Marching band kids are a hoot. Hanging around them keeps me young. Or just immature.
At band camp a couple of years ago, Trumpet Player A (no names to protect the guilty!) yanked down the pants of Trumpet Player B during a water break in front of the entire band. All in good fun but, yes, accidentally caught the boxers too.
It brought new meaning to the command, “Trumpets, at ease!”
Later, PantsLess solicited the complicity of the band director who called for Trumpet Player A to stand at attention while PantsLess snuck up behind him and dumped a huge bucket of cold water over his head. If you know anything about marching band, you know when you’re at attention, you’re AT attention, no matter what happens. He stood there for a deliciously long time, dripping, not able to smile, not able to twitch, much to the delight of the rest of the band.
My favorite story though, comes to me from my son, Adam. They were on a band trip somewhere which means four kids — usually BFFs* — to a hotel room, sharing queen-sized beds. While BedMate was taking a shower, Adam put on a second pair of boxers. When they were all in bed getting ready for lights out, Adam slipped off one of the boxers, casually tossed it across the room toward his suitcase, then rolled toward BedMate.
He was across the room in a blur, yelling “What are you DOING??”
Adam said, “Oh. Sorry. You don’t want to spoon?”
It’s stuff like THAT that makes me wish I was in marching band.
So, I’m begging you … tell me your band stories. I love them more than bloggers love words … more than poets love cheese … more than Scrooge McDuck loves money … more than Greenpeace loves whales … more than texters love their thumbs. That’s a lot and you know it. The good stories will find their way into one of my novels. This I promise.
* Best Friends Forever, in teenage girl speak. See? This is an educational blog.