It Wasn’t My Fault, part two

IT WASN’T MY FAULT…. Part Two

By ALISON LOHANS

© Alison Lohans, 1993
Excerpted from LAWS OF EMOTION by ALISON LOHANS, Thistledown Press with the permission of Thistledown Press.

Read Part One

Part Two ….

“Oh you guys!” Tina shrieked with laughter. “You are too much!”

Blinking back tears, I tried to extricate myself.

“Sorry about that.” Adam got up clumsily. He was drenched with something that smelled like Pepsi. He looked down at himself, then shrugged. “Oh well. It’s raining. It’ll wash off.”

I floundered in the mud. Tina and Adam each extended a hand. “How’m I supposed to go to the dance like this?” I wailed.

“Back in a sec,” Adam said, taking off at a run toward the concession stands.

“You didn’t want to dance with that old Piggins anyway,” Tina said fiercely. “Think he’d be a treat, all stinky after the game?”

“He gets to take a shower. He has clean clothes to change into. And they have hair dryers in the locker room.”

Tina giggled. “You could use the guys’ locker room.”

“Oh shut up.”

“Here you go.” Adam was back with a huge handful of paper towels. His glasses were so blurred with rain I wondered how he could tell whom to come back to. I felt like a real dipstick as he and Tina and one of the drummers wiped me off. All around us the rain kept hissing down.

Hardly any spectators were left by the time we got back to the bleachers, except a few die-hards who’d had the foresight to bring umbrellas. On the glistening field, brown figures grappled, slithered, fumbled the ball. A yellow school bus had pulled up by the Cougars’ bleachers, and a lot of their fans were boarding. Mr. Baxter decided to forget about the halftime show.

This is sick,” one of the trombone players groaned.

Mr. Baxter had us play the fight song. Not that it would help. The score was only 49-6, Cougars.

“Mr. B.?” Adam spoke up afterwards. “I can’t see my music. I haven’t got windshield wipers for my glasses.”

Mr. Baxter smiled indulgently. “Then take them off – you’ve had your music memorized since last month.”

“But how’m I supposed to see the game?”

“What game?” I muttered.

“Squint,” replied Mr. Baxter.

Tina giggled. “Never quits, does he.”

I glanced sideways as Adam removed his glasses. His face looked oddly vulnerable, his brown eyes somehow naked, groping to connect with the world.

The game was called off. Rather, we conceded. It was pretty obvious who’d win, anyhow.

“So now what’re we supposed to do?” I asked Tina as she blew water out of her trumpet. “We can’t go to the dance like this. And nobody’s home to pick us up.” My parents were at a party. Tina’s mom worked night shift.

“Hm,” said Tina. “We’ve got a problem.”

“I’d give you girls a ride if I had a car,” Adam said. His eyes were blinking and his lashes wet with rain.

I had to smile a little.

“We could steal that Porsche,” Tina suggested, pointing.

I fumbled in my wallet. “I’ve got ninety-two cents. That wouldn’t pay a heck of a lot of taxi fare.”

Adam checked the contents of his pockets. “Hey, is that a nickel or a quarter?”

I poked at the coins in his cold hand. “You have seventy-four cents. And a bottle cap.”

“I’ve got two bucks,” Tina added.

“The sum total of which would get you girls about six blocks,” Adam predicted.

Tina turned on him. “How’re you getting home?”

Adam shrugged. “Walking. I’m just a wimp. Nobody’d be interested in molesting me.”

I looked sharply at him. Was that how he really felt about himself?

Warm air greeted us in the music room. The floor was slick with tracked-in mud. I sat down and put my trumpet in its case. Across the room in the clarinet section Adam looked – well, kind of depressed, as he took his clarinet apart and carefully wiped it dry. I almost felt like going over to talk to him – not that I’d have anything remarkable to say.

Tina skidded across the room. “Stacey! Success! Travis said he’d give us a ride.”

My stomach somersaulted. Travis had a habit of smashing cars. The two times I’d ridden with him I’d been a mere glob of Jell-O in the back seat. “I guess I’ll wait here until the dance is over,” I said. “Mr. B’ll let me practice or listen to CDs. Or something.”

Tina gave me a withering look and followed Travis out the door.

“I’ll walk you home, Stacey.” Adam’s voice startled me.

I looked up. He was still sitting there. I laughed a little. “I live three miles away.”

“Oh. Well…”

“No, that’s okay. But it’s sweet of you to offer.”

He still hadn’t put his glasses back on. Was I just a blur to him? With his hair plastered to his head, he looked like a half-drowned puppy.

“Want to do something while you’re waiting for your parents? Get a Coke or something?” Adam got busy polishing his glasses.

It felt weird talking back and forth across the empty room. I went over to sit by him. He put his glasses on. But it was too quiet. I started getting nervous. Why’d Tina have to go off with that drag racer?

I took a deep breath. “I guess we could go for a walk.”

A slow smile spread across Adam’s face. “A walk in the rain. We’re already soaked; what’s the difference?”

I grinned at him and stood up.

It was glorious walking in the rain. The streets shimmered with light. Water gushed in gutters, sluicing into storm drains. I ran along the wet sidewalks, Adam pounding after me.

“Higgins iggins biggins piggins!” I yelled. It was deliciously satisfying.

“What?” Adam called.

“Nothing.” My feet slapped to a halt beneath one of the city’s saplings, planted in a dirt square surrounded by sidewalk. I grasped the trunk of the young tree and shook it. Drops cascaded all over me, all over Adam.

“Hey!” he yelped. Laughing, he mopped at his glasses, then gave up and tucked them in his pocket.

Midway between two painted parking stall lines, I saw a pinky-greeny-yellowy oil stain. “How pretty!” I said in surprise.

“What’s pretty? I can’t see a thing without my glasses.” Adam grinned and took a turn shaking the tree.

Something went soft inside me. “Can you see me?” I asked.

“Oh sure,” he said, still smiling. “I can see you with my eyes shut.” And then he clammed up.

I watched a traffic light turn green, amber, then red again. Cars splashed past, leaving silvery streaks in the street. “Adam?” I said at last.

“Want to get an ice cream cone or something?” he mumbled in a hurry. “They’ve got licorice ice cream at Bailey’s.”

“Adam.” Since he still wasn’t looking at me, I had to go stand directly in front of him.

“What?” He wasn’t much taller than me, and he looked nervous.

Suddenly I felt on shaky ground. A van rumbled past, spraying water on us. A police car swooshed in the opposite direction. And the rain kept spattering down, between us, around us, surrounding us. “Adam Messick,” I said slowly, “it was really nice of you to wipe that mud off me at the game. And to offer to walk me home.”

“It just seemed the right thing, I guess.” Rainwater beaded his face. I went a little weak in the knees. I’d never noticed what a nice profile he had.

It was all Mr. Baxter’s fault. Mr. Baxter, and the rain. Biggins Piggins Higgins was washed right out of my system. Here I was standing at the corner of Tyrol and Columbia with an unknown quantity.

“Do you like licorice ice cream?” that unknown quantity mumbled. “They have double almond mocha too, and just plain vanilla.”

I wasn’t too sure what I liked anymore, because everything was swimming in glimmering wetness. “I like licorice.”

“Then I’ll buy you one.” Right away he looked happier.

It sounded like a good buy – especially if he only had seventy-four cents and a bottle cap. I didn’t know if I should offer to get him one, too.

“It’s a deal,” I said, tucking my arm in his.

A heart-stopping smile spread across his face.

It was all Mr. Baxter’s fault…

THE END

What did you think?

It Wasn’t My Fault

I met Alison Lohans on Facebook recently. (Isn’t that where everyone meets these days?!) And we started gabbing about books and writing and I learned her new book, THIS LAND WE CALL HOME, is short-listed for the Young Adult Book category of the Saskatchewan Book Awards. It’s YA historical fiction dealing with the World War II Japanese American relocation camps. As soon as I can, I’ll do a First Page Book Review on it. Can’t wait!

We’ve also been gabbing about marching band and she told me she wrote a short story several years ago set in the marching band. I told her I’d love to see it, she got permission from her publisher, and voila! Here is part one of IT WASN’T MY FAULT for your reading enjoyment.

IT WASN’T MY FAULT…. Part One

By ALISON LOHANS

© Alison Lohans, 1993
Excerpted from LAWS OF EMOTION by ALISON LOHANS, Thistledown Press with the permission of Thistledown Press.

It was all Mr. Baxter’s fault.

Not that I happened to be sitting next to Adam Messick at the football game. That was an accident. The way we file into the stands after doing our intro on the field, we often end up sitting next to kids we don’t know all that well. So sitting next to Adam was no big deal.

It was Mr. Baxter’s fault. Because of the rain.

It was our final game of the season. We had a thrilling record of one win and six losses. The field was soggy because it had rained on and off for several days. Our marching shoes were caked with mud. My best friend Tina Mihalowicz, who was sitting next to me too, had her uniform legs spattered with mud. Out on the playing field our gold-and-white team was rapidly turning brown. And we were getting clobbered. It was only the first quarter.

I felt crummy.

Not because of the way the Cougars were turning us to clowns. Not because of the mud. It had nothing to do with Mr. Baxter. Or Adam.

Tina and I were supposed to be going to the after-game dance. I was devastated. Not because of the dance. But I’d counted on spending some time there with Reilly Higgins – only when I’d been on my way from biology to sixth period English, I’d seen him in the hallway talking to Lisa Morrelli. Not just talking. Looking positively mesmerized was more like it.

I waved and said hi (almost brushing against him), but Reilly never even noticed. I could’ve melted with humiliation, right into a giant oily spot on the tiles.

Tina nudged me with her trumpet. She has an uncanny way of reading my mind. “Higgins Piggins,” she said. “I bet he gets a faceful of mud out there.”

“I’ll throw it anytime,” I offered.

A yell rose up from the other side of the stadium. One of the Cougars was loping toward the goal line. Our number 38 fell flat in the mud. I laughed out loud. Reilly – served the jerk right. The Cougars scored and their pep band blasted out their school song. One of our drummers tapped out a little competition.

It started raining. Again.

It seemed fitting, considering the way I felt.

The instant the Cougar band quit, Mr. Baxter was snapping his fingers. “Okay, guys – Devastators theme. One, two, one, hit it!”

Right away we became a whirlwind of sound. Tina’s and my trumpets screamed out high notes. Adam’s clarinet shrilled a trill. The percussion section pounded out a throbbing rhythm so catchy I halfway expected to see the whole crowd stand up and start dancing. That was one thing about our band. Our football team might be pathetic. Our field might be muddy. It might be raining – but we were good and everybody knew it.

Mr. Baxter had to stop us for the kickoff. One of the drummers played a crescendoing roll as the figures on the field ran slow-motion toward the up-ended ball. Tina’s trumpet sang out Charge! The crowd roared as the ball shot into the air.

“Mr. B.,” said Adam once the game was underway. “It’s raining.” Mr. Baxter had a way of being impervious to weather. Sometimes I got the feeling he’d keep us playing even if a twister started cleaning off the football field.

Mr. Baxter just smiled pleasantly and pulled his hat down over his ears. “I noticed.”

“Oh come on Derek, you idiot!” Tina shrieked. “Clobber him!” And she jumped to her feet, waving her trumpet to get her point across.

The rain came down harder. It flattened my hair and made cold trickles on my scalp. The stadium lights cast pale pools over the action on the field – only now there was more action and more pools, jillions of jiggly raindrops and multiplying puddles on the track. Already I could imagine how our shoes would squish through them as we marched out for the halftime show.

Tina wiped rain out of her face. “Mr. B.? Are we still doing our halftime show?”

“We shall see,” our director said ambiguously. The ranks broke on the football field, and again he was snapping his fingers. “’Peter Gunn.’ One-and-two-and-three-and-GO!” The trombones and baritones belted out the intro. Tina and I and the other trumpets were ready with our jazzy melody. On the track, Lisa Morrelli and the other rally girls danced in the mud. Their pom-poms looked like bundles of wet chicken feathers.

My music was getting soggy; it drooped in my trumpet lyre. Halfway through the piece it wilted completely and did me as much good as a used Kleenex – but I had the piece memorized anyhow.

Adam wiped the rain off his glasses when we finished. “You should laminate your music, Stacey,” he said.

I looked at his. It sat in his lyre, perky as a peacock’s tail in full bloom. “Maybe next time,” I said.

People in the crowd were grumbling about the rain and paying little attention to the game. The players were all so muddy it was hard to tell which team was which.

“Maybe they’ll call off the game,” I muttered.

Adam turned to me with mock surprise. His glasses were a blur of wobbling wetness. “Stacey! Where’s your school spirit?”

“In the mud.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“In the mud,” Tina joined in.

“Mr. B.,” our drum major said tactfully, “don’t you think this much rain is bad for our uniforms? Being wool and all, don’t you think they might shrink?”

Mr. Baxter nodded. “The thought had crossed my mind. Okay, troops, fall out. See you back on the spot in street clothes in fifteen minutes.”

We let out a huge groan.

In the stands, what was left of the crowd was on its feet, screaming. One of our guys was sloshing toward the goal line, football tucked beneath his arm.

“Go Eagles!” Tina screeched, jumping up and down. Her trumpet clipped me on the ear. “Oops. Sorry, Stacey.” She grinned apologetically as the player scored our first and only touchdown.

Adam grinned at me too. “Injured?”

“Only my dignity,” I murmured, rubbing my ear.

We ambled back to the music room to change. Some kids were furious. “How’re we supposed to go to the dance?” a flute player wailed. “Now we won’t even have dry clothes to change into.”

“Same as everybody else,” said Adam. “Dripping wet.”

“Oh sure. They won’t be forced to sit in the rain for two hours.”

Tina checked her watch. “Only one hour and twelve minutes now,” she commented. “Fifty-seven minutes, by the time we get back.”

The girl turned on her. “How come you’re on his side?”

Tina just grinned and brushed her sopping hair back from her face. “Who said I was?”

“I’m not going back. If he asks where I am, tell him I threw up. Because I will, if I have to sit through one more second of that repulsive game.”

In the band room several other deserters were packing up their instruments. Tina looked at me. I looked at her. “Oh what the heck,” I said. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Atta girl!” Tina applauded and ushered me into the girls’ changing room. It smelled of wet wool and stinky socks. Tina kicked off her muddy marching shoes. “Gross! Where’s the air freshener?”

I wiggled into my tights and top. “Don’t worry, we’ll be getting plenty of fresh air.” At least Reilly would be worse off. He was muddy – and how would it feel to have rain hammering down on your football helmet all the time? Awful, I hoped.

“Higgins iggins biggins piggins,” Tina warned. “You need somebody smarter.”

“Like who?” I demanded, poking my arms into my sweater. “Adam?” He just happened to be the first guy to pop into my head.

“Hm.” Tina paused, comb in her stringy hair. “You could do worse.”

“No way! I was only kidding. C’mon, aren’t you ready?”

Tina pulled on her jacket and blocked the doorway. “Smile, Stacey.”

I stuck out my tongue.

Only a few of us straggled back to the stadium. The rain hadn’t stopped.

“What’re we trying to prove?” grumbled one of the saxophone players.

“That we are individuals with character?” A tuba player explored possibilities of using his huge instrument as an umbrella.

“Shove it, Wallace.”

“Look out!” Tina screeched.

I looked up. Hurtling toward us from the top of the bleachers was a yellow balloon, obviously filled with something heavier than air. We scattered. My feet slipped in the muck and I fell sideways. Somebody landed on top of me.

To be continued ….

What do you think? Wanna read more?

Fictional Dream Cabinet

I was listening to Talk of the Nation on NPR yesterday while I was making a grilled cheese sandwich. They were talking about who they’d like to see in the new President’s Cabinet, regardless of who wins the election.

Coincidentally, on one of my children’s literature groups, there’s been a fun discussion of which fictional character kids would like to see as President.

In this last week of the campaign, I’ve become fascinated and repulsed by politics, wanting to get away from it, but unable to drag myself away. Like when marzipan is the only candy in the house.

So, I thought it would be fun to create a Cabinet with fictional characters.

• President — Atticus Finch because he’s the perfect man.

• Vice President — Guy Noir because in a city that knows how to keep its secrets, he’s still trying to find the answers to life’s persistent questions.

• Secretary of Agriculture — the Farmer in the Dell because not only is he a farmer, but he also knows the dell like nobody’s business.

• Secretary of the Interior — the Lorax because he speaks for the trees for the trees have no tongues and he’s telling you “STOP” from the top of his lungs.

• Secretary of Commerce — Lucy Van Pelt because she knows the value of a nickel.

• Secretary of Justice — Nancy Drew because, well, duh.

• Secretary of Defense — Stephanie Plum’s yummy friend, Ranger. No photo available because he’s so smokin’ hot that he melts the camera. But here’s his jacket.

• Secretary of Labor — Tom Joad because he’ll be ever’where—wherever you look. Wherever they’s a fight so hungry people can eat, he’ll be there. Wherever they’s a cop beatin’ up a guy, he’ll be there… he’ll be in the way guys yell when they’re mad an’—he’ll be in the way kids laugh when they’re hungry and they know supper’s ready. An’ when folk eat the stuff they raise an’ live in the houses they build—why, he’ll be there.

• Secretary of Education — Miss Frisby because she makes book learnin’ fun.

• Secretary of State — Horton the Elephant because he knows everyone’s important, no matter how small.

• Secretary of Energy — Calvin and Hobbes because they have so much of it.

• Secretary of Transportation — Han Solo. Have you seen his sweet ride?!

• Secretary of Health and Human Services — Marcus Welby, MD. Would this man or his dreamy Under Secretary steer you wrong?!

• Secretary of the Treasury — Ebenezer Scrooge because he knows the sins of man are huge — a never-ending symphony of villainy and infamy, duplicity, deceit, and subterfuge.

• Secretary of Homeland Security — Captain Jack Sparrow. He may not be the best pirate in the world, but he can swashbuckle against anyone. And he’s so charming that nobody would complain about taking their shoes off at the airport or only being allowed three ounces of gels and liquids.

• Secretary of Veterans Affairs — Forrest Gump because I bet his mama would come with him. And maybe Jenny too.

• Secretary of Housing and Urban Development — Daddy Warbucks because he had a wicked awesome house AND he lived in the city AND he took in an orphan.

Who would you choose?

15 Things

1. I think having 15 of anything is too many. Except dollars. And Skittles. Taste the rainbow.

2. I love Skittles almost as much as I love dollars.

3. I bought REALLY cheap soap for my shower. It doesn’t lather which makes me wonder if I’m the teensiest bit stinky all the time. Or is lather simply a myth perpetrated upon us by Big Cosmetics. (Similar to Big Oil, but smells more like lilac or citrus.)

4. I have an inappropriate crush on Billie Joe Armstrong, the lead singer from Green Day.

5. I get this weird, wiry hair growing out of my ear that I have to pluck every so often. I fear I’m gradually turning into my grandfather, but not in any of the good ways.

6. I don’t have a smidge of modesty remaining since the birth of my children and more often than not, give virtual strangers way too much information. (See numbers 1-5 and 7-15.)

7. My feelings get hurt when people don’t subscribe to my blog or leave comments. I know that makes me seem needy and way too tender-hearted for the bunny-eat-bunny life of a children’s writer, but there it is.

8. I cry at every marching band competition I see. All those fresh-faced, optimistic, talented hard-workers ….. sniffle, sniff.

9. I’m secretly wearing my daughter’s wool socks and she doesn’t know … Dammit!

10. I worry about kids who don’t suck all the juice from every appropriate experience that comes their way, whether it’s education, friends, activities or volunteering in the world. I’m afraid they don’t always realize when they slam metaphorical doors that can never be opened again.

11. I wish my superpower could be invisibility. So rude, yet so satisfying.

12. I firmly believe if you don’t know any marching band or theatre kids, your life is incomplete and hopelessly boring.

13. I’ve realized I eat too much and hate to exercise. You’re invited to watch me get fat. It will be gradual, though, because I shun many foods that are unhealthy. Not all of them, mind you, and the whole ‘portion control’ theory is completely lost on me. Plus, I loves me my beer.

14. I’m fairly certain I have one of the most unphotogenic faces in history. In my defense, it’s because I’m very animated, which is good in real life, but not so much for photos. If I wasn’t so darned vain I’d post a couple to prove it. Instead, here’s one that won’t scare young children or clergy. It took an excruciatingly long time to capture, so I’ll be using it for the next 87 years. It was the genesis of my new obsession with neck wrinkles.

15. People have every right to laugh at the fact I wake up, take off my jammies to shower, then put them right back on afterward. And I have every right to respond, “Pfftt.”

Tell me 15 things about you? 10? 5? How ’bout one REALLY nifty one? Please?! Make a dame with neck wrinkles happy.

250 Words About Tension

I’ve been gone since Thursday morning to a writer’s retreat at a — I kid you not — monastery in the middle of Nowheresville, Nebraska. It was an entirely delightful experience in every way.

Well, in most every way. I’m overwhelmed now by an odd combination of crushing self-doubt and roller-coaster-arms-in-the-air-exhilaration. And, of course, there are the toppling piles of laundry and email to attend to.

So, I was tripping through my emails, both new and ‘saved till I get home’ and I found one directing me to Miss Snark’s blog. She is an anonymous writer devoted to helping new writers.

On her blog (which I’ve added to my sidebar), she runs these First Victim public, anonymous critiques. Today’s submission call was for 250 words about tension. She’ll start the critiques in a couple of days and I just got word that mine will be “Post 5.”

Having just returned from my Nebraska writer’s retreat, I thought I’d toss my manuscript in Miss Snark’s pot. I don’t know how many she comments on, but I love to get feedback on my writing so this is what I sent ….

Title: BLACK AND BLUE
Genre: Young Adult

Brief set-up: Sixteen-year-old synesthete DASH is unconvinced his older sister AGGIE is telling the truth about her black eye.

I grabbed her arm. “Aggie, I know you didn’t run into a door. Just tell me—“

“Let go of me! Dad’s coming!” Black lightning bolts shot through her voice.

She twisted out of my grasp and fled toward the stairs. As she passed Dad, he raised a hand to high five her but she flinched and clutched her jacket tighter.

Dad noticed me and offered the same high five Aggie had refused. “Guess who landed a big new customer today? That’s right. Big Al. Uh huh. Doesn’t make up for the twenty customers we lost last month, but it’s a start, eh?”

I slapped his hand and he continued into Mom’s office where I heard her say, “Al! You’re home already? Gosh, look at the time … dinner’s not even close to being ready! How was your day?”

“Better than Aggie’s, I take it.”

“She hurt herself again. Ran into a door. She’ll be fine,” Mom said to him.

“She should be more careful,” Al said.

“I know. I told her the same thing.”

Aggie slammed her bedroom door and my head swam. I returned to the kitchen and scooped the onion peels and celery bits out of the sink. I held my breath while I dumped them into the putrid compost can under the sink and wondered why Aggie’s voice added the black lightning bolts. It happened as soon as she heard Dad open the garage door.

Her voice only looked that way when she was scared.

Miss Snark says she wants some palpable tension that forces her to beg for more of the story. So, what do YOU think? Do you feel the tension? Are you begging for more? Why or why not?

Punishments That Backfire

• Taking the car keys away, forcing you to drive them everywhere.
• “One hour of violin practice every day, young lady!”
• “One hour of tuba practice every day, young man! And your brother too!”
• “You don’t like what I make for dinner?! Then YOU cook!”
• “That’s it. Time out.” [Allowing them to go to their room and read without you bothering them. The thing they crave the most.]
• “You are NOT too full to eat those lima beans. Make ‘em disappear, fella!” [Said lima beans to be found four days later dried and stuck in the pants pocket.]
• “No laughing at the dinner table!!” [Resulting in non-stop laughter from my sister and me at the dinner table. Sorry, Mom.]
• “If you don’t learn to take care of your own hair, we’ll have to get it cut.”

["How's this, Mommy? I did just like you said."]

Have you ever momentarily lost your mind with your kids thus spawning some lame punishment? Ever been on the receiving end of ridiculous punishment?

Why I Love America

Yet another reason I love America.

On the “hot posts” page of WordPress over the last few days, you could choose to read these titles:

• McCain-Palin Use The “S” Word. Which turned out to be ‘socialist’ instead of ’spumoni’ like I’d hoped.

• Why The Kill Switch Makes Sense For Android, And Not For iPhone. Android appears to be some sort of nefarious Google plot and not a housecleaning robot. Bummer.

• The Dangerous Fantasy of ACORN and “Vote Fraud.” Not sure, but it seems like it’s something to do with voters growing on trees.

• I’m Young, Black and Hispanic and Voting for McCain. Here’s Why. Apparently because he has some weird Constitutional right. And because he’s blogging on the Fox News forum. There are rules, you know.

• And in these days of political and economic turmoil, who DOESN’T want to know Why Do You Get White Spots On Your Fingernails?

• How I Became Joe Sixpack. You’d think it was by drinking a lot of beer, but no, it was about how a beefy man at a McCain rally clobbered him. Hmm. Too much beer or not enough?

• Minka Kelly Totally Looks Like Leighton Meester. She totally does!

And I love America because we love Tina Fey as Sarah Palin better than we tolerate Sarah Palin as Sarah Palin.

Why do YOU love America?

More Band High Jinx

I heard another great marching band story.

They had a late band rehearsal one night and an early call the next morning for a competition. One boy, let’s call him Squiggy, lived far from the high school and couldn’t get a ride home.

As a parent, this part of the story made me cock my head, furrow my brow, AND go all squinty-eyed. But I’ve been assured it’s true.

So Squiggy couldn’t get home and even if he did, he’d just have to turn around and get back to school for their early call. Being a resourceful kid, he asked one of his friends to lock him in a tuba locker and then let him out the next morning.

I’d like to interject here that I’m not quite sure why Squiggy felt the need to get locked in. Nor can anyone explain it to me. But It reminds me of Gary Larson getting complaints about the flies in his Far Side cartoons. People would complain, “Flies wouldn’t say that!” totally forgetting that flies don’t talk. In that same way, getting LOCKED in a tuba locker seems over the top. Spending the night, sure. Perfectly logical.

At any rate, all went as planned at Tuba Motel and it’s still a widely-known secret to this day.

I’m sure there are a zillion things band directors are happy not to know, and yet, how can you not be curious about these kinds of escapades?

Our previous band director instigated “Senior Confessions” which were always held on the last band trip of the season. He’d gather all the seniors and they’d each confess one thing for which they’d be given amnesty. They ranged from the small — “I thought I was a lesbian until the 9th grade band trip” — to the large — “I never learned the fight song.”

Lest you think I made a mistake in that last sentence, I was told at least 463 times that there’s nothing worse than not learning the fight song in four years. (Well, almost nothing. I have another band story to be told at a later date.)

I don’t make this stuff up! But it’s why I like hanging out with band kids … they have particularly entertaining stories.

Senior Confessions is a great way for a director to keep his finger on the pulse of the band students, but I’m fairly certain Tuba Locker Motel never came up.

Tell me more Band Confessions. I grant you amnesty too!

PS – If you like the marching band posts — and how could you not — I always give them their own category so you can find them easily. See up at the top, right under the title where it says “filed under Becky’s marching band”? If you click that, you should be able to see all my marching band posts. If you click on “filed under marching band,” you’ll find other blogs about marching band. I still need to explore more, but so far, the majority of them are not that interesting — mostly set up by directors to communicate with their band. As soon as I find one that rocks, I’ll let you know. And if you find one, let ME know!

20/20 Segment

It has come to my attention that I know three types of people. Those who:

1. Fall asleep extremely early on Friday night and thus miss the 20/20 TV show they’ve been anticipating for weeks.

2. Have no idea how to use their Tivo and/or VCR.

3. Really don’t want to watch me on TV and therefore lapse into passive-aggressive mode … “Oh, I wanted to watch, but I got a phone call.” … “Oh, I wanted to watch, but the dog needed to be groomed right then.” … “Oh, I wanted to watch, but I went into labor.” Pfftt.

Well, the joke’s on all three of you because here it is — our segment of the 20/20 show broadcast October 17, 2008. HA!

Read the history of all this then tell me what you think!

What I Learned From NaNoWriMo

In November 2004 I attempted my first writing marathon … National Novel Writing Month. Every year between November 1st and 30th, crazy writers accept the challenge to write 50,000 words of a new novel.

Chris Baty hatched NaNoWriMo in 1999 with 21 aspiring novelists accepting the challenge. Six of them crossed the finish line. In 2007, 101,510 writers took the challenge and 15,333 finished. A total of — and this is a REALLY big number, possibly amicable — 1,187,931,929 words were logged. Crikey!

There have been at least 25 published NaNoWriMo authors, including Sara Gruen and others you’ve probably heard of. Maybe you’ll be on that list in a few years.

But only if you accept the challenge, Grasshopper.

Why, you ask, would I subject myself not once, not twice, but three times to this type of chained-to-your-desk-butt-numbing-highly-caffeinated torture? Simple. To write. To get it done. To learn. To create a habit.

Having survived, I highly recommend this peculiar approach to kick-start a stalled project or to silence your inner-editor or to give yourself a shove right over the Niagara Falls of your creativity.

I learned to plant my hindquarters in my chair for extended periods of time. It seems obvious, but the obvious truths are often the very ones we overlook. If I’m not in front of my keyboard, it’s guaranteed that no writing will take place. But if I’m sitting, fingers poised, I will write.

I learned the importance of an organized plan of attack. I knew how many days, hours, and minutes I had available to write. I knew how many words I needed. I had access to a calculator, a 40-cup coffee hypodermic, and the pizza delivery guy. My plan was born.

I learned how to write faster and better. When quantity matters more than quality, I learned to stop editing myself along the way. Something magical happened when I ignored my dictionary, thesaurus and style manual. I was free to write creatively instead of correctly. My word choices broadened in direct proportion to how far behind I was on my word count that day. Instead of using a boring placeholder word like quickly, I found myself using a more colorful phrase like in a jiffy or as fast as a pig going downhill on roller skates. What a bonus to count all the extra words!

I also learned it doesn’t matter whether I’m cranky, sad, angry, tired or hungry. Nobody can tell my state of mind based on my writing. Now I know I never have to put off writing until I’m in a better mood. As a bonus, I learned that writing always puts me in a better mood.

I learned the importance of good health. Sitting and writing is a physical ordeal, despite all outward appearances. I had to take time to exercise and stretch every day. I had to protect my fingers, forearms, neck and eyeballs constantly. I also flossed more often than normal, but in retrospect that probably had more to do with stalling.

I learned my household would not fall apart if I focus on an all-consuming project. Thanksgiving dinner is just as enjoyable with Stove Top as it is with homemade chestnut-blue cheese stuffing. My kids, in fact, say it’s more enjoyable. Go figure. Laundry will not topple over and suffocate us while we sleep, field trip forms will get signed in a timely manner and the Health Department will not need to visit.

So, if you’ve been considering writing a novel, or you just need your butt kicked, start preparing for National Novel Writing Month in November. Take some notes, research a location for your setting, sketch your characters, and maybe rent this place …

Let me know how it turns out. Nevermind. I know how it’ll turn out. It’ll be crappy. Oh, so joyfully crappy. Mold it, bend it, curse at it, delight in it.

You’ve won!

Have you ever tried NaNoWriMo? Why or why not?