Today was our first (and only) marching band competition. We marched at the homecoming parade of the local university. We were the third band, and I'm quite sure we embarrassed ourselves. At any rate, we did a lot better than last year. Damned by faint praise.

It was cold. We didn't get the snow that had been predicted, but it was 26˚ Fahrenheit. Brr.

Among the odd things I saw today: several obviously smashed people pretending to direct the bands, some hungover college girls with their hands over their ears to block out the music, and three frat guys in bedsheet-togas cheering and waving Subway cups. Honestly, it's ten o'clock in the morning. Have a little dignity. Also, I'd laugh if the toga guys ended up with frostbite.

There's nothing quite so vaguely amusing as when your marching band uniforms are older than your band director. Granted, Band Dude (I've never used his name) is 22. I was in eighth grade when he was a senior. Trust me, it's weird.

I hate to admit it, but I kind of enjoyed marching in 23-year-old band uniforms while playing "Spania!" a dozen times for several hundred completely wasted college kids.