Grandaddy Of The Suck, Part 4
Part 4: The Suck Bowl
A lot of sucky things happened between Disneyland and the day of the Rose Bowl, our last day in Pasadena. We spent three hours being bussed to and from Santa Monica pier, where we played Mighty Oregon twice for a bunch of Oregon donors in the midst of a driving rainstorm, and then stood idly by while Supwitchugirl performed “I Love My Ducks,” and discovered that 70% of the people at this pep rally were over the age of 50 and, thus, were not aware of why these three gentlemen were famous, nor were amused by their antics. The following day I spent several hours hurrying up and waiting with members of the Yellow Garter Band, an experience made far worse by the presence of one Chelsea Fujitani, who specifically requested that I not include her in this series.
But the fact is, there’s only so many ways I can say, “We were told to hurry, and then we waited for a long time” and have it be funny. But that’s really what the first three days of the trip were – hurrying, followed by waiting, accompanied by a great deal of fatigue. Rather than describe all of this, I’m just going to jump ahead to the last day of our trip – the day that we rose at 3:00 AM to march six miles down Colorado Avenue, play at the Rose Bowl, and then finally go home.
Let me begin by saying this: The Oregon Marching Band is, musically speaking, one of the finest marching bands in the country. Where other bands coerce 300 people into playing as loud as possible for as long as possible, we prefer to play a balanced, in-tune sound, which resonates more clearly and is louder than an unfocused one. It’s science. It was about the only thing I learned in Physics 152, mainly because when the professor said it, I thought, “Oh! Scientific proof as to why the Oregon Marching Band is so damn good.”
The thing is, in the Rose Bowl, we were going up against Ohio State University’s marching band, which is widely known as The Best Damn Band In The Land. That name is not to be taken lightly – they pretty much are. Ohio State’s band benefits from its placement in the Midwest, where Big Ten football fanaticism breeds similar enthusiasm for football programs at the high school level, which in turn results in more people willing to participate in high school marching bands, who in turn want to participate in college bands, Ohio State’s in particular.
Ohio State is the largest school in the country and has had a solid football program for some 50 years. Their band has been right there alongside the football program since before the Spanish-American war, building traditions and rapport with fans. Over time, they’ve become the most famous marching band in the world. Kids in Ohio learn how to play the tuba in elementary school just so they can one day have the chance of dotting the ‘i’ in Script Ohio with Ohio State’s marching band. Every year the band holds auditions from an applicant pool in the hundreds to determine which 225 lucky people will be included in the band. Out of this 225, only 192 march on the field at pregame and halftime – the others are alternates, who, on a weekly basis aggressively challenge other members of the band on the basis of musical knowledge and drill precision in hopes of earning the right to perform on Saturday.
The Oregon Marching Band takes everyone who shows up and knows how to play an instrument.
It’s like we were Flight of the Conchords and they were Bruce Springsteen – Flight of the Conchords are highly talented and fun, and a lot of people love them, but Bruce Springsteen is an American goddamn icon. It’s practically unfair to compare them.
And yet, both in the Rose Parade and at halftime, there we were. Their band had rigidly straight lines and every single member in step, wearing crisp black uniforms with double Windsor knotted ties. We were clad in Nike’s unconventional uniforms and playing the crap out of a show that was musically deep and challenging. However unfair, fans made the comparison, and the result has been a lot of trash talk on YouTube from mouth breathing Midwesterners trying to tell us that we’re no good at what we do.
These people are idiots, and they have no idea what’s going on – after all, they choose to live several thousand miles from the nearest ocean, in a region that is prone to blizzards and droughts and apparently has crappy weed. They also elected Bush a second time.*
*That being said, everybody I met from Ohio State’s band was nothing but polite and courteous. This is in stark contrast to the Oregon Marching Band, where we are proud to be assholes.
It didn’t help that the team didn’t fare so well either – it’s one thing to get shown up at halftime, but when your team gets pretty soundly beaten, especially after 75% of the country expected them to win, you really don’t have anything to say to the Buckeye hecklers.
I mean, what happened this year, Pac-10? This was supposed to be the year that we dethroned USC and showed the aforementioned Midwestern mouthbreathers and porch sitting, banjo playing, Downs-syndrome having SEC folk that people west of the Mississippi knew how to play football.
Instead, we turned right around and acted like we didn’t know how to play football, going 2-5 in bowl games against out of conference opponents. I mean, really, Arizona? Losing is one thing, but a shut out? Maybe that used to fly back when you were in the WAC in the 1970s, but this is the Pac 10. If you want to go back to the WAC, be our guest – word of warning: nowadays they call it The Boise State Show.
I know I haven’t really given any specific concrete event that shows why the day of the Rose Bowl sucked, but I’m trying instead to paint a more emotional picture that shows where my mind was on the first day of 2010. The marching band I love went up against the one band in the world that is quantifiably better than we are, while the team that I love (and the conference that I support in spite of its constant abuse) lost out bigtime. Keep in mind, by the time we’d lost the Rose Bowl, everyone in the OMB had already been up for 15 hours and walked the equivalent of ten miles. How would you feel?
We loaded the buses, dejected and worn out, sat in the parking lot for the customary hour, and then set off for LAX and our flight home. When we arrived, we were issued our boarding passes on the curb and found that the security line stretched out the terminal and down the sidewalk as far as the eye could see. We trudged down to the end of the line (which was in Malibu) and spent an hour and a half waiting to be screened for explosive underwear before boarding our flight.
One of the interesting things about fatigue is that it fucks up your head. While I was standing in line, my friend Darren came up and started talking to me. Looking at him, I knew who he was – I knew that I’d known him since I was a freshman, I knew he played clarinet and that he went to high school in Keizer – but I couldn’t for the life of me remember his name. I had to discreetly check his luggage tag to figure out just who the hell I was talking to. Even more sad was the fact that if, at that moment, you had asked me the names of all twelve Cylons on Battlestar Galactica, I probably would’ve remembered at least six.
Sorry Darren – it wasn’t you, it was me.
Another funny thing about fatigue is that once you’ve gone four days on perhaps twelve hours’ sleep, you start to fall asleep without even knowing you’re falling asleep. As the trip wore on, I discovered that if I sat still without actively engaging my mind for a few seconds, my next sensation would be waking up several minutes later – to my knowledge, nobody stole any of my internal organs during one of these lapses in consciousness, but for all I know I could be unwittingly running on one kidney.
This proved troublesome on the plane. Shortly after the pilot announced that we would be landing in Eugene in about twenty minutes, I made the mistake of not thinking about anything for a few seconds. A moment later, I was jolted awake as the plane shook violently, the engines screaming and roaring in my ears. Something had gone wrong – they always say the most dangerous part of a flight is right before landing, right? – and I was going to die. I could hear the news reports already:
A plane carrying the Oregon cheerleaders exploded earlier today in the skies over Eugene, killing everyone onboard. A candlelight vigil for the fallen cheerleaders is being held outside of Autzen Stadium. In lighter news, the Oregon Marching Band was also on the plane! Hey, how about those uniforms, am I right?
One hand shot out and clutched my seatmate’s arm in a death grip, while the other wrapped itself protectively around my face. I desperately hoped that if, after my death, I encountered God, he wouldn’t be a prick about the whole life of atheism thing.
“Truman,” my seatmate, Jefe, said to me, putting his hand on my arm. “It’s okay. Everything is okay.”
Fool! I thought to myself. We’re all going to die, can’t you see that!? I turned and looked out the window, expecting to see pristine Oregon farmland growing larger and larger as the plane hurdled towards it.
Instead, I saw the Eugene Airport terminal and other runways, which is apparently a common sight when the plane lands.
Yes, that’s right – I had fallen asleep for a full 20 minutes, only waking up during the commotion of the plane’s totally safe landing, and had made the, in my mind, highly logical assumption that the time to kiss my ass goodbye was at hand.
Rolling up to the gate amid the laughter of my peers, I knew two things: 1) This was so going in the blog, and 2) This had been the worst trip ever.
Tune in tomorrow for the wrap up in Part 5!
This picture makes it look way better than it actually was.
A lot of sucky things happened between Disneyland and the day of the Rose Bowl, our last day in Pasadena. We spent three hours being bussed to and from Santa Monica pier, where we played Mighty Oregon twice for a bunch of Oregon donors in the midst of a driving rainstorm, and then stood idly by while Supwitchugirl performed “I Love My Ducks,” and discovered that 70% of the people at this pep rally were over the age of 50 and, thus, were not aware of why these three gentlemen were famous, nor were amused by their antics. The following day I spent several hours hurrying up and waiting with members of the Yellow Garter Band, an experience made far worse by the presence of one Chelsea Fujitani, who specifically requested that I not include her in this series.
Damn you, Chelsea Fujitani, and the horse you rode in on.
But the fact is, there’s only so many ways I can say, “We were told to hurry, and then we waited for a long time” and have it be funny. But that’s really what the first three days of the trip were – hurrying, followed by waiting, accompanied by a great deal of fatigue. Rather than describe all of this, I’m just going to jump ahead to the last day of our trip – the day that we rose at 3:00 AM to march six miles down Colorado Avenue, play at the Rose Bowl, and then finally go home.
Let me begin by saying this: The Oregon Marching Band is, musically speaking, one of the finest marching bands in the country. Where other bands coerce 300 people into playing as loud as possible for as long as possible, we prefer to play a balanced, in-tune sound, which resonates more clearly and is louder than an unfocused one. It’s science. It was about the only thing I learned in Physics 152, mainly because when the professor said it, I thought, “Oh! Scientific proof as to why the Oregon Marching Band is so damn good.”
The thing is, in the Rose Bowl, we were going up against Ohio State University’s marching band, which is widely known as The Best Damn Band In The Land. That name is not to be taken lightly – they pretty much are. Ohio State’s band benefits from its placement in the Midwest, where Big Ten football fanaticism breeds similar enthusiasm for football programs at the high school level, which in turn results in more people willing to participate in high school marching bands, who in turn want to participate in college bands, Ohio State’s in particular.
"HAAAAAANG ON SLOOPY, SLOOPY HANG ON! O! H! I! O!"
Ohio State is the largest school in the country and has had a solid football program for some 50 years. Their band has been right there alongside the football program since before the Spanish-American war, building traditions and rapport with fans. Over time, they’ve become the most famous marching band in the world. Kids in Ohio learn how to play the tuba in elementary school just so they can one day have the chance of dotting the ‘i’ in Script Ohio with Ohio State’s marching band. Every year the band holds auditions from an applicant pool in the hundreds to determine which 225 lucky people will be included in the band. Out of this 225, only 192 march on the field at pregame and halftime – the others are alternates, who, on a weekly basis aggressively challenge other members of the band on the basis of musical knowledge and drill precision in hopes of earning the right to perform on Saturday.
The Oregon Marching Band takes everyone who shows up and knows how to play an instrument.
It’s like we were Flight of the Conchords and they were Bruce Springsteen – Flight of the Conchords are highly talented and fun, and a lot of people love them, but Bruce Springsteen is an American goddamn icon. It’s practically unfair to compare them.
And yet, both in the Rose Parade and at halftime, there we were. Their band had rigidly straight lines and every single member in step, wearing crisp black uniforms with double Windsor knotted ties. We were clad in Nike’s unconventional uniforms and playing the crap out of a show that was musically deep and challenging. However unfair, fans made the comparison, and the result has been a lot of trash talk on YouTube from mouth breathing Midwesterners trying to tell us that we’re no good at what we do.
These people are idiots, and they have no idea what’s going on – after all, they choose to live several thousand miles from the nearest ocean, in a region that is prone to blizzards and droughts and apparently has crappy weed. They also elected Bush a second time.*
*That being said, everybody I met from Ohio State’s band was nothing but polite and courteous. This is in stark contrast to the Oregon Marching Band, where we are proud to be assholes.
It didn’t help that the team didn’t fare so well either – it’s one thing to get shown up at halftime, but when your team gets pretty soundly beaten, especially after 75% of the country expected them to win, you really don’t have anything to say to the Buckeye hecklers.
I mean, what happened this year, Pac-10? This was supposed to be the year that we dethroned USC and showed the aforementioned Midwestern mouthbreathers and porch sitting, banjo playing, Downs-syndrome having SEC folk that people west of the Mississippi knew how to play football.
Tim Tebow.
Instead, we turned right around and acted like we didn’t know how to play football, going 2-5 in bowl games against out of conference opponents. I mean, really, Arizona? Losing is one thing, but a shut out? Maybe that used to fly back when you were in the WAC in the 1970s, but this is the Pac 10. If you want to go back to the WAC, be our guest – word of warning: nowadays they call it The Boise State Show.
I know I haven’t really given any specific concrete event that shows why the day of the Rose Bowl sucked, but I’m trying instead to paint a more emotional picture that shows where my mind was on the first day of 2010. The marching band I love went up against the one band in the world that is quantifiably better than we are, while the team that I love (and the conference that I support in spite of its constant abuse) lost out bigtime. Keep in mind, by the time we’d lost the Rose Bowl, everyone in the OMB had already been up for 15 hours and walked the equivalent of ten miles. How would you feel?
We loaded the buses, dejected and worn out, sat in the parking lot for the customary hour, and then set off for LAX and our flight home. When we arrived, we were issued our boarding passes on the curb and found that the security line stretched out the terminal and down the sidewalk as far as the eye could see. We trudged down to the end of the line (which was in Malibu) and spent an hour and a half waiting to be screened for explosive underwear before boarding our flight.
One of the interesting things about fatigue is that it fucks up your head. While I was standing in line, my friend Darren came up and started talking to me. Looking at him, I knew who he was – I knew that I’d known him since I was a freshman, I knew he played clarinet and that he went to high school in Keizer – but I couldn’t for the life of me remember his name. I had to discreetly check his luggage tag to figure out just who the hell I was talking to. Even more sad was the fact that if, at that moment, you had asked me the names of all twelve Cylons on Battlestar Galactica, I probably would’ve remembered at least six.
Oh yeah, like you'd forget HER name.
Sorry Darren – it wasn’t you, it was me.
Another funny thing about fatigue is that once you’ve gone four days on perhaps twelve hours’ sleep, you start to fall asleep without even knowing you’re falling asleep. As the trip wore on, I discovered that if I sat still without actively engaging my mind for a few seconds, my next sensation would be waking up several minutes later – to my knowledge, nobody stole any of my internal organs during one of these lapses in consciousness, but for all I know I could be unwittingly running on one kidney.
This proved troublesome on the plane. Shortly after the pilot announced that we would be landing in Eugene in about twenty minutes, I made the mistake of not thinking about anything for a few seconds. A moment later, I was jolted awake as the plane shook violently, the engines screaming and roaring in my ears. Something had gone wrong – they always say the most dangerous part of a flight is right before landing, right? – and I was going to die. I could hear the news reports already:
A plane carrying the Oregon cheerleaders exploded earlier today in the skies over Eugene, killing everyone onboard. A candlelight vigil for the fallen cheerleaders is being held outside of Autzen Stadium. In lighter news, the Oregon Marching Band was also on the plane! Hey, how about those uniforms, am I right?
One hand shot out and clutched my seatmate’s arm in a death grip, while the other wrapped itself protectively around my face. I desperately hoped that if, after my death, I encountered God, he wouldn’t be a prick about the whole life of atheism thing.
“Truman,” my seatmate, Jefe, said to me, putting his hand on my arm. “It’s okay. Everything is okay.”
Fool! I thought to myself. We’re all going to die, can’t you see that!? I turned and looked out the window, expecting to see pristine Oregon farmland growing larger and larger as the plane hurdled towards it.
Instead, I saw the Eugene Airport terminal and other runways, which is apparently a common sight when the plane lands.
Yes, that’s right – I had fallen asleep for a full 20 minutes, only waking up during the commotion of the plane’s totally safe landing, and had made the, in my mind, highly logical assumption that the time to kiss my ass goodbye was at hand.
Rolling up to the gate amid the laughter of my peers, I knew two things: 1) This was so going in the blog, and 2) This had been the worst trip ever.
Tune in tomorrow for the wrap up in Part 5!