| I can hear the sounds of a marching band coming from the local high school about 1/2 mile away. Brings back memories. I was a band fag. I wasn't a 100% dyed in the wool band fag, like the real band fags but just by being in the band, one can't help being painted with the same brush. We were in the trombone section, rebels down to the core. Well rebels in the sense that none of us really gave a damn. Didn't practice and didn't do much of anything. Hit the notes occasionally but one was never sure if it was a fluke when that happened. In a sense we were wanna-be drummers. The drummers were the least of the band fags. They sounded cool. They looked cool and probably most of them smoked weed. Or at least had tried it. And they were fairly talented. I heard one of them went to Africa to continue in music and ended up marrying an African girl. The true band fags, though, were something else. They lived and breathed band. It was probably their favorite hour of the day. And after school practice was something they longed for. Freezing their butts off on the football field? Just nirvana. Our drum major, may have been the #1 band fag. Outside of the marching season he was a baritone player but during the season he was up front with his whistle -- "horns up move up!!" I heard he died a few years back. I think he was barely out of college. Less than 10 years out of high school. In retrospect, those band days were probably the highlight of his life. |