Super-Mega-Gamma Edition! (That's Epsilon Part II.) Also SUPREME.

So. Saturday. As has been mentioned, I got absolutely no sleep on Friday night. None whatsoever. Well, okay, four or five hours. But that really doesn't do much when you've had a day of marching and performing previous and have a day of marching and performing facing you. So it was with a heavy heart and even heavier eyelids that I dragged myself out of bed at 7:00 on Saturday morning. Walter complained that I was waking him up. Frankly, as far as I was concerned, he could take his complaints and lodge them where the sun does not shine. (A P.O. Box in Walpole, Oregon.)

We went through the morning practice with some trepidation. After all, we had spent the entire week's worth of practices on getting ready for the Gator Growl performance, flaming field or no, and we had not touched upon our halftime show in a full week. For any kind of marching band, this usually spells disaster, as well you may imagine. But with remarkable speed and efficiency (remarkable for our band at least), we managed to get things together, pre-game and halftime, in just about two hours. Our director was to remark on this new and interesting occurrence, but our associate director had no opinion on the matter. This was because, as I failed to mention previously, he had abandoned us back on Thursday, as his daughter had just been born. An understandable reason for delay. (He showed up again at yesterday's practice, gray-faced and unshaven but smiling.)

After practice, as I was informed at that very moment (and had not paid attention to during previous moments of information), I was told that the band was to fracture into two groups. The first group was to be a pre-game pep band to go into the football stadium and play various songs as the team warmed up on the field and the crowd filtered in. I had done this earlier in the semester, and it was boring and undesirable, not to mention that the food they gave us was atrocious. I awaited the second option eagerly. It was revealed that the other part of the band was to engage in a "GatorWalk" pre-game pep band event. The difference was that this section was to stand outside the stadium and play for only a few minutes, while the football team walked in, to the accompaniment of cheers and applause from the crowd. (The team was, I mean. I doubt they would have noticed the band's existence if the drumline hadn't been blocking the way into the men's room. No respect, no respect at all.)

So the band split. I packed up my horn and made ready to join the group at GatorWalk. I had no actual idea where we were to be heading for this event, but I assumed I could just follow the crowds. Besides, I had done this last year, and I vaguely remembered which entrance we were supposed to go to. I had just set off when I realized that

1. I shouldn't have put myself on auto-pilot following the practice, because
2. It would have been a lot easier to play in GatorWalk if I had not packed up my horn, it being essential to playing, and furthermore
3. I am an idiot.

So, cursing myself profusely, I unpacked my horn again and assembled it. Grabbing all my band accoutrements and my backpack (containing my uniform, keys, and wallet, among other things), I stepped out from behind the trailer to catch sight of the crowds of band people heading towards the GatorWalk area.

I had taken too long. They were all out of sight in the crowds.

Swearing with even greater intensity, I trudged through the crowds towards the location where we had last held GatorWalk. There was nobody there. Uttering expletives so foul and furious that birds fell from the sky and small insects burst into flames, I made my way towards the other side of the stadium. Through sheer luck, I located a similarly lost-looking snare drum player. To my annoyance, he too had no idea where he was supposed to be going, but at least he had the excuse that he was a freshman. I had no such shield against the blistering criticism of my fellow tuba players. Regardless, we resolved that if we were to be lost, then at least we would be lost together.

He had the bright idea of listening for the band's playing, so as to home in on them through sound rather than sight. This would have worked perfectly, if it had not been for the many, many loudspeakers all blaring the tunes of our marching band seemingly everywhere we went. We thought we had discovered the band at any number of esoteric locations, including outside of the actual campus itself and inside an SUV so large that it could possibly have accommodated the full band. But luck was with us, for helpful members of the crowds directed us towards where we were supposed to have been for the last twenty minutes. We arrived, literally, within seconds of the band ceasing play and breaking up into fragments. I would have cursed more, but if I had increased the potency of my language any further, my tuba would have melted.

I feared getting into trouble for wandering around like a lost baby bird instead of actually playing in one band or the other, but as it happened, nothing came of it. Either nobody cared enough to punish or even reprimand me for it; or, as I believe is more likely, the people in the stadium thought I was outside and the people outside thought I was in the stadium. The two groups did not correspond until later, when such things had been forgotten. So I suppose I lucked out there. As the GatorWalk band disintegrated, I caught sight of one of my friends in the tuba section, a fellow named Christian. Real nice guy. He and I and one or two others made our merry way back to the field we had practiced on that morning, having been previously assured that the trailer that contained our tuba cases and such would be awaiting our return.

It wasn't.

While Christian made angry phone calls to Stanley (our section leader) trying to determine the trailer's whereabouts, my fury seemed to have burned itself out. I resolved to be at peace with the whole situation, even if it meant I'd have to take the marching field in just my uniform pants. For my uniform jacket, as you may recall, I had left in the care of Stephanie, and so far she had not returned it to me. But even this failed to anger me. I was calm. This lasted for about eight seconds, when panic overtook the placid waters of my mind. Oh well, it was good while it lasted, I lamented.

We had standing orders to return to the band room after we got out of GatorWalk, but these orders were predicated on the assumption that the trailer would have been there to receive our instruments, and thus they were without substance. That was at least the way Christian saw it, and I came around to his way of thinking swiftly enough. He suggested that we, instead of going back to the music building to receive a box lunch, go to Tijuana Flats, a nearby Mexican restaurant. This would not normally have been such a ludicrous suggestion, except, as the alert reader might have surmised, we still had our sousaphones with us. I cheerfully agreed nonetheless. I seemed to have some kind of invisible shield around me that prevented me from being yelled at for my various indiscretions through the last two days, and why not? It would be fun.

Long story short, it was.

Short story long, it was a much longer walk than Christian led me to believe at the beginning of the exercise. So we trudged on and on, past groups of tailgaters (or tailgators, as the school whimsically refers to them) and drunken fans of both teams. We were forced to decline various shouted requests to "play us a tune, won'tchya?", as such a thing would have landed us in hot water with the director had it trickled back to him. The fact that we were concerned about getting in trouble for playing a few notes when we had, in fact, gone AWOL and off-campus to secure food, only served to demonstrate how relentlessly irrational people can become under stress.

We arrived at the restaurant to enthusiastic welcomes from the fans and employees, the latter of whom assured us we could bring our sousaphones inside as long as we didn't bash things up with them. As we waited in line, Christian wryly observed that they had jacked up their prices for game-day. Who could blame them, I supposed. The restaurant was one of those that has bottles of all kinds of hot sauce prominently displayed, ranging from "mild" to "spontaneous human combustion." They had humorous names and ostentatious illustrations, except for one in particular. It stood out to me because of its bottle - a third the size of most of the others - and its complete lack of gaudiness or crazy fonts or pictures. It said, in simple and small black text on a white background, "Dave's Insanity Sauce." Whoever knows this name, it seemed to say, knows everything. And there was no admitting the possibility that any hot sauce aficionado would not know the name of Dave's Insanity Sauce. I avoided it. It was probably for the best.

The service was excellent. We both ordered a chicken quesadilla to go, and the girl behind the counter was kind enough to tell the cook to make ours ASAP, as we had to get back to the band quickly. We grabbed our food, thanked them, and skedaddled back to the band room. It was quite good, by the by. I'll consider going back there when their ridiculous game-day prices are not in effect. The envious stares of our band-mates, who had had to make do with a box lunch, made the whole excursion instantly worth it.

So, lunch consumed, we put on our uniforms (Stephanie had recovered my jacket and sent it to me) and went outside. When the band is ready to warm up for the game, we stand around a statue near the music building known as "the Gator," likely because it is a gator. There is always some period of milling around aimlessly on the parts of the band students before the director arrives, and the tuba section puts this time to good use. Each day before a home game, we have a "tuba sermon." We all gather around in a circle and chant and clap rhythmically, except for one person, who stands in the middle, and delivers a speech condemning the other team and all who support them, while elevating our team to near god-like status in terms of hype. This is usually done in a very enthusiastic, fire-and-brimstone style, but Jared (the tuba player who volunteered to sermonize) did this one deadpan, calmly and eloquently. Quite an effective presentation, we agreed later.

The director arrived. We warmed up and played the alma mater and the national anthem to cheers from the crowd; in the lack of a football team to distract them, we became the most entertaining thing in the vicinity. We formed up and marched in the parade, performed pre-game nearly without a hitch. I say "nearly" because I had discovered a problem: My tuba bell was misaligned and it made me look crooked. Sure as sunrise, this was discovered at exactly the moment when it had become too late to fix it. So I marched pre-game somewhat crookedly, but full of confidence and vigor. Crooked vigor. I like the word "crooked," in that it looks like it should only have one syllable, but in fact it has two. More words should be as awesome as "crooked." Crooked crooked crooked. Okay, I'm done.

The game was a total blowout. We absolutely flattened the poor Vanderbilt Commodores. (An interesting aside: In our pre-game parade to the stadium, one of our drum cadences has a bit where we all chant in time "Go, Gators! Beat, the [insert opposing team name here]!" Many of us in the band shortened their name, so it became "Go, Gators! Beat, the Commies!" The first time this was said, another band member roared afterwards "Beat those damn dirty Reds!" This served only to demonstrate why I should never try to laugh and play the tuba at the same time. It sounded like James Earl Jones was choking on a microphone.) Wow, an aside that took up nearly the entire paragraph.

But yes, the game was a blowout. At the end of the first half, we were leading 35-10, which is an absurd margin. Despite a number of questionable calls in the first quarter, we managed to prevail and absolutely trounce the Commodores. The remark was heard during this period of referee-related anger: "That twelfth man Vandy has on their side is killing us. You know, the guy in the black and white stripes." A particularly notable punt reception was made by Brandon James, who it seemed was certainly going to take a hit or take a knee. Instead, he slipped past three defenders to get an extra thirty yards. As he is in my public speaking class, I congratulated him on this today.

Our halftime show was excellent. Since I had fixed my tuba previous to going out on the field, I was un-crooked (hehe) and unafraid. It was later said that our performance was one of the best we had put on in recent weeks. Perhaps it was the infectious vigor of homecoming week, or the fact that we were finally winning by an enormous margin that electrified the band, but either way, we did fantastically well. Good thing, too, as this was the oft-mentioned Fun and Games show, with Saturday morning cartoons, superhero themes, and video game medlies throughout. I only wish I could get my hands on the video of our performance, I guess I'll ask my band director.

Tebow was absolutely on fire. With an injured shoulder preventing him from running the ball as much as he usually does, his passes always hit their mark, and his runners smashed through the defensive line. Percy Harvin in particular was astonishing all, being the first player in school history to achieve 100 yards in both rushing and pass yards. The last quarter saw Tebow and several of our other powerhouses removed and freshmen put in their places. The rationalization for this was that we were so far ahead, that it didn't matter how badly they screwed up, we were sure to win. Also, running up the score on an already-defeated opponent is considered unsportsmanlike, and there was a perfect opportunity to let the freshmen get in some actual plays in an SEC game. I consider it a bit of an insult to the other team to withdraw one's best to put in rookies, but whatever. The game's outcome was already decided by that point, and it ended 49-22, us.

I'm sorry to keep prolonging things, but this is about all I can eloquently describe to you in one sitting. I'll talk about Bill Nye and Sunday and Monday...on Friday. Yes, I'm developing a bit of a backlog, but I'm confident I can work through it. This is, after all, my second major update in two days, as I resume regularity.

REPLIES.

Vic: You really said that to Steven? How odd. Yeah, I've been kind of temporally misaligned as well, last few days. And yes, I have every reason to believe that they wouldn't let me borrow jeans because it's "gay," Stephen Nebb's response notwithstanding. I really don't get it. I mean, am I going to give them cooties or something? Jeez.

Stephe: You can dream all you like. I'm not eating any cantaloupe. Not quit raving about it, for Pete's sake, it's just a fruit. How peculiar, that you never wear anything but jeans and I just plain never wear them. I never actually saw the field get set ablaze, sadly. And I've been wangling together a Goblin deck. The hardest part is actually condensing it to 60 cards. I mean, really. I've got it to 64, have trimmed all the lands I feel I am going to trim, and absolutely feel I cannot take out even one more card. But it's utterly broken, I assure you. And I have no plans for YouTube, seeing as I write better than I speak and I'm not exactly photogenic. I may change this in the future, however. And alcohol is generally classed outside of drugs, in that its detrimental effects on the body are long-range rather than immediate, and it is not physically addictive. I know you're about to say something about marijuana, shut up.

Adios.