didn't balance?" The first round had started.

For the next two hours we struggled to fit into the booth, hear the questions, identify 30 photographs, keep our glasses filled, and become competitive. After each round of ten questions teams exchanged answer sheets for scoring. We missed the cue once but organizer Ian Hyde and evening's assistant Michelle called out, "they're newbies, give 'em a break."

At some point every team was asked to stand for team members to choose heads or tails, either placing their hands on their head or behind. A coin was flipped and you kept standing if it was tails and your hands were on your tail. Just before they flipped the coin, they'd yell, "Lock it in!" A server went by with his hands on his lower cheeks. We thought the winner was going to be asked a make or break question but it turned out there was no point, other than winning a pitcher of beer. Trivia resumed.

By 10 p.m. there were no diners left, just teams. It was hotter than ever. The server had given us one answer and we'd had some successes (Ronald Reagan's daughter in Playboy, Franklin Delano Roosevelt only president elected to four terms in office) and failures (zip codes, silver depository, Adam Sandler movies). It was time to turn our 30 best guesses on identifying photographs and the scored answer sheets over to the judges.

First honors went to Volcano Kim, winning the Empty Cup award for team with the least points. Four men playing as Old Sk