The other night I sang the national anthem at a Utah Jazz basketball game. If you think I’ve mentioned this too many times, you’re going to need to get used to it because this whole pseudo fame has just gone straight to my head.
I came in to work a whole hour late today and everything.*
*Also, I may or may not have worked too many hours and have been required by my boss and the college the past couple weeks to come in late and leave early whenever I am able.
Anyhow, the day was generally awesome aside from mass hysteria, resulting in several Facebook and Instagram posts, plus a lot of chitter chatter to friends about a whole lot of things (oboe concerts in college, Snopes, Cheetos, what have you).
But it all led up to this, for which I’m fairly proud:
And the Jazz beat the Nuggets, which is what you always want to happen, and I was kind of famous in the bathroom and the arena and the parking garage, and that was all fun and good.
The Low Point
There is one thing you just don’t ever want to see, as a germophobe or I presume any other human person, on the rim of a drinking fountain as you bend in for a drink because you live in the world’s driest state, and you are parched beyond belief because you weren’t allowed to bring a water bottle in and the water bottles that are being provided for you cost about $5 apiece:
This thing happened to me. Of course it happened to me. A grasshopper once fell in my hair — anything can happen. Blood on the water fountain just happened. And it wasn’t, say, a bit of ketchup. It was the unmistakable, bright crimson of a stranger’s blood.
It gives a whole new meaning to stranger danger.