Coming Soon to a Stadium Near You!

It's hard to believe that in a few short weeks, school will be out and camps underway and the drum corps season even closer to stepping off.

As DCI revs up, so too does the summer season for Building the Green Machine. Check back here and on the NEWS page for announcements about the bookstore release July 1, bookstore signings in your town and special sales and events at drum corps shows.

I'll be hitting the road with the Cavalier Promotions Inc. souvenir trailer to bring the book directly to YOU. Check out the dates and show sites below, and plan on stopping by to say hi and chat about drum corps history -- the kinds of crazy stories you'll find in the book, and the kind that will be written on and off the field this season!

It's going to be a busy -- and fun -- summer!

See you soon,

Colt


Where to look for BTGM on the road this summer

June 21 -- Rockford, IL
June 23 -- Port Huron, MI
June 26 -- Oswego, IL
June 27 -- Bloomington, IL
June 28 -- Madison, WI
June 29 -- Naperville, IL
June 30 -- DeKalb, IL

July 1 -- Lexington, KY
July 2 -- Fairfield, OH
July 5 -- Kalamazoo, MI
July 6 -- Michigan City, IN
July 7 -- Louisville, KY
July 15 -- El Paso, TX
July 16 -- Midland, TX
July 17-18-19 -- San Antonio, TX.
July 20 -- Denton, TX
July 26 -- Atlanta, GA
July 27 -- Charlotte, N.C.

Aug. 3 -- Rosemont, IL -- Cavaliers' 60th Anniversary Banquet!
Aug. 4 -- Naperville, IL
Aug. 7-9 -- Indianapolis -- DCI quarters, semis and finals!

:>>:>>:>>

Good News about a Great Cavalier

You know the type of feeling you get when good things happen to an even better person?

Well, prepare yourself for a case of the happy shivers.

1972 Cavalier Gary Moore's book, about his father Gene's major league baseball dreams, dreams which were ultimately sidetracked by World War II, during which he served as a guard for captured German submarine prisoners (and taught them to play the game he loved) is one of those sparkling success stories in life and in publishing you never get tired of telling. The heart that he put into working on this book, delving into his family's past and our nation's pasttime, as well as the gruntwork he has done to spread the word, is a great example for anyone trying to achieve any goal, let alone penning a bestseller.

But then, that's the type of effort he always put in with the Cavaliers. And he had some great examples in the corps to learn from.

Well, cue up another case of the happy shivers for how hard work has paid off for Gary. On Monday, Gary will kick off his national book tour for the paperback edition of Playing with the Enemy, released by Penguin, and the audiobook version, released by Illinois company Oasis.

Oh yeah, and the major motion picture of the book begins shooting this spring.

Shivering yet?

The latest iterations of his book come on the heels of a sensational hardcover run with Savas Beatie, whom many of you will recognize as the publisher of Building the Green Machine. As I note in the book's Acknowledgments, Gary is responsible for "opening the door" to a powerhouse independent for my story of Don Warren's life and the corps loved by so many. Well, that's a bit of an understatement. Gary has bowled me over -- continuously -- with his enthusiasm for my little feat of drum corps history, and has always been there with a kind word, advice, a laugh, a cheer, what have you. In other words, the kind of guy the Cavaliers regularly turn out from their ranks, a man anyone would want in their corner.

Well, let's offer Gary an enthusiastic drum roll for his latest success. (I'd make it a fanfare, but then, we all know what an old stick-wielder would say to that.) Couldn't happen to a better guy.

And if you're all about sinking your eyes into a great story, pick up your copy of Playing with the Enemy. There are a few autographed editions of the hardcover left -- get them while you can! And a great paperback and audiobook to add to your collection.

And if you've got the time -- hopefully, I've given you the inclination -- stop by the Barnes & Noble on North State Route 50 in Bourbannais at 7 p.m. on Monday, March 31, and show your support for a great Cavalier. That's when the book tour kicks off -- fittingly, in his hometown. Visit www.playingwiththeenemy.com for more info.

Above is a look at Gary in his Classic Cavaliers duds -- playing the snare, second from left.

"Machine" voted into DCI Classic Countdown

A long, cold winter for drum corps fans will soon come to a close.

Beginning Friday, tickets go on sale for DCI’s "Classic Countdown."

Hard to believe these ducats go for a show that’s still a month away - but they go fast. On April 24, more than 300 theaters across the country will show some of fans’ favorite field performances from the past three summers.

The six performances were voted on by thousands of visitors to DCI.com this winter. The favorite six from 2005 - 2007?

2007 Blue Devils – "Winged Victory"

2007 Bluecoats – "Criminal"

2005 Cadets – "The Zone"

2007 Carolina Crown – "Triple Crown"

2006 Phantom Regiment – "Faust"

and

2006 Cavaliers -- "Machine"

All great shows, and part of a format this year that will bring us recent performances (though I do love seeing those truly vintage shows -- 1989 Vanguard, anyone? 1992 Cavies? How about 1967?!!!).

So... what do you think of the selections? What do you remember most about those shows?

I love the music of Machine -- but then I always get a charge out of the Cavaliers’ music. And I dug the robotic movements, and The Slingshot, and all those blitzkrieg marching maneuvers that the Green Machine performs so well.

What got your socks going up and down?

And when it comes to the Classic Countdown theater showings -- I know, I know: nothing beats seeing it live in the stadium -- what do you dig about the format? How does the theater experience add to your viewing of DCI’s greatest shows?

Head to the Green Machine blog at www.cavaliersbook.com/interact and fire away with your comments -- or weigh in here. And let the countdown to summer 2008 commence!

Making the World Safe for my Father's Chili

I believe a man is only as good as his meatballs.

Which is to say that from our earliest days as a species, when chucking spears at the nearest saber-toothed mammal took the place of, say, chucking spent beer cans at the TV after a Browns interception, there has been a primal connection between guys and food.

Tom Hanks, in Castaway, knows what I mean. "I have made fire!" he roars.

The scene left on the cutting room floor is from the next moment, when Tom, weeping, realizes there's no good flank stank for a thousand or so miles. Somehow, a grilled Wilson volleyball doesn't go as well with fermented coconut juice.

Simply put, real men cook.

Read the full essay in the February 27 edition of the Youngstown Vindicator, online here:

www.vindy.com

Grappling with the Revision Monster

Grappling with the Revision Monster

When it comes to my fiction, I am alternately driven and confounded, which I guess is as good a sign as any that it's worth pursuing.

I came into grad school scoffing at those who might write me off as merely a journalist, since my foundations were always in creative writing and fiction, and since I applied what I knew about that craft to the best of my nonfiction work. I think where I am now in my development is picking at the lock of revision, struggling to open the secrets that lie guarded there. Maybe there's a danger in making too much of this. You simply work at the material until it is ripe, until it moves, until it hits the target cleanly. But then, it must be a particularly sticky challenge since for many the material comes rather easily, but realizing the material's potential takes a great deal of time -- and work.

It is probably also a sign of my still-toughening skin in the matter of writing fiction that whenever I ask for criticism there is the blush of hope that my critic will be bowled over, and the material will have been born whole and perfect. And that when criticism comes, on the first read I fail to detect the positive feedback, and hear only the questions, and the cuts, and then despair that I'm truly in over my head, the secrets won't be unlocked, the way is barred.

Thankfully, I give criticism a second read, and then a third. And begin to calm down. And remember that if my journey has led me this far, perhaps equipped with a thicker skin I can make it a bit farther down the path.

Eventually you've got to shut out the demons you conjure to stymie yourself and focus on the real task at hand, that by dismissing your inner doubts as so much poisonous and unproductive black smoke, you can instead find the real and helpful voices that can lead you from a heap of drafts to a stack of finished pieces.

Yikes, maybe I spent too much time reading The Legend of Sleepy Hollow this morning. (In an old supplementary reader, published 1880.) Stripping all the artifice away, I guess I'm saying: Do we ever get over that childlike voice in the heart of us wondering, "Am I any good? Do I have a shot?"

So many variations on the answer to that, when the only one that matters comes from myself. And with that weighty prelude, I dig in to revising, hoping that I find a way for the arrow to hit the mark.

All My Good Buddies Read Me the Nightly News

I was minding my own business Friday afternoon, zonking in front of the TV while my son caught a snooze upstairs. Sportscenter was on, the wife wasn't home yet, and I'd been alternating ZZZZs and "huh's?" since sinking into the couch.

Well, I wake up to my friendly evening anchor faces, Brian Kenny and Jay Harris telling me what's up in the world of hockey scores and basketball trades and yeah, the usual everyday string of steroid hearings, drug arrests and coach recruiting violations, when a birthday party breaks out.

Bill Walton, basketball Hall of Famer and ESPN analyst, waltzes into the room on his rebuilt knees and brandishes a birthday cake before Harris (his 43rd, according to Wikipedia), warbling in his Deadhead drawl, "Happy Birthday to you...."

I had to blink a couple times, pinch myself. I grinned a little, at first, but this scene went on for a bit. And when I began to notice the camera angles -- those full-body shots so many news shows are going to lately, to vary it up, I guess -- and the canned chummy dialogue began flying about like so many rubber snakes uncorked, well, my sleepy grin bent to a snarl and I switched off the damn TV to get an honest 40 winks.

I just don't get the phenomenon of news "personalities" trying so damn hard to be your buddy, to bring their, well, lack of personality bumping into your living room like a relative you never asked to stay over, but keeps hanging around, munching your milk and cookies.

I'll try to dredge up some examples from my mind dump. OK. So there are the full body shots, the anchors walking or pacing in a studio before some huge screen, when we used to only get the awkward backwards shuffle on feature off-site interviews. There are all the weird props, like CNN has unveiled for its political coverage this season -- the kind of dynamic feeling they achieve there is on a level with Paula Abduhl dancing with a cartoon cat: childish, and a little creepy. There are the football preview dudes, standing around on their painted studio football field before huddling up and running a few plays. They way they look over their shoulder at you, as if you were standing on the fringes of their group, is more than a little disconcerting -- are they going to call my number? Hit me with a pass? Oh, God, will I have to decipher the quarterback's cadence? LAME TWENTY-FOUR-SEVEN CHUMMY TALKING HEADS... HUT HUT HUT.

You just end up feeling sorry for them, like at an awkward corporate function or high school reunion. They're trying so damn hard for you to LIKE them. We're uncomfortable, they're uncomfortable, and it's because they're mostly bad at it. The Weather Channel people ought to be honored with a Wooden Spoon award, or a Pullcord Dummy statuette, or something. I mean, it's weather, right? Just give me the highs and lows and the outlook for the weekend and save the comments about your bikini or barbecue or quotations from Whitman for your next keynote speech at Bumblef*** Vocational Tech.

OK, I'll stop shouting at the TV now.

It's just that I don't need any more buddies in my life, canned voices trying to sell me something I shouldn't look for on the TV or from a telemarketer in the first place. Part of giving yourself over to the mindless glare of the TV is forgetting you're doing it in the first place. Real skill in getting you to tune in is making you unaware of the hours you're devoting to it (hey, it's a national average), sitting in one place, imagination on holiday, colors flashing across your eyes, butt growing numb. And then Heather Tesch and Nicole Mitchell start riffing on actual evapotranspiration and it's not just the weather anymore, it's amateur hour at the local Funny Bone.

And you don't even benefit from the two-drink minimum.

I may be the voice crying in the TV wilderness here, but spare me the small talk and buddy-buddy stuff and just read me the news. Give me the scores, tell me the forecast, and let me enjoy my own off-key birthday warble from my own relatives and friends.

We'd ask you over for the birthday dinner, but I think you've already had your fill of smoked ham and cheesy corn.

Holy Gigabytes, Batman!

It's still amusing to me that my Google mail account can be stuffed with some 600 MB of extensive back-and-forth between friends, teachers, editors, bosses, and the goofy daily emoticon swap the wife and I engage in. You know:

:-*

;-D

8-P

It's like a mere 10 percent of e-mail capacity in the golden age of Gmail, and yet it swamps by a factor of three the Mac I took to college with me.

Don't even get me started on the pea-brained capability of my old Commodore 64.

Plugging my Power Mac 7100 right into the wall in my dorm room at Carnegie Mellon was my introduction to the wondrous and corrupting world of the Internet, circa 1994. People were still "fetching" documents and pictures across the country then, usually on campuses. Mosaic, an early forerunner of Netscape, was clanking along in its beta version, but no worries. At tech-savvy CMU we were hooked directly into each others' computers via the campus ethernet (first in the world to go wireless a few years later), and so began our transformation into electronic squirrels, hording all the free games and pictures (porn? NO...!) and movies and sound files, etc. we could click our happy little fingers to.

I remember in the first blush of downloading, I imagined I might squeeze an entire pirated movie onto my hard drive, as if that were even possible then. Instead, we made due with 20-second snippets from Animal House and sound files from Ace Ventura and Pinky & the Brain, and thought ourselves with it. And we were, for the time.

Part of being "with it" was the ritual almost-monthly scrubbing of your hard drive, or else employing the nascent StuffIt and other compression programs to clear up space on the computer for more bootlegged junk.

My 250 MB hard drive -- which ran a cool $4,000 for the whole system back then -- quickly capsized. And I had to browse the computer tech mags for the ominous-sounding external storage devices. I paid around $800 for my 750 MB "attic" to cram more junk in, which I connected to the main three-encyclopedia-volume-size drive with a SCSI, or "scuzzy" cable. Remember those? To take the air of geekdom off the whole hook up, I named one drive Chip, and the other Dale, or Calvin and Hobbes, or Gwen and Pam, whatever floated my dorm room sensibilities at that particular time.

And now my Gmail slush pile alone could devour poor Calvin... or was it Hobbes?

Oh well. At least I never had to resort to receiving e-mailed porn. That crap comes whether you ask for it or not.