Once upon a time, long before they were Firefly Sundays, these nights were just a noodle night. Don’t get me wrong, I love that we have Firefly Sundays, but it’s always nice to go back to the beginning once in a while.
Which is how it will always be when it’s Helen’s choice. “I don’t ever need to know when it’s my choice,” she said, “just walk to Kinryuu and I’ll know.”
Yeah, there’s something about the ramen from that place that’s just happy.
We were on our way to Kinryuu when we passed by the Silver Ball, a frequent and common meeting place for many people that’s right by work. They usually have different kinds of events taking place there just about every other Sunday; this Sunday was no exception.
The thing to catch my eye, though, was the green and yellow uniforms.
My band geek snapped to attention.
Without so much as a word to Fight Club, I was making my way towards the front of the audience in attempts to take in the sight. Immediately, my heart and soul went straight to the field.
“Wow, they’re using Pearls. Not bad.”
For those of you who don’t speak this geek, Pearl is a brand of drum. Many of the Division I Corps use ‘em.
I also noted that they were using bell-front Yamaha Sousaphones and concert horns. I scowled a bit at the latter realization if anything because concert horns are useless on the field. Not that this was the field, but still. I also tried to get a glimpse of the snares to see if they used Kevlar heads, but it was too difficult to see.
Damn. I’m always so critical of bands. They sounded pretty good, but they only played marches. I admit, part of me was desperately hoping for a taste of something like “Malageuna”**or one of those pieces to get my heart and my blood up.
The dude was conducting the “ands” — seriously, what was the point? And his “two” was in line with his “one”. Why don’t ya just conduct in circles like an orchestra conductor? (No offense, to my string friends.)
I was glad that Fight Club humored me, though. I don’t know if any of you realize but it’s marching season back home. This would be year two without so much as a glimpse of a “diamond cutter” or the thrill of taking the field and hearing the crowd cheer for you.
Mike, Helen, and I were kinda interested in the brightly colored people who were waiting in the wings (oh yeah, I wrote that on purpose). The guys were wearing these masks and the women looked like they were gonna samba dance or something. The rest of the gang went ahead of us and we watched the next act.
It was a Bolivian Traditional Dance group. It was pretty neat and it was definitely colorful.
After dinner, it was down to the combatants, meaning Jacob, Mike, Phil, and me to head back to the house. Since it went over so well last week, it was thus decided that another game of Munchkin should be played and that a meeting of FAJA should commence.
Longest. Game. Ever.
Actually, I’m pretty sure that we’ve had longer. Still no ice cream, though.
During the game, it was decided that I heart Mike. I knew there was a reason he was made a Kuya.
He’s a bottomless pit, did I ever mention that? Any time there’s like excess food, we all thing, “Just give it to Mike, he’ll eat it.” And usually this is true. Jacob was making some sort of comment about it. I was sitting closest to him, and you know how there are just moments when you can see the wheels turning but you know it’s soooo not getting processed? Yeah. It was kinda like that. Threw me into a fit of laughter.
Darya made pasta the other night. And guess who ate it? That’s right. That would be my Kuya.
“Dude, we just came from dinner?” I cried. “What the hell, man?”
Kuya just shrugged and happily continued devouring the tupperware full of left-overs.
My Kuya has this ability to always need to use the washroom at our house, though. Much to everyone’s horror. It usually results in me leaving the living room and Jacob reminding him to light a match or something. I mean, we bought a spray air freshener and everything for this reason alone.
I usually screech something to the effect of, “Goddamn it, Mike!” And run out of the room.
“Hey, love me. Love my colon.”
The jury’s still out on his stupid ass colon.
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**This is a clip of BLAST! It’s way cooler on the field. God, I miss this!
