There are way too many emails in the old inbox, most of them from O’C, no doubt having second thoughts and thinking about canceling Big Jake.
Na’ah.
I look forward to Big Jake, as I think I’ve mentioned. There’s something about that dry airless library, the sound of boom boxes from the courtyard right outside the windows, the cheers of the restless football teams from across the street threatening dark ritual violence against one another, the barking of orders by the Reverend BA at his army of people who actually follow orders, the sight of Gazzola Joe (which is a much more interesting name than the amiable sounding Joe Gazzola) sniffing the air in aid of making a quick exit and wondering why the tabfolk look at him askance for serving Jiffy Sub sandwiches, or, for that matter, Tastes of the Known World; tabgrub is best left to three-star Michelin chefs who understand the concept of essence infusion, and not second-generation chameleon-like Greek pizza-makers churning out chipatis and chimichangas as if they were born to the game. Don’t get me wrong: I applaud O’C’s attempt to elevate the level of cuisine in the darkest Bronx. I just don’t want to have to eat it, any more than I want a blob of debate ziti on my Styrofoam plate at your normal forensics venue. Even when Lexington offers those restaurant makers offering their best wares at discount prices, I still sneak off to the local restaurants for a quiet sit-down with a metal fork and food out of an oven rather than out of a tinfoil pan over sterno. Am I too fussy? Not really. I understand the logistics of feeding the huddled masses cheaply, since I do it myself at Bump. But that doesn’t make me drool over the prospect. There’s no scent rising from the food, beckoning me with its smoky finger to float from tab to table, bib around my neck, lips smacking uncontrollably. A little lo mein straight from the crappy Chinese, and maybe a couple of dumplings, in the peace and quiet of a buzzing tabroom, and I’m a happy camper.
Then again, looking forward to Big Jake at some point means opening all those O’C emails. There was a period of a few hours yesterday when I hadn’t heard a peep out of him, and vice versa. It was quiet, as they say—too quiet. So much for that. Presumably he has the judges for me; I’ll input them tonight after I get back from dinner (I’m going out in preparation for the presumed famine to come, i.e., Tastes of the Known World). The heavy lifting is already done. Now it’s just the gory details. Or, I guess, Judges of the Known World. At least he’ll have it out of his system soon enough, then on to normal life.
Last night at the Sailors’ meeting we were in competition with the West Point Jazz Band, which was playing in the auditorium and definitely has to be a better gig for them than, say, reveille bugler in Baghdad. But our attendance remained high. The plebes all brought books and read for us, which means that for the first time ever we actually had all of them doing what I asked, miracle of miracle (and shades of the Rev BA). And they were pretty good. You could hear them in the back of the room, and they didn’t shake, rattle and roll too much. They’re a promising group already. Afterwards we did a lot of little bits of business, but nothing notable. The plebes are getting their first demo round this week, and that should shake a few squirrels out of their mental trees. Then next week, they’re on to the Mid-Hudson League’s annual First-Timers Only event, this year at a new venue, Byram Hills. Because of SATs, they all get to sleep late: our bus leaves at 11:00. They are going to get soooooo wrong a picture of this activity! Then again, maybe O’C will let us sleep late this Saturday, too. He’s got all those flown-in Judges of the Known World, numbering, if I’m not mistaking, in the low 300s. We could single flight everything, including bathroom breaks. Roll in around noon in our berets, flaunting our best Hollywood duds, flouncing and fleecy and furry-eyed. Sounds good to me.
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