For his birthday, back in April, we gave Jack tickets for this month's U2 concert. Since then, he's learned An Cat Dubh in Gaelic and cleared up all the mondegreens in Mysterious Ways. He's been fielding calls from Cash Cab and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, because somewhere, on the Secret List for Bono trivia, his name is first for Phone-A-Friend.
Unfortunately, in order to attend the show last Tuesday, my son had to miss one of his 5.5 weekly drumline rehearsals. No matter that for four marching seasons he has endured July/August heat that would melt Victoria Beckham's face; regardless of the fact that in all that time he's missed--maybe--three practices, and those because he was too sick to hold a drumstick; no credit for making us plan our family vacations around band camp and grapefruit sales: Jack needed to be taught a lesson.
"You let your fellow band-mates down," scolded the band director, who wouldn't know The Joshua Tree from a Christmas tree. "You impeded the progress of the drill." And so he suspended Jack for a week, banning him from the next four practices and an away game.
Jack hates everything about away games: the way they eat up his Friday nights; how he has to help load the equipment truck; the fact he has to ride in the puke-vinyl-smelling buses. To make matters better, instead of marching in circles Monday through Thursday, he gets to stay home and watch House reruns. The worst thing about it is I'm making him keep an eye on Lola after school instead of sending her to ASP.
It''ll save me about 30 bucks.