In which we get ever closer to the new season

I’m sort of getting pants ants in anticipation of a tournament this weekend. It’s been ages.

Management of Byram Hills has been minimal. Benk is doing fine on his end, and all I’ve had to do is look every now and then to see that we weren’t attacked by drops. We did lose some PF academicians, but tossed in a couple of BHers to replace them, so while that division will be small, it will run. The rest look quite adequate. Benk’s idea to hold a RR in the morning seems to have been a good one. As a matter of fact, his belief that varsity divisions could hold their own is also proving out. Anyhow, he still has to pod up the RR, and then we can do the pairings. He’ll be in situ on his own for this, but RRs are the proverbial piece of cake, assuming everyone shows up to judge as they’re supposed to. Mostly one uses RRs to sit around planning dinners for the rest of a tournament.

I also won’t be going to the Bronx RRs, for that matter. Again, it can all be set up long distance, so why bother? And for all I know, there will be someone there capable of sticking a thumb in if the dam breaks. The Bronxwegian folks been handling the RR details all on their own. And most details, for that matter, which is as it should be. I’ve just been driving tabroom. Works for me!

I heard from McLean over the weekend, telling me he’s planning a WDW trip. I was full of advice, of course. As a strong proponent of touringplans.com and the Unofficial Guide, that is always my first suggestion. Then it was recommending a few must-sees. M is something of a Disney cynic, which is not unusual. For his first time (and maybe his last) I recommend the proverbial open mind. If you go in hoping for the best, it’ll be pretty good. I’ve seen plenty of people get converted over the years. If you go in looking to hate the place, you might still get converted, but it’s not as likely. It’s easy to get lost in problems, if you want to, chief among these being long lines. Hence touringplans.com. As a matter of fact, our Disney travel agency throws in a subscription for free. Good idea. If you are planning your own DisAd, let me know. The very very first thing I’d do is point you to that travel agency. You can’t plan a Disney trip too far in advance. Hell, I’ve already got my April couple of research days all figured out to within an inch of their lives. Planning is half the fun. Just like with debate tournaments. Except with WDW, when you get there, you get the other half of the fun, while with debate tournaments, when you get there, you wonder why you haven’t taken up pottery instead.

Selections from Menick's Dictionary of Forensic Diseases and Mental Defects

Judgenfreude: Taking pleasure in seeing someone else assigned to an especially problematic match.

These four are a connected syndrome:

The Parent Trap: When coaches trick parents into judging VLD without properly preparing them for the experience. (Not to be confused with the Parent Trap Torture, i.e., the forced watching of the entire oeuvre of Lindsay Lohan films, which is not necessarily debate-related.)

Starbucks: Where the coaches are when the parents realize they are trapped.

Tab room: Where the parents go when they realized they are trapped.

Hell: Where the tab room tells the trapped parents to go, and to bring their coach with them.

Number blindness: The inability of coaches to realize that 3s, 4s and 5s are not 6s. Also known as the half-field strike fallacy.

Preferential brainwash: The inability of coaches to remember that once upon a time there was no such thing as MJP, and debaters just learned to win ballots from whoever was sitting in the back of the room. See also, The Lost Art, The Good Old Days, Back When I Was a Debater, etc.

Gargoylation: The process in which any member of the organization of either side of a debate sits in the back of the room and stares grimly throughout the proceedings, then at the end of the round spends the next hour interrogating any judge who did not pick up the student from their organization, thus holding up the entire tournament. Often this action is followed by the gargoylator complaining that the tournament is not running on schedule.

Obligation shruggation: The inability of a judge to accept that his or her obligation is one round past their team’s participation, and not whenever the spirit moves them.

Judge abuse (perceived): The idea that a judge, being used regularly throughout the tournament, is being abused by not having three hour breaks on a regular basis.

Judge abuse (actual): Placing a judge who has complained that they have had to judge regularly throughout the tournament into nothing but down-5 rounds at this tournament, the next tournament, and any other tournament that you’re tabbing and they’re judging.

Tabelephantine memory: The ability of tab staff to remember every offense by every individual in the debate community until the end of time. See Judge abuse, above.

Dystechia: The sudden inability on the part of a judge to operate any personal device that could conceivably enable the judge to submit an electronic ballot. Often found in nursing homes, homeless shelters and states with liberal marijuana laws.

Primeval electric forest confusion: The mistaken belief that wherever you are, the world owes you a socket to plug in your computer.

Leherschreibtisch lebensraum: Originally described by Carl Jung, who made it all into one word which even the Germans found too Germanic, the belief that you ought to be able to sit at the teacher’s desk and, if you are so inclined, go through the drawers looking for the good stuff.
Tournament of Champions: Mythical tournament where, according to the interwebs, the wrong people get in, the wrong people judge, the wrong people break and the wrong people win. Said to take place often during the Kentucky Derby, probably in reference to all the attendant horseshit that descends upon the event.

If this is Wednesday it must be Nostrum

Meanwhile, on the Epistles of St. Jules to the Forensicians front, we have reached the 1998 holiday season. I feel that the sad adventures of the Nostrumutt, and the impending Yule festivities, warrant full coverage.

We almost didn’t make it this week. The Nostrumite is in a state of permanent depression over poor Unix the Cocker Nostrumutt, who did indeed go under the knife the Friday before Thanksgiving. The look of unalloyed trust in his big, brown eyes (Unix’s, not the Mite’s) as we handed him over to the vet, Dr. Benway, is one I will never forget. The look of l’ll-never-trust­ these-schmucks-again when we picked him up after the op is one that I will also never forget. The poor pup has since spent most of his time licking at his private parts, or what is left of them, but truth to tell, he spent most of his time before the op doing that very same thing. He is a dog, after all. The Falutins continue to maintain that all this fuss is unnecessary, especially compared to the procedure involved in neutering a female dog (known in the trade, by the way, as a bitch, but this is a family site, so we won’t go there). “The anatomy of the male makes these things eminently convenient,” High says, narrowing her eyes at the Nostrumite. Truer words having never been spoken, the Mite simply skulks off into the night with himself at one end of the leash and Unix at the other, spending hours walking the foggy streets of Cambridge, seeking solace in the brotherhood of the impotent. At least I think that’s what he’s doing. He might just be going to pub on the corner for the odd brewski and tying Unix to the stool and feeding the pup beer nuts. With the Nostrumite, you never know.

This followed the next week.

We almost didn’t make it this week. The Nostrumite is in a state of permanent depression over Low’s attempt to decorate the old dump for the season with, well, everything that isn’t nailed. Pine branches and cones, Teletubbies Advent calendars, mistletoe, flashing lights—She even tried to get the Nostrumutt to wear an elf hat, but at that point the Mite drew the line and told her that she and her sister have their own place, and if she must turn something into Nightmare on Mall Street, she should do it on her own turf. Looking hurt as only a Falutin twin can, Low allowed a tiny tear to collect in the corner of one eye, not knowing the Mite well enough to realize that he too can bawl at will, and for a couple of minutes the two of them cried at each other like 12-year-olds at their 400th Titanic screening. When they realized that wasn’t getting them anywhere, they dried up and removed themselves to their respective corners. High and I took no part in this display of bogus emotion; we get enough bogus emotion dealing with Low and the Mite in the normal course of events, without having it spill over into holiday-specific business. And meanwhile the Nostrumutt, hatless, continues to look misbegotten; he still hasn’t fully recovered his appetite, and he doesn’t even like watching original Star Trek episodes anymore.

None of this bodes well for holiday season.

In which we wonder about whether the Kaiser rolls

I can’t figure out why the registration mob hasn’t moved on to Monticello yet. The usual suspects are keeping their own counsel, for some reason. Go fig. Same tournament as always, same weekend, same everything, most especially rounds for folks who won’t be getting into Yale and Bronx plus the whole Academy slash JV spin. Am I missing something here? Jeesh.

I love reading Facebook this time of year. Everyone, from the principals to the kindergarteners, is complaining about going back to school. Oh, they had to get up early this morning. Oh, they had to work today. Oh, it will be a whole three days before they get off for Labor Day. And then they’ve got to wait a whole week for Rosh Hashanah. And then can Yom Kippur come fast enough? And that’s just the Catholic schools! Jeesh yet again. The old heart bleeds, let me tell you. Of course, there are a few folks, usually of the collegian persuasion, who are looking forward to the new school year. They’re starting to realize how nice they’ve got it, and how it’s unlikely to stay that nice. In a year or two they’ll all be pounding the pavement looking for work and trying to find a reasonably priced apartment in Brooklyn. (Does anyone not live in Brooklyn anymore?) Life, like a lot of inexpensively priced cuts of meat, is tough. But if you boil it long enough and add onions, you’ll probably enjoy it.

We spent last weekend in Providence. Interesting city. On the one hand, the area around Brown is classic and walkable, with old houses going back to before the Revolution, and in the middle of it the Rhode Island School of Design, which has a spectacular collection of all sorts of goodies. On the other hand, the loveable Route 95 cuts straight through the city, and the swath it cuts, lined with heartless/soulless buildings, is an urban wasteland of empty streets. If you prepare yourself with machete and pith helmet, though, you can make it over to Federal Hill, which is one Valet Parking spot after the other (and, also, one Italian restaurant after the other, although whether or not there is any connection I won’t venture an opinion). Good eats, if you find the right place.

The cause of our trip was the catching of an Eddie Izzard show. For those who know his work, you know that it was worth the travel (the three hour journey from home took over four hours both ways, thanks to endless traffic snarls), and for those who don’t, you should cure yourself of this cultural lack immediately. Start with “Dressed to Kill,” probably. Trust me on this one.