Bandies, Bling, Baloney and Blackmail

We were like the Home Shopping Network, but better-- because with us, not only did you get the quality personalized pimple-faced service you come to expect from a neighbor kid with marginal social skills. But we could also honk out our own musical soundtrack accompaniment.

Yes, as a member of the Edgar Allen Poe High School marching band (name changed to protect the potentially-embarrassed), we canvassed our town with all the fund-raising merchandise that any neighbor could possibly ever want to reluctantly buy.

Sure, there was the mouth-watering candy bars that made us famous. (And which, due to my illicit in-school supplying in the girls' gym locker room prevented one of our most dreaded bully diva's from lavishing me with regular pre-lunch knuckle sandwiches. It was good to have a Get Out of Bruises Free card.)

But while the candy bars remained our Signature Special, we eventually branched out to a wider variety of goods in an attempt to give our clientele the items the market truly wouldn't completely hate pity-purchasing.

Why, there was the jewelry sale-- where we offered real genuine 100% glass diamonette earrings, bracelets and encrusted keychains, suitable for any occasion. If, y'know, that occasion required something elegant that probably wouldn't fall apart much into your French onion soup.

We sold delectible cheeses, sausages and other savory items, destined to make your next party a memorable evening of processed cold-pack, peel-slice-and-serve fun.

We sold good old-fashioned Jersey-style hoagies-- cold meat sandwiches made with our own hands (and probably Aquanet, Love's Baby Soft, and that bit o' goo from the brass sections spit traps, just for seasoning). And we sold a lot of them. Which either goes to show the deep kindness of strangers or the fact that no one really spent a lot of time observing band members and their habits.

Lastly, we raised money by putting on a combination Play-Fashion Show. The sort of event that simply had it all! Flashing lights, hot trends, music, and people who never would have made the cut for any actual school dramatics parading around in borrowed duds trying to look like members of The Brat Pack, all with a loosely-tied story theme.

Grease was one such theme. Alice in Wonderland was the other. So while I was, yes, tall and thin at the time, it was universally agreed that it would be better for all concerned if I did not model. Or act. Or appear anywhere in public so people could actually see me...

Quiet, lanky girls with scoliosis and self-esteem issues were better left to paint props and clap in the right places as plants in the audience. It was how the Social Spectrum of Cool to Non-Cool worked, and was an unspoken, highly-revered tradition not to be mucked about with.

It spans generations.

So, each year, my neighbors knew they could count on (read: contemplated not answering the door because it was that Thorson girl again, with some catalog in her hand) the unique ability to purchase a variety of items suitable for any household....

To gain an eye-opening look into the world of high fashion, fine design and hand-crafted cuisine the Board of Health just hadn't thought to look into yet.

I see band members giving it their all at the Macy's Day parade and I nod, knowing what they went through to get there.

Not simply hours of rehearsal in blistering heat and finger-stinging cold...

Not just kneeling in mud and marching through goose poop on the practice field...

Not plodding forwarded doggedly, against the squeaks and honks and the "Are you ever going to get that right?-- you're driving your father and I up a wall!"

But the subtle nuances of regional, neighborly blackmail. The salesmanship. All to afford to go somewhere far, far alway from the good people that you made crazy playing measure number 32
in determined, Groundhog Day-like repetition.

Good times!

Sheep Thrills from the Dusty Archives

When I first resurrected my college newspaper comic characters, Shearadon and Woolworth for Doodle Week, a few of you had asked if I'd post some of those early strips.

This weekend, in going through some old boxes, I came across that album of comics. You can tell right away that these were from my good ol' college days because of the yellowing parchment... the lack of the second unnecessary "n" in Jenn... and the fact that there's coffee spilled all over the comic header. Anyway, I thought you all might get a laugh or two, if you can read my atrocious handwriting. Click the panels for embiggification.

This was the first strip I did...


Not long into the story line, Woolworth-- the spectacled character-- learned that the reason he has spent so much time standing around a field during his lifetime is that he is, in fact, a sheep.

The shock ends up being extraordinary. His brother Shearadon seeks to help him come to terms with it here...

This became a part of a lengthy and somewhat convoluted storyline where Woolworth goes on a quest for adventure and to find out who he really is...


What ensues involves farmers with cleavers, beauty contestants in convertibles, county fair judging, Shirley MacLaine, hippies in a VW Microbus, a liberal use of spandex, college admissions, fraternity pranks, and existential angst.

So, you know, basically what every college student has to deal with. Except for maybe not the Shirley MacLaine.

Anyway, if you folks don't hate it too much, I'd be willing to scan a couple up and post them every now and then.

Tuesday, I return you back to your regularly scheduled humor blog!

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The Goose Against Marching Band Battle Royale

Ah, late summer. It brings back memories of that new school supply smell, long evening shadows, the quest for autumn shoes, and the foot-ache and dread that was... band camp.

I suppose it's no surprise to any of you that I was a Bandie. In fact, my particular brand of dorkage almost definitely assured it.

Think about it: what do you do with a tall, gawky, over-achieving teen girl who trips over her own two feet and would rather be invisible?

Why, put her in an unflattering uniform complete with a hat plume shaped like a guinea pig... stuff a flute in her hand... and shove her out onto a football field in front of thousands of her peers and neighbors!

It's so obvious!

And band camp was the year's precursor to all that was guinea-pig-plumes and white rubber spats. It was one long week of summer, filled to the brim with marching, music practice, field formations and...

Geese.

Hundreds of them.

Yes, nine months out of the year, Edgar Allen Poe High School Marching Band (name changed to protect the innocent) held sway over the field outside of our place of higher learning...

And the other three months, it was home to three hundred honking, flapping, pooping and snapping Canada Geese.

With extra emphasis on those last two items.

The first day was usually the worst. The obligatory eews and Ohmigods from the woodwinds as we took our first unavoidable steps in goose guano... The territorial honks of hatred and disenfranchisement from the feathered Canadian squatters...

It pitted flautist against fowl, baritone against bird, in a determined play for power.

But usually, after several hours of 60 teens pushing 'em back, pushing 'em back, waaaay back-- and hooting and tooting louder than they ever could-- the geese would get the message. They'd concede it was a battle well fought, and graciously clear off for other fields. Like the one in front of Rico's Mexicale Casa.

Until one year, these winged wonders had apparently had enough. They weren't going to accept our Eminent Domain. No, folks-- they tossed down some feathers in front of our poo-covered tennies and they said, "Bring it." And that was the year of the Goose Against Marching Band Battle Royale.

That Band Camp started like any other one, as I recall. With flautist Krissy McCartney trying to find quality nail painting time at parade rest... Angela Armstrong rolling down the hill with her bassdrum at least once... And the Color Guard in a quest for independence and personalized flair, not quite willing to bow down to the idea of synchronization...

But as we learned our moves on the field, and crisped our skins under the blazing August sun, our beaked bystanders had not cleared off per usual. No, instead, they hung about critiquing our formations, assessing our tactics, and analyzing our weak points.

And the weakest point was apparently saxophone player Doug Minnelli. Doug, like many of us, had joined marching band less for the love of music and more for the rockin' band trip to Disney World. This was proven in his playing. Squeaking by as a second chair player, he also squeaked in terms of tone. And perhaps it was this that caught the eyes and ears of those feathered fiends.

Where Day One might have involved assessment and analysis of our protocols, Day Two they launched the attack. It started with six geese singling out Doug in particular, charging at him with wings flapping and beak snapping.

Doug retreated with a bob-and-weave move, running back into the ranks to hide in the relative safety of the tubas.

At first, we thought this was all pretty funny, since none of us were really keen on Doug's playing, either.

"Hey, Doug, maybe they think you're one of them! Maybe it's a girl goose. Better be nice to her, this could be your only chance for a girlfriend!" his fellow saxes taunted.

But each day, these protected predators continued their quest for field domination, focusing their energies on us all, but in particular on Doug Minnelli with the kind of cold calculation rival hockey teams use to wear down a star player.

Five days. Five days of goose-stepping to the latest Olympic anthem and Neil Diamond's "America" while dodging biting beaked fury.

By day three, Doug was developing an eye twitch that interfered with his music reading. By day four, we were all having nightmares about great monsters with razor-sharp talons and vice-like jaws, where our imminent demise would be preceded by a deep, hellish honk.

Eventually, we ended up spending our time inside in Orchestra Practice. Our bandleader, Mr. J., said it was because we'd be doing a few special indoor competitions this year. But we all wondered if that hadn't just been our director's way of regrouping without conceding failure. Those geese would enjoy their meadow until the frost was in the air and they'd gladly choose to leave it behind for warmer climes.

Leaving the final score-- Canada Geese: 100. Marching Band: one giant goose egg.

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