I just sent in the Scarsdale registration. We've got a pretty full contingent, I think, and I'm looking forward to it. Last year the tab room was colder than a penguin's be-hind, but I'm trusing that the Scarswegians have paid their heating bill since then, and that every word we say won't be frozen in midair.
A call came in that I need to go meet with the District over budgeting next week. I had been warned about this; it's a result of all the chicanery in the Roslyn district, where apparently some school administrators took the district to the cleaners for umpty-ump and a half dollars, got caught, and as a result caused ripples throughout the state. Whatever. I can't imagine any accounting system that wouldn't show that the money I spend is less than the money the school gives us, and that it's all going to legitimate debate outlets. I mean, we've been pretty tightfisted ever since we sold back the team Harleys. Those used to be the days, everyone on the team arriving on their Hogs at Lakeland or Monticello, the wind blowing through our hair (all right, blowing through their hair), outracing the cops at two a.m. driving back from NFA... Ah, the glory days. We had a fleet of twenty motorcycles, some of them practically brand new. We sold them all to a dealer and got enough money to send two Speecho-Americans to Harvard, provided they didn't mind sleeping on the T. Oh, how the mighty fell!
I keep forgetting that someone from Eastchester is expecting some sort of seminar and demos at Scarsdale. I trust they'll remind me as we get closer. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I'll figure out something.
And O'C is sending me this barrage of emails telling me that I'm over the hill. He wants to have all Big Bronx rounds in the future judged by AARP members or something, and he has me at the head of the codger line. We'll all be judging with pencils in one hand, ear trumpets precariously balanced in the other. Aaargh! I'm not old, I'm vintage.
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