Marching band and booger jokes

By Scott T. Holland
Associate Editor

August 23, 2006 12:17 pm

— “Then as it was, then again it will be
And though the course may change sometimes
Rivers always reach the sea…”
— Led Zeppelin, “Ten Years Gone”

It was a Monday night unlike any other, as I stood on the football field at Fulton (Ill.) High School, wearing a bass drum harness and trying to keep my left and right feet moving at the appropriate time.
The Marching Steamers, as they ought to be called, were getting ready for Friday’s opening football game, and I was there in my role as volunteer drumline helper guy. Usually that role is limited to teaching a few cadences I learned in high school and college, but on Monday I felt my services were required on the field as well.
As band director Nicole Styczynski (the kids call her Miss Stitch) got everyone ready to play a rocking rendition of Blink 182’s “All the Small Things,” she gave out a familiar “Horns up!” command. As soon as I heard the words, I instantly — from my post in the far back corner — barked out “And up!” and snapped my arms into playing position … and then I realized I was the only one who said anything.
As I was apologizing after the rehearsal, I explained my outburst was simply a conditioned response owing to my three years as a Libertyville (Ill.) High School Marching Wildcat under the direction of Don Shupe, Randy Sundell and a goofy guy named Chris Bianco who was the subject of much unfair ridicule and also the recipient of a decorated toilet bowl sent via U.S. mail from the suburbs to his new address in Montana.
Anyhow, our high school band was all about verbal commands. Mr. Shupe would say “Band, ten-hut!” and we’d all say “Ten-hut kick two!” while carrying out the physical action. He’d toot the proper number of whistle sounds, and we’d say “Mark time, mark up!” and proceed to march in place. And so on and so forth.
All these years later, I still remember just about everything I used to know from marching band, which is why I can still execute a three-quarter flip turn and very likely could take perfect 221/2-inch steps with my eyes closed. It’s also why I still enjoy working with today’s kids so much. Even though it’s a totally different school environment, it still brings me back to a time I enjoyed so thoroughly.
It was when I was discussing my Wildcat past with Miss Stitch that I first did the math and realized it’s been 10 years since I was a high school senior. That may not seem like much to people who already have attended their 25-, 40- or 50-year class reunions, but it takes something like Monday’s experience to put into perspective the glaring differences in my life from 1996 to the present.
Back then, I wanted to grow up to be Dave Barry, the humor columnist for the Miami Herald who is syndicated nationwide, has cranked out numerous books (largely collections of his columns) and even became the subject of a CBS sitcom starring Harry Anderson, the guy who played Judge Stone on “Night Court” and Harry the Hat on “Cheers.”
Now, I’ve decided I don’t want to make a career out of booger jokes — perhaps because I just don’t know enough good ones. But I know the chance for an homage when I see one.
One of the weirdest stories I’ve ever come across was in the Webster County Citizen (Land of the Big Red Apple) sent in by alert reader J.R. Johns (and when I say sent in, I mean handed to me, because J.R. lives next door).
The headline, which I swear I am not making up, is “Local man shoots self, then his dog.” According to a story written by Editor and Publisher Dan Wehmer, the offending human was Steven D. Bailey Jr., a rural Seymour, Mo., man who was told his dog’s father was accused of killing chickens. The man was convinced his dog also would be a chicken killer and decided to take preventive action.
According to a deputy’s report, the man took the dog outside to shoot it, then started to feel bad. He felt so bad he reportedly shot himself in the leg with the rifle, just to see how it would feel. After severely wounding himself, he proceeded to shoot and kill the dog. He then crawled back to his house — a considerable distance — and called 911.
My favorite part is one of the least surprising sentences in journalism history: “The report added that Bailey told (the deputy) ‘he had drank three or four beers’ before shooting himself and his dog.”
I’d like to make a few jokes, but when there’s a dead animal and criminal charges it may not be appropriate. Still, I hope at least one person reading this today has learned about the serious consequences of spreading rumors about dogs.
I think I’ll leave the booger jokes to Dave Barry and focus on my rusty drumming skills. Or at least on shutting my piehole at band practice so as not to make a bigger fool of myself.
Scott T. Holland’s column appears every Wednesday in the Clinton Herald. His e-mail address is scottholland@clintonherald.com.

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