How to do punk as a majorette

Last night, I ventured out into the world of late-night Thursday night concerts. Mind you, a late night for me means that the concert starts at 10:30. I do have to be at work at 7:00 a.m. people!

Anyway, Scott had gotten a ticket from our friend Carol to see Mucca Pazza, the "Astounding Circus Punk Marching Band", at Martyr's, a pub on Lincoln Ave., so I got a ticket and went along. I've seen Mucca Pazza before, at Andersonville's Midsommarfest last year, and they are hysterical. And talented musicians. But mostly hysterical. Part marching band (did I ever tell you how much I love a good drumline???) dressed in full band uniforms (non-matching, of course), part cheerleaders (really), and part punk rock band, it's a rocking good time. I loved it. I knew I would, since I loved it so much last year that I kept leaving my volunteering spot taking tickets at the gate and running over to watch the spectacle. In an enclosed space last night, the chaos was deafening, but everyone was having a great time!

I was watching them last night, and watching them existing and succeeding in that space where you have a talent, in their case the "band kids", and taking it to the next level and expressing yourself. It's impressive to be able to hold onto something and make it work well long after others have given up their similar passions. It's also impressive that someone can make a fabulous sound come out of a clarinet. My parents would have paid money for a good sound to come out of my clarinet, instead of the dying duck call that they regulary tolerated in my junior high years. I was awful. And I really have no regrets about it. I mean, I'm sad that I suck at music, especially now that I'm dating a talented musician who finds it necessary to explain "antiphony" to me while standing in a crowded bar, but overall, it's not my gift. I'm impressed by those people, like Scott, who can take any number of instruments and start to play something great just by looking at weird black symbols on a bunch of lines on a page. A lot of the girls that Scott dated previously were musicians of some sort, and I find myself wondering what it must be like to relate to him in that way. But, then again, I'm fabulous in my own ways, and I have that whole acting connection that they didn't. Also, I think it's good for him to date a non-musician. Mostly because it makes him seem ridiculously smart a lot of the time when music pops into the conversation. I take solace in the fact that I soundly smoosh his superiority when the topic of conversation in the bar changes to, let's see, scalp massages, for instance. He got his first scalp massaging shampoo two days ago when he got his haircut, and found it to be revelatory in its brilliance. I looked at him with some (only a bitty bit, since he was so excited) disdain, and said, "Of course it's fabulous. Why do you think I always tip the girl at my salon $5 to wash my hair? If I could do it myself, I wouldn't pay her to do it!! It's awesome!" And just for that one moment, at the crowded pub, surrounded by band geeks and deafening antiphony, I had the upper hand. It was a fleeting moment, but it was my turn to sound smart and informed.

Now, I have to go look for that uniform that's hiding somewhere in my parents' house. The flag girl uniform. Because, yes, indeedy, I was a flag girl in the marching band, gold sequined vest and all. There's a place for me in there yet.