Auntie Mame on the Hudson

Talk about endless. I put in the Tasty Judges of the World for Big Jake last night. What a combination of forensician celebrities, homeless wackos and Craig’s List Rent-a-Philosophers. And plenty of ‘em, too. O’C has managed to pull in enough markers to cover a single-flighted 6th round (thank you, oh TOC, for this extra burden), which means I had to take about 70 names off the federal sex-offender list and paste them into the Big Jake judge pool. Jeesh. Meanwhile O’C and I are emailing up a storm (and I’m wishing, just momentarily, that I was an instant message user) over this, that and the other, while Bump registrations are simultaneously pouring in (Policy is now closed) and I’m fraught with doubt over downloading the new OS upgrade until after Saturday, not to mention v7.01 of iTunes, which may or may not be the one, but I need to grab the episode of Heroes that I missed (I can’t imagine why I’m watching that show, but I admit that I am) and the latest software is essential for videos. Plus I finished reading The Unofficial Guide to Vacationing with the Old Baudleroo, which means I’m knee-deep in arguments with the daughter about things like oom-pah bands vs belly dancing, AKA Brats v Bistiya.

Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving.

Meanwhile there’s working on the backstory for the trial of the century, figuring out the team assignments for Bump (which I’m giving out next Tuesday), catching up on Nostrum, planning the O’C interview, reorganizing the chez hq which is finally (FINALLY) ready for almost complete moving in as soon as Liz paints the bookcases but which at the moment is still hanging fire with me huddled over Little Elvis like one of those homeless Big Jake judges roasting wieners over a garbage can fire. Speaking of which, when I got the new Hunka Hunka Burning Love battery to replace the old HHBLB, for some reason the thing now teeter-totters. It’s not flat on the table. Everything looks right when you turn it upside down, but something is amiss, and I’ve found that the only cure to this dreaded typing wobble is the under-body insertion of a little mini-disk from my camera. In other words, Little Elvis is 8 megs short of a Hound Dog, or something.

Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving.

I’ve got to send out an invite for the first-timers MHL next week, but I need to know how the invoices should be worded, which I’ll sort out with O’C this week when I give him about a hundred checks that I owe him. I’ve also got to come to a decision about the Red Light District, but I realized that this morning I am almost completely ready to retire from the field of battle and to take the Sailors with me, all of which I’ll have to explain at length, but not just yet, as St. Augustine might say. I’m setting Nov 1 as my fish-or-get-off-the-pot date. And Manchester is all set, finally, with the Sailors bussing up with Gazzola Joe and the Jakers. And any day now the plebes will be signing up for a tournament and actually debating.

Yeah. Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving.