Monthly Archives: January 2009

Liveblog: Bates/Bowdoin January 23, 2009

Father Scott

I’m about to do something that must be a first on the Internet. And by “a first on the Internet”, I mean, a really pathetic thing.

I have acquired a DVD of last Friday’s Bates/Bowdoin basketball game (ht: a secret team source via mom of the Padre). I shall now watch and liveblog the game…which Bates won at the buzzer. This is going to be fantastic.

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“Basically it’s a robe that you wear backwards”

Pax Arcana

This was long overdue:

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Friday Random 10: Cop Talk Edition

Pax Arcana

copstacheThe mellifluous and articulate Mrs. Pax Arcana and I have long made sport of police officers and their peculiar word choices. Point a camera or notebook at a cop and they shift instantly into speaking a language that is related to English, but only tangentially. The overarching rule of cop talk is to ignore simple words when more obscure ones are available.

For example, a normal human being might give the police the following statement:

“I was just getting out of my car and I saw a man coming out from behind the house. Then I called you guys.”

Which will be translated for the media as:

“The eyewitness indicated that he was in the process of exiting his vehicle when he observed a male individual exiting from the rear of the residence. The eyewitness indicated that it was at that time that he alerted law enforcement.”

Part of me thinks cops do this thinking they are speaking a somehow more precise code language. Another part of me thinks cops have simply concocted a blue-collar baroque tongue that elevates them above the riff-raff they habitually toss in the pokey. Or maybe they just try to sound like robots.

Regardless, this condition apparently hurts cops in court. According to this essay by a professional witness trainer, the peculiarities of cop speak drives a wedge between them and the juries they are supposed to impress:

When you talk like that, you sound like somebody who’s full of himself or who’s trying to hide the truth in a mountain of syllables – both are stereotypes we do NOT need to be reinforcing with jurors. You don’t sound like a regular person the jury can relate to and identify with. So, when the defense attorney starts beating up on you the jury just sees two courtroom professionals – neither of which they can identify with (which means they can’t empathize with) – going at each other in some highfalutin’ word game that has little to do with them – or justice.

When asked what behaviors increase a witness’ credibility in court, jurors responded that “uses understandable language” is one of the most important. [Trial Behavior Consulting, Inc., THE RECORDER, October 1997.] That’s why we call it “straight talk.” This is the critical reason to quit talking funny in court – it hurts your credibility. Credibility is the degree to which the jury believes you – and that’s the one confrontation you must win in court.

Also, shave those goddamn mustaches off. They look ridiculous.

The songs:

Aluminum Park — My Morning Jacket
At the House of the Clerkenwell Kid — The Real Tuesday Weld
Sundialing — Caribou
Advance Cassette — Spoon
The Tooth Fairy and the Princess — Hüsker Dü
Innocent Bones — Iron & Wine
Dance All Night — Ryan Adams and the Cardinals
All Apologies — Nirvana
Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell — The Flaming Lips
Roses Are Free — Ween

Bonus Video:

I Wanna Be Your Dog — Iggy Pop and the Stooges (late homage to Ron Asheton):

The Rules: The Friday Random 10 is exactly that — random. We open up our iTunes, set the thing on shuffle, and listen to 10 songs. We are not permitted to skip any out of embarrassment or fear of redundancy. Commenters are encouraged to post their own.

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Blogroll Addition: project126

Pax Arcana

We all play our roles in the extended Pax Familias. I, of course, am the tweedy and charming father of the brood — quick with a knowing nod and generally three sheets to the wind on Scotch. Father Scott is like the strident young ward I took under my wing and saved from a life of making moose jerky somewhere in Maine. Perry Ellis is the eccentric down the street who collects discarded copper for a “secret project” he’s building in his basement.

And then there’s Fallen Angel. Once the protege of Father Scott, Fallen Angel earned his moniker just over a year ago for apostasy against the padre’s church. It wasn’t pretty.

fallen_angel

Still, though, Fallen Angel remained in the fold, even becoming a contributor to Pax Arcana. His live blogs of the 2008 ALCS and whatever that wrestling thing was a few days ago represent the latest innovation on this site. We have no idea if they were popular (we don’t track things in too much detail around here), but the kid never fails to crack me up.

Now that he’s started his own blog, project126, we’d like to give him a proper send-off. So we roped him to an exit interview of sorts (he is obviously still welcome to post here), which we then edited and will post after the jump. This may be the only time you get to learn Fallen Angel’s thoughts on life, cake, poetry, and why we should care what the fuck he thinks.

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Roger Clemens had hot balls

Pax Arcana

I’ve always had a soft spot for Roger Clemens. It’s in my backyard, and by “soft spot” I mean “quicksand-filled trench in which I hope to lure the bloated jackass and fire potatoes at him until he begs for mercy.”

As a Mets fan, you can probably guess why I detest that hulking neanderthal so much. NO ONE THROWS BAT SHARDS AT MIKEY PIAZZA AND EVADES THE WRATH OF THE SHEA FAITHFUL! DO YOU HEAR ME, YOU VISCOUS MASS OF ARTIFICIAL TISSUE? NO ONE!

clemens_piazza

Anyway, it turns out that despite Clemens’ love affair with illicit performance enhancing drugs, he still needed a little help getting hopped up for Game 2 of the 2000 World Series.

He needed a man’s hands on his balls.

Via Fan IQ (and Deadspin) comes the most repellent story of crotch-based heat induction since I put Tabasco sauce in Father Scott’s mayonnaise:

The story comes courtesy of Yankee trainer Steve Donahue who told Verducci about what Roger Clemens did as part of his usual routine to get ready for facing the Mets in Game 2 of the 2000 World Series. Donahue said Clemens’ usual pregame preparation included taking a whirlpool bath at the hottest temperature possible.

“He’d come out looking like a lobster,” Donahue said.


But here’s the money quote:

Then Donahue would rub the hottest possible liniment on his testicles.

“He’d start snorting like a bull,” the trainer said. “That’s when he was ready to pitch.”

Perhaps this is why his pants are always on fire?

If You Ever Wondered Why Roger Clemens Always Looked So Angry, Tom Verducci Has The Answer [Fan IQ]
Roger Clemens Will Be Ready To Pitch…Right After His Sadomasochistic Rubdown [Deadspin]

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Productive Thursday Filler: Early Internet News

Pax Arcana

Good morning children. Please take your seats. Mr. Arcana is a bit preoccupied today, so please try to be good little boys and girls and sit still and don’t fight with each other. In fact, why don’t we just watch a movie today, kids? Sound good? OK calm down, it’s no Johnny Tremain or anything.

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Economy ravages spoiled bitches

Father Scott

Depressed about the economy? That 401(k) losing commas and zeroes by the second? Having trouble making payments to all nine babymammas (sorry, Genevieve, check’s in the mail, I promise this time)?

Well you don’t have the worst of it. See, you’re used to a pretty average life. You work your 40 hours, go home, heat up a microwaveable dinner, and whack it to your neighbor’s Victoria’s Secret catalog that accidentally got left in your mail.

Haven’t you ever thought of those more privileged than you? I mean, they were used to pretty lavish lives, with trips, 500-dollar dinners, and diamond-studded vibrators. You just can only eat at Applebee’s once a month instead of once a week.

Luckily, even though you’re a selfish dick, a network has been set up for those who lived fantastic lifestyles thanks to bankers’ riches, and now cannot. Meet DABAGirls (ht: Laura at The Modern Age).

DABA (Dating a Banker Anonymous) Girls tracks the lives of women who date bankers who are now financially scrizzewed. A recent post details a conversation between one young mistress and her older, married banker “boyfriend”:

Suddenly, I found myself being taken out less and less frequently. A recent argument went along these lines:

Me *pouting*: You haven’t taken me on a trip since we went to Bermuda in September. What’s going on?

Charles: Honey, finances are tight right now so my wife has taken it upon herself to check up on all of our accounts.  She will notice any big expenditures.

Me *cute voice*: Wellllllllllllll, what are you going to do to make it up to me?

Charles: Can we talk later sweetheart? I’m really busy right now.

Me: No. Give me an answer NOW. Don’t you realize what you have? I’m way too hot to be treated like this. (Disclaimer: Yes, I come across as bratty here, but it typically works when trying to get something out of him)

Charles *yelling for the first time in our almost two-year relationship*: I’VE GOT TO FIRE TWENTY PEOPLE BY THE END OF THE WEEK. Z has four kids, X just had a baby girl, Y just sent his son to college and I’ve got to get rid of two of those guys… and you’re complaining about vacations and dinner? God, you are so 24! GROW UP!

Me *stunned*: Okie dokie, let’s talk later lover.

 

He apologized a few hours later.  He promised my age was one of the things that endears me to him the most, but that I just don’t understand the tremendous amounts of pressure he is under right now. Fair enough. But damn, it’s tough to date a banker, even for the girl on the side.

You know what else is tough? Seeing the retirement money you worked your ass off for frittered away by assholes who also apparently can’t keep their dicks in their pants. But, yeah, it’s hard for you too, Courteney. May your hair light on fire. Sincerely, Padre.

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Your daughter is not that slutty

Pax Arcana

sexy_scoutKids today are sex-crazed monsters that spend every minute out of their parents’ sight clutching at each other’s underpants like prisoners in the throes of a conjugal visit. Anyone who doubts this doesn’t watch local news or Dr. Phil, and should be prevented from interacting with children or voting.

About the only people left on earth who think our children aren’t having more sex than ever are pervy high school soccer coaches and the New York Times, which tries to shoehorn its agenda into the debate using facts and other subversive things:

The reality is that in many ways, today’s teenagers are more conservative about sex than previous generations.

Today, fewer than half of all high school students have had sex: 47.8 percent as of 2007, according to the National Youth Risk Behavior Survey, down from 54.1 percent in 1991.

A less recent report suggests that teenagers are also waiting longer to have sex than they did in the past. A 2002 report from the Department of Health and Human Services found that 30 percent of 15- to 17-year-old girls had experienced sex, down from 38 percent in 1995. During the same period, the percentage of sexually experienced boys in that age group dropped to 31 percent from 43 percent.

Look, it was always pretty clear that teen sex rates would drop as soon as I left high school — but this is ridiculous. None of these studies seems to address the real issue here — kids today don’t think it’s sex unless it gets posted on the Internet or someone gets pregnant. Anything up until that point is just considered kissing. Especially for that bitch Jaimye, who was giving out HJs in the gym locker room back in middle school. I hope that whore gets burned in a fire.

The Myth of Rampant Teenage Promiscuity [NYT]

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I can tell you a few things about John Updike

Pax Arcana

updikeJohn Updike, the literary titan who was praised and reviled in equal parts throughout his career, died today at 76. This makes me sad. I sort-of knew him a little bit, since my company represented him for speaking engagements (I was there from 2000 to 2003).

I’ll avoid getting too deep into the many controversies surrounding his literary worth, but here are a few things I can tell you about John Updike:

1. He hated talking on the phone and refused to email. At work we had to mail him letters, which he would respond to on typed 3×5 notecards. I still have one in which he doubts the wisdom of accepting a $25,000 speaking engagement for fear that he would not match the well-honed speechcraft of prior event speakers Stephen Jay Gould and Daniel Boorstin.

2. While Updike was nervous about accepting money for these things, he was also keenly aware of what others were receiving for their events. I remember being yelled at by his daughter over the phone because lesser talents like Salman Rushdie commanded more money. I don’t think he really cared about the dollar figure, but I do think he was very concerned about his place in the firmament of great literary people.

3. He was funny. After one lecture in Florida, a rich alum from a major university wrote us asking if we could obtain an autographed picture for his wife to remember Updike by, since he’d made such a good impression at the event. Updike sent us a signed picture of himself curling 10-pound dumbells in a tweed jacket and tie. The picture had clearly been developed at one of those one-hour photomat places. There was no explanation given for the dumbells.

John Updike, Author, Dies at 76 [NYT]

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