There were numerous entertainments at Monticello, starting with the ride up. One of the great philosophical questions not yet pondered here at Coachean HQ is how, given that I have about 20M songs on my iPod, with more being added regularly, we can set our phaser to random and get one crappy song after the other without a break. And I mean crappy. First of all, where did some of this music come from? I don’t remember putting it there, and I’ve been doing pod maintenance for months now. And while a little torturing of Sailors is entertaining, enough is enough, given that I’m in the car with them. Let’s call a spade a spade: when the high point of your listening pleasure is that “Surfer Bird” has come on to save the musical day, you know it’s time to rip some new albums. Oy!
How the hell did I get “Surfer Bird” on my iPod?
When we arrived in Monticello we circled around for a while trying to find the elusive Wendy’s before resigning ourselves to Pizza Hut. One does not travel to Monticello for the fine dining, much less follow directions from LPW. We did see a lot more of Monticello than normal, however, as we wandered about lost and hungry. Normally I sneer at fast food, but at some point one will eat literally anything put in front of one. Which may also explain the Pan-Asian dinner Saturday night. Who knew that Italy was part of the Pan-Asian kritik? I, for one, never got that memo. We were eating dinner in Monticello rather than back in Sailorville because “Good old Alli” kept us waiting and waiting while she kept debating, oblivious to the fact that the rest of us had homes to go to. Yeah, sure, she got a TOC bid, but was she thinking about us through it all? I don’t think so. Jeesh.
For those in the know, LPW has changed his nickname to HPL, or more to the point had it changed for him in the forge of actual debate rounds. And thus does Freddie the N go back into the box… The words “we told you so” will not be uttered. Or will not be uttered much. After a month or two.
Surfer Bird?
At some break in his judging JV came up to ruin my Wurdle high scores again. He needs to get his own Touch: I’m frustrated enough as it is. O’C came up to read love notes from his bus driver, with whom he is planning on eloping some time during the middle of Big Jake. Weaver kept sending up artwork, as demonstrated in yesterday’s post. RJT sat at her computer staring down a steady stream of deadbeats as one after the other attempted to sneak through a little fiscal hancus pancus. There is no fiscal hancus pancus at Monticello, bub. You miss a round or attempt to elide a judging requirement and RJT will reach down your throat and pull it out of your kidneys. In addition to the homicidal Ms J-T, there was a steady stream of other Montwegians who can only be described as potential extras for a slasher film. They are assembling one interesting team up there. And in the darkest of dark moments, the custodians threw away the box for the Bro. Fortunately I managed to find a tub in my basement that is appropriate; nothing worse than an unprotected Bro.
I was back at the Chez around midnight on Saturday, and slept on and off throughout Sunday, catching up and generally enjoying some lollygagging. Then, unlike the rest of you, it was back to the D.J. on Monday. No Columbus Day for the non-educationally employed. And next up, the first-timers’ MHL. A swell time promises to be had by all.
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