Elliptical? Moi?

It has been suggested that I was beating around the bush yesterday. Well, I didn't want to come right out and say that it is a team tradition for the novices to get tattooed at Little Lex, because there is liability involved, but there you are. Lexington is, if you've never been there, the park where all the Massachusetts trailers end up. Strip joints, pool halls, gun shops—good old Lex-Ink-Ton fits right into the tawdry downtown street scene. It has been ever thus. Why do you think Paul Revere was in such a hurry to get there? Why do you think the British wanted to shut it down? King George, a notorious bluenose, thought of the city as proof positive that the colonies couldn't be entrusted with self rule. "The Americans want nothing but a musket, a tumbler of ale and a lap dance," he was famously quoted as saying in March of 1775. On this idea began the Revolutionary War. Years later the familiar phrase "Banned in Boston" always had that hidden codicil, "But Legal In Lexington." Less than half an hour away from the center of New England puritan prudery, it still proudly flies its flag of libertarianism: the bluest city in the bluest state, their town slogan today is, "We didn't vote for Teddy until AFTER Chappaquiddick."

Anyhow, some kids find their first debate tattoos a bit of an ordeal, but most of them quickly get into the flow and it's "The Illustrated Man" in teenaged spades. They start out as timid young adolescents and three years later emerge as virtual Queequeegs! It's a proud, honored Hen Hud tradition, begun, of course, by the original Grabbo. On his back is the Battle of Waterloo, beside it the wreck of the Hesperus too, and proudly above waves the red, white, and blue... You can learn a lot from Grabowitz!

La la la. La la la.

Okay, enough of that. I haven't gone off the deep end. I'm just staring at the abyss and hoping not to slip. Why I took on another tournament is beyond me. Kurt won't be able to get the trophies up here, so I'll have to figure out something, probably ripping the tags off the Pffft trophies and hoping no one notices. We're still packing them into the Library; I'm thinking of tabbing in the judges' lounge, next to the Box o' Joe from Dunkin' Donuts. McRotty just lost his bus; he likes to leave messages on my cell phone, which I've really got to start keeping on a little more regularly. Someone who will remain nameless is sending the Slowest Judge in the East when I'm trying to get through 4 rounds before 6:00. I'm beginning to wish I had decided instead to visit the vaguely romantic sounding Coyne-Jewett-by-the-Sea instead of running my own shebang. "By the sea, Mr. Todd..."

I'm feeling very musical today, for some reason. Sleep deprivation, I guess.

Jared seems to have gotten a job at a literary agency. Hoo-ha! Welcome to the world of publishing, where the days are long, the paychecks are small, but you get to meet famous writers who like nothing better than talking about themselves. There's one on the bestseller list today, known familiarly to his editor as That $%#^&ing *&^%$#. Ohhhhhh, the stories I could tell; ohhhhh, the stories Jared soon could tell. The hardest thing is finding a place to live in the City or thereabouts. It's never been cheap, but compared to when I did it in the 70s, it seems to be ten times worse now. Speaking of which, I'm listening to an audiobook I strongly recommend, Pete Hamill on downtown Manhattan. I think it's time for a list of audio links on the right there. Why not? If you did everything I told you to do (with the exception of you, you interloping spalpeen) you'd be a lot smarter, and, of course, I'd be a lot funnier.

Lordy lordy lordy, I do entertain myself, at least.