I Told You I Wasn’t Dead!

A lot happens in nearly two years and some information needs updated.

First, the post “Bye Bye Blacksmith?” In this post I vented about “getting fired” from the Colorado blacksmith booth. What actually happened was a supposed “misunderstanding.” See, I was the first of the shop workers to arrive at the faire that year and when Paradise, the faire owner, cornered me about the whereabouts of the blacksmith team. In order for the guys to not get into trouble, I went ahead and started setting up and quickly made some phone calls to get everyone on the pass list. Come to find out, the “new apprentice” was actually one of the guy’s wives; no one recognized her real name. This is the same guy that tried to “get me gone” and started the rumor. When he confirmed the pass list with the office gals, he still “forgot” to put me on. I had to triple-check the list, but the girls got me on. Later, I confronted him about it, and he denied ever suggesting such a rumor. Hmmm.

Suspecting some foul play in the future, I got a steady job at the kitchens and wound up becoming a valuable asset and proved myself in front of Paradise himself – as he owned the kitchen. I still worked the weekdays at the shop and sold my products through my master, who earned a 30% commission, as we agreed upon. This was a trial run on the commission and it worked so well that both my master and I profited. Of course, the same fool I mentioned above tried to take credit for the idea and later tried to implement it for his own “apprentice,” and later for the whole shop, but the idea crashed and burned each time. (Mostly because this fool was a lazy fellow who couldn’t clean up after himself, was prone to melodramatic tantrums, refused to take the time to make items that sold and over-charged for his inferior products.)

At that show, I proved I could not only make money for myself, but for the shop as well – without being there to sell on the weekend.

That Colorado was a dramatic one, one that hit me personally when one of the boy’s girlfriend got my own master into serious trouble. My anger was so great that I wanted to do her serious harm, but instead broke my bottom front teeth. After all, a dental bill is cheaper than bail for a physical assault charge.

The blacksmith drama only increased after that. In Pittsburgh of that year I was “banned” for nearly two weeks out of the shop so that the Fool could “work.” Of course, even though he stuffed the forge like aThanksgiving turkey, he mostly played around with his computer or threw tantrums when his poorly maintained equipment broke or he burned up all the propane before getting anything done. I wasn’t worried, because I already had plenty of stock made, and I’m very resourceful about how I get my product made.

One the last weekend, I proved what I could do by out-selling everyone in the booth put together, despite the work ban and by hardly doing any actual selling. In the meantime, in order to make up for his lack of product, the Fool upped the prices on his crappy products three times that weekend, hoping to make a bulk order deal, while everyone else in the faire dramatically slashed prices.

Oh, and not to mention the stress-demon he managed to conjure in his corner of the shop and the day he threatened physical harm to my family for his own baby sitter’s incompetence (of which I had nothing to do other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time). He apologized (sort of), but only after I had a buddy of his tip him off that he was about to get the “local law enforcement” calledon him.

This year I was not on the circuit. My hubby and I went to Texas to help a dear friend, because I promised, and we wound up getting stuck there for the entire season. I later heard the melodrama didn’t stop with me. My master quietly and wisely turned the shop over to the other boys after they brought in the above-mentioned girlfriend as their counter girl in TRF – a move that in my opinion, was downright cruel and disrespectful to my master, a “long time friend” of both of theirs. Without my master, none of those boys would have any of those shops! Later, a big fight broke out between the last two boys to work in Colorado (I am not including the other “apprentice,” who wisely kept himself completely distanced from the drama) and now the only one left whose name is on the contract is the Fool, and recent reports tell me he’s just as abusive and lazy as ever. Without the others to pay his way, I doubt he’ll make it into TRF, the big, money-making show.

My only hope is that the Fool will fall in his own puddle of deceit, laziness and dirty politics and that his “apprentice” will soar up out of the ashes. I hope that, if that happens, I can come back to reclaim the Pittsburgh booth, which has happy memories for me, despite the later drama. In the meantime, I’m glad all of THAT is behind me.

As for the rest of the chapter in this book of missing pages, while in Texas I learned to wield a chainsaw to make art, adopted two lovely Rott-mix puppies (that I sorely hope I can still keep), and am now awaiting the arrival of my first child, who is due in November of this year. I’m back at home near my folks, John just found employment, and we’re looking for a place to call home.

For now, the cross-country journey is over, but definitely not for long. As I’ve said to many of my “stable” friends – Once you get a taste of true mobility, it’s hard to let it go.

Peace, my dear friends and devoted readers!

Might As Well, I Hurt Like Hell

I’m tired. Real tired. I hurt like hell. I’ve worked 5 out of seven days so far this week. The kids are gone, but they took a few of my nerves with them. In return, I can now speak and understand the Cajun accent.

I randomly hate and love my campground this year. Really, its just one guy and I warned him that if he woke me up in the middle of the night again with his drunken screaming, I was coming out with a machete in one hand and a very large bottle to break over his head in the other. Then the guys told me that horse tranquilizer darts were a much better and safer idea. Hmm….

I’m writing in nanowrimo again. I’m over 10k words, but I’m hussling. It’s about the only thing flowing well at the moment. I might actually win this year.

Did I mention I’m tired? This has been a horrid year. I want off. John’s got plans for a business, so I’m not getting off for a while. I don’t even want to go to Arizona at this point. I want my forge back. I want to hide all day either pounding on my forge, playing with my animals or my flutes, and writing.

I think I threw my shoulder out while milking goats. Actually, I think its my back, but it feels like shoulder.

Why are old guys always trying to get into my pants?

I don’t feel I’m getting any good sleep these days, mostly because of the partiers and that one guy in camp who thinks an alto sax he can barely play sounds phenomenal with guitars at 10pm. (rolls eyes) I love my camp spot -same one we fixed up last year – and don’t want to give it up, but this is not a party show for me this year. Unfortunately, we’re camped next to the mom of the loudest bastard in the grounds. This guy doesn’t even shut up on a school night, and all the folks who would normally wander over to put a stop to the antics are all hiding in these fancy little portable barns and sheds they ordered for a local guy.

They got the houses, and I gave my comp tickets to the driver of the delivery truck and his son, and I haven’t hardly talked to any of those rennies sine then.

I need a really, really good rant. A lot’s been on my mind the last few months. Everything from God to society to politics to people. I wake up thinking about a subject that makes me angry on occasion. It sucks. I’m tired of the anger and impatience which is going to get me into trouble one of these days.

So much is going wrong this year. Four Rennies died of heart-attacks and they weren’t all old. The country is either on fire or drowning. Next year there will be lots of births, though.

I don’t believe in 12-12-12, mostly because of one fact: How do they know this when the ancients Mayans didn’t use a standard Gregorian calendar? It was more believable, but still not so much, when they pegged 12-21-12 as the day. And where did it say the world was going to end on that day, anyway? It could just be hailing the start of something new, and it could be so simple, that we’ll never notice it.

Kinda like all the drama that went down last year in Texas – that whole “rapture” thing. Guess what: It didn’t happen! That’s because you people don’t read your bible.

I’m of the firm opinion that people in general are either retarded or lazy.

And if I don’t find some way to let this year out of my system, I’m going to twist into a very, very bitter person in a very short amount of years.

Much writing to do, so little time…

Peace.
But not Today.

When Blacksmiths Have Drama

Wednesday, Sept. 19th, 2012
Assume that when I don’t write for months on end, that I’m either super-busy, or things are going remarkably well. Often both. Ever since I’ve had time in a real shop to work, I haven’t made much time for writing. I’m either cooking food or black smithing. It’s an obsession – at night I sometime lie awake in bed thinking about projects and designs. You can’t hardly keep me out of that shop.

Anyway, a bit of interesting drama happened recently. Last week my angle grinder I bought from Harbor Freight gave in the ghost. It fell apart, quite literally, into several pieces. First, the button that locks the locking nut into place fell off, along with the pin and spring that held it into place. Shortly after that the trigger broke and then the bearings went ka-put. We always buy the extended warranty on Harbor Freight tools, because they’re prone to falling apart, but I couldn’t get it exchanged because I didn’t have the receipt or the phone number it’s registered to.

So, until I found the receipt, I borrowed Jim’s angle grinder – same model – and got to work grinding on dice. I made sure the thing was used properly, adjusted properly, wasn’t getting too hot while working, etc. By the time I put the tool away a couple hours later, it seemed to run a bit hard, but it was working.

Apparently, it was on it’s way out even then. The next morning was a work day. I went in about a half hour before cannon and no one’s at the shop. I scurried to set up the shop, waiting for the other guys to show up and no one does and I began to wonder if something went wrong. Ryan finally showed up a half hour or so after cannon and told me the news. Jim came in that morning to finish work on one of his commission pieces to find his angle grinder had put in a retirement notice. In order to finish his piece, he had to take off and fly to Lowe’s to purchase a new angle grinder.

He was pretty pissed by the time he got back. He demanded that I pay for the new angle grinder and I’d get the old angle grinder, plus I had to pay for the extension box I stumbled over and took a chunk off the housing (an aesthetic matter – if you leave your shit lying on the floor of a shop that barely allows one person to work in comfortably, let alone three, something is going to get broken).

I was pretty damn angry. I was so angry, I couldn’t control myself in public, so I ranted loudly to several people and took off the rest of the day. I hide in my buddie’s cool booth, drink beer, smoke a bowl and cool the hell down. I didn’t make any money that day and neither did anyone else in the shop. (That’s karma for ya, eh?)

I was up half the night angry as hell. I actually had to pray and meditate for a good hour before I could let the anger go and get some kind of sleep, then I had to fight it all the next morning so I wouldn’t do anything stupid. I might have had a vagina longer than he, but while I’m sure I could out-bitch him, I don’t think I’m going to out-bitch a veteran who is two feet taller than me and carries at least three hand-made combat knives in his boots at all times. Plus, I’d have to deal with his wife… *shudders*

I came back to work on Sunday full of vigor and determined not to get angry over the situation. We’re blacksmiths. We’re all fiery and as hard-headed as our hammers. That and I remembered that Jim owes us quite a bit more money than what those tools cost, so if matters didn’t resolve themselves peacefully and fairly, I had at least one ace up my sleeve.

It’s amazing the issues that resolve themselves if you let rage go. That afternoon Jim comes back with a giant mug. He plunks it down in front of me at the anvil and says, “Tequila.” I give him a querulous look. A peace offering? “Tequila!” he says again and gestures to the cup urgently. I take a nice, long, refreshing swig. Ah, that hit the spot! Then he gestures me over to the corner of the shop and we work up a deal that’s to both our satisfaction: Some of my product for the cost of the grinders. Deal. We shook hands on it and said nothing more about it.

I still think I might do something to repair or replace his outlet box thing, because I feel sad for it, and I think I remember now exactly how it broke (I think it involved a very large hunk of steel that glanced off my boot at the wrong angle… I’m in that shop so much I’m not sure.)

Jim has a much better angle grinder now. Higher amperage, higher RPM, and runs smooth as fresh butter. I’m not touching it. Lesson for the week: use your own tools when you can, keep the floor of the shop clear and never buy cheap Harbor Freight tools without the extended warranty. I exchanged both broken angle grinders this week, but the 2-year warranty didn’t extend over, so that gives me a whole 90 days to burn up both angle grinders. Time to get to work! Muahahaha!

Peace.

 

Related articles (Actually, articles that I found interesting today.)

• Caped crusader hailed a hero in Australia (newstalk.ie)
• Study Determines The Top Ten Most Annoying Sounds, Like You Don’t Already Know What They Are (thefrisky.com)

Shenanigans and Streakers in Sherwood

A Sherwood Forest Faire Story. Composed on Thursday, April 12th, 2012

 

Sherwood this year was a bad mistake for us. We were broke most of the time, held in the grasp of a boss that supported us just enough to ensure we kept working for her (whether or not she intended to do this on purpose). We never left the show, never got out and did anything, except for one trip to Houston with my blacksmithing master to grab a few things from his home shop. The drama at our job puffed itself into a big ugly, gooey head by last weekend, and we were lucky it never quite popped.

 

Well, actually, it might have, were it not for the shenanigans that happened on the very last day of the show.

 

Roughly ten minutes before cannon, a couple of girls shot through the middle of the faire butt naked and went streaking around the faire. The ringleader, a local already on probation for felony charges in the state of Texas, had no plan for doing this, but ran straight through the middle of the Seven Sisters fire circle, right past families and children and shocked mothers. She ran circles around the site, with faire security chasing her like hounds on a rabbit.

 

The streaker had security out of breath after the first ten minutes. “Get that bitch! I don’t care what it takes, catch that fuckin’ bitch!” the head of security panted after stopping behind a stage to catch his breath. Rennie rumor had them chasing this girl for over an hour. Rennie rumor also said there were about a dozen streakers of both sexes and that they caught them all and prosecuted them and they all went to jail, or that some went to jail, but for the ringleader and a few others also on probation.

 

Actually, only two girl streaked naked, and the other they let go with a slap on the wrist. The ringleader, however, only ran about site for roughly twenty minutes. She was slapped with a bench warrant and now has to serve out the two years of her previous sentence in jail. They arrested her several days after her boyfriend spent his entire last week’s pay to bail her out. That much of the rumor is true.

 

How they finally caught her is the best part, and I MISSED IT!

 

After running security around on a crazy goose chase for twenty minutes, she ran to the top of the hill to try and hide. When they found her, she bolted downhill to the first place she thought of to hide – the Dragon’s Kitchen. This tiny 100lb. chick dove butt-naked through the serving window at the front of Dragon’s Kitchen, shot through the main kitchen with Mom (our boss) screaming, “GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN!! GET OUT!”, dove out the back door, into the prep trailer behind the kitchen, and in one fluid motion – so I’m told – yanked the grates out of the oven, jumped inside and shut the door behind her.

 

“What?” Yes, she jumped into the oven…. “What!???” I know, I had the same reaction. She jumped into the old woman’s oven, naked, and shut herself inside. Thankfully, that oven’s only used early in the mornings for feast, otherwise security might have had to arrest a roast, LOL!!!

 

Security barreled into the kitchen, screaming for the girl. They had no idea she was in the oven and might never have found her there, except that she made a bad choice – she didn’t have friends at the Dragon Kitchen. Someone came up to the oven and banged on it. “Right here!”

 

“What!??” Security had the same reaction I did when I found out. Sure enough, there she was in that oven and they dragged her out kicking and screaming and cuffed her and dragged her to the parking lot where they handed her to the local authorities, naked as a jay bird and would not let her out of the cuffs until they had her behind bars. Security was never so pissed and wouldn’t LET the local cops take the cuffs off. “She had my guys running all over that faire for half an hour,” the head of our security reportedly told the cops, “Don’t you fucking let her go!”

 

Where was I when all of this went down? Smokin’ with a couple of guys behind their shop. See, kids, you shouldn’t smoke pot, it makes you miss all the fun stuff, HAHAHA! I found out the whole story a short while later when I finally wandered back to the Kitchen to find John and all the other employees are gathered about singing, “What do you do with a drunken [streaker], what do you do with a drunken [streaker], what do you do with a drunken streaker, late at Sherwood For-est… Toss her through the window of the Dragon Kitchen…. Throw her in the oven and bake her crispy… Late at Sherwood For-est!” (You’ve heard the tune.)

 

“What!??”

 

The most ironic thing about this is that everyone – every woman at least – in camp knew about it, knew when and just about where and who the ringleader was. Hell, I even knew about it. And everyone thought it was the worst idea they’d ever heard of. I mean, when the crazy blue-haired chick in your neighborhood that loves to run about camp half-naked thinks something is a bad idea, it probably is.

 

Yeah, we do what we call Wolf Runs, where we run naked on a full moon night, but those events happen well after dark, well after every last patron leaves, and usually in the campground where nobody cares and will probably join in if they’ve had enough beers in ’em. Not during faire, with patrons and children. She’s lucky she didn’t get slapped with a sexual offender charge and put on the list – and security really tried to nail her with that, too, since she streaked right past underage children. She got off lucky.

 

Well… not really. Worse than serving the term is the reputation she now has among the Rennies. There’s already songs and stories and rumors. Eventually, there might even be a coloring book about the streaker who hid in the old hag’s oven!

 

“What!??…. Do you do with a drunken [streaker] late at Sherwood For-est!”

 

Peace.

Bringin’ UpRoots

A Scarborough Faire Story. Composed on Friday, April 13th, 2012

 

I’m all sorts of excited over a community project a few folks out here at Scarborough are working on. For years – pretty much as long as the faire’s been here – a group of Rennies would band together and publish several little magazines – “zines” if you will – by the Rennies for the Rennies.

 

“Uproots,” as it’s called these days contained all sorts of useful and entertaining articles for the Rennie community; health tips, horoscopes, puzzles, games, cartoons, jokes, stories, reviews of local businesses, ads and coupons for community vendors and people offering services for trade or cash, Rennie personals (usually hilarious), weather information, news about parties and pot lucks, a directory, tips, tricks, instructionals, poems, and so much more, depending on who contributed. Ads are priced for Rennies, and the zines are sold every week at Bazaar for a dollar or two to cover the cost of printing.

 

I somehow unintentionally involved myself. Ok, so I call bullshit on myself – everyone who reads even one post of this blog instantly knows how much I love to write, and I can write, edit AND illustrate. I can compose a short magazine, organize it (even though I’ve barely done anything to organize this blog save to change the theme and occasionally update the widgets… he, heh….), all sorts of knowledge, all gleaned from the two years of college I barely completed. Lol.

 

Never fear, I know myself, and after meeting with the uprising Uproots group trying to put this all together and having a good idea of what’s going to happen, I know about how much I will be able to contribute through the show. I’ve already warned them that I’ll have to devote the majority of my time to making product – for the blacksmith shop in Colorado as well as for the flute cart here. I’m expecting to head back to Bastrop to make flutes all of next week (I hope, because I can’t do a whole lot at the shop until I have stock).

 

So my part in Uproots this year will be strictly hobby and I know I’m going to have a lot of fun doing it, too. I was just wondering to myself a couple weeks ago, meditating on my time in Sherwood, that so far I’ve exploited most all of my personal talents out here on the road save for my writing skills. (Not in an egotistical way, but because I love to write!) I’m thrilled and excited. ^.^

 

Cheers to the uprising of this year’s Uproots!

 

Peace.

 

Movin’ to “The City”

A Scarborough Faire Story. Composed on Sunday, April 29th, 2012

 

My boss, the flute maker, took off for Muskogee, OK this week, leaving the room above the flute cart free for us to move into. We’ve spent two nights there already (maybe three, but I can’t remember the details – this has been a strange week full of sleep deprivation, snakes, and insanity).

 

This is the first time we’ve lived in a booth on site and it’s just like moving from a quiet country suburb to a studio apartment in the city. The room is tiny – we barely have room to fit ourselves and Mona’s cage. On the weekends we’re woken up by no later than 8am (for me, 7:00) to the sounds of trucks, golf carts, heavy equipment and lawn mowers running back and forth in the alley directly behind our place. The campground was much quieter by comparison, the peace broken only by the sounds of hippies waking up and dragging themselves into work.

 

It’s nice to have a place to steal away to during the work day. John and I are able to keep a close eye on Mona. We have electricity, so she gets cold water during the day and a fan placed on her cage. Sometimes I put semi-frozen water bottles in her cage to lay up against. All our food is here, too, and our medicines, and our stove. Our fridge is stocked with cold sodas and water and munchies.

 

The biggest downfall to living here is the dirt and the bugs. This place is a mess. I’ve an uncontrollable urge to deep clean the place. Ants are invading both upstairs and downstairs – and then there are the fleas. Little, what my dad calls “sand fleas.” They’re everywhere and they like to hide in bedding. They’ll bite anything – especially me. I don’t see them, but every morning I wake up in the booth, my feet and calves are covered in fresh bites.

This annoys me. I HATE fleas. The only reliable way I know how to get rid of them is by washing all the bedding, including the sleeping bag and pillow the Boss left here, in hot water and dry them extra-long in a good, hot dryer. I have OFF bug spray, which will help a little when I go to bed.

 

It’s hard to sleep up there. The place is so tiny it’s hard to stretch out or curl up. John’s feet generally stick out the door. It’s muggy and hot, but if we leave the door cracked so a cool breeze can get in, the mosquitos pay us a visit. Last night we cracked the door and ran the fan, which helped to some degree, but it’s still a very fitful sleep.

 

When we finally get the van fixed, we’ll drive it down here and sleep in there. For all that van is worthless, it stays amazingly bug-free.

 

Peace.

Trapped in the City of Boxes

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have found the living replica of the City of Boxes.

 

Probably not everyone reading this blog right now is familiar with my experimental fantasy blog “The Adventures of Calico Stripes.” It didn’t last long as a blog, but now I’ve gotten the wild hair up my butt to re-write it in novel form, in the manner I’d originally intended.

 

It’s the story of a strange girl named Calico Stripes who shows up in a city made of white boxes. The city is closed in by a huge gate which keeps the city and its people securely locked away from “The Wilds” outside. The story follows Calico as she explores the city, discovers its skeletons, then finds a crack in the wall and escapes into the wild, to try and find a group of people called “The Wild Lion Tribe of Ridiculous,” supposedly the last free people in the world.

 

That’s all the teaser you get, muahahaha! because that’s about all I had for the story until I actually found the perfect real-life representative of the City of Boxes.

 

They call it… Ikea.

 

I’d never been to an Ikea store before. I thought it was a car sales company. So when the other more experienced members of our car group told me it was a furniture store – “But it’s wayyy more than furniture!” – I didn’t think much of it. I still didn’t think much of it when we pulled up to the enormous warehouse store in Denver and cruised around the parking complex below it looking for a close spot.

 

I had plenty more thoughts about it, though, once the mushrooms kicked in. I peaked pretty much the moment I opened the car door and the atmosphere at once proceeded to rape my senses.

 

The parking lot air stifled and choked me with noxious engine fumes. The air was stale, lifeless, and warm like a tomb, impregnated with the stench of metal and paint, mountain dust, oil, and gasoline. The weight of the building loomed above us, squatting like a fat hen ready to crush us as soon as her scrawny concrete legs got tired. I couldn’t breathe.

 

We got out and up quickly, but it wasn’t much better. After living in the woods for nearly two years, the giant warehouse store with its vaulted ceilings, escalators and recycled, mechanically chilled air stifled me. I’m not claustrophobic. I’ll gladly squeeze myself through tunnels barely large enough for my shoulders through mud and grit and slime, 40-something tons of sedementous rock above my head, with nothing to shine my way but a dull LED headlamp.

 

No, this was the kind of claustrophobia wild animals feel when they realize they’re in a cage for the first time. This was my instincts responding to a corporate cage. And I hadn’t made it in the actual store yet.

 

We make it to the huge, shiny cafateria and the smells of over-cooked food and steaming stainless steel reminded me of high school, college, my grandmother’s nursing home, the hospital, and every other time I’d been in a cafateria. While I have no bad experiences with cafaterias, it’s makes me extremely uneasy. Getting some food in my gut helped, until I looked up from my plate at the other people around me. All clean and pretty and shiny. Every single person looked like they bought their clothes from JC Penny.

 

I felt so out of place in this strange, politely hostile environment and I HAD to GET OUT! Immediately. Problem is, Ikea is a giant several-story maze with only one way in and one way out and that’s through the registers. Unless you know the shortcuts. There’s no huge exit signs and the signs they do have lead you through the entire store before leading you out.

 

That’s what really got me. Ikea is one giant capitalist trap designed to force consumers into buying something before they can leave. Like sheep to the slaughter. And behind the gaudy imported goods is nothing but sterile, conformist white. Too much white. The color white forces you to look at the colorful goods. Oh, no, this store was not good for me.

 

I was about to crash down several flights of emergency stairs when my friend Coraline – an experienced Ikea adventurer – showed me the shortcut to get outside. Once out of that building I felt safe again. I hung outside for some time, smoked a cig, calmed down. I did go back in, but only for a quick tour with a bunch of stuffed animals. Did I make it out without buying something? Nope. We bought a door matt for our place.

 

No more Ikea for me. It’s a consumer trap, and I am NOT a SHEEPLE!

Peace.

Community Effort

Written on Sunday, Jan. 29th, 2012. Texas.

So we woke up yesterday morning and wandered over to Squatch’s booth for breakfast, because he’s currently borrowing our propane. A couple other neighbors were there hanging out and drinking a Christmas coffee which they donated. I made cornbread with a can of donated cream of corn, scrambled eggs, hash browns and turkey Lil’ Smokies. One at a time of course, because they have only one burner. I even had a bit of rice milk to drink.

We’d just finished smoking an after-breakfast bowl when our new neighbors showed up with the site crew director and a couple other guys with sledge hammers. We gathered around to watch them smash out a section of the fence – Rennie T.V., man! They pulled up a big trailer hooked to a back-hoe and when they started loading the fence pieces into it, Squatch looks at us all and says, “Well, there’s about 14 of us standing around watching, I guess we could help.” And the rest of us were like, “Okay!” and we jumped in grabbing up boards and tossing them into the trailer. In about ten minutes we had the place cleaned and ready to build on.

“Now this is community effort!” the site crew director laughed.

After that I wandered up to the privies and on the way back ran into a friend of ours from Louisiana, who does construction for festivals. We hugged and got to talkin’ when SG and John ambled up. Our friend had a couple other local guys with him unloading fresh lumber from the back of his utility van. So, still caught up in the spirit of helping, we each grabbed up a couple of boards and helped unload. A few minutes later we were done and wandered off on our next adventure.

Which was getting caught up in Grr’s spacious tent playing first Zombie Flux and then a bit of Magic. Well, the boys played magic; I sat at the corner of the table alternately watching and working out the details of a scheme I have to train dogs to pull (as in a cart or travois) for cash or trade. (I might wind up just making harnesses and/or bamboo travois. There’s a large Ace Hardware in the next town over that’ll have all the materials I need.)

That evening we were hanging about at the leathersmith’s house eating dinner when a cat that makes and sells mead here pulls up in his truck with a pallet of wine and says, “Alright, I’m offering tongue kisses and mead to help me unload these boxes,” and I said, “I’ll take that mead,” and another cat says, “I’ll tongue-kiss the mead!” Har, har, har!

So I think, “Oh, why the hell not? I’ve been a helper all day and I like mead a lot,” and I jump in the back of the truck with about four other guys and we head up to the pub. We form a “daisy chain” and in about five minutes we had all those boxes unloaded and stacked in the walk-in. We spent the next 15 minutes looking for the lock – not the key, the lock – and the next 10 cracking open the most bomb-assed mead I’d ever had in my life (it deserves it’s own post).

When the wine died, John and I tootled over to visit with the neighbors, who own a very sweet house with a couch and everything. I drank yet more wine and in a short while, I found myself passing out in the van, to have a very solid night’s sleep.

Be good to your community, loves!

Peace.

Pineapple Twist

Today (Wed, Sept. 7th) is the first day the rain’s let up in two and a half days. A long storm system moving striaght up along the Appalachians ruined what should have been a great 3-day weekend. Instead, we had two okay days and one really crappy Labor Day. We showed up at the blacksmiths’ shop really only hoping to complete a bit of inventory and hopefully make enough to buy something warm to eat.

We wound up making a little bit of money – just enough to make the day worth it. I stayed nice and damp, despite the heat from the forge. Then, a bleak day turned into a really awesome day when a master blacksmith from the area (who, incidentally, used to be the blacksmith of the faire back in ’03) showed up, saw the patterns on our war hammers and figured out what we were actually trying to do.

You see, for some time we’ve been trying to make something called a “pineapple twist,” a complicated-looking twist that, when done correctly, comes out looking like a closed pinecone. It looks something like this: (Pic.)

Ryan saw this twist done once before, but since he didn’t do one himself shortly afterwards, couldn’t remember how it was done. We figured we’d have to go online and find a video demonstration. Hallelujah, we didn’t have to! Kurt – a local blacksmith – showed up and heartily offered to show us. Kurt fits the blacksmith stereotype as far as appearances go. Over six feet tall and barrel-chested, he stood tall and relaxed with his thick thumbs hooked into the loops of his shorts. His round, almost boyish face, thick black hair and full beard completed the outfit. I half expected him to put his hands on his hips, throw his head back and let loose with a belly-shaking guffaw.

Thank god he didn’t, because I think I might have freaked out a little…

I’ve noticed working with blacksmiths, that master blacksmiths in particular turn into giddy little children whenever they get a chance to crawl into someone else’s forge to “compare hammerblows,” so to speak. Anyway, I watched in rapt fascination as Kurt instructed and assisted Ryan in making a pineapple twist. He gave us plenty of great tips and reminders; showed me how not to fear the cross-pein hammer. (As a result, I pumped out a handful of throwing spikes today at the forge!)

Kurt was a great guy and we might have to swing by his shop someday to drink beer and swing a hammer. (Because beer and hot metal go together for the same reason pizza and beer and cigarettes and beer go so well together. By the time I left Colorado, I had written recipes for half a dozen “blacksmiths’ drinks.”)

Learning the pineapple twist made that rainy, slow, potentially crappy Labor Day Monday worth getting out of bed and suffering wet garb for. Ryan’s now using the pineapple twist whenever he can, and I’m eager to try it, too, once I get more stock to make throwing spikes.

And, for all the apprentices out there just like me that want to try this twist, too, here are the basic steps in how it’s done:

Steps in making a pineapple twist, labeled Fig. A - Fig. E, from left to right.

1. Mark a deep groove down the center of a piece of heated square stock. Make this mark on all four sides of the stock. (Fig. A)

2. Place in vice and make a 3/4 twist. (Fig. B)

3. Square all four sides on the anvil. (Fig. C)

4. Punch another groove down the center of each four sides, as in step 1. (Fig. D)

5. Untwist in vice 1/4 twist. Watch the twist to see if it looks right. True up on anvil with a wooden mallet. You now have a completed pineapple twist. (Fig. E)

Have fun with that! ❤

Peace.

Port-A-Johnology

See, even Dr. Who uses Port-a-Johns every now and again! LOL!

You’ve seen ’em. You’ve probably had the pleasure of using one at some carnival or outdoor festival. If you were lucky, you got to use one at least once a day for work, or, if you’re really priveledged, you get to use them on a regular basis like we do.

Usually, we only get to use the standard Port-A-John, y’know, where you not only get to view your own previous masterpiece, but everyone else’s. The weekenders (the local participants of the faire who don’t have to worry about leaking tents and noisy campgrounds) in Scarborough (a Texas Faire, not a town) disliked the sight of their own excretions and so piled up toilet paper over it. As a result, by the end of the two-day weekend those toilets were literally overflowing with shit, they reeked, and attracted clouds of flies.

You have to understand that the whole purpose of the blue liquid inside the johns is to sanitize all that dirty crap so that the above does not happen. The weekenders didn’t understand that by filling up the toilets with paper not only wasted paper, but created the perfect breeding ground for billions of septic bacteria.

The incident happened again in Colorado, or tried to. To nip this in the bud right away, I wrote a cute, colorful little paragraph about why it was a dumb idea and how the guy camped right behind the porta-johns was “slowly asphixiating on the highly toxic fumes produced by the 8-million bacteria flourishing in your [the offender’s] Toilet Paper Tower.” Of course, due to immaturity, someone built a T.P. tower in that one john the very next day. However, the kids camped behind the toilets were very flattered that someone considered them.

Yes, two kids actually camped behind the port-a-johns at Colorado. At first, we all thought this was a joke on the camp director’s part. At least I did. He really did put them there, telling them it was the last available spot. Well, we all had a giggle over it, then by second weekend, after a couple of prime spots opened up down in the Pit (the heart of the campground, basically), we finally went up and said, “Look, guys, you know you CAN move…?”

The kids said, “Yeah, but we’re gonna stay. The bears won’t go anywhere near us here.”
“Maybe, but after 8 weeks, they’re gonna reek…”
“Nah.” And so it was during the Bear Wars [link to Bear Wars post} no bears disturbed them or tried to rip into their tent.

Then the Faire ceased all port-a-john cleaning one entire week before the last weekend. Thanks to a handful of moronic Rainbow Kids in one incident, the faire’s owner hates us all, most especially the hippies, and that was his first hint that he wanted us gone ASAP. You can’t imagine the horror of those toilets. The clouds of flies that poured from the doors and again when you lifted the lid, like something out of a Shayamalan flick. Not to mention the stench. I can’t believe how I managed to use them the few times I did and DID NOT VOMIT!

As far as keeping the bears away, well, apparently they’d gotten quite used to our reek after 8 weeks, because my boy saw one traipse right past the kids’ tent and past the johns on it’s way out of the camp. Finally a bear decided to check their tent out, going in through one wall and out the other. Then it promptly rained.

Another fun port-a-john incident occured during one of Colorado weather’s little spastic temper tantrums. I was busy holding down tarps and protecting our food from blowing away to notice all the commotion the wind caused down the hill. I hear people shouting down at the taco cookout, but take no note until I hear a crash, another bang and a whole lot of people whooping and cheerin’ and hollerin’. Figuring that someone’s tent went flying and that, after Arizona, I wasn’t missing out on another tent flight, I ran down the hill just in time to miss all of the action.

I asked someone at the cookout what was going on and they explained that the wind blew so hard it knocked the johns over. “It’s a good thing no one was in them,” I said. “That’s the thing! There WAS a girl in them! Soon as the johns hit the ground she came flying out like a ninja, arms and legs flailin’ all over screamin’, ‘NOT ONE DROP! NOT ONE DROP!’ She didn’t get a single speck of shit on her!”

“Yeah, apparently when [the campground director] called the company to let them know about it,” someone else told me later, “the girl on the other end asked, ‘Did it fall forward or backward?’ and he told her and she’s like, ‘Oh, thank God!’ because apparently, if the john falls backwards, the liquid falls into a chamber in the back and nothing gets on you, but if it falls forward, then you get it ALL on you… plus you’re trapped!”

Which is a good thing to keep in mind when pulling college pranks.

Here in Pennsylvania, now, there are, as of yet, no port-a-john’s in the campground. We’re reduced to either digging holes in the woods, risking thorns up our asses, quite literally, or walking all the way into sight to do a #2. In the campgrounds I carry a half roll of toilet paper in my back pocket. Yet, I’m lucky, because they put a brand-new john right next to our booth where I’m at all day.

The johns they’ve got in the faire site are state-of-the-art plastic toilets. The latest thing. They’re built with a bowl to the toilet, with a hole where wastes can slide right down in the collection chamber and nobody has to ever look at them again. Plus, it flushes! You stomp on a large button on the floor and it shoots a spray of blue sanitation liquid into the bowl to wash the wastes away. They’re cleaner and they smell a lot better for a lot longer than the standard model john. We get this the whole show, too, yay!

I hope your john is as nice as mine!

Peace.