My life as the incarnation of evil, and a Newark recap

A propos of nothing in particular, I haven’t talked much about the perception of the author of this blog as the world’s worst person, period. It’s curious, but not particularly noteworthy. Saints need demons, I guess, and my demonization is easy (and, theoretically, entirely clandestine, but every now and then someone oopses their way into my view, tsk tsk). Most of my demonizers don’t like to admit that they read me regularly, and I don’t blame them for keeping this under their collective hat, because it’s hard to equate what I say and do with what people like to think I say and do. As a rule, if you are a ranking executive of virtually any organization of which I am or ought to be a member, it is obligatory to blame me for everything that is wrong with debate, the economy, and the tainted peanut butter in the Little Debbie cakes. This is fine by me, and probably useful for those on the other side of it: every thesis needs an antithesis, and I am the only coach out here day in and day out. I just point this out because I know you’re reading this, you spalpeen, and I know that pointing it out will irritate you no end, but nonetheless firm up your belief in my basic evil. (I’ll be practicing my evil laugh whenever I can, though, to keep up the illusion. Ho ho ho, says I, with malice and mischief.)

Meanwhile, Newark was this last weekend, and I worked the invitational in lieu of an MHL event. Usually we’ve held the MHL on the Saturday off at some separate venue in the neighborhood, but we thought that this time out we’d simply add a novice division to the invitational and see what would happen. Surprisingly enough, the numbers were rather small in both divisions of LD, although I gather policy was quite a hoedown. Go figure. We theorized that the heavy testing in NY State was the problem, with folks concentrating on their main responsibilities. Whatever, although it didn’t affect the Policians. Anyhow, we still agreed that we’d do it again next year, because as a rule our ramping up the number of novice events this year has been terrifically successful, and this was probably just an aberration. If it happens again next year, we’ll know differently.

The tournament itself went off as they all do. There were some touch-and-go moments with judging, because we were right at the edge of the appropriate numbers, but bubbles did get the As, and that’s always key. Of course, the debaters who blame every loss not on themselves but on their judges will no doubt complain yet again, but from our perspective almost all the rounds were adjudicated by experienced former debaters, except some of them were experienced long ago. Rule number one when debating in front of a former debater from the Dark Ages: Slow Down. Rule number two: Clear Standards. Rule number three: Clear Weighing. Given that rules 2 and 3 pretty much apply to every round everywhere, the only issue is ratcheting things down a bit to help out people who are rusty on the flowing side of things. Nothing wrong with that, but it’s remarkable how hard that is for a lot of less than successful debaters. Top echelon debaters, on the other hand, have no trouble with it. O’C and “The” and I were discussing this as we were trying to get through the ridiculous Newark traffic (those drivers are NUTS!). The heavy-duty bidded people are perceived of as being ridiculously fast, but they’re only fast in rounds where speed is not an issue. In rounds where the judging is less likely to follow speed, they slow down. That’s why they’re heavily bidded and at the top echelon. Duh.

Because of global warming or sunspots or something, the Sailor’s battleship this weekend transported B. Whiteguy along to the tournament. Let me put it this way. If ever there was a guy who ought to be a Sailor, it’s B. Whiteguy. He can sail with us any time. I recommend that if he travels with you, you challenge him to a game of Ghost. For money. You will get rich faster than you can imagine. And in answer to the question, what does the Panivore eat other than wheat products, the answer is dessert. I’m going to start carrying vials of vitamins for emergency injections, I think. There’s just so much nutrition in a half portion of spaghetti with butter. At least B. Whiteguy, who is a vegetarian, has no compunctions about eating fish, presumably because they’re not warm and cuddly like hogs. We stopped at the Palisades Mall for dinner on the way home, and the place was packed to the gills. Economy be damned, people were at least out strolling in the virtual downtown of the mall that, in its earliest stages, was planned to be the largest in the world but ultimately settled for being the ugliest. There were lines everywhere but at the Italian place, which made decision-making a snap. The drivers in the parking lot must have all come from Newark, though. We were lucky to get out alive.

And thus Newark enters the history books, and we’re on this week to the land of the Scarswegians.