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)

You Betcha!

...Texas always seemed so big/ but you know you're in the largest state in the union/ when you're anchored down in Anchorage....


So my nutty neighbor wanders over, drunk, (a common state), and in the course of asking me to look after things a bit around his house- finally he remembered about the cat- suggested I would be "just a fucking riot" as Sarah Palin.

I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. I pointed out that Tina Fey seems to have that pretty well covered already. I've been compared to Sandra Bullock, any number of 'models' of My First Sex Teacher, (no, you do NOT get an url), and "that girl on Just Shoot Me", who has a name; it's Laura SanGiacomo.

There is limited gain in resembling minor stars, especially ones who are not currently "hot". I'm not sure there's even much of a market for AngelinaJolie-alikes, and she is certainly the definition of HOTT. Yes, with two Ts. TomCruise-alikes, though, have been popular for three decades. Since I don't sing, Marilyn was never an option, and I'm not quite, uh, generous enough for Mae West. I've been Betsy Ross, however: even ancient, fictitious politics are big business. My pal who plays FDR gets some play with that, plus his Nixon's always popular; my friend Jim has earned a lot of money portraying a president whose policies he can't admire- at least, not if he wants to retain the title of 'actor'- and a girlfriend of mine was briefly rolling in it- "I coulda bought a car," because she resembled Monica Lewinsky.

So, Sarah Palin? And me?

It could be the beginning of a profitable relationship.

If I can get past the research.


(Anchored Down In Anchorage; Michelle Shocked)

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)

Uphill's Easier

...take it down/ climb a mountain and turn around....



Overheard last weekend:

"Wow, that's GOTTA be hard! Downhill on stilts over all that mulch!"



Um, not so much, really....


...sober....



(Landslide; Fleetwood Mac)

On Point:

...down dooby doo down down, comma comma/ down dooby doo down down....


Wednesday is National Punctuation Day! Read all about it.

In honor of NPD, I found some fun sites for your exploration and enjoyment. If you're confused about the marks themselves, the punctuation tree will help you.


If you're ready for a bit of a quiz, Lynne Truss has one on comma and apostrophe use.

Commas are relevant to our civil rights; don't miss this article about the Second Amendment.

Those pesky commas can also cost us money.

Comma Quirk Irks Rogers
Sunday, August 06, 2006
GRANT ROBERTSON
From Monday's Globe and Mail

It could be the most costly piece of punctuation in Canada.

A grammatical blunder may force Rogers Communications Inc. to pay an extra $2.13-million to use utility poles in the Maritimes after the placement of a comma in a contract permitted the deal's cancellation.

The controversial comma sent lawyers and telecommunications regulators scrambling for their English textbooks in a bitter 18-month dispute that serves as an expensive reminder of the importance of punctuation.

Rogers thought it had a five-year deal with Aliant Inc. to string Rogers' cable lines across thousands of utility poles in the Maritimes for an annual fee of $9.60 per pole. But early last year, Rogers was informed that the contract was being cancelled and the rates were going up. Impossible, Rogers thought, since its contract was iron-clad until the spring of 2007 and could potentially be renewed for another five years.

Armed with the rules of grammar and punctuation, Aliant disagreed. The construction of a single sentence in the 14-page contract allowed the entire deal to be scrapped with only one-year's notice, the company argued.

Language buffs take note — Page 7 of the contract states: The agreement “shall continue in force for a period of five years from the date it is made, and thereafter for successive five year terms, unless and until terminated by one year prior notice in writing by either party.”

Rogers' intent in 2002 was to lock into a long-term deal of at least five years. But when regulators with the Canadian Radio-television and Telecommunications Commission (CRTC) parsed the wording, they reached another conclusion.

The validity of the contract and the millions of dollars at stake all came down to one point — the second comma in the sentence.

Had it not been there, the right to cancel wouldn't have applied to the first five years of the contract and Rogers would be protected from the higher rates it now faces.

“Based on the rules of punctuation,” the comma in question “allows for the termination of the [contract] at any time, without cause, upon one-year's written notice,” the regulator said.

Rogers was dumbfounded. The company said it never would have signed a contract to use roughly 91,000 utility poles that could be cancelled on such short notice. Its lawyers tried in vain to argue the intent of the deal trumped the significance of a comma. “This is clearly not what the parties intended,” Rogers said in a letter to the CRTC.

But the CRTC disagreed. And the consequences are significant.

The contract would have shielded Rogers from rate increases that will see its costs jump as high as $28.05 per pole. Instead, the company will likely end up paying about $2.13-million more than expected, based on rough calculations.

Despite the victory, Aliant won't reap the bulk of the proceeds. The poles are mostly owned by Fredericton-based utility NB Power, which contracted out the administration of the business to Aliant at the time the contract was signed.

Neither Rogers nor Aliant could be reached for comment on the ruling. In one of several letters to the CRTC, Aliant called the matter “a basic rule of punctuation,” taking a swipe at Rogers' assertion that the comma could be ignored.

“This is a classic case of where the placement of a comma has great importance,” Aliant said.

Now, just for fun, a photoblog of
unnecessary quotation marks, and one that's not much to do with punctuation, but that made me laugh most heartily at the funny un-grammar.

Speaking of which, LOLCats.








I Has A 'Postrofee.




(Breaking Up Is Hard To Do; Neil Sedaka)

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)