"The Day the Marching Band Came"

Originally written February 2005, Children's Literature Workshop, UC San Diego. Used with permission. From myself.

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      It was a bright, clear summer's day when the marching band came. The crowd roared and cheered, as crowds often do. Sammy cheered too, as the sounds of music floated up the street. He heard the crisp rat-ta-ta-tum-tum of the drums, the high brash toot of the trumpets, the jangling crash of the cymbals, the deep rumbling boom of the tubas. Sammy could hear it all. But the people in the crowd were tall as towers, blocking Sammy’s view.

      The black and silver tops of the marching band's hats were bobbing past the tall peoples' heads. Sammy was going to miss seeing the band! Squeezing his way past the tree-like legs of the adults before him, he pushed through just in time to see the last of the marchers go by, their brass instruments gleaming, their tall black hats bouncing with each step. The splendid red and white uniforms they wore reminded Sammy of toy soldiers.

      "That's it," thought Sammy as the band passed and disappeared down the block, "I'm going to be in a marching band!"

      Sammy ran back home and started planning right away. "This blue bucket will do for my hat!" he said to himself. "And I can use this tin can as a drum!" Sammy borrowed the red tablecloth from the kitchen and wrapped it around his neck.

      "Let's go!" exclaimed Sammy. Rascal bounded in, tail wagging in expectation. "You have to be able to play something if you want to be in the marching band, Rascal!" Rascal barked in reply. "Well, I guess if you want to sing, that's okay, too. Time for our parade!"

      And so Sammy and Rascal set out on their march. Sammy took the biggest steps his little legs could reach, and banged on the bottom of the tin can with his hand. Ping, pang, pong it went, and Rascal yelped every now and then. It was turning out to be a very good marching band indeed, Sammy thought.

      They marched down the neighborhood street, past the bright houses and apartments. Old ladies tending their lawns shook their heads. Old men on their porches didn’t even look up. Sammy gave them a smile and waved anyway, and Rascal barked a greeting.

      A gray tabby cat was crossing the street ahead of Sammy and Rascal. Rascal barked, and the little cat jumped back a little. “Rascal! Don’t be so mean!” commanded Sammy. Rascal stopped barking at the cat. Sammy knelt down beside the gray kitten. “Are you lost? That’s okay. Do you want to be in our marching band, Kitty?” The cat had a little brass bell on its collar, which tinkled as the kitten yawned. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes!’” And so the three of them marched further down the street.

      Past the playground they went, past the school, past the parks and fields. Rascal barked as Sammy slapped the drum can, and Kitty jumped every time Rascal barked, sending the bell jingling. Older boys sneered, and older girls pointed and giggled, but Sammy kept his head high and marched on forward. Rascal and Kitty looked glad to be marching, too.

      A seagull floated by overhead, and squawked its sharp, seagull's squawk. "You can be in our marching band too!" called Sammy from the ground. The seagull didn't seem to want to walk, but that was okay. They could be a marching-flying band.

      They went past the warehouses, big brick buildings with empty-looking windows. Old warehouse workers grumbled. Cars zoomed by, leaving behind clouds of stinky exhaust. But Sammy marched on with a smile, smacking the can to the beat of his steps. Rascal trotted along, tail wagging. Kitty kept pace right behind. And the seagull – Sammy decided to name him Gulliver – soared on overhead. The band was going far today.

      Sammy noticed a lonely, lost ant wandering on the sidewalk. "Well," said Sammy, "you don't have an instrument, Mr. Ant, but you can follow us along until you find one." The ant inched closer to the piece of gum stuck on Sammy's shoe.

      And so they continued their afternoon parade. Past the docks, the ocean breeze wafted in, rustling the tall grass and dry weeds along the cracking sidewalk. The sound of the rustling whispered like the soft sound of applause, each blade of grass or tuft of weed cheering the band along. And the tin can clanged, the bark sounded, the brass bell rang out, the squawk hung in the air. The ant hadn’t found an instrument yet, but that was okay. They still put on a very good parade.

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Now all I need is an illustrator. And publisher. And readers.

The Plastic Eye

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So I got a new lens for my camera. Yeah, I'm a sucker for camera gear. This one's a little different, though. No fancy extra-dispersion aspherical ground glass elements in various groups for this lens. Nope -- pure plastic.

My interest in the Holga was piqued by a few articles I read on the interweb. For the uninitiated, the Holga is an all-plastic toy film camera. It has one shutter speed, one aperture setting, leaks light into its body, and has a junko plastic lens. As a consequence, when compared to photos taken from a "real" camera, the pics from a Holga.. er.. don't look quite right. Which is what we're going for here.

I actually considered picking up a real live Holga, but I really didn't want to deal with film. It's medium format, which would have been interesting to get into, but still -- film. So I did the next best thing: I paid a guy to hack the lens off a Holga and mount it onto a Nikon body cap. So now I can mount it onto my SLR. Sweet, sweet digital goodness.

I was not very enamored by some of my initial experiences with the lens, though. I spent a good amount of time going over every crevice of the thing to get rid of all the plastic shaving bits. Not a very delightful task. And the first few shots I grabbed with it were -- how shall we say -- not inspiring. But I got a few interesting exposures. And after a while, I started to get used to the quirkiness of this particular lens.

The Holga definitely forces you to approach photography differently. It sort of makes you look at the world a little cockeyed, from different angles, trying to find something that would hold interest before sending it through the distorted plastic. The photo above is one of the better examples of its results.

One thing I don't like about Flickr is that they seem to boost contrast and saturation a bit after you upload photos. The above picture was less contrasty than it appears now, and a bit more flat and dull in terms of color. Usually I wouldn't complain, but in this case, it really does take away from some of the eerie, washed-out feel I'd seen before uploading. Oh well. You get what you can from free services.

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Artsy? Funky? Weird? I don't know. Whatever it is, I think it's right up my alley.

Man, I Was a Lot Funnier in High School

So a while back, I was cleaning through some boxes of papers in the garage, tossing out old homework assignments from high school and college (the precious few I actually completed). Amidst the piles of calculus and world history notes, I came across a short mini-play I'd written for my high school creative writing class. It made me laugh.

When I'd gotten out of college, there was a certain feeling that I was at the top of my game in terms of writing skill. I now realize that my high-school self was at the over-the-top of his game. Oh High-School Self, how wonderfully absurd you were.

I wasn't very good with titles, though. The title for this piece was, quite simply, "Creative Writing: First Play." How utilitarian. But without further ado, for your reading pleasure, I present my high-school play:

Characters
Dr. Kilborne
Mr. Peonei

A vast desert, barren except for a few desert plants. A thin strip of asphalt cuts through the expanse, serving as a highway. A large, black Humvee sits parked on the side of road. Next to the vehicle grows a single Joshua tree, surrounded by shrubs. The sun beats down upon the area from overhead, scorching the earth.
As a large pickup truck comes down the highway, the Humvee’s single occupant, Dr. Kilborne, opens his vehicle’s door and steps out into the sun. He tosses the hardcover book in his hand, Advanced Nuclear Physics, onto the Hummer’s seat, and readjusts the position of his eyeglasses. He is dressed in a white lab coat and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat.
The truck pulls up and parks behind the Humvee. Peonei, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, steps out of the truck and walks over to Kilborne.

Kilborne: (checking his watch) It’s about time.

Peonei: Sorry I’m late, but these directions you gave me were awfully confusing. What’s up with all of these circling routes?

Kilborne: (scans the area with his eyes) They were a necessary precaution, just in case you were followed.

Peonei: (scratches his head) Um... okay. So, do you have the merchandise?

Kilborne: (lowers his voice to a whisper and leans toward Peonei) Not so loud, you fool! Who knows who may be listening?

Peonei: (looks around) What? There’s nobody here.

Kilborne: (nervously scratches his neck) Quiet down! Just be quiet! The object you requested is in the Hummer.

(Kilborne and Peonei walk to the Humvee. Kilborne unlocks the trunk hatch and opens it. Inside is a large, curved, metallic object, which takes up the Hummer’s entire cabin space.)

Kilborne: Here it is. I can’t tell you how difficult it was to slip this through the government lab’s security. Fortunately, we nuclear physicists get relatively high security clearance.

Peonei: It looks impressive. How much will you be charging for this thing, exactly?

Kilborne: (takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his hands clean) I’ll let you have it for thirteen.

(Peonei fishes out a few crumpled bills from his pocket and hands them to Kilborne.)

Kilborne: What’s this? Thirteen dollars? Do you think that’s funny? I meant thirteen million, you jerk!

Peonei: (eyes widening) Thirteen million?! Har-har. That’s a pretty lame joke, mister. Really, how much is it?

Kilborne: (voice raising) Don’t yank my chain, you little punk! If you aren’t prepared to pay for it, don’t bother looking at it! Hydrogen bombs aren’t exactly easy to come by, you know.

Peonei: (shocked) Hydrogen bomb?! What the...

Kilborne: (calms down slightly) Well, granted, it isn’t the best one in the world. You can’t expect too much. After all, I had to build this from pieces of scrapped equipment in my secret lab. But, at thirteen million, it’s still a bargain!

Peonei: (yelling nervously) Why are you trying to sell me a bomb?! Sweet mother of mercy, are you mad?!

Kilborne: (confused) You told me over the phone that you wanted a weapon of mass destruction didn’t you? What do you want if for, anyway?

Peonei: Weapon of mass destruction?! Are you insane?! I wanted something to kill cockroaches with! I’m a janitor for goodness sake!

Kilborne: (suddenly becomes quiet) Oh... oops.

(Kilborne turns around and looks at the Joshua tree.)

Kilborne: I now see the error of my ways. A world in which janitors can go about blowing up people into tiny bits is frightening indeed. Yes, from this day forth, no more shall I sell weapons on the black market! (stops to think) On the other hand, that little unkempt fellow I spoke with the other day seemed to be quite willing to pay top dollar for that cruise missile...

(Peonei lays down in the dirt and cries.)

Spurgeon, on Wisdom

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An idea has long possessed the public mind, that a religious man can scarcely be a wise man. It has been the custom to talk of infidels, atheists, and deists, as men of deep thought and comprehensive intellect; and to tremble for the Christian controversialist, as if he must surely fall by the hand of his enemy. But this is purely a mistake; for the gospel is the sum of wisdom; an epitome of knowledge; a treasure-house of truth; and a revelation of mysterious secrets. In it we see how justice and mercy may be married; here we behold inexorable law entirely satisfied, and sovereign love bearing away the sinner in triumph. Our meditation upon it enlarges the mind; and as it opens to our soul in successive flashes of glory, we stand astonished at the profound wisdom manifest in it. Ah, dear friends! if ye seek wisdom, ye shall see it displayed in all its greatness; not in the balancing of the clouds, nor the firmness of earth's foundations; not in the measured march of the armies of the sky, nor in the perpetual motions of the waves of the sea; not in vegetation with all its fairy forms of beauty; nor in the animal with its marvellous tissue of nerve, and vein, and sinew: nor even in man, that last and loftiest work of the Creator. But turn aside and see this great sight!—an incarnate God upon the cross; a substitute atoning for mortal guilt; a sacrifice satisfying the vengeance of Heaven, and delivering the rebellious sinner. Here is essential wisdom; enthroned, crowned, glorified. Admire, ye men of earth, if ye be not blind; and ye who glory in your learning bend your heads in reverence, and own that all your skill could not have devised a gospel at once so just to God, so safe to man.

- C.H. Spurgeon

I'm Also Glad I'm Not a Scientist

So I was reading the latest issue of Popular Science, and came across an article about the worst jobs in the science field. Topping the list (or perhaps bottoming it?) was, in my opinion, the whale-feces collector. It seems there is much you can learn from the gentle beasts of the sea by studying their poop. It's actually quite interesting. Turns out they've trained dogs to go with them on the boats and sniff out the, er, quarry.

On second thought, perhaps the orangutan-pee collector edges these guys out in terms of undesirability of work. At least there's less chance of stuff falling on top of you when you're on the ocean.

For those of us braving the wild world of the city, our dear friend Wonger has found a potentially handy device, for those of us too lazy to crank out sheets of paper towels or use hand sanitizers.

Clearer Skies

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One thing I noticed, during my brief visit to Europe, was the clouds. There's just something about the clouds in Europe -- as if they had more depth and character and vibrancy.


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By way of comparison, I'm not quite sure how one would describe the skies in Los Angeles without using the words "brown" or "gunk."

Just an observation.

Glad I'm Not a Writer

... wait a minute...