High School Band Day: fun yet frustrating.

This was the second year that I served as a Band Aide for Sierra High School's marching band, hailing from the Great American Little Town of Manteca, due just northwest of Modesto, the crown jewel of California. I've gotta say, I'm glad I chose to hang out with these guys again. I recognized a few of the faces from two years ago, but what really impressed me was that all the students who were here two years ago actually remembered me. And of course, Rick "The Hammer" Hammarstrom, their band director, was as prudishly awkward, witty, and hilarious as ever. (What else would you expect from a BYU grad who doesn't drink or curse yet loves listening to KMEL and Wild 94.9?)

Looking at the twenty-something high school bands in attendance yesterday (amounting to a disgustingly high ~2300 students), I think Sierra was one of the most unique bands present. They're a small band - forty or so students - without a drum major and without a whole lot of history or experience (Sierra opened in 1994); Hammer is the only band director they've ever known. After my first time helping them two years ago, I thought to myself, "Well, that was fun, but wasn't quite worth the trouble. I don't think I'll do it again."

And because I have the memory capacity of a turnip, I decided to be a band aide again this year, and rubbing together the two brain cells I have left through all the alcohol poisoning I've exposed them to over the past couple years, I somehow managed to recall what a fun, ragtag group of kids they were. Therefore, I decided to go with Sierra again.

This year, however, made me realize something entirely different about their band: they are the marching band equivalent of the Gutty Little Bruins. They have pretty nice-looking uniforms, but it's clear that the uniforms are kinda old and tattered. The students aren't precise or disciplined in their performance, nor are any of them particularly magnificent musicians. They're a competent marching band. But man, do these guys know how to have fun. I learned a few damn good jokes from them. All of them seemed to be friends - they didn't seem clique-ish or anything, and that's probably because the band is so small. Their drum cadences are upbeat and just plain fun. They're not the best marching band in the world, but it's definitely clear that they're very proud of what they do. Who could ask for anything more than that? (Other than a Rose Bowl)
----
Tom and I were cracking a joke about how Colorado State was probably playing so poorly because they weren't used to the low-altitude air and getting hit with all this oxygen. They were probably high off all that O2.
----
Hey $C fans, be careful not to break your legs jumping off the bandwagon.

And I thought piccolos were bad.

My roommates + Cynthia are playing "Dirty Little Secret" on Rock Band while I'm studying for my genetics quiz.

Not saying who, but Santa is gonna pay each and every one of them a very special visit tonight.

They will experience what my first Christmas was like: nothing but coal in the stockings. If by "stockings" I mean pillowcases. And by "coal" I mean poop comprised of chicken chow mein from Lotus House.

Satan paid me a visit while I was in Maryland

Upon returning to glorious Berkeley from more-humid-than-Frankie's-armpits Maryland, groggy and possibly still drunk from the night before, this poor sight is what came across my blurry (because I was tired and have astigmatism and possibly still drunk), letterbox field of vision (because I have sranty eyes. Seriously, I see life as if I were watching Conan on a standard 4:3 television):



Here's what I'm guessing happened: Beelzebub was coming up from his penthouse suite in the Flaming Slutbucket Palace apartment complex in the mirror equivalent of Westwood to come claim my wretched, cheeseburger-clogged soul, because if you take a look at His Evilness' naughty list, I somehow managed to get my name on there twice. Paul the Apostle ain't got nothin' on me. (1 Tim 1:15. Screw you Wikipedia, I cite my shit.)

Unfortunately, the brilliant men who work for Refuse Collection for the City of Berkeley failed to notice that the recycling bin was sitting directly on top of the invisible, for-demons'-and-Karl-Rove's-eyes-only super double secret elevator entrance to the nether-regions of the spiritual world. When His Wretchedness' elevator surfaced to the glory of Europe's "The Final Countdown," the vessel struck the innocent recycling bin....which melted the crap out of it and everything inside.

That, or a bunch of drunken tards thought it would be HURHUR FUCKIN AWESOME to set random shit on fire.

I like my conspiracy theory better. I'm off to eat a couple more cheeseburgers.

The Internetz is for porn NOT

I'm not typically one for political commentary because, knowing damn near nothing about the history, mechanisms, and landscapes of American politics, I risk emulating 99% of the talking heads on TV who think they know jack shit about politics. Instead, I prefer to nitpick at all the other little things that usually have zero impact on the real issues at hand.

(Wait a second.)

...Anyways, I'm going to put politics aside for the next five minutes and let the world out there know that Sarah Palin is smokin' hot and I have a creepy Google Images crush on her. Sexy librarian from my por...I mean, DREAM REcollections: despite what Juno MacGuff may claim, I don't have to be a bonehead jock to love Palin and her all-too-distracting, hotter-than-Tabasco-doused-Alaskan-King-Crab-legs pictures acquired from a simple search on Google.

Some argue that with the selection of Palin as VP candidate and his marriage to Cindy, John McCain has now established a track record of being an old, dangly-skinned/-cocked creeper. I take personal offense to that comment. It's clear that these people attacking McCain are simply 1) jealous, 2) lonely, and 3) overweight Asian who can't get a date to save his life.

(Wait a second.)

...Anyways, McCain made an executive decision based on the most educated and knowledgeable part of any man's body: his dick. Using that parameter, McCain made an excellent decision and is well on his way to proving that he has what it takes to lead...based on his penis. I mean, Hillary has her moment from certain angles and certain lighting, but she really can't shake that certain Bitchface McGee aura that has unfortunately plagued her since her husband Bill "Horndog/THE MAN" Clinton was in office.

Palin, on the other hand, looks like the sweet young mom next door (yes, looks, as in present tense) who hires a steaming hot gardener and then, one hot summer day, invites him in for lemonade and then fucks the bejeezus out of him.

(Wait a second.

Yes, that's correct. Fucks the bejeezus out of him. I have to stop doubting my train of thought.)

...Anyways, scratch that. She's more like sweet cheerleader girl next door who got into a career of insanely shitty chart-toppers and being the most expensive/widely televised stripper on the world and one day decided to marry one of her backup dancers. The difference is so small that it's basically negligible.

I do, however, feel a little sorry for McCain. It's just too bad that ol' General McCain and His Undersecretaries won't be able to carry out His duties to His fullest extent without some extra assistance from a lot of Blue.
(+5 extra credit if you can catch all the completely retarded puns I just made.)

I'm also glad I vote with my brain instead of my member. Sure don't want those hanging chads ending up in places they don't belong.

The 90's were amazing, and don't you forget it.

At our first ever Bear Family bonding, PSo, Koo and I took the bus to go bowling in Albany, and when it hit 9pm, the disco lights started turning, the blacklights started frying, and the sadly outdated music started pumping. About half an hour into the playlist, *NSYNC's "Tearin' Up My Heart" started pumping and PSo and I started singing along to every single one of those damned poorly-conceived words. We looked over to Koo to see if he was enjoying himself just as much.

Koo had the most confused look on his face. And PSo and I cried a little bit inside.

"How old were you when this song came out? Do you know?" we asked.

"I have no idea who this is. I don't think I've ever heard this song," Koo emptily replied.

I swear, I shit a brick and a half when his answer hit my ears. John McCain, my heart reaches out to you. We're fucking old. But the best part:

"DUDE. This is *NSYNC, back in the day, man."

"...you mean that really gay boy band?"