Tag Archives: drum corps

at the end of the day you’re another day older

Do you remember the 6 o’clock sun?  Just after dinner.  A drum pushing down on my shoulders and against my full stomach.  We were running sets for the 8th hour that day.  That sun was like a knife–piercing as it set, going to bed for the night.  Me.  Longing to go to bed with it.  But when there was light there was drill.  And drumming.  And you standing there, always ready to catch me if I fell…or needed a hand up after an additional ten pushups.

I was thinking about it today as I watched the sun set over the soccer field–the men out there without their shirts enjoying the last few days of warmth.  I couldn’t help but wonder if they felt the piercing too.



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Are you cold?

I went to Fever Formal last night and I have to commend the men of the Fever House on their efforts and amazing ability to throw a party.

The truth is that I was not feeling so well. I started to come down with a stupid cold late on Thursday and by Friday I began stocking up on immunity vitamins. Come party time Saturday night I tried to pretend like I was fine. The night ended in me being loopy (not because of alcohol), hardly able to swallow, and nearly in tears because of all the muscle aches. Of course, I didn’t want to admit any of this because the party was so great. But it was more than apparent from my body language and near the end Mr. Hay forced me to sit down (thanks).

The last time I remember feeling this way was on tour 03. After our first show I started to feel it coming on but pushed through rehearsal the next day believing I was simply dehydrated and sore from sleeping on the floor. When I awoke in the morning I got up to take the ramps off the truck and admitted to Ryan that I couldn’t swallow and (surprise surprise) started crying. They took me to the hospital in Racine and I was told I only had a cold. ONLY? AND that I should stop marching. STOP MARCHING!? eff that. I did not take the doctor’s advice but I did sleep it off and missed rehearsal for a few days–not of my own will.

By the way, I’m sitting in Espresso in Champaign and someone has some serious perfume on, and if I can smell it despite my stuffed-up nose you KNOW it is strong.


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He’s got great manners and stops talking at your request

A few weeks ago at the office my boss and I were going over a mailer he was about to send out–making corrections, discussing grammar, and making sure it was 100% professional.

“I know this is super nit-picky,” I said, “but Internet should have a capital ‘I,’ because it is a proper noun.  It describes a specific place.”

“Really?”  He replied.

“Yeah.  I am certain on this because it just so happened to be the topic of the grammar podcast I listened to this morning.”

Note to self: do not admit to listening to grammar podcasts.  I’m still living it down.

 Grammar Girl was just finishing up her segment yesterday when she gave a shout-out to Mr. Manners.  A had a fleeting moment of glee.  A manners podcast?  Right-on!  Now, I’m no Emily Post or anything (and as the maid-of-honor to Stephanie’s upcoming wedding she can certainly attest to this) but I am all about etiquette.  I think somewhere it falls in line with that whole Catholic/drum corps/gets excited about APA style books/wants to be a nun/librarian-in-training thing.  I like knowing that there is a proper way of doing things and as much as I don’t like being told what to do, I sure do like knowing that someone else has things in control. 

Mr. Manners and I–we’re going to be good friends. 


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there is no crying in bassline

The three of us spent an inordinate amount of time together.  It had to be that way, though, and I didn’t mind.  We couldn’t actually function as a whole instrument without each other and the two males that were the tail-end of the bass line.  They would always group us together, despite our completely different personalities, body-types, and ways of handling things.  We housed together, drove to the Fest Grounds together, and spent every waking hour on the pavement practicing the same beats and the same drill over and over again.  But I didn’t mind.  It had to be that way.

Tasia had weak ankles as well as large breasts that made it hard to catch her breath under her harness.  Allison had horrible arches, acne on her chest and back, and a sickness that would come and go.  I had perpetual blisters on each of my toes and the unsightly ability to cry as a result of any type of frustration.

By the end of the summer we somehow acquired each other’s maladies.  We were all crying and had gotten sick some where along the way.  I passed off my blisters on the others.  I went home with a championship ring, but also tan-lines from my ankle braces, acne that didn’t go away for months,  and difficulty breathing in large sets.

Finis Coronat Opus.

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Denver or bust.

See you suckers later.  Be back Monday night.
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