Here, you do it. And, take my Bump. Please.

I should know this by now. When you give a teenager an assignment, and an underclassman assistant, the teenager will inevitably pass the assignment along to the underclassman assistant. There is some theory, probably French, that all human beings are born thinking they’re line managers, with an innate drive to delegate, and if the evidence I have seen is any indication, this is probably true. The corollary to this theory, also probably French, is that the underclassman assistant will inevitably screw up the assignment. Like the swallows returning to Capistrano, like the lemmings zipping off the nearest cliff, like the grizzlies selling lemonade below cost at the home game, it always comes to pass. That I will forget all this truth, and make the same mistake over and over again, is also inevitable. Say what you will about life, at least we all understand it completely, in every crook and nanny. The last time we were surprised about human nature was in seventh grade, and thank God that’s over. So, there you are. And I don’t want to hear any complaints that being part of the VCA has not been highly informative for you. Jeesh!

Meanwhile, last night I sent out a message to my mailing lists regarding Bump. That’s this tournament in November… A few people had already signed up, and now at least I’ve announced that we’re happening for real. Registration opened officially (i.e., for O’C) on September 15. Before the week is out I’ll need to chivvy up the judges. I’ve got to have some LD and some Pfffts. My upperclassmen (AKA the Delegators) will judge novices. Which means my tables will be run by Speecho-Americans. Very odd. O’C sent me a message suggesting that, in fact, I really like all of this. This gives me a chance to use the word preposterous for the very first time on this blog. While I like tabbing and telling everyone else what to do at their events, the stress of putting on a tournament myself, in two buildings, with bazillions of people, is not something I seek out. Years of experience make no difference, because at any moment the whole thing could blow up; it’s bad enough the little things that do happen, much less the way my imagination lights on the big things that are still possible. I think I harbor a secret hope that for some perfectly acceptable reason the school district will clamp down and tell me to send the whole thing packing, at which point, after doing the happy dance for a couple of hours, I would indeed without remorse send the whole thing packing. I’d send it to O’C. He seems to like these things (although, if you were to ask, I could tell a few stories about Big Jake…).