Crazy Stories of Faire, Redux?

[LadyShadow]

LOL    Please keep the stories coming.

[Breandan]

LMAO!    Your talents are wasted doing anything other than writing, my friend!

I am pondering writing a book: Confessions of a Rennie: Tales of the Renaissance Faire Circuit That Can Now Be Printed As the Statute of Limitations Has Expired 

[Laird Fraser of Lovatt]

i like it!  I'd pay to read some of the goings-on at Faire.  Might find myself mentioned a time or two.   

[bellevivre]

agreed! i was thinking there needs to be a book about the 'rennie experience' 

[Laird Fraser of Lovatt]

Would we really want the 'Danes to know what goes on behind the scenes?  It might end up like a cockroach invasion. Of course i was a 'Dane once myself but...

[Breandan]

Speaking of statutes of limitations...

This one occurred on the long, boring trip up from Corpus Christi again. We left late on a Friday night in my truck, laden with all of the assorted odds-and-ends of a renaissance faire trip, with one unusual addition: a large bag of old bottlerockets that were left over from the previous year's 4th of July. We had decided to cut through Rockport and take Hwy 35 up instead of going out to 77/59, so it was almost one solid trip of backwoods empty highway. Martin and I switched out driving, and I climbed into the bed of the truck with a lighter... yes, we can see where this is going.

Inspired by sleep deprivation and the terminally altered state of the ADHD mind, I decided to turn my truck into an ad-hoc Avenger (that's the anti-air missile-launching Humvee variant we use) and grabbed a handful of rockets with a gleeful giggle. The first one I lit and launched straight up. As soon as it cleared the cab of the truck, 75mph wind shear snatched it and banked it off at a crazy angle, sending it corkscrewing off into the night sky. The second one I launched rearward, only to watch it nosedive into the road and skitter down it like some sort of Soviet rocket-snake experiment. This sparked an idea- I knew that fighters drop their missiles seconds before they launch, and that the missile was already traveling at the velocity of the fighter, adding it's own rocket thrust to this speed, so I wanted to see what happened when you did the same with a bottle rocket dropped over the side of a truck now going 80 aiming it forward.

The result was a driver- unaware of my actions- who damn near wrecked the truck as a mini-missile streaked past his face and detonated just in front of the vehicle, and a giggling pyrotechnomaniac in the truck bed grabbing a handful of rockets to light simultaneously. This continued for several miles, and now that Martin was aware of what I was doing he found it highly amusing, and I decided to try to take aim and actually hit things with the rockets. So, taking careful aim at a fast-approaching speed limit sign that had the audacity to suggest we were going far to fast with it's puny velocity suggestion, I lit and let fly. Now, I have to take a moment to ponder the wonders of geometry and physics, especially as they pertain to the wondrous phenomenon of the ricochet. Far be it for me to question science, but- barring the act of a divine power who found the results highly amusing- I have to question the probability of a rocket fired from a moving vehicle striking a speed limit sign in just the right way at just the right angle to deflect it back towards said vehicle at just the right rate of speed for it to explode on the windshield. At any rate, the resulting blast left Martin flash-blind and the windshield covered in sooty bits of detritus. Enter Near-Death-Experience #6 for that trip  

The final rocket fired was one that I had aimed at another sign up ahead (ah, Pavlov, you would've had such a hard time with me, for I learned naught from experience at that age). It lit, I waited till the fuse was almost in the rocket, and I released it. It flew straight and true, but alas, my aim was slightly off. As it neared the sign, I realized it was only going to nick it, and nick it the poor ill-fated pyrotechnic device did. This sent it corkscrewing off crazily across the highway... where it detonated about a foot in front of the windshield of a parked sheriff's deputy's car. To his credit, my brother was well-trained and had quick reflexes. As soon as he saw the letters "SHER..." illuminated by the blast, he killed the lights, gunned the engine, and shot out of their driving by whatever nightvision the Gods of eyesight had blessed him with, while I dropped back into the bed of the truck, simultaneously giggling (yeah, I think I was the control group for Darwinism in my youth) and wondering what the local jail food would taste like. Three miles later and no bubblegum machine* following, Martin kicked the lights back on and we merged into the now-increasing traffic to pretend like we were normal people. Adrenaline kept us awake until we reached faire, where we promptly passed out on the ground in our sleeping bags. Ah, memories.

*checks statute of limitations again*

Yep, memories  

*bubblegum machine- slang for the lit-up lightbar on top of a patrol car

[Laird Fraser of Lovatt]

 !!!  You are about to earn a new name... Breandan the Bard!


*slapping knee*

[Breandan]

My brother reminded me of this one, so I will tell it in all of it's grotesque glory. However, it is named the Port-a-Potty Of Doom for a reason, so be ye fairly warned...

We arrived at the participants entrance late one Friday night on opening weekend back in '94, only to find our passes had not been left for us, and the rather surly ogre at the back gate informed us in a chewing-tobacco-spittle-laced tirade to remove ourselves from his presence, that we would not be allowed to leave a driver's license behind and send one of our members to retrieve the passes, and that we had best be on our way before he got angry. I am glad to say that said individual was never seen again on faire grounds, as he had the manners of a boor and the hygiene of a rabid fecalpheliac baboon. That rant aside, we were forced to find alternate lodging in Patrons.

Now, we we were tired, had endured another of our epic trips up from Corpus Christi- this one involving a hypervelocity sleep-deprivation-spawned mouse (which is another story entirely), and a plastic bag of death (which is yet another story that would get us locked up in a padded room wearing hug-me jackets)- so, we parked at the first available spot and dumped our sleeping bags onto our tarp on the ground, no tent. Along the way up, however, we had stopped at a truck stop that shall remain nameless (however, tis on 59 between Victoria and Sugarland) where we had foolishly eaten some of the local cuisine. My brother being the more daring, had three breakfast taquitos and a corn dog to my cheeseburger, and had- as one might expect- been visited by the food poisoning fairy.

As luck would have it, our journey had ended with our encampment being a stone's throw from a port-a-potty, which Marty made prolific and copious use of throughout the evening. I shall spare the audience the details of the noises that emerged from said tabernacle-of-excretion except to say that at some point I swear it sounded like an octopus trying to wrestle with a bobcat in a tub filled with jello and whoopie cushions. I covered my head and tried to sleep. Alas, twas not to be. At around 0330, some poor soul- besotted out of his mind by pre-opening ritual binge-drinking- chose to use that particular port-a-potty. In my half-asleep state, I heard the creaky springs of the door as it opened, the slam of the door shutting... and a sudden and quite loud scream of "OH MY GOD!!!!", promptly followed by the sounds of the door being thrown open and someone running and retching simultaneously. Marty did not wake to this, which proved to be his downfall the next morn.

Dawn woke us with it's demonic sadistic little fingers of light stabbing through our eyelids. When we could suffer the noise of waking hangovers-on-feet and the stabbing of the Day Star's daggers of light no longer, we arose. Marty stumbled to the port-a-potty and opened the door, stepped in, and literally fell backwards out of it and crab-crawled away from it so fast my drill sergeants at Fort Benning would've wept with pride. He got back to the camp, shaken and somewhat green of tinge, and asked what the hell happened in there. I pointed at his backside and said "You unleashed the seventh, eighth, ninth, and the unexplored, undiscovered TENTH levels of hell, followed by a legion of shyte demons from Tarterus out of your backside, defiling the heretofore undefilable, and couldn't even give humanity the decency of a courtesy flush since it was a portajohn. The CDC is on it's way to declare your arse a superfund biohazard site and begin cleanup."

I had no sooner finished chastising my younger brother than another poor soul walked into the port-a-potty. Like knowing bystanders who had seen a bomb in a building, we rushed towards the doomed man yelling "NO! DON'T GO IN THERE!"... alas, too late. With results identical to the night before, including the appeal to a higher power at the top of his lungs, the man stumbled from the port-a-potty gagging and running for the treeline by the train tracks, though whether to finish his business in communion with nature, or throw himself onto the tracks in the hopes of a merciful demise that would erase what he had just witnessed with all of his senses I know not. We tacked a note on the door labeling it the "Port-a-Potty Of Doom! Do Not Enter!" and left for the back gate, where we found our passes waiting (finally), and entered, holding to plausible deniability of any further events involving the portal to Golgoth we left behind.

[Laird Fraser of Lovatt]

STOP!  LMAO!  I NEED TO BREATH! 

[isisdy]

Oh dear God say it aint so!!!!!!!!!!!!! That has got o be one of the funniest things I have heard in a long time.

[LadyShadow]

Wow.  It is never ending...  I bet they had to completely demolish that portapotty.

[Queen Bonnie]

 What a story! Well told Breandan! LOL!

[Breandan]

not sure if I can mention wolf runs here, but when you run into me, ask me about the incident involving a flashlight, John (not saying which one), and a lot of reflective metal in... interesting... places 

[Queen Bonnie]

 LOL! Will do Breandan!  Wolf runs! One is described in Ray St Louis book, Road Dog Diary. Good read for faire lovers!

[Breandan]

And now, I tell on all of us in the forge...

Last year, we were doing a triple-strike. Now, a triple strike is where the master smith is holding a piece that he needs a lot of metal moved on, and doesn't have a power hammer available, so he has two to three other smiths- preferably big, burly lads- wielding sledge hammers strike in sequence according to his hammer blows. He guides us by where and how hard he hits, and we follow suit with 20 lb sledges. This one involved me, Patrick, and Stephen striking a chisel being held by Mark as we cut a piece for a demo. I was lead, so when Mark hit the chisel, I brought my hammer down, then Patrick, then Stephen, then back to Mark, all in rapid succession so that the next man's hammer blow fell less than half a second after the previous. It takes practice, and can get dangerous, especially when distractions are involved.

And oh what distractions...

During one of the short breaks between the strikes, I looked over into the audience to notice a very lovely young brunette with a body that would make sculpters leap with glee, and looks that would turn the head of even a dead man. Beautiful was her face, lovely her legs, shapely her body, and her bosom... sonnets could be written ranging from the romantic to the carnal about those graceful and full curves. The low-cut v-neck shirt she was wearing didn't hurt, either. Well, Patrick and Stephen noticed my gaze- probably because I was slack-jawed and making a noise akin to "b-wuh....", and likewise joined me in a moment of religious reflection as we thanked the many Gods we pray to between the three of us for the glory that they graced our world with. Then, it was back to striking.

Now, I am not a puritanical man by any stretch of the imagination (as Mark delights on informing anyone who asks), but I do try to stay focused on my work. So, I can honestly say that it was an accidental glance up as I was striking that just happened to coincide with Our Lady of the Immaculate Cleavage bending over to pick something up off the ground. Mark's hand payed the price. A glancing blow followed by a grunted "ow!" got me back on track, but Patrick- next up to strike- glanced to see what had caused me to miss my mark. A second, louder "ow!" joined the first. Then Stephen glanced... another "ow!"

It seems that whatever was troubling the young lady on the ground was being right recalcitrant, as she bent even further over and was moving her hand about quickly, which resulted in a particularly hypnotic jiggling pattern that I would swear could be used by the CIA to coerce information out of a eunuch. The result was a particular disturbing shift from the usual pattern of strikes- *bang!* (Mark's hammer) *WHANG! WHANG! WHANG!* (our hammers in succession)- to something more like *bang!* *WHONK! "OW!" WHAP! "OW" CRUNCH! "OW dangnubbit!"* At this point, Mark looked up at us and saw all three of us staring towards the audience while swinging our hammers, dazed happy looks on our faces. He grunted out a "Hey!", snapping us back to attention. Mollified that we had nearly mangled our friend, we went back to our task with renewed focus. Mark, however, looked over to see what we had seen, and was blessed with the glories of womanhood on display in the front row. We suddenly found ourselves trying to chase a weaving and wobbling chisel- not an easy task when wielding 20 lb sledges, to say the least- but the rhythm had changed to *bang!* *WHONK! "wow..." WHAP! "wow..." CRUNCH! "wow..."*

The moral of the story is two-fold: always have your strikers stand with their backs to the audience, and nothing eases pain like epic breasts