I realize that I am about to lose any cool I may have managed to accumulate by being a blogger, but it has to be done. NaBloPoMo is a harsh task master and if you don't give out with the good stuff, Eden Kennedy will track you down....
When I was thirteen, I joined a marching band.
And it's just now occurred to me. Do you suppose that was the reason I didn't date much in high school? The purple serge uniform (with spats!), the tall fake fur white hat (with gold-esque chin strap). And, oh yeah, in grade 9? I got glasses.
There is a photograph in existence somewhere of me in full uniform, holding onto my french horn. I will not rest until it is tracked down and destroyed.
Yes, I said french horn. On its own, it is one of the most beautiful-sounding instruments in the world. Why do music arrangers treat it like part of the percussion section?
I practiced diligently. And what wafted up from the basement was a half-hour of "Ooomp" (rest) "oomp" (rest) "oomp" (rest).
My poor parents!
I was supposed to memorize the music for the parades. How? How are you supposed to memorize a hundred and thirty "C" quarter notes interspersed with quarter rests, followed by a page and a half of total silence aaaaaand back to the "C" quarter notes?
It's confession time.
For the two and a half years I was in that band? I faked the whole thing.