Thursday, May 25, 2006
Graduation Memories
Well, my two youngest cousins are graduating from high school this weekend, which makes me think about two things:
I’m getting old
My high school years
Gather around, kiddies, and I’ll share the bits and pieces I remember of my high school career, or at least the ones I’m willing to go public with. Keep in mind that these memories are foggy at best, most of them happened about a decade ago, and I’ve spent four years at Clemson since then (read: replaced them with more entertaining memories and/or killed off the brain cells that they occupied with alcohol.)
I’ll go ahead and lead off with this one: I was in the marching band for three of the four years (I quit my senior year.) I played the tuba, and we wore berets instead of those funny hats with plumes. (This is something I rarely do, but I would like to thank French people for berets. Without you, my cheese-eating surrender-monkey friends, I would have had to wear a hat with a plume. Now go surrender to someone.)
Sorry about the random sidebar. I’m lacking sleep and trying to curb my coffee problem, so my mind is wandering at an alarming rate. Like right now, for instance. Dear God, I’m out of control. I’m going to get some coffee…sit tight, everyone (although you’re actually reading this after I write it, so)…holy hell, nevermind. Now, back to our regularly scheduled program.
Anyway, what I was writing about before my evil split personality who hates coffee and wants to make me look like a complete ass (as if I need any help) so rudely interrupted, was playing the tuba. I would like to state, on the record, that the tuba is the most badass instrument in a marching band. Not only is it big and shiny, it’s also heavy, obnoxiously loud, and can be used to make all kids of fun noises. Everyone else in the band hated the tuba players, because we were as rebellious as you can possibly be and still march around playing music. That’s just how we rolled. But, as all good things must, it came to an end. My tuba exploded violently one night, and I felt I could never love another tuba again. Actually, I just decided I needed money, which required a job, which required some free time. Let me explain how I came to this conclusion:
Money = girls
Tuba = not girls
Which brings up another memory: working at Subway. That’s right, boys and girls; you’re in the presence of one of the greatest Sandwich Artists to ever walk the face of this forsaken planet. To this day, I can tell you what is on each sandwich, and I still cut a mean u-gouge (all you old-skool Subway kids hear me, they don’t do that any more.) I remember one day when Matt Koon and Hook decided to refer to each other by serial number in front of the customers (pass me some wheat bread, employee X493K.) The customers loved us. Really. I would go into more detail about some of our wacky hijinks behind the scenes, but the statute of limitations hasn’t quite run out on all of them. Let’s just say we had a lot of fun, and no one got hurt. We also never messed with anybody’s food. We’re pranksters, not felons (okay, maybe felons, but unconvicted felons who didn’t mess with anyone’s food.)
Well, I’m tired of writing, and you’re probably tired of reading, so I’m signing off for now. I may write more tomorrow, I may not. Or even later today. Who knows? Not this guy.
Gather around, kiddies, and I’ll share the bits and pieces I remember of my high school career, or at least the ones I’m willing to go public with. Keep in mind that these memories are foggy at best, most of them happened about a decade ago, and I’ve spent four years at Clemson since then (read: replaced them with more entertaining memories and/or killed off the brain cells that they occupied with alcohol.)
I’ll go ahead and lead off with this one: I was in the marching band for three of the four years (I quit my senior year.) I played the tuba, and we wore berets instead of those funny hats with plumes. (This is something I rarely do, but I would like to thank French people for berets. Without you, my cheese-eating surrender-monkey friends, I would have had to wear a hat with a plume. Now go surrender to someone.)
Sorry about the random sidebar. I’m lacking sleep and trying to curb my coffee problem, so my mind is wandering at an alarming rate. Like right now, for instance. Dear God, I’m out of control. I’m going to get some coffee…sit tight, everyone (although you’re actually reading this after I write it, so)…holy hell, nevermind. Now, back to our regularly scheduled program.
Anyway, what I was writing about before my evil split personality who hates coffee and wants to make me look like a complete ass (as if I need any help) so rudely interrupted, was playing the tuba. I would like to state, on the record, that the tuba is the most badass instrument in a marching band. Not only is it big and shiny, it’s also heavy, obnoxiously loud, and can be used to make all kids of fun noises. Everyone else in the band hated the tuba players, because we were as rebellious as you can possibly be and still march around playing music. That’s just how we rolled. But, as all good things must, it came to an end. My tuba exploded violently one night, and I felt I could never love another tuba again. Actually, I just decided I needed money, which required a job, which required some free time. Let me explain how I came to this conclusion:
Which brings up another memory: working at Subway. That’s right, boys and girls; you’re in the presence of one of the greatest Sandwich Artists to ever walk the face of this forsaken planet. To this day, I can tell you what is on each sandwich, and I still cut a mean u-gouge (all you old-skool Subway kids hear me, they don’t do that any more.) I remember one day when Matt Koon and Hook decided to refer to each other by serial number in front of the customers (pass me some wheat bread, employee X493K.) The customers loved us. Really. I would go into more detail about some of our wacky hijinks behind the scenes, but the statute of limitations hasn’t quite run out on all of them. Let’s just say we had a lot of fun, and no one got hurt. We also never messed with anybody’s food. We’re pranksters, not felons (okay, maybe felons, but unconvicted felons who didn’t mess with anyone’s food.)
Well, I’m tired of writing, and you’re probably tired of reading, so I’m signing off for now. I may write more tomorrow, I may not. Or even later today. Who knows? Not this guy.
