From Nashville With Love


Art by Yasmeen El-Jayyousi

Adam Schoelz

depthcharge1Show choir was an activity relegated to the sidelines until the premiere of Glee in 2009 made it seem cool and hip to be uncool and unhip. Naturally, this attracted large amounts of people to show choir in the vain hope their peers would not notice they couldn’t play sports. Naturally, I fit into this group when I started at the beginning of this year.

It’s an interesting beast. At RBHS, at least, our show choir is smaller than other schools our size, which is strange, considering our usual embracing of the unusual — ZDL etc. A possible explanation is that it’s pretty demanding, being a zero-hour class worth credit that meets before school, and most show choir members are pretty sweaty in first hour. Also, the split, like all the choral programs here, is in favor of girls, which is unrecognized as being awesome.
Other show choirs, at least on a high level, are generally composed of, alternately, Amazonian women and other superhumans who can dance like Micheal Jackson and sing like, well, Micheal Jackson. This is why Show Choir Nationals is intimidating.
Set in scenic Nashville, Tenn., on the perilously famous Grand Old Opry stage, Show Choir Nationals is an experience for sure. Our performance was a barrel of monkeys; I discovered that clubs make me anxious and went way over par in minigolf thanks to one hole which I  decuple-bogied. Also, barbeque. So much delicious barbeque.
But the real purpose of this blog, besides being an infomercial for Show Choir (IF YOU IDENTIFY WITH THE MALE GENDER TRY OUT), is to complain about our town’s lack of a Panda Express. Seriously, Nashville has one in its colossal yet linear mall, and it’s awesome. I ate there twice. It’s basically Hyvee Chinese but a higher quality — it’s even the same price. We have 100,000 people in this town. We have a Five Guys. We need a Panda Express.
Also, Gunther’s Games is open again downtown apparently. I haven’t had a chance to check it out because I’m writing this blog, but if the arcades in Nashville are any indication, I’m going to spend an absurd amount of money trying to retrieve stuffed animals from a claw machine which is designed to pay out when I stop playing. Also Mrs. Pac Man.
By Adam Schoelz