The 2005 MBA Review

I'm trying to come up with exciting new content to post here, potentially including a review of the Section 1AA dance team tournament coming up on February 7 at Zumbrota-Mazeppa High School. In the meantime, here is an old piece about going to Tennessee and shit.

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It is early 2005. It is raining and Garth Brooks is on the radio, singing about his stunning success on the South Beach Diet. I’m not sure if it’s a song or a commercial, but I am sure that his smooth, silky voice is just what I need to find my own inner sunshine in a city of rain, in a world of pain. The windshield wipers wash a smile through the fog of tears. When the breakdown begins, I am so exhilarated I pump my fist in the air wildly until I violently punch the inside light. There is an intense cracking sound—hopefully plastic, not bone. I moan and wail. It’s a piercing scream that, on its own, would belong in one of them bad horror movies that these damn kids are always going to and then imitating by dressing up as dolls committing violent knifings in the girls’ locker room after midnight. But, combined with Garth’s honey-coated tenor, his divine twang, we become a duet more stunning than Ozzy Osborne and Lita Ford ever were.

The car in front of us suddenly pulls off to the side of the highway, forcing us to swerve to avoid running into a hijacked ice cream truck driven by some woman who apparently thought she couldn’t talk on her cell phone and drive at the same time, so instead of risking an accident, she decided on a much safer option. The image of a car accident in Nashville reminds me of the car accident in Nashville, which in turn reminds me of the long, silky ponytail I had when I was in junior high. The week before I started ninth grade, I cut off the tail and put it in a fine burlwood box lined with silk to keep safely in my safe. Every few months, I would take out the box and stroke the hair, remembering all the good times we had together. The two of us were inseparable, like a carrot and onions. But you learn to give up things, to make sacrifices. You could eat all five Goo-Goo Clusters or you could eat four and give the fifth to charity. It’s your decision.

Along with the rebel flag and the flaming guitar, the Goo-Goo is truly a powerful symbol of Nashville. It represents everything the city stands for: big, salty nuts; rich, fatty chocolate; and something wet and sticky. I mean white and sticky. In fact, if you go too long without a Goo-Goo, you will wake up in the night craving one. Your mouth will be watering so much that your pillow will soak up all the drool like a sponge and be useful in dishwashing, floor cleaning, and envelope sealing for several months. There is no substitute for the Goo-Goo. A foolish Yankee company tried to replicate them a few years ago. Their cheap, trashy imitation, which they called Tolerance Treats, were an even bigger flop than Glazed Chex. At least in this part of the world—I won’t speak for the French.

But when we checked into our hotel Friday afternoon, the special Refresher with the Goo-Goos was still about 27 hours away, so I forced myself to think about less delicious things: specifically, what to wear to the opening dinner. One of the best things about coaching debate is making fun of high school students for wearing those silly business suits as if they were real adults. Look at those kids acting all big and mighty and wearing those fancy clothes. Those kids don’t know nothing about nothing.

Tragically, MBA equalizes the oppression by making real adults (and young adults lord knows there are college students thinking they know how to coach debate what are they trying to turn the activity into too much punting for one thing and democracy as a value o god help us) dress up along with the kiddies. When I realized this archaic tradition was still going strong, I went out for some post-New Year’s panic shopping and a light lunch at Old China Buffet. I found some stunning vintage suits and ties, although unfortunately I couldn’t enjoy them immediately because the buffet had its revenge in the form of fourteen hours on the crapper. I emerged refreshed and rejuvenated, having read the last seven issues of US Weekly and four chapters of the new Michael Crichton novel. He good writer.

With my new clothes and suitcase, I felt like a new person as we checked into the Holiday Inn Select Vanderbilt. I knew it was a good sign when I heard Clint Black playing in the lobby and the clerk who checked us in was named Gavina Vagillus. Then, to make a good thing even more better, we turned on the TV and Jerry Springer was on. And then, if the world couldn’t be even more perfect, this episode was all about post-op transsexuals revealing their fantasy crushes on straight firemen. I knew it would be hotter than a 4-alarm fire! Jerry! Jerry! Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!

Suddenly the incessant chanting going on inside my head put me in a trance, and I spent the next 43 minutes on the ground quivering and moaning. A whirlwind of hallucinogenic images flashed through my head: Mr. Peanut’s monocle growing diaphanous wings and gracefully fluttering toward the solar anus in an Icarian move; a graceful eagle flying into the sunset suddenly hit by a cannonball headed straight north; a 12-foot humanoid shape composed entirely of pigs-in-a-blanket dancing the Macarena on the Bonneville Salt Flats.

I woke up, my face basked in sunshine. That was truly the worst thing ever, although now I know the answer to the age-old question: fork or spoon?

One thing was decided long before my brown revelation: fork, spoon, spork, chopsticks, and salad tongs would all be useful in shoveling as much good ol’ Southern grub in my tummy as possible at the MBA dinner. When we arrived, I was immediately impressed and overwhelmed by the luxurious mise en scène in the Massey building. There were those extremely classy red chili pepper lights hanging from the ceiling, along with an enormous piñata shaped like Rosie O’Donnell. Her giant stomach was bulging with individually wrapped candies, and I knew they would be sweet and delicious.

We selected a table near the buffet, where gleaming sterling covers barely concealed the steamy aromas of down home dishes waiting to be noisily devoured with vigor and satisfaction. Every spot was adorned with a glass of water, a glass of sweet tea, a fresh carnation, and a chunk of pork in the shape of a bell. We learned that this salty, satisfying formation of pig fat is there to symbolize the rich history of the south. Apparently they used to serve pork jerky instead, but it was so chewy and addicting that the contestants forfeited their rounds to chew on meat.

As soon as we settled our semiformally-clothed asses in the pleather seats, the Lord announced that it was time to hit the buffet. Unfortunately, a certain extemp speaker from Ohio took that literally, and violently injured his right hand by slamming it into one of the chafing dishes. However, after he was carted away by the charming countrified medical personnel of MBA, our table was invited to experience the delicious dishes awaiting our hungry mouths. I was drooling like Kevin Spacey at an Aaron Carter concert. Aaron Carter is one of the most socially and politically important musical artists of our times. He good.

On a tangential but vital note, Aaron Carter’s recent near-death experience should make us all think twice before we leave soiled mattresses on the highway. I know it’s tempting, but please, next time use your soiled mattresses to build a fun maze for your children and their friends to play in. Think with your head instead of your nacho.

Speaking of butter, the spread at MBA was mighty impressive. I loaded up my plate with corn, squid and guava ceviche, roaster guinea pig bites, cheesy beef balls, and the other dainty and delicious offerings. Did I mention there was corn? Back at our table, conversation stopped as we all shoveled heap after heap of food down our gullets. It was like a party was in my mouth, and it never wanted to end.

Our dessert, aside from cheesecake and white pepper ice cream, was the opportunity to enjoy three hot, spicy LD rounds. Resolved: Strict separation of corn and corn cobs is deee-licious! You can’t go wrong with sweet, sweet corn. Incidentally, the debates I judged Friday night were explosive, brisk, and facile, much like a former Teacher of the Year nominee. Like that lovely, powerful woman, the debates taught me about life; they taught me how to eat free at Hardee’s every Sunday morning (I am a little bit spoiled and more than a little bit manipulative, y’all!); and most of all, they taught me about guns and ammunition.

That night, I could barely sleep because I was so excited about the three rounds of extemp I was judging on Saturday. I love extemp! There’s nothing cuter than high school students impersonating local newscasters. And those introductions—Wow! Those are really, really hilarious. I mean so funny you will pee in your power suit. Multiple times in an hour. You do the math. There really is nothing funnier than the current situation in India being compared to that Far Side cartoon of a man about to karate chop a brick in half and little does he know that a brick wall is about to fall on him! LOL! Imagine me saying that in my best investigative reporter voice, complete with robotic (and very non-erotic) gestures. Now that’s forensics at its most bestest!

If the extemp rounds on Saturday didn’t quite live up to my dream fantasy expectations, at least they taught me that the amount we donated to tsunami relief was enough, and that the EU needs to relax its immigration policies to make up for the sad, sad lack of babies being born fast enough in Europe. The European race(s) are about to go the way of the Dodo! Where is Prussian Blue when we need them?

The speech and debate rounds on Saturday were far overshadowed by what we knew was coming later in the day. No, I’m not talking about the square dancing marathon at the Gaylord Event Center. I’m talking about Miami. I’m talking about China. I’m talking, of course, about the Refresher. Oh, the Refresher—those three syllables make me drool like Rosie O’Donnell at a Subaru dealership. I knew there were Goo-Goos waiting to be put in my mouth, but I knew I had to wait. As they say, abstinence makes the heart go fonder. In fact, I think Clay Aiken says that. I love him!

Where are the Divinyls when we need them?

It felt like six o’clock would never come. I whiled away the minutes braiding my hair, playing solitaire, creating a handsome balsa wood structure, and writing erotic poetry about the Olsen twins. Yet the hours went by like days, and the minutes went by like a 500-pound man on a Segway. Finally, the tension made me snap totally and completely. I was making farting noises and laughing hysterically; then suddenly I screamed and fell to the ground. I felt like someone had shot me with that ray that makes it feel like your internal organs are trying to escape through your nostrils.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, my panic attack ended. I fixed my hair, strapped on my messenger bag, and headed to the next extemp round. The round went by in a quick flash and suddenly it was Refresher time! I literally sprinted to the cafeteria, a graceful and gazelle-like run interrupted when I tripped over a decorative stone, flew several feet in the air, and landed on something soft and mushy. My first though was, Is that shit?

Actually, that same question sprang to my mind the first time I saw a Goo-Goo cluster. They may look unappetizing, but they are truly the most delicious food item ever created. But the Refresher contains more than just Goo-Goo. Much more. Every debater got a souvenir swizzle stick, a gift certificate to Banana Republic, and a set of Swahili vocabulary flash cards. Vee stan gloop! But the real draw is the Goo-Goo, and as I wiped the last bit of encrusted marshmallow foam from my mouth, I felt a twinge of jouissance. And that made me want to be alone.

After the Refresher, there was yet another explosive event to look forward to, or actually two explosive events. Do two explosions = one implosion? I’m not sure, but the double party fantasy experience was awaiting us at 10 o’clock. We had two hours between the last round and party explosion, so we decided to take a tour of downtown Nashville. An obese biker woman in a sidecar flicked us off, which may be because we were blasting “Galang” at top volume and dancing violently.

We laughed and turned up the stereo even louder. There’s no bass better than the bass of a hot Chevy Malibu, that’s for sure. And you know that extremely intense bass frequencies can cause a very dirty physical reaction. But then again, we all use cars to drop people off—people and things. Speaking of things, the Nashville Hard Rock Café is potentially the ugliest building I have ever seen in my life, and I’ve been to Gary, Indiana, Pittsburgh, and Mamaroneck. It is uglier than Michael Moore in a Speedo. Now that ugly!

After our foray through downtown, an unimpressive Italian dinner, and several minutes spent in the bathroom, we were ready to partay down. The party had several unique draws: heavy appetizers, an open bar, a jazz trio whose average age was 81.3, and of course sparkling conversation with the bigwigs of the debate community. I’m talking big, big, big, big! I signed a pact not to reveal further details about what happened at the party, but just wait nine months.

Sunday morning, the after-effects of the party were evident: people wearing sunglasses, moaning in agony, begging for aspirin, and falling asleep while judging rounds. Now, you may think that a sleeping judge is a bad judge, but I’ll take a hung over, passed out debate judge over an extemp judge any day. But that’s probably because I’m an antisocialist.

Anyway, back to my story. The rounds were over, and all that was left was the announcement of the lucky competitors in the demo rounds. I would tell you all about the demo round, except I didn’t watch it. I spent the time reading pornographic literature and eating several slices of pizza with smoked gouda and artichoke hearts. But the round, I’m sure, was fantastic, if corny, just like the rest of our experience in Atlanta.

The Fiery Furnaces were wrong: the South is not only a home. It is an ideology, a contested site. It may not be America’s Heartland, but it certainly is America’s Bloated Stomachland. It is that special place where you can say, “What up, shorty?” and smile a gold-toothed smile and eat lots of grits. Grits, okra, and a golf cart filled with an enormous man with tiny feet and an enormous fupa.

And, hidden within the folds of that sweet, sweet fupa is the secret to MBA fantasy success: many, many more Goo-Goos. Eat them; enjoy them. You will transcend physical reality as your taste buds take you to a better place.

Like judging the current resolution, being in Nashville is always already a religious experience.