Fight Fire with Stomp

So another 3-star general called me a smart aleck yesterday. At least the rest of the auditorium thought I was funny. So my leadership style seems to have more of a Jacksonian Democracy tint than favoring a monacratic Georgian autocracy bent. Or something.

Busy day yesterday with a retired 2-star guest speaker in our small Strategic Leadership class; he had spent most of his 32 years in the space and missile career field and although our paths had never crossed, when I introduced myself, he said we had met. "Have we?" I offered, rather than flat out telling him that he was delusional and ugly. See? Not always a smart aleck.

He gave us a good speech that I appreciated consisting of his belief that success in leadership depended on being yourself. I've read more and more general biographies this term of so-called "mavericks" (including the AF's first Chief of Staff, General Spaatz) who might not have been the best academically or had those qualities you would have thought would have would lead to success, but they were stubbornly independent and always "themselves". Love that.

An active-duty 3-star lectured the entire class at 11, and although he seemed to be joshing with us, he didn't seem to appreciate my rejoinder, so we'll see if he recommends to my Commandant that I start selling shoes at Foot Locker even though (a) the Commandant laughed, too, and (b) I think it's stupid for people to spend more than six dollars for a pair of sneakers.

Found out that my bus-driving skills are going to be needed once more, for the Wright Brothers Lecture Series welcome reception June 7 at Hawthorne Hills, also known as the Wright Bros. Mansion (Wilbur died before it was finished, but Orville lived there until he died in 1948, supposedly fixing a doorbell.) I really wanted to go trip over the ottomans of Wright Bros. history, but due to size constraints, only primary WBLS staff and the guest lecturers were going to be able to attend. However, they recently found out there isn't enough parking for everyone, so they reserved a bus and asked if I wouldn't mind driving the entire staff down there for the reception. "Sure," I replied. "Do I have to stand outside like Hoke in 'Driving Miss Daisy' or do I actually get to attend, too?"
I'll be swapping melon balls with the muckity mucks.

Then last night was the Humane Society Volunteer Appreciation "Open House" which was just as sad as everything else I've been a part of. A small room at the Holiday Inn, ten round tables, a bowl of chips, pretzels, cooked vegetable tray, and twelve Pizza Hut pizza cut into stamp-sized pieces. I think maybe twelve people showed up who weren't staff members; nine pizza boxes went un-opened, though there were stacks and stacks of certificates, maybe a hundred. Just don't think this thing was well advertised. Or mabye folks went to previous ones and realized what it consisted of! One table had "pre-drawn" door prizes, with names already next to them -- they were kind enough to "win" me a book written by the Dog Whisperer dude. I was going to sit by myself, but figured it would look silly, so I sat across from a couple ladies who said they like my Dogfather shirt. Seems 'Tiffany' and 'Melody' had been volunteering for years, mostly weekends, which is why I'd never seen them around. Liked Melody immediately; she couldn't immediately recall how many pets she has, especially with all the fosters she has currently. And she's the one who takes home the sad cases for a few good months in a loving environment rather than letting the Humane Society "eute" them. I told them who I was and that I walked dogs mostly. "Oh, yeah, I think Teddy told me about you."
"Oh really? Who's Teddy?"
"Long gray hair, works back in the kennel."
...*works*...right.
The Big Boss came in a half hour after it started and mingled with a few tables, but never ours. No speeches, no major thank yous. Just eat your cheese cubes, drink your pink lemonade, and see you next year.
But I asked Melody if she'd heard anything about my old friend Mickee, and she whipped out some photos. Said she hears from the lady who adopted her all the time, that she's doing great, loves her cats, and is getting fat and loved. She said I could even keep one of the pictures. One of them (that I didn't feel right in keeping) had Mickee licking the head of a cat curled up in a bed, and the writing on the back said that Mickee was comforting the kitty, who died two days later from kidney failure.

So I'm glad I went, and, because of Mickee stories, I'm glad I go.

P.S. "Chudo," I learned, is Russian for "Miracle."

Started to pack last night for the holiday trip home (it doesn't feel like three weeks is that long, but I haven't even been home since Ainsley started feeding Ryan food) and wrapped some anniversary presents. Watched the History of Heavy Metal on VH-1 and "Whose Line is it Anyway" which is seriously the most entertaining show ever. Got ready for bed a little after midnight, pouring myself a glass of water, and then my new neighbor, on the non-dog side, decided it would be a good time to start playing his drum set.

I just smiled. It was just so ridiculous. Boom boom TAT de boom boom TAT de CRASH de TAT de boom boom TAT? Really? At 12:15 a.m? Then he'd stop for a few seconds. I heard some music being played in the room next to his (I think I've mentioned we have thin walls), so I deduced that this guy was trying to tell his neighbor to turn his music down by playing his drums very loudly. By demonstrating how rude it was to play loud music by playing loud drums.

This is a funny little building.

I move out in three weeks.