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Spring 2022
General News
Some people say that there is too much bad news. I certainly have a lot of sympathy for this perspective. There is so much happening in the world every day that there will always be a tragedy that needs your attention. It can flatten the highs and lows of your life and replace them with a distant doom. But, on the other hand, we shouldn’t blankly ignore events beyond our block in the naive hope that we can forever hide in our insular cocoons. When bad news happens, we newspeople must cover it. And it is in that spirit that I inform you that folks from Eastie have started a marching band.
When I heard this news, I was mortified. Of course I was. The only people who like marching bands are the people in marching bands. And that’s not because they love the music. It’s because being in a marching band gives them semi regular access to strange, earnest sex. I have no problem with people sharing an activity and using it to spark new relationships, but why should that mean I have to listen to some flute players disembowel a David Bowie song? Play some tunes. Have some sex. Enjoy your life. And leave me alone. I don’t need to be a part of this equation. But no. These marching bands are so desperate for someone to listen to them that they will come to you. The one consolation with marching bands is that if you are patient, they will march away again. Then their discordant “Star Spangled Banner” is someone else's problem.
So, I was opposed to the marching band.
But, I had some hope because of the leader of this new marching band: Anthony. Anthony drums in a small jazz ensemble that plays out by the lake on summer evenings. It is a must-attend event. The band is fun and lively and it’s nice to see people you know doing something so impressive. Plus, jazz scares away children, so it is a prime opportunity to sit by the lake and sip wine without any splashing or shrieking.
My conversation with Anthony about the marching band initially gave me even more hope. It was all very emotional. He told me about his Navy flier father and moving from base to base around the country before settling near Offutt. He told me about his parent’s decision to buy a house just outside of Platteview so they could have a home similar to his grandparents’ in rural Louisiana. He told me about harassment from racist classmates and how his mother wanted to move him to a new school with a larger black community, but his father insisted he just needed to fight back. He spoke quite reverently about music; how he found friends in his school’s small marching band, how he used early file sharing sites to hear artists from all around the world without his conservative parents’ oversight, and how he pretended to join a study group in order to play in a rock band. It was a lovely story of music as identity and transgression and self-discovery. Then Allison (his wife) more or less pierced that bubble by laughing and saying, “He talks a big game about sneaking out of the house, but he was going to Ralston to play in a Styx cover band. In 2002, you weirdo.” But it’s not as bad as it sounds. According to Anthony, “We weren’t a Styx cover band. We played SOME Styx songs. But we did cooler stuff, too. Rush. REO Speedwagon. All the hits.”
I was back to worrying that this marching band was going to be a bunch of dorks.
I tried to express my concern to Anthony in the politest way possible (but, considering the loud laughter from Allison, probably not quite politely enough). He struck back with a pretty searing point that I took quite seriously for about a week (before ultimately deciding to disregard it).
He worried that “cynicism” like mine was discouraging hobbies. In fact, he specifically singled out writers as people with a weird, dumb hobby who tend to make fun of other people with weird hobbies in our writing, which--again, ironically--is our weird hobby. He gave examples of characters whose knitting or a cappella music or gardening were used as a punchline when, to Anthony, the sadder prospect is someone who spends most of their time on social media or streaming sites.
Now, I searched on the internet to see if people actually do have fewer hobbies, and the first article that came up was from some right-wing rag complaining about millennials. I didn’t recognize the websites from any of the other responses, so I just gave up.
With no real data, I’m left to speculate wildly.
Maybe hobbies have changed. I’ve seen young people find tremendous joy and creative fulfillment in writing fanfic or making videos for the internet. Those must count as hobbies. And, I still know plenty of people who knit and garden and--God help us--sing without musical accompaniment. But on the other hand, I do hear young people talking about spending all day in bed going through seasons of a TV show at a time or losing two hours of their evening to Twitter. It’s possible that young people are doing fine in terms of hobbies, but are just really struggling with a technological addiction. That said, I try never to come to a real conclusion when I am wildly speculating, so I am just gonna go ahead and move on.
Back to the marching band! Which I promise not to be too cynical about!
BUT, we don’t even have football games in Eastie! You can’t have a marching band come in for the third inning stretch of an old folks kick ball game. It just wouldn’t work.
Luckily, the marching band also saw this concern. Their final decision was better than I could have hoped for. Wallace is one of the “drum majors” and they still volunteer once a week with an organization in Omaha*, so they hatched a plan for our East Nebraska Secret Commune Marching Band to perform in a parade on their behalf. I immediately loved this plan as it underlined my favorite thing about marching bands: that almost all of the marching bands in the world are in another town, so I don’t have to hear them.
Unfortunately, they still rehearsed for the parade by marching out behind the library. This was a real low point for me. I wrote some thoughts about these practices, but my husband has encouraged me to cut them out due to a concern about my “thinly veiled cruelty” and his belief that I shouldn’t use the “c-word,” even in the description of precision punting.
My perfectly reasonable and rational feelings were not shared by everyone. Many people were excited for the parade. Monnie told me that she and Jane were setting out lawn chairs every afternoon--weather permitting, naturally--to hear the band play. Even my lovely husband was seduced into the madness and helped print and tie-dye a bunch of band shirts. Tie-dye! As if the whole situation wasn’t already self-parodic enough.
Somehow--despite the fact that most people in Eastie could hear the music--excitement for the parade only grew. Kids signed up to throw out candy. Artsy teens competed to design a banner. Our hospitality team started bringing snacks to practice. It felt like the end of a western; everyone coming together and playing their part to save the town. But instead of defeating some black-hatted villain, everyone had come together to do a small favor for a relatively niche charity.
About a week before the parade, it did seem somewhat possible that it might all fall apart. There was a fight. Of course there was. David and Gene are both in the marching band and--as we all know--they fight. Honestly, I was a little surprised that Gene joined the band because David was already in the band and I know that Gene cannot stand David. But Anthony, excellent leader that he is, saw this potential problem and *somehow* subtly and inconspicuously kept them apart with the long-game intelligence of a chess master.
But then Anthony was sick for a rehearsal.
So David and Gene started picking at each other. And then it escalated a little. And then a little more. And then David whispered something that made Gene run away. We still don’t know what it was. But for almost twenty-four hours, it was all anyone would talk about. Band members took sides. Rumors started to fly. Disorder spread.
Samantha, who was the closest to the whispering, claimed she could make out the words “pussy” and “strawberry.” Now, I’m convinced she must have misheard the first one. Gene said “Dagnabit” when he broke his thumb. I can’t imagine him even saying the word pussy without a running start. But before I knew it, everyone believed that Dave was making inappropriate comments about Gene’s wife. I can only hope that if anyone insulted my husband by comparing my pussy to strawberries, he would have the good sense to realize that that person has probably never interfaced with my vagina. Because he has and it doesn’t.
I vaguely remember a similar insult as something that started a fight in an old soccer game or on the set of some black and white movie; something a semi-forgotten boyfriend tried to tell me about but that I barely registered. I tried to look it up online, but when you search “pussy strawberry fight,” all you get is porn. More alarmingly, when you type “vagina strawberry fight,” it’s all tips on what to eat to make your vagina taste better. This second search made me so mad that I almost precision punted my computer across the room. I mean, do you want to fuck a cake or a lady? Because most grocery stores have cakes in stock. You can live your dreams and leave the rest of us to go on eating whatever the hell we want.
At the start of the next practice, however, David showed up with a pie. An apology pie. And he said sorry to Gene and then said sorry to the rest of the band. Like a proper grown up. And it worked. Gene forgave him for the whispered barb and apologized for his part in their long running fight. And then the band was back to normal.
I sometimes forget just how effective it can be to act maturely and communicate openly. I do it so rarely.
On the day of the parade, a dozen or so of us carpooled into Omaha. I only agreed to go because--after the yonic insult--I knew this had to be my story for the quarter. We set up our chairs right in front of a thrift shop, which gave me a nice excuse to spend the first half hour of the parade trying on lightweight jackets and listening to Neil Young. When our marching band came by, I will admit that it was exciting to see the familiar faces. I sent Greg a picture with the shirts he helped tie-dye and Grace made sure to throw me a starburst. Sometimes it's just nice to be part of things.
Now you might be wondering, “So Lydia, did you like the music?” No. Of course not. But it doesn’t matter whether I enjoyed the music. Everyone else had a great time and I didn’t really mind it too much, so I’m sold. Marching bands are fine. I guess I don’t mind if they keep existing.
The marching band has agreed to do a handful more parades this year. Fourth of July. A county fair. Something called Arrows to Aerospace. This means that the Marching Band rehearsals will continue, though I am told they will slow to two a week. And I promise to endure it without complaint. And it’s not because I’ve gotten all of the shit-talking out of my system with this article. And it’s not because my husband started keeping a tally of how often I complain about the band and I hit triple digits faster than I was expecting. It is because I have seen the joy that everyone else gets from marching and I am happy to suffer in silence while you all have a nice time. Because--lest you forget it--I am a very good person. Though if someone wanted to bake me a thank you pie, I wouldn’t mind.
* Greg has asked me not to refer to this organization by name. Apparently there is some concern that a connection to the East Nebraska Secret Commune might impact fundraising efforts. I’m not sure a whole flipping marching band is a particularly covert operation, but I’m willing to respect their request.
When I heard this news, I was mortified. Of course I was. The only people who like marching bands are the people in marching bands. And that’s not because they love the music. It’s because being in a marching band gives them semi regular access to strange, earnest sex. I have no problem with people sharing an activity and using it to spark new relationships, but why should that mean I have to listen to some flute players disembowel a David Bowie song? Play some tunes. Have some sex. Enjoy your life. And leave me alone. I don’t need to be a part of this equation. But no. These marching bands are so desperate for someone to listen to them that they will come to you. The one consolation with marching bands is that if you are patient, they will march away again. Then their discordant “Star Spangled Banner” is someone else's problem.
So, I was opposed to the marching band.
But, I had some hope because of the leader of this new marching band: Anthony. Anthony drums in a small jazz ensemble that plays out by the lake on summer evenings. It is a must-attend event. The band is fun and lively and it’s nice to see people you know doing something so impressive. Plus, jazz scares away children, so it is a prime opportunity to sit by the lake and sip wine without any splashing or shrieking.
My conversation with Anthony about the marching band initially gave me even more hope. It was all very emotional. He told me about his Navy flier father and moving from base to base around the country before settling near Offutt. He told me about his parent’s decision to buy a house just outside of Platteview so they could have a home similar to his grandparents’ in rural Louisiana. He told me about harassment from racist classmates and how his mother wanted to move him to a new school with a larger black community, but his father insisted he just needed to fight back. He spoke quite reverently about music; how he found friends in his school’s small marching band, how he used early file sharing sites to hear artists from all around the world without his conservative parents’ oversight, and how he pretended to join a study group in order to play in a rock band. It was a lovely story of music as identity and transgression and self-discovery. Then Allison (his wife) more or less pierced that bubble by laughing and saying, “He talks a big game about sneaking out of the house, but he was going to Ralston to play in a Styx cover band. In 2002, you weirdo.” But it’s not as bad as it sounds. According to Anthony, “We weren’t a Styx cover band. We played SOME Styx songs. But we did cooler stuff, too. Rush. REO Speedwagon. All the hits.”
I was back to worrying that this marching band was going to be a bunch of dorks.
I tried to express my concern to Anthony in the politest way possible (but, considering the loud laughter from Allison, probably not quite politely enough). He struck back with a pretty searing point that I took quite seriously for about a week (before ultimately deciding to disregard it).
He worried that “cynicism” like mine was discouraging hobbies. In fact, he specifically singled out writers as people with a weird, dumb hobby who tend to make fun of other people with weird hobbies in our writing, which--again, ironically--is our weird hobby. He gave examples of characters whose knitting or a cappella music or gardening were used as a punchline when, to Anthony, the sadder prospect is someone who spends most of their time on social media or streaming sites.
Now, I searched on the internet to see if people actually do have fewer hobbies, and the first article that came up was from some right-wing rag complaining about millennials. I didn’t recognize the websites from any of the other responses, so I just gave up.
With no real data, I’m left to speculate wildly.
Maybe hobbies have changed. I’ve seen young people find tremendous joy and creative fulfillment in writing fanfic or making videos for the internet. Those must count as hobbies. And, I still know plenty of people who knit and garden and--God help us--sing without musical accompaniment. But on the other hand, I do hear young people talking about spending all day in bed going through seasons of a TV show at a time or losing two hours of their evening to Twitter. It’s possible that young people are doing fine in terms of hobbies, but are just really struggling with a technological addiction. That said, I try never to come to a real conclusion when I am wildly speculating, so I am just gonna go ahead and move on.
Back to the marching band! Which I promise not to be too cynical about!
BUT, we don’t even have football games in Eastie! You can’t have a marching band come in for the third inning stretch of an old folks kick ball game. It just wouldn’t work.
Luckily, the marching band also saw this concern. Their final decision was better than I could have hoped for. Wallace is one of the “drum majors” and they still volunteer once a week with an organization in Omaha*, so they hatched a plan for our East Nebraska Secret Commune Marching Band to perform in a parade on their behalf. I immediately loved this plan as it underlined my favorite thing about marching bands: that almost all of the marching bands in the world are in another town, so I don’t have to hear them.
Unfortunately, they still rehearsed for the parade by marching out behind the library. This was a real low point for me. I wrote some thoughts about these practices, but my husband has encouraged me to cut them out due to a concern about my “thinly veiled cruelty” and his belief that I shouldn’t use the “c-word,” even in the description of precision punting.
My perfectly reasonable and rational feelings were not shared by everyone. Many people were excited for the parade. Monnie told me that she and Jane were setting out lawn chairs every afternoon--weather permitting, naturally--to hear the band play. Even my lovely husband was seduced into the madness and helped print and tie-dye a bunch of band shirts. Tie-dye! As if the whole situation wasn’t already self-parodic enough.
Somehow--despite the fact that most people in Eastie could hear the music--excitement for the parade only grew. Kids signed up to throw out candy. Artsy teens competed to design a banner. Our hospitality team started bringing snacks to practice. It felt like the end of a western; everyone coming together and playing their part to save the town. But instead of defeating some black-hatted villain, everyone had come together to do a small favor for a relatively niche charity.
About a week before the parade, it did seem somewhat possible that it might all fall apart. There was a fight. Of course there was. David and Gene are both in the marching band and--as we all know--they fight. Honestly, I was a little surprised that Gene joined the band because David was already in the band and I know that Gene cannot stand David. But Anthony, excellent leader that he is, saw this potential problem and *somehow* subtly and inconspicuously kept them apart with the long-game intelligence of a chess master.
But then Anthony was sick for a rehearsal.
So David and Gene started picking at each other. And then it escalated a little. And then a little more. And then David whispered something that made Gene run away. We still don’t know what it was. But for almost twenty-four hours, it was all anyone would talk about. Band members took sides. Rumors started to fly. Disorder spread.
Samantha, who was the closest to the whispering, claimed she could make out the words “pussy” and “strawberry.” Now, I’m convinced she must have misheard the first one. Gene said “Dagnabit” when he broke his thumb. I can’t imagine him even saying the word pussy without a running start. But before I knew it, everyone believed that Dave was making inappropriate comments about Gene’s wife. I can only hope that if anyone insulted my husband by comparing my pussy to strawberries, he would have the good sense to realize that that person has probably never interfaced with my vagina. Because he has and it doesn’t.
I vaguely remember a similar insult as something that started a fight in an old soccer game or on the set of some black and white movie; something a semi-forgotten boyfriend tried to tell me about but that I barely registered. I tried to look it up online, but when you search “pussy strawberry fight,” all you get is porn. More alarmingly, when you type “vagina strawberry fight,” it’s all tips on what to eat to make your vagina taste better. This second search made me so mad that I almost precision punted my computer across the room. I mean, do you want to fuck a cake or a lady? Because most grocery stores have cakes in stock. You can live your dreams and leave the rest of us to go on eating whatever the hell we want.
At the start of the next practice, however, David showed up with a pie. An apology pie. And he said sorry to Gene and then said sorry to the rest of the band. Like a proper grown up. And it worked. Gene forgave him for the whispered barb and apologized for his part in their long running fight. And then the band was back to normal.
I sometimes forget just how effective it can be to act maturely and communicate openly. I do it so rarely.
On the day of the parade, a dozen or so of us carpooled into Omaha. I only agreed to go because--after the yonic insult--I knew this had to be my story for the quarter. We set up our chairs right in front of a thrift shop, which gave me a nice excuse to spend the first half hour of the parade trying on lightweight jackets and listening to Neil Young. When our marching band came by, I will admit that it was exciting to see the familiar faces. I sent Greg a picture with the shirts he helped tie-dye and Grace made sure to throw me a starburst. Sometimes it's just nice to be part of things.
Now you might be wondering, “So Lydia, did you like the music?” No. Of course not. But it doesn’t matter whether I enjoyed the music. Everyone else had a great time and I didn’t really mind it too much, so I’m sold. Marching bands are fine. I guess I don’t mind if they keep existing.
The marching band has agreed to do a handful more parades this year. Fourth of July. A county fair. Something called Arrows to Aerospace. This means that the Marching Band rehearsals will continue, though I am told they will slow to two a week. And I promise to endure it without complaint. And it’s not because I’ve gotten all of the shit-talking out of my system with this article. And it’s not because my husband started keeping a tally of how often I complain about the band and I hit triple digits faster than I was expecting. It is because I have seen the joy that everyone else gets from marching and I am happy to suffer in silence while you all have a nice time. Because--lest you forget it--I am a very good person. Though if someone wanted to bake me a thank you pie, I wouldn’t mind.
* Greg has asked me not to refer to this organization by name. Apparently there is some concern that a connection to the East Nebraska Secret Commune might impact fundraising efforts. I’m not sure a whole flipping marching band is a particularly covert operation, but I’m willing to respect their request.
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