Rock'n'Roll Love Child

There’s a new song on the radio, and it has this habit of sticking into my brain and not going away. My co-worker calls these “earworms.” I don’t know the name of the song, and in six months I probably won’t remember it exists, but for now it’s settling into my psyche pretty nicely. The band is called “Flyleaf,” and while they don’t distinguish themselves too sharply from other nu-metal bands, they are notable for having a female singer.

The singer has a unique voice. A little sultry, a little piercing, and a little . . . gargly? Like she’s doing an impression of the Lollipop Guild singers, or something. Actually, she sounds like the love child of Geddy Lee and Amy Lee. Geddy being the singer/bassist of Rush fame, and Amy being the singer in Evanescence. Here, Geddy's on the left and Amy's on the right (in case your gender-recognition software is outdated):

















I'd do one of those photoshop composites to enhance the humor of this post, but I have to go to work in a bit. Maybe later.

So this name silliness leads me to a quandary. Since her soundalikes share a surname, can I find a suitable misnomer for said singer? Gamy Lee seems a bit cruel, and a little nasty. Addy Lee doesn’t do it for me. Gedmy Lee? That’s kind of funny. Geddamy? Ageddamy? Here's what Gemmy looks like:



I think I need professional help.

And her real name is Lacey Mosley. Wait . . . MosLEE!

I'm Wigging: Why George Saunders Is Stuck in My Head

We’re doing a lot of cleaning at work these days for two reasons. First, there isn’t anything else to do, and we only have so much personal time to burn before some of us have to sell organs. Second, we have some important customers visiting from Denver tomorrow. “Bigwigs,” they’ve been called. They want to see our operation, and it doesn’t seem to matter that there’s not much operation right now.

Anyway, the word “bigwig” dragged George Saunders to the fore of my mind all day. He hasn’t been buried too far, since I just recently read his new novel (novella? It’s very short) The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil. It’s worth reading, and funny as hell, but nowhere near as good as his short story collection Pastoralia, which I think is almost perfect. I even used the short story “Pastoralia” in my comp exams.

“Pastoralia” is a satire of the American workplace. The whole collection is amazing, but this short story (which may actually contain more words than Phil, coming in at 66 pages) cracks me up on every page. I’ll share the section that I was reminded of today if you’ll promise to go out immediately and buy all of Mr. Saunders’s work. In this section, Marty, the guy who runs the convenience store, dictates a letter to be sent to his son at boarding school:

Inside the doublewide are Marty and a lady we think is maybe Marty’s wife but then again maybe not.

Marty’s shrieking at the lady, who’s writing down everything he shrieks.

“Just do as they ask!” he shrieks, and she writes it down. "And not only that, do more than that, son, more than they ask! Excel! Why not excel? Be excellent! Is it bad to be good? Now son, I know you don’t think that, because that is not what you were taught, you were taught that it is good to be good, I very clearly remember teaching you that. When we went fishing, son, and when you caught no fish, I frowned, I said bad, bad catching of fish, although I don’t believe I was ever cruel about it. Are you getting this?”

“Every word,” the lady says. “To me they’re like nuggets of gold.”

“Ha ha,” says Marty, and gives her a long loving scratch on the back, and takes a drink of Squirt and starts shrieking again.

“So anyways, do what they ask!” he shrieks. “Don’t you know how much we love you here at home, and want you to succeed? As for them, the big-wigs you wrote me about, freak them big-wigs! Just do what they ask though. In your own private mind, think what you like, only do what they ask, so they like you. And in this way, you will succeed. As for the little-wigs you mentioned, just how little are they? You didn’t mention that. Are they a lot littler wig than you? In that case, freak them, ignore them if they talk to you, and if they don’t talk to you, go up and start talking to them, sort of bossing them around, you know, so they don’t start thinking they’re the boss of you. But if they’re the same wig as you, be careful, son! Don’t piss them off, don’t act like you’re the boss of them, but also don’t bend over for some little shit who’s merely the same wig as you, or else he’ll assume you’re a smaller wig than you really actually are. As for friends, sure, friends are great, go ahead and make friends, they’re a real blessing, only try to avoid making friends with boys who are the same or lesser wig than you. Only make friends with boys who are bigger wigs than you, assuming they’ll have you, which probably they won’t. Because why should they? Who are you? You’re a smaller wig than them. Although then again, they might be slumming, which would be good for you, you could sneak right in there.”

Marty gives me a little wave, then resumes shrieking.

“I don’t want to put the pressure on, son,” he says, “I know you got enough pressure, with school being so hard and all, and you even having to make your own book covers because of our money crunch, so I don’t want to put on any extra pressure by saying that the family honor is at stake, but guess what pal, it is! You’re it, kid! You’re as good as we got. Think of it, me and your mother, and Paw-Paw and Mee-Maw, and Great Paw-Paw, who came over here from wherever he was before, in some kind of boat, and fixed shoes all his life in a shack or whatever? Remember that? Why’d he do that? So you could eventually be born! Think of that! All those years of laundry and stuffing their faces and plodding to the market and making love and pushing out the babies and so on, and what’s the upshot? You, pal, you’re the freaking upshot. And now there you are, in boarding school, what a privilege, the first one of us to do it, so all’s I’m saying is, do your best and don’t take no shit from nobody, unless taking shit from them is part of your master plan to get the best of them by tricking them into being your friend. Just always remember who you are, son, you’re a Kusacki, my only son, and I love you. Ack, I’m getting mushy here.”

Okay, I’d like to go on, but I probably shouldn’t, and you should just go buy it yourself, because the whole story is that kind of crazy. And poignant, too, without being sentimental. I love it. This story is so brilliant I don't even care about all of the comma splices, and that's saying something. Anyway, take care of your wigs. And let me know what you've been reading lately. Or what I should read.

Why Democrats Suck

I have to admit—most of my venom was spent on the previous post, but I have to give equal time. Not because I think they deserve it, but because I’d hate another worthy target go unhit. The Democrats are just barely one step up from the Republicans, and I’ve already mentioned why. So, to the Democrats:

You want to help people. Congratulations. It’s admirable that you see government as a positive force rather than a referee.

You want to determine how people are helped. Great. I suppose you can’t have the first without the second.

You want to force others to help people whether they want to or not. Maybe a little less noble, but probably necessary given the state of America these days. Too many people looking out only for themselves, and the other guy can get bent. Still, you ought to be careful how you allocate other peoples’ resources.

You see, even the generous people don’t want to toss their money down a black hole. Nobody will invest in an enterprise that shows no return, and that includes a government that professes to serve the greater good. So you need to take the complaints seriously. It’s true that you shouldn’t scrap the welfare system just because some people abuse it. Scrap the abusers. But get serious about it. At least address it. Don’t let the Republicans determine every subject. Don’t just react. Say “We understand that you don’t want to pay the way for layabouts. Here’s what we’re going to do . . .”

It’s like this with every issue. War, abortion, welfare, crime—everything. Be proactive, for crying out loud. Don’t depend on the Republicans to set the tone. I mean, honestly. When the Republicans accuse you of “wanting Big Government,” maybe you should counter by saying something like, “What the hell would I have to gain by making government bigger? I’ve never heard anything so stupid in my life.” How about that? How about growing a pair? This is why Democrats suck.

And stop trying to make me feel sorry for the children. I don’t dislike children, but with your help I’m getting there.

Why Republicans Suck

Nothing clever today.* This is pure rant.

I’m getting pretty fed up with political ads already. The smug Republicans. The weepy Democrats. And the same buzzwords and catchphrases we hear every election cycle. Is there a law? Are they legally required to say these things? Yes, we know that if a policy affects people it affects Americans and families (especially those poor, beleaguered working families), and children (NO! NOT THE CHILDREN!). And the word “big.” What’s so scary about big? Big business, big tobacco, big government. I guess it’s because these politicians are so small-minded.

They all present themselves as the only possible choice, and the other candidate as one who will ruin this country if elected. In reality, a monkey could sit in most of these offices and do no worse than any of the candidates. It doesn’t really matter who gets elected—the only thing at stake is the flavor of rhetoric we hear for the next term. Do we want the bully pulpit to be obsessed with money and taxes and “the right to life?” Or do we want to hear no end of “the working poor,” and “disenfranchisement,” and “the right to choose?” Frankly, I find option B easier to stomach, if only because it involves helping people rather than trying to keep the serfs from plundering the hoard.

And that’s why Republicans suck. Both major parties manipulate and distort. They both use emotional appeal rather than solid argument, and they’d rather win than do good. But what the Democrats urge, generally, are measures intended to help people who need help. The Republicans want to keep power and resources where they are, if not shrink that circle even more. They deplore taxes and redistributive measures because those who have all the loot “worked hard” to “earn it,” even if their hard work was to be born into a family whose ancestor was lucky enough to squat on land with oil under it, and was further lucky enough to get the US government to drive away the people who already lived there. The Republican party platform is selfishness and self-righteousness masquerading as principle.

And the only good thing about Democrats is that they’re not Republicans.

*Note: This does not imply that this space is generally one in which a reader may find cleverness. It merely indicates the lack of such in this post.

Feeling Testy Part 2

I'm not usually a fan, but this one seemed a bit too accurate.

You Have a Choleric Temperament

You are a person of great enthusiasm - easily excited by many things. Unsatisfied by the ordinary, you are reaching for an epic, extraordinary life. You want the best. The best life. The best love. The best reputation. You posses a sharp and keen intellect. Your mind is your primary weapon. Strong willed, nothing can keep you down. Your energy can break down any wall. You're an instantly passionate person - and this passion gives you an intoxicating power over others. At your worst, you are a narcissist. Full of yourself and even proud of your faults. Stubborn and opinionated, you know what you think is right. End of discussion. A bit of a misanthrope, you often see others as weak, ignorant, and inferior.

What Temperment Are You?

Does this mean I have cholera? I feel a cough coming on. I hate that they misspelled "temperament," though.

Feeling Testy

As though I needed some kind of validation.

You Are 68% Cynical

You're a full blown cynic... and probably even skeptical of these results. You have your optimistic moments, but most likely you keep them to yourself.

How Cynical Are You?

Actually, my score isn't as cynical as I imagined it would be. They asked the wrong questions. Why do I say that? The questions seem to be aimed at the modern disambiguation (Thank you, Wikipedia) of the word "Cynic," rather than the classical meaning, which I adopt here.

Well, you can't trust anyone. Especially not a cynic who doesn't know what a cynic is.

Bad Battery Karma

The clock in the dining area died. I call it the dining area and not the dining room because the dining table is only nine inches away from the couch. But as I was saying—the clock is dead. When we came in from a day of frolicking some time past six in the evening, the hands of the clock indicated 3:39. The second hand struggled to rise up the left side, lurching at the 9 and failing. Lurching and failing. It was the kind of Sisyphean hopelessness Albert Camus wrote about, played out by a battery powered wall clock. This mechanical failure is just the most recent in a maddening series of malfunctions, and it’s the least significant. It feels a bit like the last straw.

We call my car the RBO—short for “Rolling Blue Oven.” It has no air conditioning, unlike Michele’s car, and has a tendency to build up heat quickly in the summer, even with the windows cracked. Well, a week after classes ended this spring the RBO stopped starting. The battery was dead for the third time in eight months. I’m no mechanic, but that indicated to me that there might be a deeper problem than bad battery karma. Since the problem was clearly electrical, and since Father in Law is a master electrician with a pretty keen understanding of the automobile, he offered to diagnose my chronically ill RBO.

In the meantime, we still had Michele’s car—a 1989 model she’d inherited from her grandfather—which was enough for us to get by with since Michele was busing to school all summer to do her research. Before too long Father in Law had the problem with the RBO figured out and fixed. It seems that inside my rusty driver’s door a couple of rusty wires had rusted apart and lay in a bed of rust, thus shorting out my electrical system and draining the battery. We decided to leave the RBO parked at their house for a bit, though, since it needed a brake job, an oil change, a new headlight, and new windshield wipers, and I didn’t feel up to all that.

Then, on my way to work one morning, Michele’s car died on me. I turned the corner and the engine just faded and died. While I rolled down a slight decline I laughed like a madman, pounded the hazard lights on, shifted into neutral, and tried to start the engine. Nothing. The starter whirred, but there was no catch. I took advantage of the slope and rolled into a parking lot, parking neatly in an empty space as though I had intended my journey to end there. I was still cackling, and my eyes hurt, they were so wide.

Mother in Law came to the rescue, with Demon Nephew in tow. Demon Nephew is actually a very nice soon-to-be-three-year-old who really likes me, really likes to talk, and is actually pretty sharp. He never stops moving, and when strapped into his car seat he makes up for his immobility by constant conversation.

As we drove back to get the RBO out of storage DN informed me that, “Jason car broke.”

“That’s right, Demon Nephew,” I said. “My car broke.”

“Jason car not work.”

“That’s right.” I took a deep breath. “It doesn’t work.”

“Jason car died.”

A very helpful lad, the Demon Nephew.

Eventually I got the RBO and got to work. Later I got the oil changed, swapped out a headlight and a taillight, and bought some brake pads. Future Brother in Law had volunteered to help me change them, and since I’m a mechanical imbecile, I accepted the offer. Him helping me actually would have amounted to him doing the work while I handed him tools and otherwise made myself useless, but even that didn’t go well.

We couldn’t get the damned wheels off the car.

We got the nuts off just fine, but the wheels were fused in place, so we bolted it back up and I took the car to Local Shop.

The verdict at Local Shop? I need new rotors. And the calipers and some other thingy are frozen. And my CV boot is “broken open and exposed.”

“Do you hear a clunk when you turn?” Mechanic asked me.

“No.”

“You will shortly.”

I told them to just reassemble the RBO and that I’d have to wait on the other repairs. Mechanic looked as though he pitied me. He said the work would likely cost about $500. I figured I could get it done cheaper, now that the wheels had been broken loose, but I didn’t say that to him. He might cut my brake line like they do in movies and I’d roll over a cliff. I kind of wanted to.

So when we came home a week ago yesterday and the clock had died, I didn’t want to deal with it. I still don’t, and I’m not sure when I will. The second hand gave up its struggle before morning and I gave up my struggle with all things mechanical at about the same time. The clock only takes one AA battery, and we keep those in a cabinet about five feet away from where it hangs on the wall. The clock and the batteries are within easy reach. I just can’t take any more of this mechanical mutiny. The RBO still needs major repairs, and we still don’t know what’s wrong with Michele’s car. So I’ll let the clock sit there on the wall, unticking, until it learns it can’t mess with me. I’ve had it.

Cat Theory

We have a morning ritual in our apartment that I’d rather we didn’t. It goes like this: The cats get hungry about 4:30 AM and some time in the next half hour they begin pestering us about it. I say “us,” but I really mean “Michele,” since the cats see her as the primary food source. “Us” gets involved, though. Jasmine, the princess, is content to run across the bed on her way to licking the window (don’t ask), but Silke, the dork, is more direct: she lays on Michele’s hair and sniffs her ear. Michele twitches, I wake up, we all settle back down and the process repeats. This doesn’t really wake Michele. She’s lived with cats all her life, and she can engage in this combat without completely waking up, and since she’s not all there she doesn’t complete the job. The cat just leans away while Michele jerks, groans, and pushes a feeble forearm at her before drifting off again. I wake up every time, but I also fall asleep pretty quickly, so it’s no big deal, though I’d probably be better rested if we didn’t do this all the time.

Yesterday I woke up at five or so, trying to convince myself I could get back to sleep but knowing I wouldn’t. The sun was still more than an hour from rising, but lights from the nearby parking ramp outlined everything in a hard pale gray. In that cold light I watched Michele trying to squeeze the last half hour of sleep out of the night, and the two cats lying against her, both beginning to get restless. Jasmine lay like a queen at Michele’s feet, her nose slightly raised as she stared out the window, twitching every few seconds. Silke had her cannonball body pressed against the top of Michele’s head, and was sniffing, and getting ready to lower her nose to Michele’s ear again. Since I couldn’t sleep, I altered the scheme a bit.

When nose closed in on ear I snaked my hand out, pressed it against Silke’s face, and flicked my fingers. Suddenly she was six inches farther away from her target than she wanted to be. Farther away than she should be, really, because in a cat’s mind there is no difference between what she wants and what objectively should be. She gave me a look of confusion and disbelief before turning back to Michele’s ear, again meeting my hand halfway. Every time I got the same look: eyes widened, chin tucked back, slight curl to her lip. Disdain and disbelief. This continued for the next half hour. I was having fun frustrating the cat, imagining that at some point she’d get the message—I’m the boss, and you can’t outstubborn me.

The only thing that could stop this idiocy was the alarm, and it did. Michele got up, oblivious to my repeated rescues of her sleep, and left the room, instinctively dodging the frantic cats, who were at this point yowling and zipping back and forth between her feet. When she didn’t go directly to the cat food, instead shuffling into the bathroom to wash her face, both cats froze, mouths hanging open, eyes glazing.

They repeated their performance when I emerged from the bedroom. They sprinted. They capered. I think one of them curvetted. When I walked past to the kitchen to start the coffee, they both sat stunned again. They bitched me out while I made coffee, and I could hear Silke beating on the food can.

This happens every morning, and every afternoon, and every night. They want to eat long before they’re scheduled to, and they’re positive that every time we stand it is our intention to finally do what they want. When we go about other business they can’t believe it.

After we feed them, the cats curl up to sleep, Jasmine in bed and Silke sprawled on the couch, like everything has gone according to plan. Yesterday, as Jasmine trotted into the bedroom and Silke burrowed in the throw pillows, I had a revelation. The self-centeredness, the absolute confidence in their perceptions, the disbelief and disdain, the mindless singlemindedness, the immediate disassociation from events, the laziness. Cats are the George W. Bushes of the animal kingdom.

But cats have an excuse: their brains are smaller than golf balls.

Oh, wait.

This Is Why I Can't Follow Sports Anymore

Seen on ESPN's website:

Justin Morneau added some luster to his MVP candidacy with a 5-for-5 performance in the Twins' 7-3 win at Fenway Park. Over the last 30 years, only four other players went 5-for-5 after already reaching the 30-homer mark: Adrian Beltre (2004), Alfonso Soriano (2002), Alex Rodriguez (1996 and 1998), and Andre Thornton (1984). [Emphasis mine]

Are you kidding me? If you have to qualify the accomplishment that much, what is its significance, exactly? None. AAAAAARGH.

Sorry, Silas. Maybe later.

Greg was right.

I went through the MSU MFA program feeling under-read, and everyone I talked to felt the same--even the lit freaks. No matter what I've read, others have read bushels of other stuff. Well, what if the other stuff is canonical? What if it's Hemingway and Faukner and Eliot? I read by spasm, it seemed. Hardy. Kafka. George Saunders. Camus. Kundera. Vonnegut. Heller. Ellison. Morrison. Dostoyevsky.

And that's only when I was reading lit. I had a philosophy fix to attend to. Dick Liebendorfer made me want desperately to read Wittgenstein and Ayer, Dennett and Hume.

So I have to say I'm done for now. Thanks, George Eliot. Silas Marner isn't for me just now. I've given it five days. I just can't do it. No description, no action. Blech.

Greg said last year that he just won't read a book he doesn't want to. Life is too short. I'm with you, Greg. And for the first time in my life I can exercise that. I'm not reading Silas Marner right now, just like I stopped reading Swann's Way a couple of months ago.

It really had no chance, Silas Marner. I'd had too much fun on the way to it. I read Flannery O'Connor, Kurt Vonnegut, and George Saunders. Lived it up. Then Silas yawwwwwwn Marner.

I'm good. Looking for another read. Guess maybe this time it might be Faulkner again--Soldier's Pay.

Finnish Beer Metal!

I have to admit: I’m a metalhead. I’m legit, though. My teen years were spent entirely in the eighties. I had a mullet when having a mullet was cool. Honest. It was then!

I like any kind of music to some degree, even country and hip hop. Johnny Cash deserves worship and Public Enemy deserve respect. Even Flavor Flav, who is a clown on purpose. Nice counterpoint to the stately authority of Chuck D.

But I digress—metal is where I live. Even in these years, when I revel in the lyric genius of Raindogs era Waits, I can find respite in the metal world. Especially folk metal.

Folk metal is an odd contraption. It pairs aggressive, distorted guitars with traditional Celtic melodies and themes. Sometimes. Skyclad made this famous, and they’re the best at it, but I’ve had years to get used to them. Right now I’m grooving on something else.

Korpiklaani.

It’s Finnish for “Forest Clan.” They sing about beer. They’re awesome.

The song I’m enamored with right now isn’t “Beer Beer.” I like that one, but the one I really like is “Wooden Pints.” Awesome. Nothing has ever been catchier. Not crack, not herpes, not ebola. Listen to it once, and you’ll want to hear it again. Catchy, sing-along-able, and fun.

Zombie Time

I've been working at the same place for six-plus years in the same capacity, but in different degrees and at different levels of commitment. I started there at full-time, then shifted to seasonal, and finally landed at part-time. I'm currently categorized as part time, though I work 40 hours a week. This is not the job I want now, though.

Don't get me wrong--these people have been good to me, and spending eight hours a day in a book warehouse beats any other manual job I've had to this point. The problem is that NOW I HAVE MY MASTERS DEGREE. I shouldn't have to do this anymore. This was a great job when I had no degree. It was even a great job when I had my AA. It was a convenient job when I had my BS and needed to keep paying the bills while I trotted on to my MFA. I stuck with them for the summer because they need the help then. Now I need to move the fuck on. And nobody wants me.

I go to work every morning wishing I didn't need to spend the next eight hours putting books into boxes. I don't think any job is beneath me, but I've had my fill of this. I'm a writer, for crying out loud. I'm a teacher. This job makes me want to lay under the wheels of the next truck to pull through our lot.

Here's the best part: I might not have to spend eight hours a day here. I may not be allowed to. Business has slowed for the fall (as it always does), and they may cut me to 35 hours a week. Good thing I don't have any bills and my student loans don't come due in two months.

Excuse me while I have a minor breakdown and throw up on my own shirt.

Huzzah!

The Minnesota Renaissance Festival is exactly what it sounds like: a plot of land set aside so people can dress up like characters from Monty Python and the Holy Grail and use bad British accents to talk about a different kind of nothing than they usually talk about. It’s escapism and delusion, but mostly harmless. The most enthusiastic attendees seem to imagine that the world would be a much better, happier place if we could just throw aside all modern burdens and make our living by selling turkey legs, melted wax dragons, and t-shirts that read “Wenches Want Me.”

My wench wanted to go to Ren Fest yesterday because it’s Irish Heritage Weekend. My wench—er, wife—is part Irish, though less so than she is German and French. She just likes being Irish more than she likes the other. So she’s Irish. Me? Not so much. A little Swedish, a little Czech, and a lot of Norwegian. The closest to Irish I get is whatever contributions my Viking ancestors made to the Hibernian gene pool—mostly the red hair—when they sacked, looted, and raped their way up and down the Irish coasts.

I should know better than to go to the Renaissance Festival. I hate crowds, noise, and t-shirts with ostensibly witty slogans. I hate bad British accents, though I employ one from time to time. I hate obnoxiousness masquerading as humor. There would seem to be no reason for me to pay $15.95 just to get into this place, but I do. Every year. So, five pages away from finishing Kurt Vonnegut’s God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, I accompanied my we—wife—and her school friend, an astrophysics grad student, to Ren Fest.

Here’s the best and worst part of Ren Fest (and yes, it’s the same part): these people are geeks, and they don’t care who knows it. They wear chain mail and manage to take themselves seriously. They say things like “huzzah,” and “my lord,” and “prithee.” Without batting an eye, a Renaissance regular can shift from accosting a complete stranger with: “Scoundrel! Wouldst thou defend thine honor on the battlefield?” to mumbling into the Bluetooth on his ear: “Hello? Oh, hi. No, I think I’ll stay until about five. No, there shouldn’t be any traffic.” Absurdity is the order of the day, and if I don’t let it get to me I can be amused the whole time I’m there.

Plus, there’s food. And beer, but the food is more reasonably priced, and if I drink too much beer I’m liable to get thrown in the gaol. Or get my ass beat by a druid with a fanny pack. I’m partial to the Scotch eggs, but yesterday I had bangers and mash—partly so I could ask someone for bangers and mash. It’s just a sausage with mashed potatoes, but it beats fill-in-the-blank on a stick.

People have taken liberties with the Renaissance. Even though Europe during the 14th through 16th centuries is remembered as a time of great learning, an era of poetry and painting and science, the people at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival insist on dressing as tavern maids and peasants with swords. And they dress like sorcerers and Vikings and fairies and the devil. And elves. Something has gone awry in the Renaissance. And, as I’ve mentioned, these people are shameless. Every woman wears a low-cut blouse with a bosom-enhancing corset, no matter how ill-advised that might be. There may be no more terrifying sight than a size 24 woman encased in a size 18 dress, with maggot-white breasts like a pair of diseased cantaloupes oozing over the top of a tortured peasant blouse. Seriously. I’m scarred for life.

Another recognizable group of attendees is the elderly, who can’t accept that the State Fair—the Great Minnesota Get-Together (ugh)—has ended, and they’re desperate enough for a fix that they’re willing to head down to Shakopee for a glass of mead and a turkey leg. They gaze in uneasy wonder at d’Artagnan Anderson in his tunic, coif, greaves, and Reeboks. They crap their Depends when they hand a twenty to the bespectacled urchin at the t-shirt wagon and the kid yells, “Twenty pounds for the King!” They go home at the end of the day still wondering where the network affiliates were broadcasting their news programs from.

Why do we go to the Renaissance Festival? What appeal could this life have to a twenty-first century American? I don’t have any idea, but maybe it’s some lingering romantic notion that when people lived as farmers and simple laborers they had a purpose. Everything they did was essential to their continued survival. Maybe when the cultural advances of the European Renaissance allowed people to divert their attention from the essential to the abstract they lost that close link to their own lives. Maybe that’s why at the Renaissance Festival nobody dresses like Leonardo da Vinci—an iconic Renaissance figure—and hundreds dress like Molly the Seamstress. Seven pages from the end of God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, Kilgore Trout says:

In time, almost all men and women will become worthless as producers of goods, food, services, and more machines, as sources of practical ideas in the areas of economics, engineering, and probably medicine, too. So—if we can’t find reasons and methods for treasuring human beings because they are human beings, then we might as well, as has so often been suggested, rub them out.

So, even though it’s a silly diversion, and even though they’re all geeks, and even though I’m a geek, and even though I hate crowds and noise, I suppose I’ll go back next year. It’s just people being people, and having fun being silly. It’s a day spent forgetting how none of us really does anything that matters anymore.

Plus, I really like Scotch eggs.

Where are my pants?

Oooooh. I'm new at this. Let me think a bit and I'll get back to you.