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2003-02-25 - 1:17 p.m. Attack of the Evil, Gray, Fluffies I have been trying to read a technical paper since I got to work this morning. One technical paper. One. A modest ten pages. Hours later, I am barely on page 3. I love my team, but can�t they go away for just a minute? I read really fast. Just a few minutes? One difficult aspect of team leadership is you must never turn away someone seeking to impart information or get questions answered. If you brush them off even once, communication is severely eroded by their hesitation to come back for more brusque treatment. Must recite that to myself over and over today. Life got much milder after the wild Nia and Nikulai departed for points south. There was much napping, a brief resurgence of my cold, and other mundanities like laundry, bills and filing. Heck, I didn�t even go to work last week. We were closed until Thursday, by which point I stayed home with a cold. Friday, I planned to telecommute for a few hours � and ended up working all day. C�est la vie. If you didn�t catch this note in my guestbook, let me put it here� Just so you know....after shamelessely drooling over your telescoping roasty-forks at Ymir, and not counting on my obsession with All Things Pointy, my wife bought me a set of those forks for Valentine's Day. She remembered my obsession with All Things Pointy when I immediately removed them from the package, extended them to full length, and began poking things. I poked the dogs (who were just confused), the wall, the fire, marshmallows, my TV chair, the radio , and finally turned on my wife. At this point, she began to vocally regret her purchase. I looked at her and said, "you bought a white scarf pokey things. What did you expect?" and continued to poke away. Much sighing on her part. -from Alejandro Everybody stop and admire Briana. Now picture this. What would happen if you threw a bunch of the telescoping roasty forks into the middle of a White Scarf meeting and ran for cover? Now what if there were only enough forks for all but one White Scarf present? Now what if you had a video camera? Could you send footage of the carnage to Animal Planet? Saturday was a long ride (traffic, high standing water, lanes still closed by leftover snow) to Performer�s Symposium to see Master Corun join the Order of the Pelican, our newest addition admitted to the Golden Dolphin, and relax in Ponte Alto�s splendid hospitality. Rarely have I seen any candidate look so poleaxed as Lord Michael Oldcastle, sitting in the back of the hall shocked that Their Majesties had called him to join the Golden Dolphins. Fun for the order and an overdue accolade. Given my lack of instrumental skill and my abhorrent singing voice, me at a performer�s symposium is a funny thing. The irony is (a) I really like to sing, but, no one enjoys it and (b) I have an encyclopedic memory for lyrics. Still, I scrape along on the choruses, and I can fill in the words for March of the Cambreadh when people stumble. And my captive audience, the patient Roland, bears with admirably. Maybe I just attend less bardics these days, but I�ve certainly missed the singing that used to pervade our Kingdom. I�ll whisper the lyrics, if the more capable will take up the songs. I ended up only taking one class, Cuan�s class on War Songs, which was quite fun, even if he did nearly make me cry with �Born on the List Field�. That songs always tears through me - which was his point, understanding how songs envoke feelings and respecting the material. Though I have witnessed many aspects of Cuan�s prowess, the bravest thing I ever saw him do was sing that song over Kane and Muirgen�s grave. I have to talk about something else now. We unfortunately, missed the evening performances, but we really wanted to spend time with the traveling Alisandra, back in Montana exile after only a week at home. So there was dinner and drinking and frivolity and games until late in the night. I slept soundly in Lis�s guestroom until almost noon on Sunday. Then, we puttered around until it was time for a very late lunch and a foray to the airport. I have to say, the squirrels in her attic are very frightening. And I mean that literally. This is not a bats in the belfry segue. There are little holes, like an ice pick stuck through drywall, in her ceiling, and you can hear the mad scrabbling of claws in the attic. Evil, gray, fluffy things. Gen says they are not her minions. And after listening to that racket, I wouldn�t send anyone into the attic to talk to the possessed things. The evening wound out with a pleasant sojourn for Indian food with G&A and ungifts for me. Gen had been to Daedalus Books and gleefully dug booty for me out of her backseat, while the boys rolled their eyes at the crazy women pawing illumination books in standing shivering in the frigid winter dark. Girls are different than boys, you know. � � Scribble to Theo previous - next �