Where Fantasy RULES!

Call me a psychic, but as soon as I finished my last post, lo and behold I had the shittiest of shit days. This was followed directly by another shit day. Moral of the story: Procrastination is useless. When working for Hell Bosses, shit days are predictable and constant. Stop working for Hell Bosses.

Howeveeeeeer....this is not what this post is about. Nay, my friends! This post is about:

THE NEW YORK RENAISSANCE FAIRE!

Huzzah and Hallelujah, today was the annual trip to the Renaissance Faire to see our friend Seth prance about in tights and sling faux Elizabethan insults at similarly dressed thespians in Tuxedo, New York. One of the happiest and most ridiculous days of the year. This year I was again accompanied by my friends Beth, Randy, Gillian, and Teddy, all of whom are actors as well, none of whom have acted in a Renaissance Faire.

(For all you Ren Faire virgins, let me set the scene for you: Picture a forest in modern-day suburbia, where a small village of squat, thatch-roofed cottages (If you just sang out the word "Burninating," you just got an extra ten points. All others, please refer to Strongbad.) lie nestled around several mossy ponds, the green waters rippling with paddle boats and a floating dragon head. There is a maypole, a human chess board, stocks, pony rides and knife-throwing games, several taverns advertising "mead" and "steak on a stake," as well as a real-life sword in a stone. Wizards wander around and buxom young wenches cry out as they sell their wares, items that range from roses to elf ears to broadswords. Food tents offer such delicacies as "The Cone of Cookies," "Spycey Potatoes," "Flavored Snow," and turkey legs the size of a small dog. There are flush privies for those who prefer to not use the Port-a-Potty, and Ye Olde ATM for those who have forgotten to pack all their dubloons. This is not a place for the normal.)

There are several things that fascinate me about the Ren Faire, first of which are the actors themselves. These are people who dress up in leather and canvas in the thick of summer, and force generalized British accents through their modern American lips. They perform for 9 hours a day, and not only "onstage" as they perform huge amounts of stage combat in sweltering heat and pounding rain. They perform whole Shakespearan plays in an outdoor theater, fast, intense scenes on bridges and in wooded glens that further the plot of the entire day's overarching theme, but they also are consistently improvising as they move constantly through the audience. Most importantly, they work diligently and genuinely to create a magical foundation for their audience: Yes, you did stumble onto a lost Tudor age in upstate New York. Yes, we do all exist simultaneously in a mish-mash of history, including all of Robin Hood and his Merry Men, Elizabeth I's entire court throughout her entire life, as well as a hodgepodge of other cast members such as Ivanhoe, Sir Ulrich Von Lichtenstein (which I'm fairly sure is the name of Heath Ledger's character in "A Knight's Tale,") Lucrecia Borge, Anne the Pirate Queen, and Mary, Queen of Scots. Yes, we do use a strange perversion of Elizabethan language. (Par example: "I thank thee, milady," "Where art mine mead mug, thou lump-headed dog?" "Thou shalt be mine champion at the joust, Robin of the Hood, at 4 of the Clock!") Yes, we do invite our audience to interact freely with us, onstage and off. Yes, we do invite the exploration of the bawdy side of England's court life by showcasing our breasts and making jokes with a really-not-so-vague sexual innuendo punchline. Yes, we do encourage you to wear your own homemade armour.

Whaaaaat?! Who makes homemade armour?! This audience does. Oh yes.

Second to speaketh about, my lords and ladies: the audience. It's as if the Ren Faire banners proclaim: "Bring me your oversexed dorks, your hopeless medievel fanatics who polish their own dagger collections, Bring me your crazies who own their own doublets, plaid hoop skirts, farthingales, petticoats, partlets and bumrolls, fairy wings, thigh-high leather boots, and corsets meant to be worn over top of your smock (your shirt, you 21st century loser)." These are men who grow their hair long so they can braid it like a "Scotsman." These are families who dress up their babies like pixies, shove their boobies into small strips of woven cloth, and whip out their handmade metal as decorative clothing pieces. They do not work at the faire. They come, they drink a ton of mead, they make lewd jokes. It's a strange, safe world, here at the Ren Faire, where anybody can be anybody. A tall, thin girl with too much acne can be a princess. A large man with copious amounts of hair can be a Celtic God. Couples come and dress in matching belted & tied fashion get turned on by the overwhelming amounts of cowhide and copper. Within the Ren Faire's thatched and paper mache walls, whatever we want to be is not only welcome, but stronger. Even if it is a wizard. It's a wizard with confidence. This is the place where you, my friend, are the coolest.

Third, I must clarify, I LOVETH THE REN FAIRE. I don't know what it is, whether it's being aware of the incredible acting challenge these people work through valiantly and energetically, whether it is observing a truly involved and passionate audience, or whether it's the knowledge that I am one of those people who so desperately want to believe in that strange, safe world where magic IS possible, where heroes DO fight tirelessly for love with swords and bare fists if necessary, where food is plentiful and entertainment is constant, and everything is tinged with sex and humor. We all belong, all children, all adults, all the weirdos, all the fatties, all the shy, all the brave. There are no boundaries. Fancy is free, and we are all part of the story.

They say in acting that when you go to a play, you are watching the action occur because an ordinary character is placed in an extraordinary circumstance. You are watching the normal within an urgent and dangerous abnormal. You go to see yourself be brave. You go to see yourself feel something. Hopefully, it'll rub off a little. We can hope. And here, at the Ren Faire, you are so a part of it, you can't help but feel that this urgent story they are telling is one which could not exist without your presence. You help the story along, by standing next to the actors while they cry their lines into the sky as they run through the town square, by cheering them on when they need you as they battle for the crown. We offer them advice as we pass by them, and while they can't change their scripts, they can hear us, react to us. The heroes themselves are so familiar: Robin Hood, Maid Marian, Little John, Queen Elizabeth. The villians are more varied: the Duke of Northumberland, of Percy, of Norfolk, the Sheriff of Nottingham. The prize is one that none of us have ever fought for in our lifetime: the throne of England. These are old stories that we tell and retell, embellish and choke. Shakespeare himself did the same thing, he stole old stories, well-known stories, and retold them. It's not the story itself that's important, but the retelling, because it gives us another opportunity, as audience and, in this case, as partners, to change the ending. I always thought I could save Romeo, could stop Juliet, but every time I watch it, even when I act it, no matter how I cry, they always die.

So, what is the Moral of Today? To seek out loving, passionate audiences who need you as much as you need them? To always tell a story in a new way? To foster safe spaces to tell the stories? To get archery lessons because I suck at shooting a bow-and-arrow? True, true, but without a doubt, I know the Renaissance Faire is beautiful and necessary, because we all need a place where fantasy rules (that's their motto, btw). Sure, it's not historically accurate, or even relevant. Sure, it's Six Flags on crack, with dragons instead of rollercoasters. Sure, I will never dress up like a wench to get a discount when I go there, but I will always always enjoy myself. I will always always cheer on the Queen's Champion when he gallops his horse down the jousting field. And I will always always wish I was dressed up in my own petticoat, calling out, "What ye olde fun we art having!"