Pulling the Plug

I'm not the only one who refuses to pay exorbitant cable bills. Apparently hundreds of thousands of people are unplugging and relying on Hulu, Netflix, iTunes, and DVD sets for their TV fixes. (And of course there's my rabbit ears!) Over 9000 comments have been posted in response to that story on Yahoo News.

I've actually adjusted to my limited channel access (now down to just two channels after my most recent auto channel scan). I no longer feel a compulsion to channel surf until I'm sure I'm watching just the thing I'd rather watch over all other possible choices. It no longer matters whether I hit the Channel Up or Channel Down button, since it only alternates between two channels. I'm enjoying the very easy decision of which channel to watch, especially since 95% of the time channel 20 isn't worth watching.

Which leads to the surprising finding that there are some pretty good shows on 5! Who knew that I would be watching so much FOX? I wouldn't yet call them my favorite shows (and does the word "favorite" mean anything in the absence of choice?), but I readily admit to liking them a lot. Human Target (impossibly handsome, hunky Christopher Chance, always cool and physically capable in the face of hopeless odds, and nice as can be), Bones (the comical but tortured dance between Bones and Agent Booth as they solve forensic mysteries), and House (the inappropriate, abrasive, brilliant Gregory House) all keep me interested. And I have become addicted to American Idol for the first time, too.

Life without premium paid TV isn't impossible - which is a good thing, since Verizon has apparently abandoned plans to expand its FiOS fiber optic network into Alexandria. With the exception of missing the winter Olympics, I don't feel I've suffered much at all. And without a way to record (not that I can watch anything I'd want to record now), I just shrug when I miss a show I'd wanted to see, rather than getting upset.

I've always lamented the loss of simpler times, and now, in a small way, I have rediscovered them.

Let's Hear It For the Boy!

Ricky Martin has "finally" (according to many) come out of the closet in the climactic ending to a deeply thoughtful piece on the homepage of his website, proclaiming to be a "fortunate homosexual man." Hallelujah!

It's about time, right? What took him so long?? Everyone knew that already, so what was he waiting for?

I just read a Washington Post article that detailed a 2008 study showing that both gay and straight people are very good at guessing sexual orientation. People correctly guessed 87% of the time when shown videos of straight people and 75% of the time with videos of gay people. My own gaydar has never resembled a spinning weathervane when considering Ricky Martin, but apparently I'm in the minority.

Speculation has been wild and sporadic over the years, certainly fed by Ricky's declining to answer Barbara Walters' needling questions in an infamous interview in 2000, which Walters now regrets. The persistence of the rumors alone was enough to make some believe them. Certainly people were more than ready to hear him confess that the rumors were true. So why did he wait ten years after evading Walters' question on national television?

As I came out to friends and family over several years, various people tried to make it safe for me to do so. Some cracked the door open just enough for a little light to enter, while others tried to reach in and pull me out. A dear friend invited me to a dinner party, adding, "You can bring anyone you want - ANYONE." A co-worker made reference to going downtown, dramatically winking with a knowing glance. Another co-worker noted the rainbow on my birthday cake and said, "Mark likes rainbows - RIGHT, MARK?"

My sister in-law, after the fact, told me she had wondered and had wanted to just ask me point-blank, but my brother had advised her to hold her question. Whether he was offering wise advice or simply exercising our family's talent for avoiding uncomfortable issues, he was right; depending on when she had considered asking me, I would have either denied it or become paralyzed and speechless with mortification.

In the years immediately preceding my coming out, I had been deeply involved with an "ex-gay" ministry (in fact, I was in leadership) and considered myself fundamentally straight. I was not ready to come out even to myself. And the years immediately following my coming out were uncertain and a little scary. I was in my 30s, and it was tricky navigating such a total change in my life. Coming out to others was a slow, gradual process and depended on my relationship to each person I told.

The right time for me to have come out was not when everyone was ready to hear it; it was when I was ready to tell them.

Ricky Martin was not ready to tell the world in 2000, or at any time during the next ten years. Ricky Martin was ready last week. Yes, it might seem like "finally" to the rest of us. But when he came out on his blog, he was able to do so with dignity, grace, and pride, on his own terms. And that is what I'm celebrating.

Potomac Winds Blowing Sweet Sounds

I help keep the rhythm going on my djembe* as each flute player in the circle takes a turn allowing his or her spirit to lead in song. I'm glad I spent time on the Web learning the basic strokes, and I try to incorporate tones, slaps, and basses in my drumming. Finally, recording artist and world flutist Suzanne Teng takes a turn with her flute, dancing in the middle of the circle as she plays. She gets closer to me, and then for an instant our eyes meet, and we are playing to each other. I was drumming for Suzanne Teng!

Never mind that someone else was playing a djembe, and on the other side of the circle someone was playing a doumbek, and over there was Gilbert Levy, percussionist extraordinaire and her partner in music and life, leading us all. That moment was still mine.

It was the final workshop at the 7th annual Potomac Native American Flute Festival in Arlington, Virginia, and the climax of a great weekend of flutes and friends. For this festival, my fourth, I accepted an invitation to serve as what would come to be known as an "uber-volunteer," basically being available to help for the entire festival, rather than just a few hours here or there. It was well worth the long hours to become much more a part of the festival than ever before.

Mostly I helped with food service: keeping the snack table stocked, making urns of coffee, putting large trays of sandwiches out for lunch, taking meal tickets, and generally keeping an eye on things. But I also sat at the information desk, sold CDs, took tickets at the Saturday night concert, and helped vendors move their wares.

In between shifts I had ample opportunity to try out flutes from the various vendors - always a high point of the festival. It's just amazing how different a flute made by one maker sounds from one made by another. Discovering each flute's unique voice is one of the greatest pleasures a "flutie" can have.

Every year we are blessed by having some of the finest flute makers in the country here: Colyn Petersen, Brent Haines, Brad Young, Hawk Henries, and several others. We are also lucky to have some newer, perhaps unfamiliar makers come to the festival to expand our flute world.

Last year I decided my next flute would be a high Hawk Henries. He had one I really liked, but since I had just dropped some serious money on a custom flute by Brent Haines, I waited a whole year, just thinking about that flute. And I'm glad I did, because now he had a gorgeous spalted birch version of it with an Alaskan yellow cedar bird and endcaps. I knew as soon as I saw it and blew my song into it on the opening day of the festival that it was mine.

Every flute Hawk makes is stunning in its simplicity and natural beauty. He adds no decorative frills, and that somehow allows the woodgrain of every flute to be the star of the show. The bird (totem) is typically small and flat - again, simple and

unobtrusive, pleasing to the eye but not calling attention to itself. The leather ties securing the bird to the flute are thin and unadorned with beads or feathers, simply enhancing the overall look.

He uses only hand tools to make his flutes, and yet each one seems perfect and exact. When you pick one up, you are struck by how silky it feels under your fingers.

Hawk Henries' flutes are a perfect reflection of the quiet, gentle, unassuming, beautiful man he is.

My new flute, however, has to be a cut above all the other flutes Hawk brought this year. The spalted birch is fascinating and beautiful to look at, and the Alaskan yellow cedar complements it perfectly. And its aroma is intoxicating.

But let's not forget its sound! While it's definitely beautiful enough to serve only as a decorative piece, it is ultimately its voice which brings it home for flute players. And this flute has a high, distinct - forgive me - bird-like sound. It chortles and barks, too, so there is plenty of interest in what might otherwise be a limiting range.

I had a golden opportunity to become familiar with other makers' flutes as well, while sitting at the information desk. Right across from me sat more than a dozen flutes donated by their makers to be raffled off throughout the weekend. They just begged to be played, so of course I obliged! Here was a Colyn Petersen, always reliably clear and resonant. Here was an interesting cane flute by Geri Littlejohn, who often makes flutes in their natural state, like actual tree branches. Here was a Leonard McGann, a Brent Haines - and here was an incredible raven's head flute by Brad Young. It became the flute I couldn't stop playing. The sound was just beautifully clear, and it was so easy to play well. By the end of the afternoon I had become quite attached to it, though I knew someone else would probably win it.

Later in the day, I found out I had won a flute! It wasn't the Brad Young, but rather the river cane flute by Geri Littlejohn, also one I liked playing, so I was very happy.

The cane comes from the coastal areas of the Southeast, and Geri gave it an interesting finish by burning it in places and then applying a coat of oil. This also gave the flute a wonderful smell which reminded me of a campfire.

Of course the best part of the festival was sharing my interest in and love of the Native American Flute with other like-minded people and making new friends in the process. I am struck by the wonder of being in such company, sharing in our unspoken understanding of the captivation we feel with this incredible instrument, and laughing at the "sickness" we all have in common, the inability to stop buying more flutes. (Nobody's trying to get well, either!)

After the excitement of playing my djembe with Suzanne Teng and Gilbert Levy at the final workshop on Sunday, I talked with Gilbert for quite a while about drumming. ("It all boils down to boom-chic.") The last event was an Open Mic, and then we tore down, packed, and cleaned up. My new friend Jeff from upstate New York sat tapping out his Sunday festival report for the online Flute Portal on his iPhone. Debbie swept the now-empty vendor area with a broom. Vendors trickled out, hugging and saying goodbye until next year.

I was sorry to see the festival end, but I felt re-energized, and that was my hope for attending. What's next? Attending the Northern Virginia Flute Circle, for sure. Considering making the trip to Musical Echoes or Native Rhythms in Florida, or the Pacific Northwest Flute Quest. Going to a drum circle to play my djembe. And of course throwing my name in to serve as on-site staff at next year's Potomac Flute Festival!

*African hand drum

Photo credits: 1) Suzanne Teng playing flute, me directly behind her playing djembe, photo courtesy of Jefferson Svengsouk; 2) Night Writer, 3) Night Writer

Ski West, Young Man!

I've finally been skiing in the West. Not only that, but in Utah, where the snow is supposed to be the best (according to friends in Utah and confirmed by still sober folks in the hot tub).

After a rather dubious start on the Chickadee beginner run (there are no bunny slopes at Snowbird), I got my sea legs back - twenty years after my last ski trip - and began enjoying myself. A few inches of fresh snow had fallen the night before, the air was pristine, the evergreens and mountains majestic around me, and traffic on the

mountain light, being a Tuesday. Many times I had a run almost all to myself.

My plan to confront potential altitude sickness, beyond obtaining a pre-trip scrip for acetazolamide, was to take chair lifts to increasingly higher elevations and possibly end the day by reaching 10,000 feet with a breathtaking view - hopefully speaking figuratively - of the valley below. The base at Snowbird is around 7900 feet, so I started with lifts that got me to 8400 and 8600 feet.

At some point the fog started rolling in - or, as I saw it, the clouds began dropping down. During one specific stretch of the run it felt like it was raining. Visibility dwindled to 30 or 40 yards. At that point, skiing was difficult but not dangerous, as I could see just enough to complete the next couple turns.

After lunch I took a lift that got me to 9200 feet and an intermediate run called Bassackwards. It was quite challenging, but I did all right, especially considering the worsening conditions. It was now snowing and accumulating quickly.

The afternoon was waning, though, and I had a few more runs on my agenda, so I got on the Gadzoom High-Speed Quad chair lift and reached 9700 feet. My plan was to take Bassackwards all the way down, get on the Gadzoom lift again, ski halfway down, and get on the mid-slope lift that would take me up to 9800 feet, and ski down across the mountain back to Snowbird Center. Then I would end the day by taking the Peruvian Express High-Speed Quad up to 10,500 feet and skiing down Chip's Run back to Cliff Lodge, where we were staying.

That didn't happen. As soon as I got off Gadzoom I could tell conditions had seriously deteriorated. Wet snow fell heavily, ice pellets battered my face as I skied, forcing me to stop, and my wet glasses cut my visibility even more. Not only that, but they suddenly developed a fogging problem that would not go away. Wiping them only helped until I put them back on my face, when they immediately fogged up again. I had no choice but to take them off and put them away.

Now everything was out of focus, but at least I didn't have to fight fog on top of the mist and snow.

Looking up the run, I could hear voices but couldn't tell where they were coming from... until people materialized from the mist. Looking down, skiers traversed the run and then disappeared. "Wait!" I wanted to shout, but they were gone, and though I waited, no one else came after them.

I wondered if I were the last one left on the run.

With no other choice, I skied down into the blurry whiteout and quickly encountered a new problem: snow flying directly into my eyes. Though it forced me to blink rapidly, I kept going, gaining a sense of what it must be like to ski blind.

I became disoriented, as the ground and air became one, all the same whiteness and mist. With no depth perception and no other people in front of me, I couldn't judge the slope of the ground, couldn't tell where anything was, couldn't make the split second adjustments necessary for successful turning, and I lost control and fell repeatedly.

It was no longer fun.

All I wanted was to get to the bottom, get on the shuttle back to Cliff Lodge, and get out of my wet clothes. But it seemed I would never get to the bottom, since I couldn't see it. Nevertheless, I knew I would be closer with every turn, and I blinked hard against the wet snow, straining to focus on keeping my weight forward and carving turns (or at least skidding) aggressively, while praying no trees would suddenly appear in front of me, like goblins in a fun house ride.

Eventually the lifts emerged at the bottom, and I relaxed. The chairs hadn't even stopped for the day yet, and yes, unbelievably, some intrepid skiers were riding back up for one last run. I shared a shuttle ride with two guys from New Orleans, one of whom had never skied before and who had twisted an ankle at the end of the day. And I was worried about fogged up glasses?

Later, sitting in the hot tub while kids played in the pool, all of us in the middle of what Washington would call a "blizzard," I noticed that snow was piling up on the heads of my tubmates. And while it had been quite an afternoon, and while it seemed crazy to go right back outside into the same weather, only this time in just a swimsuit, I had friendly conversation around me, the spa jets warmed my body in no time, and all my worries of the day evaporated as quickly as those skiers disappearing down the slopes in front of me, chatting unconcerned to each other, as friends do.

Photos: (1) Beautiful weather on March 8; (2) Clouds dropping on the Peruvian Express Quad Lift (10K feet) on March 9; (3) Decreasing visibility at the top of a run; (4) Looking up the mountain, three skiiers (center) emerge from the mist. This is how it looked facing downhill, too. (Funny how a dangerous situation always presents a good photo op.)

Mom, I've Found Her!

I've found the perfect girl! She's cute, intelligent, driven, passionate, has a good heart and beautiful smile, and can light up a room with her laugh. She's taken more than one leadership role at church after being around only a couple years. She listens well, is compassionate, and cares about her family and friends. She's fit and loves frozen yogurt. Any guy would jump at the chance to snap her up.

There's just one problem: what would her boyfriend say?

Or, more to the point, what would mine?*

R and I had the beginnings of a great relationship - lunches, plans to discuss great literature, heart-to-hearts at Mr. Yogato - until what's-his-name came along. I'm not jealous, exactly... I just miss spending time with her. Under different circumstances (for instance, if I were straight), I would definitely pursue something more meaningful with her - although under those same circumstances I might be considered a dirty old man, since I am technically old enough to be her father. Indeed, maybe the love I feel for her is in a way paternal (which would explain the urge I've had to meet this boy she is dating and see if I think he is good enough for her).

But I suspect that a kernel of what I feel for R is the same kind of thing a lot of gay men have felt for women they married (and eventually divorced). I've known many such men who felt it was just the next thing they needed to do in life, who felt pressured by society and family or maybe the woman in question, or who thought perhaps it was the way to escape bothersome, frightening urges they didn't want to have.

I am just happy that I don't bring any of that to my friendship with R, that I have been through the self-discovery and process of coming out of shame that is necessary for reaching a point of happiness and yes, pride, at being gay, so that no confusion entwines itself around the interaction we have as friends.

Gay men have had a long history with straight women (though the women may not have realized it). Will and Grace. The hapless gay guy and sharp-tongued gal pal in most gay comedies. Rock Hudson and Doris Day. In my own life, I have a long list of close female friends who have sustained me over the decades, and who continue to do so.

It is such a blessing to have had such wonderful and unique friends, to be able to relate to women in a way that straight men cannot, and to be the kind of man a woman can feel completely comfortable with, in a way that she cannot, or does not often, feel with a straight man. Sometimes what a guy needs is a person who is Other, and fellow men, whether gay or straight, cannot fill this role (although straight men sometimes seem enough like interplanetary travelers that they might come close).

Even though I will never marry R - and wish her all the very best in her budding relationship - I will enjoy our continuing friendship and the realization that I finally found the woman I would, in another life, take home to meet Mom.

* (if I had one)

I'm Going Radical

No, I'm not becoming a naturist, padding around home in all my glory. I'm not adopting a vegan lifestyle, although I think it would be a good idea. And I'm not adopting a child from an obscure third world country.

I'm giving up TV.

Well - not really, but it almost amounts to that. I dug out my old rabbit ears from the basement and hooked them up to my one year-old HDTV. Now I get crystal clear reception - on FOX, and sometimes channels 20 and 50 (local D.C. channels that show old sitcoms and tabloidy judge shows). If the weather is nice, that is. If it's raining, I get pixellated images, freeze action, metallic buzzing, and stuttering dialogue ("What do you mean, jelly be-be-be-be-be -").

How is my reception on the other channels, you ask. What other channels?

Oh, if I'm really lucky, channel 4, the local NBC affiliate, comes in, and it's beautiful. But that's only about once a week. Other than that - nada. I used to get Unavision occasionally, so I could watch soap operas in Spanish, but not anymore.

My boss can't understand why, in this day and age of technological sophistication, I would choose such an antiquated way to get TV. ("Give it up!" she said one day.) And it's true; it wouldn't even occur to most people as an option.

But in the zip code where I now reside, Comcast is my only viable choice. (DirecTV is also offered, but the satellite dish must be outside and face south, and my balcony faces north.) And I would rather not have TV service at all than to be shackled to Comcast against my will and better judgment.

I know of only one person who has been satisfied with Comcast. Otherwise, it seems unanimous that Comcast provides abysmal customer service. This is borne out in surveys from various sources, and now I have a story of my own to add to that pool of outrage.

When I set up the electricity for my new condo, I was transferred to a third-party vendor to set up other services (TV, phone, Internet). The guy who talked to me was a fast talker who went over the figures so fast that I didn't have time to write them down. There was a regular monthly cost, a six-month introductory monthly cost, and an installation fee, and the prices were different between TV and Internet, which were the two services I needed (since I had decided to use my cell phone in lieu of establishing a landline account). And of course there was the six-month total cost, and the total cost after the introductory period. But he didn't give me these eight figures in any logical order; they were seemingly disclosed randomly.

At some point during the same phone conversation the installation fees changed. I challenged him on this, but he didn't even acknowledge it. When I asked him to go over each cost once more so that I could write everything down, the response was silence, followed by obvious frustration and condescension in both his words and tone of voice. ("When something is good, you just do it. Don't you?") Nevertheless, I caved in to his hard sell tactics because there was no other choice for TV.

I then spent a significant chunk of time on the Comcast website trying to match up their figures with what I'd gotten on the phone. But while some of the costs were the same (despite the agent claiming to have "found" me special rates), I could not confirm his breakdown.

I then received an email order confirmation, but not all the charges on it were familiar.

The next day I called the vendor again to get a different agent. This time I got a woman who was much nicer and more patient, but she said she could not itemize the costs because they did not appear on her screen. She said when the installer came to my condo, he would be able to give me something with the costs on it. I didn't want to be faced with the situation of being inconvenienced with an eight-hour appointment window and then turning someone away at my door, but we had reached an impasse.

I then called Comcast directly, but even they could not break down the charges for me - until after everything had been installed. I was incredulous. "So if the bill is different from what I was told when I placed the order, I'm going to be forced to call and argue with you about the charges," I said. And of course if I wanted to cancel at that point, I would be slapped with an early termination fee and shipping charges for returning the equipment. "Oh, no," said Comcast, "I'm documenting everything you say." (I think that's what they call a non sequitur.)

After several days of frustration and anger (at both my treatment and seeming lack of choice), I decided on a major change in lifestyle and cancelled the order. If I was this stressed out even before installation, there was no way I wanted a long-term relationship with them. I then placed a DSL order with Verizon for Internet service and hoped for the best with TV.

After all, what did we do before Comcast, satellite, and Verizon FiOS? Wasn't there a time before six-month introductory pricing, Triple Freedom, and waiting for the cable guy to show up, when you just plugged in your set and got regular network TV?

I moved into my new place, and yes, it was a little stressful at first. Not only did I no longer have all the channels I was used to watching, but I had no broadcast at all. Even after finding and hooking up the old rabbit ears, only a few channels came in. And those channels were seemingly dependent on the weather, placement of the TV set, and whether the sliding glass door was open or not. (I recently discovered this was not true - it's only the weather and placement of the TV.)

It was an adjustment getting such limited programming. But my boss is right: these are indeed days of technological advancement. I can get full episodes of "Desperate Housewives" for free on the ABC website. I can watch episodes of "The Dog Whisperer" on the National Geographic website and "Curb Appeal" and a lot of related content on the HGTV website. And I can buy episodes of my current obsession, "Mad Men," on iTunes.

The only thing I really miss is reliable TV news - to be able to switch on CNN Headline News, MSNBC, BBC World News, or the local news at 6:00. I even miss the news I never watched but could, like BBC Asia or CNN Europe or whatever. It's amazing and wonderful to me that one can tune in to any of those specialized channels to get news that never makes it onto mainstream TV, whether or not I actually take advantage of it. There's a whole world out there, and now we can discover what's happening in it.

But there are countless Internet news sources - every newspaper, magazine, TV station and network, and radio station has a website, and you can pick and choose videos of stories that interest you. I even came to think of it as a more intelligent way of procuring news; you choose your source (even one from your hometown), scan the headlines, click on links that seem important to you, and ignore the rest - similar to reading the paper. And you get the news whenever you want, not just when it's broadcast. All this leads to using your time more wisely. And if you missed how that news story began, or if you want more info from related content, you can always link to those items.

I've learned a couple things using this approach:

1) It's nice, and even beneficial, to be spoon-fed the news.
You only find out about certain things when a newscaster tells you. It's part of the show, so you sit there and listen to it. In an interactive setting, I won't learn about those things if I don't choose to click on them.

2) What's important to know is not always what interests me.
I usually follow links to the big headline stories of the day, but those I most want to click are human interest stories. So even though getting news interactively might be more efficient and intelligent than absorbing it passively, I might miss out on things I should know about (see #1).

Regardless of whether I want to watch news or something else, however, I have found that having control over when and how I watch TV content has allowed for another option: not watching it at all.

Rather than being controlled by a broadcast schedule or the burden of finding time to watch a stack of recorded shows, I most often simply pursue other activities. Recently this has meant focusing on settling into my new home, but as I finish up, it will mean writing, reading, playing the Native American flute, volunteering, and engaging with friends, among other things - all healthier for my mind and spirit than sitting in front of the TV. When I look back at what has really enriched my life, it's not "Mad Men"; it's workshopping a story for a week at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. It's being with friends who have reached out to me, whether in person locally or online from far away. It's reading letters from prisoners and sending them books they want.*

Some use the TV for company. I do understand that; when I've lived alone, it has been comforting to hear human voices and see people. This time, though, I'm trying not to lean on TV this way and want to focus on contact with real people.

So far, I haven't heard of anyone else who has chosen the same route. But I did find one friend who has gone a step further: she doesn't even own a TV. As much as I dislike FOX news, I'm glad to have one local station. I'm not sure I could go as far as not having a TV at all. She said at first it was hard. But then she thought of what else she could do, like - read a book.

And in these days of technological sophistication, THAT'S radical.

* See 7/16/09 entry

For The Glory of the Old Maroon and Gold

An older man with white facial hair pulls a well-loved brass sousaphone out of his car, hefts it onto his shoulder, and begins shuffling down the slippery sidewalk. "Only a band person," I say, catching up to him, "would be crazy enough to be out here at 5:30 a.m. in the dark and freezing cold on icy streets!" He gives me the once-over to determine whether I am referring to him or myself. I wave my saxophone neck strap at him, and he agrees.

Who knew there would be 30-degree temps, wind chill, and black ice in mid-October?

After several blocks of taking careful half-steps and nearly landing on our butts several times, we finally arrive at the stadium, grateful for the warmth and light of the band facility. Not surprisingly, it's hurry up and wait, but we use the time to catch up and chat. After all, it's the first time some of us have seen each other in over 25 years.

Last night we met on the corner of Pillsbury and University Avenues, across from Folwell Hall, where I had my first class at the University of Minnesota (Japanese at 8:00 a.m., September 1979). True to the reputation of the alumni band, we looked a bit ragtag - sweatshirts, band jackets, running shoes, and a lot of gray (or no) hair. Especially next to the uniformed, youthful, good-looking student band. But in my mind, the alumni band also had experience, maturity, and an undying spirit borne out of having lived through the band years of college and experienced the iron-clad bonds of friendship and camaraderie, made only stronger by the passing years.

Oh my God, it's Bill and Liz Pick! And who's talking - that voice, it's so familiar - it's got to be Carol Herbert, my Stoogemaster! And look, it's Jean Gray!

The Homecoming parade was the first time I'd marched and played since 1982, and while I was excited, I also worried about the seeming lack of organization. No one called names - they just told us to line up - and when I asked if we weren't going to tune, someone burst out laughing. After a minute, the drum line began their cadences, and we took off down the street.

What I came to realize in my determination to look and sound good - and my subsequent discovery that perfection was not possible, given that the cadences, horn movements, and chants had all changed over the years - was that the crowd didn't care whether we were as good as the student band. Whether making fun of the old geezers or truly supporting us, they were just out for a good time. And after getting up at 4:00 a.m. to fly in from DC just for this, that should be my goal, too.

Oh, my God, it's Janet Denenny marching in my rank! We wave to each other across 27 years.

Marching past the decorated frat houses and a crowd all revved up to beat Purdue the next day, I felt what a thrill, an honor, and a privilege it was to be in the parade.

Now, ten hours later, shuffling through the bowels of the stadium and into the passageway leading out onto the field, my anticipation builds. Just ahead, the student band, fully uniformed, is already on the field, going through their motions. Being in this brand new stadium on campus after 26 long seasons in an indoor domed stadium downtown is historic and momentous enough (and the reason for my trip) - someone murmurs, "Isn't this something?" - but seeing the band in uniform under bright stadium lights in the pre-dawn dark, humming their parts while marching in the 30-degree stillness, students using leaf blowers to clear the snow off the stadium seats in the background, infuses it with surreality and makes it even more unforgettable.

This person looks familiar - it's John Gibbs! And that person is looking at me, but it's hard to see who she is under all those bundles of warmth - it's TD Kiernan - now Gibbs!

Thankfully, the sky eventually brightens, and we eventually play the music and forget about the cold as we march across the field.

Hours pass. The sun comes up. Tailgaters arrive and heat up their grills. Students come with blankets. Maroon and gold covers everyone. You can actually feel the University of Minnesota pride in the air.

Shortly before kickoff, we file onto the track surrounding the field and make our way to the bleachers reserved for us. We wait for the band to make its pre-game entrance, and when they come out in running cadence, it's almost like watching myself 25 (okay, 27) years ago. As they perform, even though I am excited, I have the distinct feeling of being left out. Nothing compares to marching down the field, bursting with pride while playing to 50,000 Gopher fans under a bright blue sky, anticipation in the air. And these guys look and sound good - really good.

To our left, in the bowl end, is the student season ticket section. These guys should be paid for the enthusiasm they generate throughout the rest of the stadium. A solid mass of maroon and gold, they make a lot of noise, follow all the band cheers, and sing along with the Rouser. In the front is the requisite row of shirtless men - 30 degrees plus windchill be damned! - with painted chests and faces. But what really makes this section is a guy inexplicably dressed in a full-body white chicken suit.

The people around me are very into football and provide running commentary. I myself didn't watch a single game of football in my three years of marching. In this new stadium, I could watch it much more easily on the gigantic screen in the open end if I wanted. But what I remember most about the games is spending two or three hours with my closest friends, making fun of the cheerleaders, chitchatting, and generally being silly. Sometimes there was ice on the benches, but we all cuddled together in our heavy wool uniforms, and the cold was generally forgotten. And in early and mid-fall, the sun low in the crisp, blue sky, there was no better way to skip studying!

And what I am thinking about now is how wonderful it is to discover that a lot of people - most, in fact - are the same great people they were when I last saw them. Jean Gray is still cheerful, fun-loving, and caring. Steve Kreitz is still the life of the party. Janet Denenny is still the same nice, positive, helpful person. We are heavier and grayer, but the essence of who we were has not changed.

After the game, I hear, "Is that Mark Abe?" I look up. Who is that big man smiling down at me from the stands? Wait - that raspy voice, those clear blue eyes. "Brian Benson." Brian Benson! I go running up the bleachers towards him.

We are back in the band facility for a reception of big cookies and "vintage" video of 1989 Spat Camp. (Wait a minute, they're calling it "vintage" and it's from seven years after my final year in band?)

And there's Rick Trembley, my old college roommate, and Celeste, his wife and fellow alto sax player! I haven't seen them in 15-20 years, but it doesn't take long to catch up.

Eventually the crowd begins to thin, and I realize this event is coming to a close. It saddens me, as I know this was a special year for people to come back, and succeeding years won't be as well-attended. But I celebrate the joy of reconnecting with old friends, if only for a day or two, and the affirmation of treasured memories from my years in the Finest Band in the Land.

Photo credits: 1) Homecoming Parade - Matt Abe, 2) Pre-Dawn Practice - Mark Abe, 3) Janet (Denenny) Linkert and Mark - Matt Abe