The Noodle Band Show

My family is insane. It is quite awesome.

And I don’t mean insane in the everyone-is-in-therapy-and-we-all-secretly-hate-each-other way. I mean the everyone-is-staring-at-us-in-this-fancy-restaurant-because-we’re-all-laughing-like-certifiable-lunatics kind of insanity.

It is the best kind of crazy.

For example, about a year ago my mom, my sister and I were on a vacation together at a well-known theme park that shall remain nameless as they’re incredibly fond of suing people. We were strolling down a main thoroughfare one day, when we inexplicably decided to start a jug band.

Yes, a jug band. None of us actually play the jugs professionally, but we figured, being a musically inclined family, that we could figure it out.

The name of said jug band, you ask? The Noodle Band Show.

When we stumbled upon this fantastic notion, we decided that practice would commence immediately. Not having any suitable jug-like instruments within striking distance inside the park, we decided to improvise and merely pretend that we had jugs in our possession. We continued on through the remainder of the trip, playing imaginary jugs wherever and whenever the fancy captured us, earning raised eyebrows from many a vacation-goer, bus driver and (we can only assume) costumed character.

My sister and I determined that we would share lead jug duties in The Noodle Band Show. My mother, who is the only person in the family that could be considered a professional musician, was given the seemingly less important task of sitting on a stool and clapping to keep time. While this may seem frivolous, it’s all about the image, people. My father, even though he was not on this particular vacation, was allotted to play the washboard, but only after he grew a four-foot gray beard. I repeat: It’s all about the image.

One would think that this little fantasy would evaporate as soon as the vacation was over and we left The Land of Childhood Imagination. Not so. Upon returning home, we began recruiting other people to join The Noodle Band Show. Two of my sister’s roommates came on board with little provocation. One offered her services in the form of playing upended trashcans for percussion, while the other would clog in time to the music. A friend of mine proposed that she and I put our dogs in the band as well, allowing them to fight in the front while we played. The clogger would have to mind that she didn’t step on their tails.

And over Thanksgiving, loopy on zinfandel and Georgia pecan pie, we wrote the band's first song.

We don’t get together to practice much anymore, but when we do, we’ve still got the magic.

Look for us at a swap meet or Wal-Mart near you. Feel free to do a little flat-footin’ if you’re in the right frame of mind. Just watch out for the dogs.