After all this discussion, I decided to listen to “Urinetown,” and found out that I had the songs in the wrong order. No wonder I never felt it was an “Oklahoma” for the new millennium. And so much for ripping CDs when you’re not online. Anyhow, I’ve corrected the problem. The next time I listen to it, probably some time in 2014, I’ll be able to judge it much better. JV, who is in Ireland for the Jewish holidays (and there’s a joke in there somewhere but I can’t quite articulate it), is probably listening to it right now, sending those bog trotters into a true tizzy as he whistles along.
The third way--if you’ll pardon the expression—of dealing with the NFL red light crisis is to dissolve, and according to Ripin’ Ripon, if we do dissolve, our schools can move to another district at full strength. There seems to be equal portions of pissed off and pissed off on our side of this; regardless of how one feels about the organization, and whether one goes to NatNats or not, the idea that you pays your money and you get bounced is beginning to rise to the surface. How it will resolve I don’t know, but if we do dissolve, my guess is that a good number of the schools in the district won’t bother re-upping. I still haven’t paid my money for this year. And on top of it all, I just got the request for info on our District Tournament. The right hand doesn’t know… Ripin’ Ripon is apparently waiting for my call, but I want to sit down with my colleagues first, at Monti, before saying anything I might regret (although I have no compunctions about writing something I might regret—just call me the Little Sparrow for the new millennium).
(I figured that Little Sparrow would send some of the VCA to the Google box, so I checked, and sure enough, she pops up right at the top. Whew! The allusion, btw, is to “Non, Je ne Regrette Rien.” Curiously, right after Piaf, Dolly of the Partons then pops up for the next 243,394 hits. I like Dolly as much as the next person, more or less, but she ain’t no little sparrow. And speaking of obtuse references:) The glossary seems to be a hit with the VCA. I don’t know why. I think I write in perfectly understandable and acceptable English, but apparently only the crème de la cognoscenti have a bloody clue. But of course, by definition the VCA is the crème de la cog, so there you are.
Last night was the plebes’ parents’ meeting. As always, about half of the mob turned out. Given that forensics requires strong parental support, in equal proportions mental, physical and fiscal, and that all parents don’t support equally, it’s interesting to see the first fall-off occurring before we even get started. One or two may have had a good reason for not showing, but not a full half. But this is not something I don’t expect: it happens every year. It is merely something I don’t understand. High school is an exciting time for kids, and why parents wouldn’t want a big share of it, especially since at the end, when the spawn swim upstream to college, you’ll be lucky if you ever see them again for anything other than the ritual dropping off of the laundry, is beyond me. I don’t think there’s too many (if any) parents in the VCA. That would be too much even for the most dedicated, so I guess I can speak freely. But then again, the parents who are in the VCA are the parents I’m not complaining about. It’s a dead-end situation. It has been ever thus.
Anyhow, it’s interesting to meet with the parents and spew for an hour plus without a breath and then tell them I’ll teach their kids to speak both well and to the point. Wouldst that I could demonstrate same, they all think in unison. I do tend to go on (do tell, Mr. M!). But then I do so love watching them blanch when I say, among other prize moments, that they’ll be picking their sugarplums up at 3:00 a.m. after Manchester. And one year, I know it, Dave will also be at the meeting to represent the Speecho-American side of life, not that I can’t do it, but he was unable to attend, which is too bad because it’s a good idea that he be seen too, as sort of a counterweight to me. The more counterweights to me, the better, as I’m sure you’ll agree.
And Juan, Kwan and the stoners are at full bore. The basement (i.e., Chez HQ) has been stripped bare in preparation for the long heralded arrival of the carpet today, yesterday the painter flew off his ladder to great discomfort of all and sundry, the automatic garage doors appeared last night with merely the single flaw of our having no discernible way of opening them, and I haven’t played the piano in God knows how many weeks because of the work on the window in the living room. The fingers itch. The mind boggles. The work goes on.
I shoulda gone with JV to the old sod.
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