Sold OUT

...Hello, yeah, it's been awhile/ Not much, how about you?....

'Not much' is a lie, though. I'm living too many concurrent lives, with limited discretionary time, which I often spend sleeping. It's the final day of September: just finished with Baseball Season, busy with my day job, Murder Mystery, Mother, writing theatre reviews, and I'm right in the thick of Renaissance Festival  Season. RenFest and its associated activities (costume design, building, repair, washing, mime lunch prep, stilt maintenance, ongoing performer training, logistics, equipment management) occupy the majority of my attention.

Though one of my mimes frequently says, "How do you spell 'actor'? W-H-O-R-E,"  I don't usually feel like a sellout. My niche is weird and tiny. Making people's day in 45 seconds or fewer. Being professionally beautiful. Showing up fabulous. Changing clothes and posing for photographers. Following the Big 3 Rules of Be early,  Be gorgeous, Be easy to work with. (Regular folk accept that as 'talent'. Actual talent seems almost optional.) 

Because people are visual, I designed us to look terrific from every angle, in every condition, including soaking wet with sweat, rain or both. I designed us to be exquisite individually, in pairs, as a group, with or without patrons in the picture. And the picture is the thing, nowadays. "Pictures or it didn't happen" is almost literally true. 

I believe this is what has happened at the Maryland Renaissance Festival. It is "instagrammable" (forgive me if that term has now been replaced by something fresher; I have limited contact with YouthSpeak) to an extreme degree, and content creators adore the opportunity. Outdoors, great lighting, public, costumed event, fanciful food and beverage items, themed weekends, music of all sorts, variety skills stage acts, audience involvement, beautifully handcrafted wearable items from footwear to headgear and all items in between, housewares, craft demonstrations, decorative art, games of skill, dancing, Shakespeare, sideshow acts, a village storyline, participatory activities, beautification services, pretend royalty and a mindbogglingly relaxed dress code. There is a lot of content-able material here. 

By Weekend #2, all the tickets for each day of the rest of the 2025 season had been sold. Some will be returned and resold, which happens nowadays because demand demands it, and the platform making it possible exists. Today, we face a rainy weekend, or at least a rainy Saturday. I judge it to be very little more than aggressive mist.

Snippet #1: Young lad with adult women wishes to be divested of his tee shirt. First Woman: "Oh, no, honey, I don't think it's okay to..." Second Woman: "Don't worry about it. Plenty of people walk around here wearing almost nothing." First Woman (looking around briefly): "Oh, but- "  I catch her attention with my hand, and, from my stilted position of Inside Front Gate Backdrop Position A, and with both hands give the downwards diagonal wave that indicates, "It's fine. He's fine. Everything's fine," (are you trying it right now?) and in fact Second Woman says, as I do the gesture, "He's fine, it's fine, we're all fine."

Snippet #2: Mome Rath is here! I greet her with great excitement. I don't know where she's been or what she's been doing or why we can't have lunch together sometime but I'm delighted to see her. The mime beside me has no idea who Mome Rath is because I am old and she is less so. 

Snippet #3: I sit briefly at the back of Market Stage (in a former iteration, Chess Stage) on one of the Smith-scale flowerpots from which ivy grows. The ivy, presumably, will eventually cover the lattice built above the audience, which already provides some shade. My two stilt mimes come around the corner and spot me on my little perch, and react with expressions indicating adorableness. I discover later that my pinks against the white pot and tendrils of vine around made an especially cute vision. I am unaware whether anyone captured that moment digitally. 

Snippet #4: Outside Front Gate, a patron approaches. "You've been here for many seasons, I think." I indicate that this is so. He points to a young man. "He was a little kid last time we were here. We saw you then." I indicate the young man has grown. "Yeah, he's 27 now," says the patron, "but you, you don't age, do you?" I grin and make the 'aw, shucks' face. 

The relative brilliance of this post is questionable, but at least I've made one. It's not that I haven't been writing. I haven't been writing here. I've been writing here, and here, and here.  Come see me at the Faire, if you can. Those who haunt the Renaissance Festival website may find tickets available. A green check mark is your friend. 

England Dan and John Ford Coley, I'd Really Love To See You Tonight; 1976

[This is for later but you can look at it now if you want. It's completely unrelated. You've been warned.]

https://people.math.wisc.edu/~jwrobbin/Higgeldy.txt

KISSing Paul*

...I can give it all to you baby/ Can you give it all to me?...

No, not this kind of kissing.

It was mentioned to me recently that my foundation might be a tad thick and a little light in color, which is 100% true, and 100% deliberate. Clown makeup is not for the faint-of-heart.

I was with my family at a Bill Bateman's restaurant not too long ago, becoming more and more certain during the duration of our visit that this was a restaurant that couldn't make up its mind what it wanted to be. The menu said 'wings!' The decor said 'diner!' and 'sports!' and 'rock-n-roll!' which together failed entirely to form any sort of cohesive identity. (This is not entirely off-topic; I'm getting there). One of the decorative rock posters (which included the globally classic Queen, and the classically local Good Charlotte), the one that fascinated me, was of course positioned behind me, so I had to get up to look at it.

It was the KISS poster often referenced as "Faces", in which Gene Simmons holds the band name/logo in his hands. Now, I know a good bit about makeup, and have pals who teach workshops on the subject. I want to look at the makeup. I figure I won't see much what with retouching and whatall, but here I am, and why not, right?

So I'm inspecting this poster in great detail, and you can't see it on the web, and I'm sure those of you who owned one of the original first run prints of the poster have long since thrown them out/lost them in the move/sold them on eBay, so you have no immediate way of verifying this but as I looked at that iconic portrait, I began to see that Paul Stanley had nice, clean makeup, a well-done job, whereas the other boys looked liked they'd started sweating before they finished applying. I've seen KISS imitators do a more technically perfect job on the makeup than the blurry-edged finishes represented elsewhere on that poster. I've often thought that perhaps Alice Cooper had the right of it: making it smeared and runny on purpose to begin with, so when it turned out that way mid-concert, it looked like deliberate design. I can't speak to Insane Clown Posse (despite carrying one in my car wherever I go) and their makeup, but in the photos I found, they seem to be completely unpowdered.

Understand, I'm sort of a perfectionist about this. The whole family is. We have to be. You never know when someone's about to snap a prize-winning shot, so our makeup, even in the sweltering outdoor conditions, has to be perfect.

Marceau himself covered a multitude of sins and wrinkles with his white makeup, and it was difficult to tell that he was incredibly old until you were close to him. In fact, the makeup makes it nearly impossible to tell how old (and in some cases, what gender)anyone is. The photographer comments that "...all 4 of the mimes were young girls...no older than 15. they smiled all the time." I appreciate this. I truly, truly do. My son, however, not so much.

So, hooray for makeup, that makes boys into girls and vice versa, and turns cougars into jailbait. Hooray for KISS, who did it well.

I couldn't tell you whether Paul's clean finish was due to the simple design, better technical execution (each member of KISS did his own makeup), less inherent sweatiness or finer-pored skin, but Paul Stanley, I salute you and your mad whiteface skillz.

And I know (ask me how) that if I DID kiss you, that no, I wouldn't get white makeup all over my face.

Unless I had it there already.



(I Was Made For Loving You; KISS)

*This post dedicated to Abi, who rocks.)

Hero, Villain

...Where have all the good men gone/ and where are all the gods?/ where's the street-wise Hercules/ to fight the rising odds?....



The air is clear and cool. Mist hangs over the parking lot. It looks like a good day.

The grounds, still spongy from last weekend's downpour, give us a bit of trouble. In our morning procession, I step with my left and sink- deep, deep- then step with my right, expecting to pull free.

I do not pull free.

I tug on the swath of organza that connects me to my daughter, then pull on the elastics and fling the fabric away from myself.

If I go down, I'm going alone.

I manage to pull the right stilt free, and beckon (with no little urgency) to a patron who has been paying attention while I use the right stilt to balance and feel for a solid spot. The man comes to my side, plants his feet firmly and extends a strong arm for me to use to lever myself out of the mire.

I yank my left stilt with a hip-jolting pull, and bow to my hero. His friends applaud him, and he bows back. A kind, observant woman picks up the trailing organza and hands it to me as I hurry to catch my compatriots. They've gotten maybe ten yards. I reassemble, and the front two have no idea of my brief panic.

I later discover nine inches of mud on the bottom of my stilt.

The day goes smoothly. We are merry and bright, which is the extent of our job description. A translucent redhead at the top of the joust-bowl looks at me expectantly. She has a small baby in her arms. The top of the list is slippery with unanchored dust, and none too flat, but she hasn't thought of that. I hold out my hands, and she passes him up. Her companions do not object. They seem to not even have a camera.

We are stilted up a long time. When more than 20 thousand guests arrive, we like to make ALL of them happy. Plus it takes awhile to wade through them. We're nearing home base, and a family of costumed patrons grins at us. She holds a small boy in green satin leiderhosen. We grin back. "You want him?" she asks. Well, no. Okay, yes. What, you folk don't have a camera, either? Are you kidding me? Can someone answer me this, why would you hand your kid to a stiltwalker if you didn't want a picture of the event? Sigh.

We lurk over to the tall rail at O'Shucks pub and hang out with some folk who become our friends forever, and buy us beers and oyster shooters. We walk a straight line, then run away to shed our long legs. Mimic and I head out for a bite to eat, happy to be there, happy to be anywhere.

And then the photographer shows up.

Now, we love photographers. We will pose all day for a busload of photogs with lenses worth more than both our cars together. We like little kids with paper box cameras. Camcorders do not offend us, though it's increasingly hard to tell which cameras are 'cording. Okay, your cellphone camera: we have little respect for this, especially if you don't know how it works. Sorry, lady... not posing and re-posing while you learn to use it. But still. People with cameras make us look beautiful. We love them.

Now, this fellow (I use 'fellow' with a deep and rare awareness of insufficient vocabulary) pretended he was not photographing us.

Usually, I am happy to pretend to not be posing while a photog in search of a candid pretends to not be shooting. Understand this: over the years, I've learned that EVERY motion, EVERY expression, must be deliberate and chosen for the moment.

This, this fellow followed us around. I heard repeated clicking of his shutter button. When we turned to smile at him, he turned away and pretended he hadn't been shooting. He followed us for a full five minutes, shooting and trying to pretend he hadn't been.

He never lifted his camera to his face. It remained hung around his neck, lens at belly level. He was shooting our asses.

If it had been one shot, and the guy had grinned and waved after being caught at it, I wouldn't've minded being shot in the ass.

This is creepy, and makes me angry. I find Columbina nearby chatting with some fancy patrons, and complain to her, (refreshing to have a conversation with someone who does NOT sigh "Oh, dear, I'm bad at charades- I have no idea what you're trying to say"), and she informs me that Mr. Creepy Fellow has been spotted following teen-ish girls, doing the same thing, and yes, it was creepy. (I make the 'creepy' face, and she knows). I wish I had it in me to laugh and feel flattered. She promises to keep her eye out for him, and I have more than half a mind to find security, but by this time I've lost him in the crowd.

Suddenly, I have no appetite. Mimic chooses an ice cream, and we return to camp. As we clean up and put away the stilts, I tell her again the story of the morning hero. I know she's heard it. She knows I know.

She knows why I tell it again.

Two days left, and the '08 season is over.


(Holding Out For A Hero; Bonnie Tyler)

Answer's Yes.

...Come dance with me baby/ in the summer rain/ I remember the rain on our skin/ and his kisses hotter than the Santa Ana winds....



Yes, it was muddy. Yes, it was Pyrate Invasion Weekend. Yes, we show up and perform when it rains. Yes, the patrons came out, though not as many as we'd've liked. Yes, we walked stilts. Yes, it was tricky getting out of the parking lot. Yes, we have three weekends left. Yes, I'm getting tired, but mostly of laundry rather than performance. Yes, I'll recognize you, if you come close enough; remember I'm near-sighted.

Sidebar: A couple of guys come up to us. Mimi! they holler. I turn. Hah! I know you guys!
Where's Max? I point. He and his sister are heading another direction with Didi. Zizi and I stick around for reminiscence, not that she has any yet. I know these guys. Not their names, though probably they've said them more than once. Their faces. Most Favored Patrons, from long ago. I look around and spread my hands at them. What are you looking for? I point to them. Us! Where've we been! Yes. I can't believe you remember us! I count my fingers, four, five, six? Has it been five years, they wonder. I make a face. Yes, well, he- the redhead points to the sunglasses guy- was in Yerp for the last four years. I can't believe she remembers us! And he- the sunglasses guy points to the redhead- has two kids now. I make incredulous faces and point to myself; I have two kids, and I still show up. Mimi! I can't believe she remembers us. Off they go, these two guys, to hunt up significant others, offspring, uncles, whatever, and I hold someone's grandbaby for a photo. Here they are! Redhead has twins. He hands me one of them, despite the worried frown of his spouse. I roll my eyes, and extend my other arm. You sure? They're heavy! They ARE heavy. But not too much, and not covered in cheesedust. But they cry, even though I've kept them facing away from me. Sometimes the perspective change is overly startling. The laughing family gets a couple of shots, and I hand back the fussy twins. Mimi! She remembers us! I blow kisses and find Zizi again. She's made friends with seleventeen little kids and their two generations of elders. Sigh. Well, we can't both gravitate towards beered up single guys who keep showing up until they've become family men. Back home, I find an elderly photograph album. Here's Redhead, with me draped all over him. And here I am with both of them, and yes, Sunglasses is wearing shades in that photo as well. Probably the first photo they brought to me the day the second was taken. I assume there's a third, taken when they gave me the second, but between Yerp and the twins, who knows where it might be. I slide the photograph out of its sleeve. There's a date on the back: September, 1991.

So, Yes, we are open three more weekends; do please come visit me if you haven't yet, and usually do. Because Yes, I see thousands of people, but I'm always particularly thrilled to see YOU.


(Summer Rain; Belinda Carlisle)

Half Wet

...Here is the rainbow I've been prayin' for/ It's gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)/ Sun-Shiny day....


Sunday, gorgeous and bright, was a day that the troupe termed "ideal", as our sets went smoothly and we felt as though we had good interactions all around. Though the grounds were squashy, we stilted up and we contributed to the textural quality thereof with squareish 1x1 holes.

On Saturday, while Hanna spent her wetness upon us, we only LOOKED dry entertaining the six hundred intrepid souls who waded in play.

"These two women came in," my jeweler pal tells me, "who had driven three hours to come to the festival today." I express astonishment. She laughs. "I know! But here's the thing that amazed me: they seemed perfectly normal!"

Because, understandably, we expect the crazies.

Mr. Squeeze keeps his feet comfy in the black wellies he's wearing beneath his sillypants all day long. "Vulcanized rubber, not exactly period, I know, but I don't care, I don't care," and he does two or three seconds worth of dancing. Pretty good Garland, considering he's a straight historical combat artist.

And black.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.



(I Can See Clearly Now; Bob Marley)

Inevitable, Eventually

...baby baby, please let me hold him/ I wanna make him stay up all night....


There is no reason that it should work, but it does. A kilt, sunglasses, a Rogues tee shirt, a pin-studded black leather biker vest and a real for sure Santa Claus beard ought to look terrible. He looks fantastic.

It's Festival time again. Outfits of all descriptions are on display for the next seven weekends.

Our bubbles are appreciated, and brightly dressed panto clowns sneaking through the village gets more attention than it deserves. We form a bright barrier between squishable patrons and working elephants, and provide a distraction while EMTs revive an overly marinated young lady lying prone on the path. But my naughty habit of baby-nabbing catches up with me at last.

A woman has seen me take a small girl up high in the air and return her unharmed. She brings her own child for a photo, then without warning snatches her up and shoves her into my unprepared arms. I smile grimly for the shot, managing not to stumble, then walk away. "Give my child back!" she shrieks. What? You gave her to me, this grubby, cheese-dust smeared urchin. GAVE her. The child begins to cry. I hand her over, irritated expression deliberately in place, brushing orange grime from my costume.

Hand ME a filthy child, will you? Not again, I bet.


(Stay Up Late; Talking Heads)

Adios, Avocado

...See you later alligator, after 'while crocodile/ See you later alligator/ So long, that's all/ Goodbye....



"Mama, why did you not throw this away?"

I can't see what 'this' is from here. What have you got?

Fuzzy enters with a light brown orb. I frown at it.

"It's the brain from your alligator head. Why did you leave it on the table?"

Now I know what I'm looking at.

When I cut the avocado open, the pit popped out and rolled away, and I forgot about it. Sorry.

I call them, southern-style, 'alligator pears'. The brain. Of the alligator head. Of course. I snicker as I consign this 'brain' to the trash.

She sighs deeply at my idocy.


It's going to be 'that' sort of a day when dressing goes like this: bra, panties, left shoe, trousers, right shoe. And then, downstairs, noticing that I sort of need a shirt.


Y'all go on and complain about the heat, but Primarily Decorative has been enjoying an extended Naked Season.

She does, however, draw the line at (shudder) white shoes.


If you haven't made it out to the Maryland Renaissance Festival this gorgeous season, you should hurry. Hey, Nunnie, Nunnie has already left the building. This is the final weekend for Hack and Slash. The Mediaeval Baebes will be here next weekend, and both Wolgemut and Puke and Snot have already arrived. This weekend, next weekend, and THAT'S IT, PEOPLE. C'mon.

(Seey You Later, Alligator; Bill Haley and his Comets)

Wait, What?

...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmm, bacon....



Embarrassing: Having the theme to 'Knight Rider' as your ringtone.

More embarrassing: NOT having the theme to 'Knight Rider' as your ringtone, but recognizing it anyway.

Those of you who have not yet had your annual Mimi fix need to hustle your butts. We have four weekends left. Lurk is in China for the next two weekends, but Hilby arrives tomorrow, and Lurk returns for the final two. Rumor has it that Puke and Snot will appear. The Arial Angels have landed, but so far the patrons remain safe.

The weather continues to be spectacular. I'll see you on site. You won't need me to wear a red carnation; I think you'll manage to recognize me.

More Delicious

...See the sky in front of you/ and her face is like a sail/ speck of white so fair and pale...

More narcissism follows; I suggest quite strongly that you cease viewing this post immediately.


IMG_2045
Originally uploaded by wkk_1999

Out of the Box on the grounds, heading to the Wine Garden. (Mmm, wine.)

arm to the sky
Originally uploaded by Morningstar1369

Huge flowers, small children, and a patron.

judging eyes
Originally uploaded by Morningstar1369

Details.

hpim5095
Originally uploaded by Morningstar1369

Manoevering through the throng in the Engineering Nightmare.

Mimes
Originally uploaded by wastrel

Observe the hugeness.

Again, major props to the photogs who visit Faire and shoot us, posting colorful carnage on Flickr. The Engineering Nightmare has been captured. Reactions welcome.


(She's A Rainbow; The Rolling Stones)

Selfish Imagery

...looking so long at these pictures of you/ that I almost believe that they're real....


So these photo mini-posts.

(Also this photo, from 2004, titled 'Tall Mysterious Fairie', and this one, currently the favorite of all photos ever taken of me, unless it's the one by Nelson Steele, taken in 1997, of me blowing a bubble through the bubble and I can't FIND you, Nelson, I've Googled you every way I can think of, and can't find you for permission or a negative of that GORGEOUS shot which I may scan and download, come on, find me, sue me for copywrite infringement, do you hear me? Mimi is loooooking for yooooouu....)

Believe it or not, this is not just vanity, though I've plenty of that, I admit. (I've in fact been admired for it- "I love your vainity", a crunchy granola earthmother acquaintance of mine responded when I said I wore my hair up in the convertible to avoid a white streak on my neck. What? Wouldn't you?) No, I have a purpose, a quest, a mission.

The reason I've been scouring the 'net, haunting Flickr like a deranged talent agent, is because this weekend, Mimic and I debut a new look. A look that I thought would be fabulous, but which proved an engineering nightmare. Is it worth putting more effort into it, or am I throwing good labor after bad? Literally, the only way I can tell if a costume is working for me or not is to see a photograph of it. And I don't have one yet.

So, I'm looking. If any of you have photos that you're waiting to upload.....



.........HURRY UP!!!

(Pictures Of You; Cure)

Flickr Delicious

DSC_0077
Originally uploaded by globalevan

Ta- dah!

Thank you, Young Evan.

White & Gold
Originally uploaded by autumncat

Autumncat is Awsomecat.

Mimes
Originally uploaded by sigsegv

"Where'd Gigi get all those roses?"

MDRF 2006 Opening Weekend Mime gets a baby
Originally uploaded by sestree

Why, thank you. "EXTREMELY capable".

rennfest_082507_rennfest24
Originally uploaded by Patty Boh

Not so creepy?

Mimes on stilts
Originally uploaded by immortalityofthought

Creepy? Hmmm.

Introducing.... Zizi!

"You don't play Tic-Tack-Toe with the king anymore," That Girl observed.

No. I don't. Probably I never will.

"Why not?"

It was my special thing with Bill. Mimi played the game with the king, but not any king, just THAT one.


This weekend, August 11th and 12th, is Opening Weekend at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Festival. Mimi will perform her Silent Stories show:

Mimi the Mime - The child within understands exactly what Mimi is telling us as we wonder in amazement at the hysterical antics of this marvelous wordless storyteller! Avalon Hill Kid's Kyngdom at 12:30, 2:00 and 3:30.

(For the record, I did NOT write that copy.)

Special bonus, around the Shire:

Max




and Zizi.


(Test shot from early makeup session.)



(Shot on the occasion of Zizi's debut.)


Our beloved Gigi


has gone travelling, and so Zizi has joined us. Everyone will love her. I demand it.

The entire troupe, Mimi & Max, Lili, and now Zizi


will perform at the Maryland Renaissance Festival, which opens on the 25th of August. See you then!



(I will not be wearing a red carnation. I will, however, be wearing- you guessed it- Mimi Pink.)




* My thanks to all of the fabulous photographers who make us look so good.

Bite Me

...you are here and warm/but I could look away and you'd be gone....


So the faire is over, which means I have to find something else to write about. Those of you who are not Festival-oriented are relieved, and those of you who are can go back to not reading until next August.

(No, I don't have a contract. But after two decades of planning my life around these several weekends, and kudos from the man who signs my paycheck, I'm reasonably certain that my delightful captivity will continue.)

While I regroup, ask yourself:

You Are a Boston Creme Donut

You have a tough exterior. No one wants to mess with you. But on the inside, you're a total pushover and completely soft. You're a traditionalist, and you don't change easily. You're likely to eat the same doughnut every morning, and pout if it's sold out.

What Donut Are You?

My only problem with this designation is the pouting. I don't pout. Children pout. I am an adult.

Adults sulk.


(Sentimental Lady; Fleetwood Mac)

A Wrap

...gonna treat you/ Like the queen you are/ Bring you sweet things/ From my candy jar....


Light breeze lifts our white cloaks, our shimmery organzas, creating billows of floating motion. A path of fallen leaves stretches like a golden runner in front of us as we process. I wonder if this is the last time we process together, this group. Next year, I think, will be different. It always is.

A child looks in awe. "She's been doing this a long time," says the woman with her. "When your daddy was little, she...." I do not hear the rest of the sentence. This is a good thing, perhaps.

Paul brings chocolate raspberry brownies. They are too rich for eating more than one tiny bite at a time. Thank you, Paul. We gorge ourselves on Scotch eggs, brownies and fruit. Gigi taps a pear, asks a question with her eyebrows. It is a special pear, harder, sharper, large as an apple. I stretch my eyes with my fingertips. After one moment of horrified shock followed by one of amused comprehension, she rolls around in silent laughter. I shrug and crunch another bite of my Asian pear.

Isabelle Glass is back, and That Girl and I return for a second, smaller, forray. Lust delayed, fulfilled, assuaged, relents.

"I've got a name in the blog," gloats the Mome Rath. "I'm in the blog," responds the gloatee. "Yeah, but I've got a name."

The organist has painted a portrait of the four of us, oil on canvas, and I am touched beyond words. I cannot hug her as I'd like to: I haven't powdered yet and my makeup will smear all over her Redskins shirt. If you pray, pray for her. Her health is poor, and since Ken and Bill and Jim have departed permanantly, leaving holes in my heart, I worry.

Firehorse makes accuses me of littering. "Choose your punishment! Do you prefer public humiliation, or branding?" I make my choice not based on personal preference, or character integrity, but on which is funnier to communicate physically. I lick my finger and touch the air with a sizzling sound. "Branding it is!" He brands me with a red stamp. "I don't have an L for littering, so you'll have to have a P for piracy."

At the front gate, I slip on slick ground and go down hard on my knees- the stilt has betrayed me. I am irritated at the interruption, bruised by the landing, unperturbed at the embarassment (Martin goes down all the time, often deliberately) encouraged by the positive reaction to my assisted stand-up, and most upset that my trousers are dirty for the rest of the day. Ah, vanity.

I watch my associates, the ones I created literally and the figurative one, smiling. Fluffy stays with us for our entire stilt-walk, leaving only when we peel off to O'Shucks to swipe swigs of beer. We swipe so much beer, hard tea, and meade that it seems like a good idea to get off stilts and go to the wine garden for more swipeage. Two wine-sodden superhero-booted spandex-clad clowns slither and saunter, slightly sloshed, back to MimeCamp.

I have made friends with three (young, attractive) musicians from Montreal. They sit in our camp chairs, relaxing between sets, murmuring sensual sounds, though they might be talking about replacing brake shoes for all I am following. I describe something, cursing, then ask them to pardon my French, which they are speaking. One of them tells me that even in French, one says ‘excuse my French’, rather than ‘Pardon my American.’ I wonder if he is pulling my leg. I wonder what ‘pulling my leg’ is in French. Hilby trots into mime camp for something or other, saying "excusez moi s'il vous plait, you beeg fat bott eas een my vay."

Hilby and Martin take us to Sputnik for a treat- they have gone on and ON about this resaturant. The food lives up to their accolades and we exit stuffed and satisfied, with a new favorite place to eat.

"It's the last weekend," my mother qualifies. "Do you get to play with the patrons?"

Mom. That's my job description.

"I mean, I guess, do you get to be outrageous since it is the final two days?"

Mom. I could hardly BE more outrageous, unless I were to strip naked, and it is just not the weather for that.

I am informed that someone with whom I've had an ambivalent relationship may or may not be returning next year. Ambivalent again, I am not sure how I feel about this, at the same time wondering whether it will affect my life, performance, art, in the slightest, and then deciding that that’s enough mental energy to devote to this subject. And yet, in this moment of writing, I break my promise to myself. And if I edit this paragraph later, I’ve broken it twice.

The weather is wonderful, the crowd oddly subdued. It is the Day Of Wrong. I watch the crowd, clad in tie dye, in drag, as Storm Troopers, less impressed by wrongness than in previous years. I notice fewer Designated Patrons celebrating our final day of the season than I expect. Perhaps they are all in one of the pubs.

After stilts, we head out for a serious Renaissance Retail Experience. The Bee Folk for honey, candles and soap; the Fairie Booth to pick up Trixie our pixie, freshly repaired; Page After Page for books and sealing wax; the giant slide, just for fun- and as an efficient way to get down the hill; Holy Cow to look at pocketbooks; passing by Half Moon Travel Cloaks, who stubbornly refuse to create a warm wool cloak in Mimi-pink; High Point Crafts to look at fans and dusters, ultimately buying a (what?) walking stick (my ankle has barked at me all day, probably specifically to cajole me into making this elderly purchase); Blessed Scents for more soap; Bull's Eye for a bag made of cowhide shaped like a mouse which we do not find and buy instead the skin of an ermine, which the baby girl names Herman, then Thurmon, and carries with her everywhere; Souveniers in a vain attempt to find a 2006 coffee mug, coming away with a MRF logo T-shirt so my son can stop playing Marlon Brando/James Dean in his white T-shirts jeans and leather jacket; and finally, Steak 2 for a final serving of curly fries.

If I had forethought enough, I would have filled a cooler with frozen chocolate covered cheesecake on a stick, of which I had (only!) two this season, and in fact I did think of it and rejected the idea as a bad one after the scale reported that I had not lost a pound, no not even one, over the run of the Faire.

Crooked Finger Man finds me, gets my address, promises to send something. I kiss him goodbye, aware that it could be for the last time. "I have loved you these many years, my lady," he says again. And I, you, sweetheart.

I wipe my daughter's makeup from her face, drying her tears at the same time. She articulates my grief for me. "Here, everybody treats us like we are special and they love us so much and now we have to go back to being our regular selves."

Don't I know it, darling.

I relate this to the boys later, my husband included." Ahh, zhe angst of zhe clouwn," Hilby sympathizes. "So you tell her she eas special and she haahs so many peeople who loves her as herself."

Sure I told her that.

There is a pause. We twinkle at one another for a moment.

I mean, it's bullshit, but I told her.

Hilby snickers. "Jah, ov course, eat's so totally boollsheet."

So totally bullshit. My specialty.


(Wrap It Up; The Fabulous Thunderbirds)

Corner, Spotlight

...oh, life is bigger/ It's bigger than you/ And you are not me/ The lengths that I will go to/ The distance in your eyes/ Oh no, I've said too much....


He slinks down the stairs and opens his arms for a cuddle.

Morning, Fluffy.

"Morning, Mama. Did Hilby come last night?"

Yes, he did. And guess what he brought?

"Another person?"

Exactly.


Hilby arrives with, as is his wont, an additional human. Three of them, actually. Last weekend, it was Karl, who was a surprise, but this weekend it’s Karl’s girlfriend, Hilby’s girlfriend, and- hooray!- Martin. Yes, fans, Lurk haunts the site of the Maryland Renaissance Festival again.

The forecast is much more dire than the actual weather. On Saturday, more than 20,000 patrons are undiscouraged. Sunday somewhat less so, but apparantly it was pouring in northern Anne Arundel county, so there you go. It’s not about whether it will rain, it’s about whether the patrons THINK it will rain. Makes bribing the forecasters an appealing idea.

Saturday is gorgeous, perfect, breezy enough that the white costumes flow and billow. A film crew loves us. We’re not sure who they are or why they’re here. That Girl, who would know, suspects a college project. A couple, armed with serious cameras, follows us around.

"They’re the best thing in this whole place."

No. Really? How nice of you. Shoot us anytime.

It’s Adventure Weekend, and pirates abound. The Bee Folks encourage patrons to holler Arrrgh and throw cheap plastic necklaces from their balcony. Note to self: check out their new fragrance; they promised in Pennsylvania that they were debuting a new hand cream fragrance in Maryland.

Jaki, our organist, accepts hugs, and refuses questions about her health. Will I lose her next? I hate to wonder, but life is short, and those who grace it do not always grace it for long.

Isabelle Glass, whose products have moved me to drool since Artscape 05, is here as a guest vendor. Mimi and Gigi lust after fancy silver and glass necklaces. Hawk gives permission for obscene expenditure, which (booyah!) is write-offable. We walk away adorned and shiny.

Though we break the 2K mark, the lines are amazingly short. Even at the privies. The longest line? The ATM. Go, you lovely patrons. Buy stuff. Booyah.

After work, after snack, after Fluff loses track of a wooden mug that I found one year in PA and lovingly restored, Fuzzy and I get our hair braided. Four days later, we both are are still looking pretty good. Good job, Rapunzelgirls. Fuzzy still has her silk roses, even.

As planned, we eat Vietnamese with the Jasters. Fluff is adventurous and not only chooses an unfamiliar dish, he asks for it in Vietnamese. The restauranteur, taking our order, is impressed. Fuzzy wants chicken and broccoli. I eat stir-fried vegatables, which, oddly, come out the same no matter which -ese I try.

At home, I kiss my children goodnight....and goodbye, because they are rapidly becoming not my children anymore, but their own human selves apart from me, who happen to live in the same house.

I will kiss them goodbye a thousand more times, and they will never know it. I mourn the passing of their child-ness, even as I celebrate their steps to maturity. Some of you will know what I mean.

Hurry to the Faire: it's half over. Four weekends left. The weather is here, and you are beautiful. Come see Mimi.


(Losing My Religion; REM)

Blogging This

...two guys walk into a bar....

BuddahPat, the Animal, Desdemona One and I sit in a BYOB Thai restaurant when Superman walks in. This sounds like the opening to a joke, but it's just the opening to my post, and I didn't even write it. The Animal did. Plus, it actually happened like that. BuddahPat was a Thai virgin, which is fair because he popped my sushi cherry, though it was someone else who convinced me (under influence of beer) to try sashimi.

After Thai, we go to Turner's, where BuddahPat's favorite beertender is on duty. I see two lovely reasons why she's his favorite. She's also really sweet, and makes me a weenie (read: I can drive after drinking it) Cosmo. Which was delicious.

We watch pretend TV. It was the episode of Barney Miller where Joan Collins makes a guest appearance. And Gary Busey in a bad toupee. The Animal rolls his eyes.

"What was her name?"

Never tell me that I know YOUR favorite bartender's name before you do.

"Ah, but you do. What was it?"

It's Tori. And I think she, like Beyonce, is proof of the existence of God. I know this is a favored theory of his.

"That's right. Beauty like that doesn't happen by accident."

*

Thursday, the rain begins. Between then and now, the five gallon bucket in my front yard has nearly filled. And it continues to come down. Ernesto The Hurricane knocked out power in our area, including at the Festival, but we persisted. As did the patrons. Still, I'm glad I don't have to work in the weather today.

*

In white angel outfits, we pass Kate Cox's booth. Her baby daughter is wrapped in red silk. Kate passes her to me, and we pose. Somebody get me a copy of that.

Later, I let myself lag behind, looking at the backs of my troupe, all stilted up. The big pow of turquoise, red and lilac fills my eyes. Something else, pride, maybe, or joy, fills my heart. Whatever it is, I'm glad to be on site, because my throat is also full and I couldn't speak if I wanted to.

*

"Look, it's Mimi! There she is!"

I put on my 'I'm so glad to see YOU' face, just in time. "Look, honey, I told you she'd remember!"

I put out my hand. She rears back.

"She's afraid of gloves. It's okay, sweetheart, this is Mimi! She's been talking about you all year!" Right, the little fairie girl afraid of gloves, I do remember. She was Vignette #4. And she's brought not only her grandparents, but also her parents and her new baby brother, who I promptly steal. Oh, way to comfort the kid. Go, Mimi.

*

I tip my hip, saucy, at a patron the beertender has now informed me "totally just took a photo of your bum." In response, Mac McPatron flashes me.

He flashes me.

That's right, lifts his kilt from where he sits on a bench and flashes me his wanker.

Apparantly he's got a sheepskin tucked inside the back of his wool kilt- which makes sense for sitting- and there it lies, like an uncooked sausage on a fluffy bun.

Before I look away with a shudder of astonishment, it registers that he's not only regimental, he's uncut.

*

"I stumbled across it by accident, and I can't believe there's no mention of me."

You did not read through three years' worth of archives. You did not.

"M. was away. I had a lot of free time," he says with an embarassed shrug. "But not one mention! I mean, we've shared stuff!"

So we have, Johnboy, like spit, during a recent murder mystery. Also, you happen to be one of my favorite former-YAE kids. Er, former kids.

Plus, you've read my archives. That alone earns you a mention. AND your own special code name.



....you'd think the second one would've ducked.

Inside Job

...Yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip/ Mum mum mum mum mum mum/ Get a job Sha na na na, sha na na na na....

Totsie brings up an interesting point. There is probably some need for 'back story'. To those of you for whom this is already old hat, skip ahead to the joke at the end. And Dan Tobin should skip it entirely, since he only reads the short ones.

In 1985, my mother saw an advertisment for performers for the Renaissance Festival. My friends Kate and Teever and I went down on a Saturday. I auditioned as a mime. I was contracted, by director John Strucken, assistant directed by Carolyn Spedden.

The Maryland Renaissance Festival began thirty years ago as a tent show at a local music venue. You can read more about it here.

My history is as Mimi, Mime Game-Master. As best I remember it, so please excuse any details I've gotten wrong.

I missed my first weekend of the 1985 Faire- the first year it was in Crownsville, Maryland- because my grandfather died and my sister and I flew to Detroit for his funeral. I finished sewing trim on my costume on the plane. I missed another weekend in 1989, when I went on my honeymoon. And then, in 2003, I missed the final two weekends, because I broke myself.

That first costume worked well, and looked good, but because it was back-lacing, was impossible to get into alone. Also, the white blouse had a habit of coming untucked from the black trousers, which looked messy. It was cute, though: A white blouse, black bodice, black trousers, white tights and black slippers. The slippers fell apart after two weekends, and it took several years before I finalized my footwear look. Then, two or three years ago, I revised it again. I spent my days playing with patrons. I met Coco in 1986, when she was the village bag lady.

That first season, there was a storyteller's chair. I sat down in it towards the end of the day, one day near the end of the season. A patron eating some cookies asked if I was going to tell a story. I nodded sarcastically. She waited, expectant. On the spot, I told the story of the The Three Bears. She followed and enjoyed. Others gathered and paid attention. It was a birth.

The next year, John scheduled me for several slots in the storyteller's chair. The year after, the same, only that year, it rained. A lot. Jim Frank felt sorry for the soggy little mime with only a few brave souls to sit on soggy hay bales to watch. He had taught himself to eat fire, and closed my show for me with something more entertaining than my stories. Once, I was brave enough to ask him to teach me to eat fire. He said yes. This was how our partnership began.

Seven years later, our partnership dissolved. I'd just had my first baby and he was getting married. In the meantime, we'd done four shows a day together as Firespiel, traveled to do a season at the Georgia Renaissance Festival (which John Strucken was directing), walked stilts together in parades and other places (for ten or more years, every pair of stilts I owned was Jim-built.), done one season with Jer Gallay as The Imaginary Circus, run through three costume looks, changed focus, argued, agreed, learned new skills and kept old jokes. It was during this time that marshmallows came to be known as 'mime bait.' Now, of course, it's liquor. I began to do murder mystery shows with Coco, outside the Faire. Inside the Faire, I had developed a stilt show all by myself, written for, costumed and directed Dragons By The Tale, a theatre troupe that performed children's material, ate fire at the non-Pub-Sing pub amidst wild drumming, hopped behind the bar for guest stints as 'beer mime' and learned how to make amazingly simple, but somehow impressive, huge bubbles.

By this time I was wearing what I still wear at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire, a black unitard with a cropped Tudor-style top trimmed with bells. That top has held up surprisingly well. I wish I knew what I had made it from. I 'outgrew' my favorite pair of stilt pants- which I still wear in Pennsylvania, with short, JimBuilt stilts- a beautiful purple paisley rayon blend that flow when I move. I developed a solo fire-eating show, and a friend painted a beautiful banner for it. I built MimeCamp, a place to stilt up, keep costume changes and food. I had the opportunity to work with the Young Actors' Ensemble for a couple of years. This is where I met That Girl, who said to me, "I want to do everything you do." Well, that was fine, since I'd been looking to clone myself for three years or so, thinking that double the Mimi meant double coverage at the faire. Which did not happen, exactly. Something else did, perhaps better. Also at this time, Fluffy decided he wanted to be in my Mimi Flambe show- I was doing a couple of Mimi Flambe shows each day, and one or two storytelling shows. My storybook had increased from just The Three Bears to a total of four or five stories, including a naughty one about a maiden and a moose that the Pyrates used to narrate. Fluffy, as Max joined the act, and was an instant hit. Gigi joined the act, and was an instant hit. Fuzzy, safe at home and three years old, was furious. With Fluffy's help, she painted a cardboard box to be HER makeup case, and chose her name. Yes, a full two years in advance. Each of them began training to walk stilts at five years of age. Their first stilts were also JimBuilt. Now, we all walk HickoryStix, which were created by Martin Ewen, Lurk, in the Altitude Factory, which was located in my basement, just for irony.

Moresca sent out a catalogue with a white costume they called Gelsomina. I HAD to have it. Debra at DragonWings built a gorgeous feathered hat to go with it. I was hesitant to wear it at Faire, because of dirt. Patron response convinced me otherwise. That Girl came up with the idea of a procession of the four of us, all in white. She built the first cloak, and decorated the children's costumes. Since then, we keep adding elements. And now, I'm midway through a build of another set of fanciness, not white this time.

Shortly after Gigi joined me, she began to outshine me. In a sartorial fashion, if you'll excuse the pun.

"You need to be brighter," Carolyn told me. I tried purple. "You need to be brighter," Carolyn told me. "Look at Gigi, how she just stands out." Okay, does hot pink stand out enough for you?

So here I am these days, in a shiny hot pink spandex unitard and a brocade jacket, with pink superhero boots and my poufy long-tailed trademark hat. Guess what? I am bright. I stand out.

My day used to begin atop the front gate, blowing bubbles. Then I became part of a troupe, and now our opening is in fabulous white costumes, and if anyone has put a photo of this on the 'net, I can't find it. I've looked. I used to spend a lot of time taking families of patrons to various places on site when I saw them staring at the map in complete befuddlement. Nowadays, I spend a lot of time on stilts stealing sips of beer from patrons. Mime Lunch has evolved from a simple picnic wherever we felt like having it to the un-show, Chat and Chew With Mimi and Gigi at the Boar's Head Tavern. We are SuperModels, and spend an inordinate amount of time changing from one costume to another all day. We also officially finish at 3:30 PM, so latecomers may never even see us.

I still guide lost patrons, steal beer and babies, grin and wave madly to people I don't know, pose for photographs, fall in love with special guests and give them Most Favored Patron status, see self-Designated Patrons year after year with their authentic garb, and their rabbit fur covered baskets which contain cell-phone, PDA and digital camera. I know vendors better than the acting company, since they return year after year. An actor has to be with the company three or four years before I'll even notice him, unless he's living in my house. But now I have a troupe, an entourage, a partner, a family. Together, we're bigger than Mimi ever was.

I think that's a good thing.



I once knew a poet who would start writing his poetry immediately when he got up in the morning. You could say that he went from bed to verse.

(Get A Job; Silhouettes)

Alive; Dead.

...how does it feel to be/one of the Beautiful People?/How often have you been there?/Often enough to know.....


A sinking snuggle into shabby seat is a welcome embrace. I pull off my top to the Beatles blaring through the radio, and a grin explodes across my face. How I've survived most of August in the BoringMobile is a mystery. Now, with load-in complete and Opening Weekend under our belts, the larger vehicle becomes superfluous for the next eight weeks.

Opening morning is cloudy, but untroubled by precipitation. We are glad to not broil under the gleaming sun. Our spandex suits provide gleam enough.

The white outfits are, as always, a hit, and the race to assist in the PeeWee Pirate and Princess Party Parade (in honor of Kids Free Weekend) puts us behind for Chat-N-Chew with Mimi and Gigi. Good thing I specially marked all times as being "ish" in nature. A garbed couple loans me a baby to snorgle. She's waiting for a meal- her father holds an old-style formula bottle in his hand, but the baby seems content, and settles in my lap as though she'll stay forever. It's an organic sort of non-show event, akin to the bubble appearance I put in on the piazza at the Pennsylvania Faire, wherein there is little required of the patrons in the vicinity. Admire, participate, ignore; it's very low key. Plus, we renew our bodies for our stilt excursion. I've scheduled us too tightly. We make it out on stilts by 1:30, not 1:00, as planned, but make up in enthusiasm what we lack in promptness. Everyone comments on how the children have grown, and it's not just a joke about the stilts. This is us, the first year Fluffy worked with me.

Ken's brother is beginning to look like Ken to me. His ginger hair is silvering. Ken remains dead, except in my heart. I think about Crooked Finger Man, the amatuer photographer who has been looking more frail each year. I wonder if he is connected in the fringe, if any of our company knows his name or could discover what's become of him. I think of Bonnie, formerly Bliss Goodbody of the Bawdy Balladeers, who has been in poor health for some time. Jim Casey's booth, since his death, is being run by his sister. Tradition continues.

I search for new vendors in old booths: who has sold to whom during the off season? I find none. There is a new kiosk for hairbraiding, owned, I assume, by the Goddess Gracie, since I see her there. There are three or four tents up on formerly performable spots. It's just not worth trying to choerograph a "big bit", as any available real estate is leased to a crafter by the management as soon as I discover it. There is a cart selling egg rolls. The tents with logs and bags of hay for people to whack one another with are gone. I do not see the rickey carts, but they often do not appear until the third weekend anyway. Some of the acts are new, but old: Daniel Duke of Danger is here. I remember him as one third of Pandemonium. The London Broil is here, Duncan and Louie being from the first group of the Young Actors Ensemble in 1993. Or maybe '92. Possibly '91. Damn, I'm old.

We wander long-legged into the pub, and there, there! is Crooked Finger Man, looking fragile, but pleased to see us. Darling, you couldn't be nearly as glad to see me as I am to see you. A young man I recognize tells me Dan is back. Dan the Master Joyner, maker of fine furnishings, was in an accident that should have finished him off. "He's in the booth, so stop by to see him." I waste no time. "I'm glad they never told me how bad off I was, or I wouldn't be walking right now," Dan tells me.

"It's our in-betweens that are most comical," That Girl remarks to me, wearing a unitard around her ankles and white socks on her feet. She does a little dance.

I can't argue with that. Next time, I'm wearing stilt pads on my knees, a bra, a hat and a thong. I do a little dance.

"Cybbie, I never thought of you in that way before. It's been so.... platonic between us for so long."

Mmmhmm.

Tim stops while we're changing out of stilts. "Hey, Cyb, has Carolyn told you?"

Told me what? No.

"No, I guess she wouldn't have had time. It's about Bonnie. Bonnie Orr died yesterday. I don't have any details. She'd been pretty sick for awhile."

Thank you for telling me.

Tim is wrong. It's not his fault. But I'm extremely glad that he is, because that means I can call and talk to Bonnie, just like everyone else who got the wrong information is going to do.

A man has hunkered down to talk to That Girl. "Hey, good talking to you, see you on site." He leaves.

Who is that?

"You know what, I don't even know his name."

Okay, but who IS he?

"Some vendor guy. I play tic-tac-toe with him."

Oh. On stilts, right?

"Yup. Don't you play tic-tac-toe?"

I used to.

"Yeah?"

With Bill. It was my special thing with Bill. So I think I'll probably never play tic-tac-toe anymore.

"Oh." She digests this. "Well, I'm glad you taught me to play."

I doubt very much that I taught you to play tic-tac-toe.

"You know what I mean."

Of all friends that remain dead, Bill's still my favorite.



(Baby, You're A Rich Man; The Beatles)

Catch Up

...who could hang a name on you/ when you change with every new day/ still I'm gonna miss you....

Wednesday and Thursday I did the murderously miserable outdoor farm animal kindergarten teacher gig, plus all the regular stuff PLUS furniture loaning and rehearsals for the Hack and Slash Christmas Special, as the children were in it.

Friday turned out to be agony. The weather moved, and I ached. Up until about ten o'clock, I was reasonably well. Then, a bit after ten, I failed to get Hawk on the phone, and started to cry. This was bad, as I was on the way to the petting farm gig. I got hold of myself, but then dissolved again when a sad song came on the radio. I got a call from Michael, who said he was on his way with his family, and they'd take my kids round so they'd have a bit more fun. Michael either doesn't know me well enough to notice that I sounded funny, or he did notice but didn't know what to say. Then Steven called and asked if I had a cold, so I told him the truth about being near tears at this horrible petting farm. He teased me dreadfully until I laughed. Michael and Company showed up then, and wandered around, sometimes close enough to hear that I was having problems with the sound equipment. Hawk called just past one, when I had finished, and I was in tears again, but by now I'd figured out what was going on.

It was the anniversary of my fall.

Cyclically speaking, the Friday before MRF's second to last weekend was when it happened. Right around ten o'clock. By eleven, I was at the hospital, awaiting x-rays of my elbow, wrist and ankle. I joked with the attendant at the front desk as she fastened on my bracelet: "Cool! Free drinks all night!" She appeared startled at my humor. Four-thirty saw me riding back to the PA Fest site, to retrieve my car and props, and wait for my mother and sister to rescue me. I couldn't drive home. I had hoped I might, and so had refused morphine, which turned out okay after all, as I suspect morphine would have cost much more than the six-dollar-apiece Tylenol with Codeine that I did take. The worst bit of the ordeal was waiting, alone, in the car, clumsily answering the dying cell phone left-handed, and needing to pee very badly. There was nowhere to go, though I considered a bit of grass beside a bush, but didn't dare, as I was wearing a unitard and wasn't sure I could a.)get out of it; b.) manage to squat on one leg; c.) get out of a squat; or d.) get it all back together again and return to the car without passing out.

So I waited.

The first thing we did (after gentle hugging and kissing) was get me to a gas station, where Cory practically carried me to the bathroom, saying, "She's not heavy, she's my sister."

Flash forward to now.

I sniveled to Coco around two thirty and told her what was going on. She was sympathetic, which was kind, because I felt pretty stupid, having a delayed reaction to an event a year old. Especially since I had shed no tears on THAT day, and had congratulated myself that the tenth had come and gone with nary a ripple.

However, by four I was much better, and dropped the kids off to rehearse yet again, and took That Girl with me to grocery shop.

The Christmas Special went off beautifully, and I was not the only one of the opinion that my children were adorable. Hawk even made it back for the show.

For the first time in three years, I have a Gigi-less weekend. Saturday, Fuzzy sleeps in, so we let her stay home with Papa. It is just Fluffy and me once again. We do not do the white parade, though with Mike and Wyatt, the stilt walkabout still has lots of impact. Mark's feeling poorly, so Wyatt scrams with no mimesnack, but Mike joins us. We're enjoying hot cider, steak sandwich, onion rings, and brownie sundae (from the food area known on the inside as 'Monster') when a fabulous storm blows up. We race back to camp. I, grinning, try to eat the wind. The Participants' Party is not well attended. I help Nancy set up cheese and crackers and other snacks, and pull beer for a few brave souls.

Sunday, I go to zone. This is the first time I have both children without Ginny's help. It's a bit trying, but we manage. We even do the white parade; another first: I wear stilts and the gorgeous white cloak.

Martin's in a bit of a rush, as his lady has been ill, so we scramble to pack up camp and get out. I change into street clothes, removing hat but not makeup. As I slide glasses onto my nose, I tell the folk hanging about- Hilby, Wyatt, Mark, Martin, Fluffy, Fuzzy, Mike and Chris- to please NOT tell me precisely how stupid I look. Snickering ensues.

Martin makes his train, and by six, we are home, and in quick order washed and comforted by supper and snuggles. All is well in our world.

Heavy weather gives us a weird schedule this week. One day I sleep in past ten, and past nine on two others. I cook brunch twice. The children and I clean house in fits and starts. I spend lots of time hobbling and aching. I switch to using my left arm, as the right is bothering me. The sunlamp fails to cheer me, but does keep me from turning suicidal.

Final Weekend looms large. Another season comes to an end.

(Ruby Tuesday; The Rolling Stones)

Sage Advice?

Tips for StarPixie, a young performer who got harrassed over Halloween weekend by some teen boys who wanted to mess with the little girl mime. Oddly, in all her performances bellydancing, she never had a problem. She puts on gloves and makeup, boom, she's got trouble.

S-
there are a bunch of things you can do to "make yourself bigger." (excuse my lack of caps; i was injured and type one-handed for awhile now)

first off, scot is right: the more you think of yourself as small and vulnerable, the more you will be.

second, never underestimate the power of a dirty look.

find your "safe" spots before getting really into a gig, so you know right off where to go, ie, the security station, the large friendly guy working the dunking booth, a police officer, another, larger, performer, the women's bathroom, etc.

go easy on the coy come hither stuff with those who are saturated by hormones or alcohol, or, god forbid, both. instead, square your shoulders, chest out, chin up, and meet their gaze straight on with a "no bullshit" message in your eyes. full professionalism.

build up your "personal bubble" to about two to two and a half feet. carry this with you at all times. it's fine to invite people in closer if you want to, but that's at your discretion, not theirs.

i have used my knees, applied with some force, as a method of self-defense. not often, and i'm not proud of having allowed the situation to deteriorate far enough that physicality became necessary, but it was effective.

refuse to play the game. let them have the hat, or the prop, or pick you up, whatever, because an angry struggling mime is amusing to bullies. a limp, annoyed one is just a burden. you will gain knowlege of when to use this tactic as you gain street experience. i once had a patron pick me up and carry me away at the ren fest. i just waited until he got tired of carrying me and put me down. then i gave him a dirty look, brushed myself off, and went about my business. i have lost a couple of props this way, but proportionately, very few, and never my favorite ones. standing patiently, unmoving, hand out, will often force the return of an item, also.

i hope this is helpful. good luck, sweetie!

xox