go straight to hell, boy

Don’t hold your breath waiting for a post about Monday’s this week’s the most recent market collapse. I’ve stopped reading newspapers.

On Friday I went to the Harvard Film Archive for the first time. A neat little theater, but I wonder if the students staffing it are all there. The guy behind the counter mistook one patron’s $20 for a $10, forcing him to double-check the cash drawer and the number of tickets sold to rectify the mistake. When Marie asked where the restroom was, the guy taking tickets told her “the men’s room is at the top of the stairs.” They blinked at each other for five seconds before the guy realized his mistake.

I saw The Wild Bunch (q.v.).

On Saturday, after laundry and grocery shopping, I drove to Paul’s dojo in Natick to help judge the graduating class of instructors in their oral exam. Student instructors must teach two jiu jitsu techniques – one that they’ve prepared, one that’s sprung on them 60 seconds ahead of time. Each of the senseis has a 20-point scorecard, of which only 1 point is devoted to “accurate technique.” Everything else is presentation: engaging the audience’s attention, making sure everyone can see and understand what you’re doing, selling the impact of the technique, etc. 17 is a passing grade.

LJ’s own Katie H. did very well, at least on my scorecard. Nick will reveal the grades this week.

We choreographed some dancing for Gorefest on Sunday. No spoilers, but expect things to be significantly crazy.

I had my quarterly check-in with Rachel V. on Monday night, sprinting past Michelle, Vickie, Lisa C. and Erik outside J.P. Licks on the way. “This is my first time running into people in Davis,” Michelle said, hugging me with vigor. It reminded me why I moved to Davis as well.

The pool at the Watertown BSC got taken over by aquarobics on Tuesday morning. The lap swimmers had to go three to a lane. Then I got all the way upstairs to the office door, only to realize I’d left my wallet in my car. Also, I kind of parked like an asshole this morning. Definitely a rude job of parking, not in keeping with my ideation of my self. Sorry for leaving my ego hanging out, world.

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