Chapter Two of the Boston NCA Experience. For Chapter One, click here.
Every year at NCA, it's my point of pride to make it to an 8:00am panel --the earliest scheduled -- every day of the convention. That never happens, of course; rolling in drunk, stoned, or worse at an average hour of 5am makes that pretty difficult. Yet I boldly set my presence at 8am panels as a goal, and do a decent job of achieving it. Sleep, as you know, can be acquired while rotting in the grave. I've never had much need for it, and NCA is the perfect example of my shunning of it.
Today,however, I won't make it to an 8am session. I'm up in time for one --yes, seven o'clock on the dot -- but after browsing through Herrmannator's copy of the convention program, I decide I'm notinterested in any of the panels and decide to read the paper for anhour and a half instead.
I've never understood why fancy hotels give you a copy of USA Today during the week and the local paper (in this case, the Boston Globe)on the weekends. Typically, the weekday "news" paper costs more thanthe local paper you get on Saturday and Sunday. Is this somehow abenefit to the traveler? And why, exactly, is the putrid mess that is USA Today three times the cost of a real newspaper like the Miami Herald or the St. Petersburg Times?Who is buying this crap? Please, future hotel managers, do us patrons(and your bottom line) a favor and give us the local paper seven days aweek. USA Today sucks ass.
Nevertheless, it is what Iwas given, and I annihilate its contents while the Herrmannator slept.At 9:15, clad in black Jones New York suit, pink oxford, and flat blacktie, I scoot out of the Hilton, grab a coffee at Dunkin' Donuts (which,unbeknownst to me, is the pride of Beantown), and head to a panel onfeminism where I doodle, write song lyrics, and pretend to beinterested. I bust out at 10:30 and register for the convention whereI'm handed the annual flimsy canvas bag full of useless swag thatquickly finds itself in a garbage can, and at 11 meet a few pals forlunch at the sports bar underneath the Marriott. At 12:30, I roll downto a panel I'd be attending even if it wasn't staffed by some of mynearest and dearest friends: Examining Rhetorical Means in order toQuestion the 'Ends': The Symbolic End of Baseball, Hockey, the Football Option, Sportsmanship and Gender Roles in Sports Advertising.Panelists included Ferris State's Kristi Gerding, Ohio's Kris Stroup,Nichelle McNabb of Otterbein, and Kristen McCauliff, who's now atGeorgia. Yeah, they're all forensics people -- and I haven't seen mostof them since last year's NCA.
Kristen McCauliff is aninteresting gal. I've sort of had a crush on her for about six years,since back when she was a young debater at CMU and I was idly watchingdebate rounds during off-time at NFA Nationals 1999 in Ypsilanti. Shehad a style about her that I found very intriguing, and in two years ofjudging for EMU and another three at Muskingum she quickly became oneof my favorite competitors to see on the tour. I'd heard through thegrapevine that she was engaged, and I reflect sadly on this as I lookinto her very electric blue eyes, and listen to her every word aboutbaseball's attempts to attract fans in the post-strike period. I don'tknow who she's engaged to, but he's a lucky dude.
The panel closes and I grab a few of my friends to ask some questions. The panelists start to scatter and I grab Kristen.
"Hey! How have you been?" I mumble.
"Great... at Georgia now, just starting the doctoral program."
"Rock on, how's it going for you?"
"Tough, but aren't they all?"
I think about my own doctoral program and the infitismal boredom that accompanies it.
"Yeah, uh, they push me pretty hard down at USF."
"Do you like it down there?"
I'd like it a lot better if you'd decided to come here.
"Are you kidding me? Beaches, sun... you blew it by going to Athens."
Wechat about baseball for a while. She's knowledgeable about the sport,more than most girls, even the girls who know about baseball. Mostgirls who know about baseball know everything about "their" team;strangely, this team always seems to be either the New York Yankees,the Boston Red Sox, or the Chicago Cubs. I have never met a girl whocan tell me the starting lineup for the Texas Rangers or MinnesotaTwins, though obviously Batgirlcould do the latter. A really knowledgeable person will be able todiscuss the sport on a more meta-level, and I hate going there, butit's really the only way to explain it. Kristen knows her shit, and Icurse to myself having never hit on her while in an authority position.
Wepart ways, and I promise to see her at the Georgia party Saturdaynight. It's pushing 2:00, which means it's time to head to the Marriottballroom for the annual meat-market that is the "Graduate Fair."
Youall went to something like this your junior or senior year of highschool. A ballroom is divided into aisles, and in these aisles severaldozen curtained-off booths lie, staffed by lonely faculty members (forthe fairly lame graduate schools), a handful of eager, smiling graduatestudents (the smaller, selective, niche programs), or a pile ofstudents, alumni, and faculty members socializing more than they arerecruiting (the huge megaprograms). Knowing this, you can probablyconclude that I eat up Graduate Fair, not because I get to sit at theUSF booth (which fits into the middle category) but because I get tocruise the banquet hall, shaking hands and bullshitting with thefriends I see but once every twelve months.
I meet with a fewprospective students at the USF booth, then roll down to the BGSUtable, where my mother sits, alone, talking to an extremely hairyundergrad from Gonzaga (is there a shortage of barbers in Spokane, orsomething?) who plans to research ice cream, or sommat. He leaves, Ichat with mom, and, noticing my dear professor Dr. Ellis has arrived atthe USF booth, excuse myself to talk to her about my dissertationproposal.
Then, it happens.
Out of the corner of my eyeI see a large figure in navy striding down the aisle. She's accompaniedby my friend Jennifer, the Kent State coach, and I know who it is. Ihaven't seen her in eight months, or talked to her in... counting.... along time. You might remember me writing something like 60 pages on her back in April.
Dr. Ellis notices I trailed off in the middle of talking about poker as a reflection of American cultural ideals.
"Everything okay?"
I whisper back, chest tight and air scarce to my lungs.
"Remember that girl I wrote about, the one who tried to get me fired?"
"Of course! That story's not one I'll soon forget."
breathe.
I wring my soaked hands.
"She's coming this way."
Iavert my eyes, and the episode is over in seconds. Yet I'm presentedwith a dilemma; one of my greatest joys of NCA is roaming the graduatefair, gladhanding and shit-shooting. If she's wandering around the sameballroom... she'll be hard to avoid.
Eventually I decide she'dleft and talk to illustrious individuals like Bud Goodall and RonPelias and others -- people I want to get good words in with beforeseeing them later at parties, when I'm drunk and making anembarrassment of myself. Meanwhile, I'm throwing invitations to the USFparty (which starts in an hour; it's the only Thursday party) at everyattractive girl I come across.
The graduate fair ends, Iskedaddle back to my hotel room, swap out some business cards, and headover to Kings, where the Herrmannator and I'd had a few drinks thenight before.
My mom arrives soon after, and I introduce her tomy advisor and most of my other professors; they think she's prettyawesome, which shouldn't be surprising, since she is. Our party is inthe pool hall portion of the club, and unlike other schools' parties,the bar is open. We're famous for this, and generally have a hugecrowd. Sushi and appetizers are scattered throughout the room, and Isee many of the girls whose hands I shoved invites into enter the room.The place is rocking, you can barely move, and I elbow a waitress,knocking over the Harpoon she's carrying on her tray. I'm overcome withguilt, but distracted by the coeds. Of course, I'm with my mom, who ispretty much at this point the opposite of a wingman. I snag a fewspring rolls and wait for her to get tired and go home, which sheeventually does. As she's leaving, the Herrmannator, ![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
karmaconniption, and a handful of other folks decide we're going over to a bar/restaurant called Vox Populi. [Notes here are lacking, as are memories. -Ed.]It's a motley crew of people I mostly know, though from a variety ofbackgrounds. Kurt Lindemann of ASU (formerly of EMU) is there, some SanDiego people, some people they know, and a girl who I hit on for awhile until being told "she's basically married." Girls tend not to tell you these things, though.
Afterward,Herrmannator apparently decides we're hungry, and we wander back to theMarriott sports bar, where I drink a hell of a lot more than I eat, take a self-portrait,and copious amounts of leftovers find their way into styrofoam boxes."Breakfast," I think to myself, and thoroughly drunk, we leave the barand go back to our hotel rooms. It's about 12:30am.
Except I'm not ready to go home yet. Remember, I'm a man on a mission. And that mission is getting into the Bukowski Tavern.Far more drunk than the night before, when I was refused admission dueto being "too drunk," I am waved into the establishment this evening. Ihold my breath as I enter the catacomb-like structure, and preparemyself for its glories.
There's not much to see. Rows and rows of beer bottles on one side of the bar, and a television and some laughing dude on my other side.
Iorder a Harpoon, easily the night's fifteenth. I glance around and findfew to zero conversation opportunities. No fine ladies to take back tomy luxury pad; no bohemian or beatnik writer-types to seek inspirationfrom. In the corner, alone, is the Kings waitress whom I'd elbowedearlier. I smile at her; she scowls back. I finish my beer, and pick upthe tab to see how much cash I need to throw down on the bar.
And then serendipity walks through the door. Serendipity by the names of emudoobie, angelflywings, and Laura Alves -- all three my EMU peeps. [Ed. note: As I typed her name, angelflywingscalled me, surprising since I didn't even know she had my number. Aphenomenally coincidental experience that happened while describing aphenomenally coincidental experience. Also, she was outside and in aT-shirt. That might not have relevance to you, but it does for me.]Inexplicably, despite their having just arrived into town, and theirhotel being a good three miles from here, they've wandered into the Bukowski Tavern. I find a second wind amongst the gossiping,storytelling, and desire to make out with angelflywings.Anecdotes about mirrors, walls, van windows, and balls are exchanged.Around this time, I start to miss forensics. I forget about the hardwork, long hours, and social life deficiencies. I forget that it nearlyruined my career. Those things aren't really that important, though.Sitting around a table, slamming shots and Harpoon, bullshitting withDoobie, Nicole, and Laura... that trumps the negatives, and then some.From forensics comes my relationship with almost all the people in theworld I love, and that's pretty notable.
We shut down the Bukowski Tavern. I pick up the tab, and stumble back to the Hilton, leaving a fairly hilarious phone postalong the way. I strip off my black suit, pink shirt, and flat blacktie. I jump into bed, knowing there's no way in hell I make an 8ampanel tomorrow.
