Where are the clowns? Send in the clowns.
I have a confession to make. No laughing please. This is serious. Really. Shhhh.
Ahem.
Something about middle-school marching bands makes me cry darn near uncontrollably. Stop laughing, I said. I'm revealing myself here. Really. It's true. I don't know if it’s the weak, off-key strains of nearly unrecognizable Christmas carols, or the pudgy pear shapes cinched uncomfortably where the waist should be, or the lackluster cheerleaders squeezed into spandex that might have done justice to the Dallas Cowboys’ girls but looked absolutely ridiculous on hefty pubescent 12 year olds. Was it their unsmiling round faces framed by lank greasy hair, or their overwhelming self-consciousness and agonizing awkwardness? One girl cast us a side-long glance as she went by and caught my eye, my wave startled her into a flickering smile before she caught herself and rejoined the drones. Why am I such a sap? Is it some Freudian thing? Luckily, there was only one middle-school marching band. Actually, there was only one marching band, period.
We just came from one of the worst parades I've ever had the misfortune to poison myself on the exhaust fumes of. Terrible. Lots of cars - undecorated, trucks - undecorated, military vehicles - undecorated, some emergency vehicles - undecorated, and one school bus - also undecorated. And I mean undecorated, not a tissue flower, not a strand of lights, no garland, no glitter, no stuffed animals, not even any shoe polish. There were three, yep, counted 'em, three pitiful floats (the best one was the one sponsored by the poker room at the dog track - yes, those children are actually holding card hands),
one fairly old firetruck (Old Rosie - now there's an original moniker for you), and a drag car on a tow truck (and a partridge in a pear tree). This was a dress down Friday parade, apparently. Not even the marching band was in costume: khaki pants, blue golf shirt, regulation black belt; but not a Santa hat in sight. Well, there was one woman in costume, sort of. A woman teetering on middle age pranced by in a little red mini skirt – of the Santa’s floozy elf type – apparently without a clue that her rear end was literally bouncing in the wind. People were laughing as she went by – and I mean really laughing – I think in shock, and she just danced jauntily along waving to the children and throwing candy.
Because we have small children we sat on the curb, really close to the dangerous tires, and sniffed noxious fumes. And we fought for those seats, risking the wrath of the lovely southern ladies (mean old crones) interred there in their power scooters. “Siddown!! Yer blockin’ my view!” This was directed at a mother and her girls standing no less than six feet away. Apparently the woman wanted an unobstructed view not only of the space in front of her, but of the entire procession as it made its way from the starting point. This same group of our wise and tender elders actually heckled the nervous little junior high school ROTCer when he dropped his rifle during something like baton-twirling maneuvers. Poor baby, he was absolutely crushed. “Watsa matta with ya! Ya dropped it ya butterfingers!” Lovely. The peanut gallery at a children’s Christmas parade.
The only benefit was the hard candies (aka choke hazards) strewn liberally down upon us by the unsmiling passengers from their car windows.
After the holiday celebration in the land of the misfit toys, we wandered along the riverfront to the land of the homeless, quite unintentionally disturbing their sleep for a photo opportunity with a Christmas tree and a giant electrical cord.
Ahem.
Something about middle-school marching bands makes me cry darn near uncontrollably. Stop laughing, I said. I'm revealing myself here. Really. It's true. I don't know if it’s the weak, off-key strains of nearly unrecognizable Christmas carols, or the pudgy pear shapes cinched uncomfortably where the waist should be, or the lackluster cheerleaders squeezed into spandex that might have done justice to the Dallas Cowboys’ girls but looked absolutely ridiculous on hefty pubescent 12 year olds. Was it their unsmiling round faces framed by lank greasy hair, or their overwhelming self-consciousness and agonizing awkwardness? One girl cast us a side-long glance as she went by and caught my eye, my wave startled her into a flickering smile before she caught herself and rejoined the drones. Why am I such a sap? Is it some Freudian thing? Luckily, there was only one middle-school marching band. Actually, there was only one marching band, period.
We just came from one of the worst parades I've ever had the misfortune to poison myself on the exhaust fumes of. Terrible. Lots of cars - undecorated, trucks - undecorated, military vehicles - undecorated, some emergency vehicles - undecorated, and one school bus - also undecorated. And I mean undecorated, not a tissue flower, not a strand of lights, no garland, no glitter, no stuffed animals, not even any shoe polish. There were three, yep, counted 'em, three pitiful floats (the best one was the one sponsored by the poker room at the dog track - yes, those children are actually holding card hands),
one fairly old firetruck (Old Rosie - now there's an original moniker for you), and a drag car on a tow truck (and a partridge in a pear tree). This was a dress down Friday parade, apparently. Not even the marching band was in costume: khaki pants, blue golf shirt, regulation black belt; but not a Santa hat in sight. Well, there was one woman in costume, sort of. A woman teetering on middle age pranced by in a little red mini skirt – of the Santa’s floozy elf type – apparently without a clue that her rear end was literally bouncing in the wind. People were laughing as she went by – and I mean really laughing – I think in shock, and she just danced jauntily along waving to the children and throwing candy.
Because we have small children we sat on the curb, really close to the dangerous tires, and sniffed noxious fumes. And we fought for those seats, risking the wrath of the lovely southern ladies (mean old crones) interred there in their power scooters. “Siddown!! Yer blockin’ my view!” This was directed at a mother and her girls standing no less than six feet away. Apparently the woman wanted an unobstructed view not only of the space in front of her, but of the entire procession as it made its way from the starting point. This same group of our wise and tender elders actually heckled the nervous little junior high school ROTCer when he dropped his rifle during something like baton-twirling maneuvers. Poor baby, he was absolutely crushed. “Watsa matta with ya! Ya dropped it ya butterfingers!” Lovely. The peanut gallery at a children’s Christmas parade.
The only benefit was the hard candies (aka choke hazards) strewn liberally down upon us by the unsmiling passengers from their car windows.
After the holiday celebration in the land of the misfit toys, we wandered along the riverfront to the land of the homeless, quite unintentionally disturbing their sleep for a photo opportunity with a Christmas tree and a giant electrical cord.
posted by Shannon at 10:56 PM
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