Is That All There is to a Parade?

Well, it is another beautiful morning in Boquete, Panama.  My little friend, Betty just jumped down from her chair and waddled outside to investigate a dog barking somewhere in the neighborhood.  I’m just finishing my coffee, and realizing that my oatmeal isn’t going to last me long.  I should go check on the laundry.  Maybe in a few more minutes.

The drumming has stopped, leaving just the drip of rainwater falling from the gutter onto the metal stairs that lead to the lower yard.  You see, for the past few weeks, every morning (and some evenings) the local drum corps (I think it’s

the high school) has been practicing near the town square.  The patterns, which repeat over and over, are dominated by snare drums.  The rat-a-tat-tat being augmented by the boom-boom of big bass drums now and again.

This has been happening every day since I arrived.  Being up on the side of the mountains that surround the little town,

the sound is amplified and carried upwards on the thermals to my massive, Irish ears.  I wanted to go down there and offer to buy the school a bunch of flutes, or triangles, or dry erasers to play, but I don’t know how to say, 

       “Do you know any other tunes besides Wipeout?” in Spanish.  Also, I'm broke.

Then just yesterday, I found out what all the drumming is about.  It seems that November 3^rd is Panama’s Independence Day.  The day they became a sovereign nation from Columbia.  It is a pretty big deal and kicks of the Celebration Month.  It is VERY important that the parades go off without a hitch, and the drumming, I’m told, is the key to keeping things moving.  I suppose that is important considering the parade which takes place on the 28^th of November is 16 hours long, and includes marching bands from all over Panama. 

No, I’m not kidding.  I was told that there is a constant flow

of buses in and out of Boquete on the 28th.  A bus arrives, a band unloads, takes its place in line, Oomp-pahs its way through the town, gets back on the bus and leaves, making way for the next bus.  All of the surrounding tribes come in and are all gussied up to march as well.  I have a feeling they don’t Oomp-pah, but I guess it’s a sight to see.

With Boquete only being about a half a mile long and only having two real streets it will be interesting to see how they are going to pull this off.  They have a horse Parade, a torch parade, even the President of Panama shows up sometimes.  There are plenty of speeches and lots of rum!

I guess now I realize why the drum practice was so important.  If one lowly drummer were to drop a drumstick and the tuba player behind him were to slip on it, the whole shit-a-roo would end in certain tragedy.  There would be nothing but a giant wad of brightly colored marchers among tons of

trombones, xylophones, clarinets, French horns, saxophones, flutes, horses, funny looking hats, and batons, all wiggling and writhing trying to keep moving to the beat of the drums.

Let’s just hope someone remembers to tell the torch people that there is trouble up ahead.  One year they scheduled a group of whistlers to march in the Parade.  Apparently a group of expats from the surrounding area thought it would be a hoot to march down the street whistling The Star Spangled Banner.  They called themselves “The Whistling Dixies” and were a late entry.  Because of this (and because no group is ever tuned down) The Whistling Dixies had to wait until the evening before organizers could fit them in to the parade.  With nothing to do but sit around and wait, all 60 of the whistlers began to partake of the free flowing rum and Seco (the official Panamanian alcohol).

Finally, as night began to fall, the organizers of the parade fit the drunken whistlers in the line-up.  Unfortunately TWD (as their groupies called them) were to follow immediately behind the torch dancers.  As the torches lit up the night, the whistlers broke in to a rousing rendition of The Star Spangled Banner. 

Sadly, the sudden gust of alcohol infused breath from the whistlers was ignited by the spinning torches, and the once proud torch dancers were singed completely hairless, toe knuckle to top-notch, by the human blow-torch behind them.  I’m told the blue smoke hung in the air for hours.

Of course, I made that up.  The smoke only lasted a few minutes.  But, had the whistlers been marching to the beat of a drummer the whole nasty incident could have been avoided. 

My point is this;

Crap! I’ve got to go move the laundry.  I’ll let you know how the Parade Season goes.

                                  DP

Violence, with a capital "P"

       Often times I share my misadventures.  We all love to laugh at others when they say the wrong thing, or trip, or suddenly burst into flame.  And why not?  Who hasn’t flubbed an introduction, looked back to see what they tripped over (only to find an old person), or suffered unimaginable pain and months of physical therapy in a burn ward?  When we laugh at others it is really our way of saying “Better you than me, sucker!”

       On the other side of the gauze there are faux pas, gaffes, and accidents that befall other poor saps that we ourselves have never experienced, and probably, in a million years, never

will.  These, of course, we blame on the victim for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and laugh all the harder.  Like the zoo keeper who smothered to death under a huge pile of elephant shit.  Priceless.

       This one time? My mom, my brother and I went to view the Rose Parade floats which were on display at the Lloyd Center.  There were many beautiful pieces of rolling flower art that day.  One of our favorites were the giant Clydesdale horses, you know the ones that pull the Budweiser Fire wagon and look like their wearing fringed hippie boots?  Those things can *shit a ton as well.  But, we avoided the green mountains of horse pucky, and it was time for my mom to sit and rest for a minute on a nearby cement block.

My brother and I stood talking to our mother as she was was enjoying a smoke and catching her breath (That is known as a Dichotomy), Sparky, the Budweiser Dalmatian, wandered away from his handlers, and sniffing the ground with urgency, moseyed up behind my mom.  Then things went into slow motion.

       As the dog squared off behind her, Mike and I just stood there in awe.  It was obvious that nothing good was going to come of the situation, but what a magnificent dog, strong, healthy, and full of piss and vinegar.  As he raised his leg Mike and I could have yelled or stepped forward to scare the dog away – but we didn’t.  Why?  Because, when would an opportunity like this ever present itself again?  All we could do was hope that Sparky was really a fire engine dog and that to him the smoke from my mother’s cigarette meant trouble.  As he raised his spotted leg the tension was palpable.  Then, out of his *English

pudding (try to keep up), came our reward.

       Now, had my mother been wearing a white silk blouse this incident would not have been nearly as funny, but she was wearing a windbreaker. It was the sound that startled her more than the warm sensation down her back, along with our raucous laughter of course.  She threw her arms in the air and shrieked!  In the end she laughed right along us, and no dogs were injured, maimed or killed during the making of this anecdote.  Though Mike and I each got punched, and I had to carry her coat.

       My point is this;

       It is fun to laugh at others IF the other person can laugh at it as well

(as in my mom’s case).  But lately I have noticed a disturbing trend.  Americans, especially young Americans, are turning into bullies.  Not only, schoolyard bullies, but real, nasty assholes (Great Band Name) with little respect or tolerance for others.  Recently, there was a post on Facebook about a woman from England who saw a man in Starbucks carrying a handgun in the open. It was obvious that he was licensed to do so, that wasn’t what scared her.  What concerned her was she felt like she could have sneaked up and grabbed the weapon out of its holster and taken possession of it.  Remember, in England not even the Police carry guns, so just seeing one up close and personal disturbed her.

       Right away two young men commented on it, the first one calling her a “stupid bitch” and the second one calling her the “C” word and telling her to go back to England!  This wouldn’t have bothered me as much if I hadn’t known both of these young men, one of them used to be part of my family.  The sad thing is that these kids are probably nice enough guys, but humans have a herd mentality.  Experiments show that we tend to be followers, no matter how independent we think we are. 

       Could it be that by the time a child reaches 18 years old, they will have viewed 200,000 acts of violence, and 40,000 murders on television?  Could that be part of the problem?  On T.V. violence is perfectly acceptable way to resolve issues.  It’s quick and easy, and in between killings you can grab yourself a healthy snack!  If you ask me (and nobody does) it is a lazy, non-creative way to write. 

       So, in conclusion, next time you meet a screenwriter stab him in the neck.  Then go get yourself a healthy snack.

*Known in the vernacular as “A shit ton”.

*Spotted Dick is a cylindrical pudding popular in Britain.

DP