PVA! And Another Special Band Moment

And that doesn't mean the type of glue.
Recently I was standing in gym and talking to Cat, who randomly asks me, "So, have you got in your application for PVA yet? It's due today." And of course, I had not even started, thinking I had plenty of time. So the next three classes were spent hurriedly panicking and rushing through filling out forms and various interview questions such as, "what do you think the school of performing and visual arts can offer you?"
Needless to say, I didn't get work done in science that day. But I somehow managed to finish the whole thing AND get my mom to show up at the school to take my application and drop it off at Central by 3:30, the deadline. I was pretty darn impressed with myself, actually, as most of my friends took weeks to write their IB forms. And hour and a half must be some kind of record.
Unfortunately, the process is not over. Now I need to prepare and perform an audition piece of my choosing on my saxophone that showcases my abilities. I've picked the only classical piece I know, Henry Eccles Sonata for Alto Sax and Piano. But I'll just be doing the sax part, sans piano. Its been tough work practicing those darned sixteenth notes (random staccato slur pattern!!) but I'm confident that I'll be able to do well by next monday (my audition day).
Us bass people shouldn't be expected to play sixteenth notes. It's just not fair. (Although really fun if you can get them right)

I just recently remembered yet another special, meaningful band memory.
When we were packing up the instruments and equipment before tour all the instruments smaller than a trombone (or tenor sax) had to be packed into large boxes to take on the plane. I had box number one, so mine was the demo box. The whole band was sitting with their instrument and I was standing up front with my box next to Jason while he called up all the people whose instruments I'd be taking care of. I had a trumpet, horn, clarinet and 5 flutes in my box (42 pounds, I think it was). Every time someone handed over their case I could see the worry in their faces. "Will it be ok?" "Will something bad happen to it and I won't be able to play it?" "What if the box breaks and it gets lost?" And eventually acceptance as the box was sealed up and packed away. I felt so bad for these people who wouldn't see their most precious piece of baggage again until they reached Denmark. It all seemed so poetic and meaningful, and I sympathized for the people with small instruments greatly, but I didn't really get it until I had to hand over my bari to one of the colorguard guys, Joe. I didn't want to let go, but when I did he heaved it away from me and carried it above his head towards the truck. I wanted to go over there, retrieve my poor baby and punch the bejeezus out of him. But all I could manage was, "Be careful!!" and I sat down again, biting my lip in anxiety.