The sun is not a place where we could live
Around six thirty, Saturday night, the phone rang. It was Ben.
"Hi, get over here, we're going to the Ren Fest in the morning and you should crash here so we can leave faster. Bring a costume. Pirate theme."
"I...What?"
I'd known his family was planning on going to the ren fest but not when, or even that I was invited to come along. Ben had only just found out, minutes before calling me, that Sunday was going to be the day. I considered declining, then dug around for something sort of piratey and packed a bag and left. Why not.
The day started out cold and rainy but a clear sky had broken by the time we arrived and the sun shone brightly as we passed the main gates. We met up with the rest of our party inside--three of Ben's mom's friends and their assorted children, bringing our group total to about 15 or 500 depending on how fast the kids were moving during the head count--and then Ben and I took off on our own. His mom suggested we all try to meet up at the jousting area around 4 o'clock and we both smiled and nodded before disappearing into the crowd, knowing full well neither of us had a watch and I had forgotten to bring my phone along.
Ben's costume was a pretty easy affair, with billowy gold and white striped pants, sandals, and a bandanna, and nothing but two gold necklaces for a shirt. Mine, as it turned out, was a little more challenging: the dress was fine and the boots stayed pretty comfortable for a lot longer than I expected, but the bodice was pure evil. I'd picked it up at Savers for a song last year, recognizing by the quality that it had probably come from the ren fest originally, but had never really had occasion to use it before now. Because it's strapless, it's designed longer than the sleeved bodice, and because it's long the boning dug into the tops of my hips all day. It's also a size too big, so while it laced snugly it wasn't as tight as it should have been and had just enough leeway to gradually slide down, biting painfully into my hipbones and making me stop in the middle of the crowd and hike the stupid thing up periodically. And it was too tight to let me eat a whole turkey leg.
The bodice wasn't that huge of a deal, though, and was nothing I couldn't handle. As it happened, the day's biggest irritation was Ben himself. He'd been talking excitedly about the renaissance festival for some time in advance, and now that he was here, he was going to let nothing stand between him and fun...except, of course, for everything. Costumes weren't costumey enough. Mead didn't come in big enough cups (although I agree with that one) and hats were too expensive. The jousting wasn't fun to watch because it wasn't potentially lethal. The weapon stores wouldn't let him play with the spears and nobody wanted to swordfight him.
At one point I noted to him that he'd spent most of the time grumping that he could outbellydance the bellydancers, breathe fire more impressively than the fire-breathers, be a more obnoxious pickle-seller than the pickle-sellers, make better walking sticks than the walking stick vendor, and do a better Irish dance than the troupe of little girls who were dancing on the Irish pavilion.
"I did not," he said.
"Yes you did. I was right here. I heard you."
"No, I mean, I never said I could dance better than the little Irish girls. I said they sucked."
Oh. OK.
I suggested that maybe some year he could rent out a vacant lot somewhere, build a few themed storefronts and stages, and hold the Benaissance Festival, celebrating and starring Ben, and see how many people want to come to the Ben Fest to watch a shirtless hairy white guy bellydance vs going to the Ren Fest to watch a group of attractive women in small, spangly outfits to the same thing, only with slightly inferior skill. He didn't seem amused.
He also spent most of the day walking erratically, swaying and flailing and stumbling, which he called a "swagger" but really only made him look helplessly drunk. It's embarrassing enough to be out in public with real drunk people, much less some kid pretending to be embarrassingly drunk, but every time I told him to quit walking stupid he got all huffy and insisted he needed to "stay in character."
Privately I felt that "staying in character" was another one of those activities best relegated to the Benaissance Festival, but I kept that one to myself. It didn't seem quite worth it.
It actually wasn't too bad of a day, all in all. Even when he's complaining, Ben is endlessly entertaining, if only because he seems to have subconsciously taken ADHD and made it not just a diagnosis, but a life philosophy. Trains of thought rumble past on restless tracks, and no sooner has one derailed than another one is crashing past, and his mouth is running almost constantly about life the universe and everything according to wanna go ride bikes. I'm a passive enough person that so long as there's somebody leading, I'll follow along for a while, especially when I get to do so with such complete morbid curiosity. You might be able to figure out where he's going, but what he's going to do when he gets there is anybody's guess. Will he do a cartwheel? Will he pee behind a tree? Maybe stand on one foot and hum? Who knows!
"Hi, get over here, we're going to the Ren Fest in the morning and you should crash here so we can leave faster. Bring a costume. Pirate theme."
"I...What?"
I'd known his family was planning on going to the ren fest but not when, or even that I was invited to come along. Ben had only just found out, minutes before calling me, that Sunday was going to be the day. I considered declining, then dug around for something sort of piratey and packed a bag and left. Why not.
The day started out cold and rainy but a clear sky had broken by the time we arrived and the sun shone brightly as we passed the main gates. We met up with the rest of our party inside--three of Ben's mom's friends and their assorted children, bringing our group total to about 15 or 500 depending on how fast the kids were moving during the head count--and then Ben and I took off on our own. His mom suggested we all try to meet up at the jousting area around 4 o'clock and we both smiled and nodded before disappearing into the crowd, knowing full well neither of us had a watch and I had forgotten to bring my phone along.
Ben's costume was a pretty easy affair, with billowy gold and white striped pants, sandals, and a bandanna, and nothing but two gold necklaces for a shirt. Mine, as it turned out, was a little more challenging: the dress was fine and the boots stayed pretty comfortable for a lot longer than I expected, but the bodice was pure evil. I'd picked it up at Savers for a song last year, recognizing by the quality that it had probably come from the ren fest originally, but had never really had occasion to use it before now. Because it's strapless, it's designed longer than the sleeved bodice, and because it's long the boning dug into the tops of my hips all day. It's also a size too big, so while it laced snugly it wasn't as tight as it should have been and had just enough leeway to gradually slide down, biting painfully into my hipbones and making me stop in the middle of the crowd and hike the stupid thing up periodically. And it was too tight to let me eat a whole turkey leg.
The bodice wasn't that huge of a deal, though, and was nothing I couldn't handle. As it happened, the day's biggest irritation was Ben himself. He'd been talking excitedly about the renaissance festival for some time in advance, and now that he was here, he was going to let nothing stand between him and fun...except, of course, for everything. Costumes weren't costumey enough. Mead didn't come in big enough cups (although I agree with that one) and hats were too expensive. The jousting wasn't fun to watch because it wasn't potentially lethal. The weapon stores wouldn't let him play with the spears and nobody wanted to swordfight him.
At one point I noted to him that he'd spent most of the time grumping that he could outbellydance the bellydancers, breathe fire more impressively than the fire-breathers, be a more obnoxious pickle-seller than the pickle-sellers, make better walking sticks than the walking stick vendor, and do a better Irish dance than the troupe of little girls who were dancing on the Irish pavilion.
"I did not," he said.
"Yes you did. I was right here. I heard you."
"No, I mean, I never said I could dance better than the little Irish girls. I said they sucked."
Oh. OK.
I suggested that maybe some year he could rent out a vacant lot somewhere, build a few themed storefronts and stages, and hold the Benaissance Festival, celebrating and starring Ben, and see how many people want to come to the Ben Fest to watch a shirtless hairy white guy bellydance vs going to the Ren Fest to watch a group of attractive women in small, spangly outfits to the same thing, only with slightly inferior skill. He didn't seem amused.
He also spent most of the day walking erratically, swaying and flailing and stumbling, which he called a "swagger" but really only made him look helplessly drunk. It's embarrassing enough to be out in public with real drunk people, much less some kid pretending to be embarrassingly drunk, but every time I told him to quit walking stupid he got all huffy and insisted he needed to "stay in character."
Privately I felt that "staying in character" was another one of those activities best relegated to the Benaissance Festival, but I kept that one to myself. It didn't seem quite worth it.
It actually wasn't too bad of a day, all in all. Even when he's complaining, Ben is endlessly entertaining, if only because he seems to have subconsciously taken ADHD and made it not just a diagnosis, but a life philosophy. Trains of thought rumble past on restless tracks, and no sooner has one derailed than another one is crashing past, and his mouth is running almost constantly about life the universe and everything according to wanna go ride bikes. I'm a passive enough person that so long as there's somebody leading, I'll follow along for a while, especially when I get to do so with such complete morbid curiosity. You might be able to figure out where he's going, but what he's going to do when he gets there is anybody's guess. Will he do a cartwheel? Will he pee behind a tree? Maybe stand on one foot and hum? Who knows!
posted by Betsi at 2:35 PM
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