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My wildly entertaining letters to my son and other American Soldiers suffering in Iraq and elsewhere...posted in no particular chronological order.

Friday, August 26, 2005

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Dear Robby,

Check out the buxom medieval boob maiden in the photo above. She was just one of the many fascinating sights we were able to see at the annual Medieval Faire at beautiful Jubilee State Park near Galesburg this past Saturday. The Medieval Faire is one of our favorite summer festivals. Every year Rudy, Dylan and I eagerly await the June weekend on which this particular festival is held because it’s hands down the best one of the season.

Most of the summer festivals in the Central Illinois area consist of little more than greasy E-coli burgers and toxic curly fries sold from decrepit mobile food-borne-illness laboratories. Then there is always the ubiquitous array of schmaltzy arts & crap kiosks selling things nobody in his or her right mind would ever want to own. I’d really like to know who would buy a set of wind chimes fashioned from old Budweiser cans. Who among us believes that a slab of plywood cut and painted to resemble the posterior view of a farm wife’s polka-dotted butt is a nice lawn accessory? Who needs yet another concrete porch goose complete with a seasonal wardrobe that includes a raincoat and a tiny goose-size motorcycle helmet?

Occasionally there’s some form of mild entertainment at these local events, but it tends to be hit or miss. A couple of years ago I passed up a chance to dance with a rockin’ group of retarded people at a festival in Downtown LeRoy, IL. I sincerely regret that I didn’t take that opportunity when it arose. Those people were having the time of their retarded lives dancing to the music of a live band playing old fifties tunes in the LeRoy town square bandstand. They were dancing for the sheer joy of it, and I was itching to get out there and join the gang. The only thing holding me back was my fear that non-retarded onlookers would think I was making fun of them somehow.

I’ll never forget this one retarded guy playing air drums and flinging himself around the bandstand with such wild abandon his fanny pack nearly unleashed itself and flew off into the crowd. I just loved that guy, stomping to the beat in his black dress socks and Velcro gym shoes. I foolishly sat out that dance-of-a-lifetime and, looking back, it seems to me that I was the truly retarded one that day. Eventually their minders herded him and his cohorts back onto the short bus and off they went, oblivious to me and my lost dream of dancing like there’s nobody watching.

Most of the festivals around here are just glorified flea markets, the exception being the Jubilee Medieval Faire, truly a “festivus for the rest of us.” Suffice it to say it’s a genuine recreation of a medieval country faire, including sword-play, jousting, archery and epic battles involving scores of knights and knaves.

This year Rudy and Dylan took a keen interest in the archery competition. About a half-dozen young men in full middle-ages regalia stood in a line shooting authentically fashioned arrows from simple gut-strung long bows. Their target was a stuffed burlap dummy strung from a moveable rope at the edge of the clearing. We were told by the announcer that the dummy was a Frenchman, as evidenced by the fleur-de-lies prominently stenciled on its burlap chest. Somebody would pull on the ropes causing the dummy to “run” across the target range of the archers, who would then shoot as many arrows as possible into it as it passed by. We were told this was good practice for war, as everybody knows embattled Frenchmen always try to run away.

The archery team had also constructed a working replica of a trebuchet, which is a sort of catapult mechanism designed to fling rocks and other deadly projectiles at the enemy. The announcer told us that medieval warriors often used it to launch dead livestock over castle walls in order to spread panic and disease. It sounds like a pretty good idea to me. How do you think the terrorists would react if you guys dropped a few diseased pigs into one of their enclaves? Might be worth a try. The trebuchet we saw was a small version used only to launch a few apples as a demonstration. Dylan suggested they ought to use rotten apples, just to make it that much more realistic.

The jousting tournament is always my favorite event. Knights mount up and rush around the field performing feats of derring-do on horseback. The competitions range from snagging hanging rings on the tip of one’s lance while charging along a fence to racing down the field, grabbing a sword stuck into the ground and using it to impale a bale of straw. I am proud to tell you that not a single Knight fell off his horse this year.

Somebody always issues a challenge and a duel is fought on the ground. Protective buckets are put on their heads and they beat the crap out of one another for the enjoyment of the crowd of happy fairegoers. We, the happy fairegoers, yell, “Huzzah!” as instructed by the announcer.

This year was the third in a row that I’ve noticed a particular horse with a large pockmark on its neck. I’ve long wondered if it were an old jousting wound and this year I had a chance to ask the Knight. He explained it was birth defect commonly known as “the thumbprint of Allah” among Arabs. I was glad to hear it since I’ve always assumed that horse must be as dumb as dirt to continue eagerly charging at pointy lances after having been previously impaled.

I suppose the event most fairegoers find most exciting is the Grand Battle. Various teams, or “houses” as they call themselves, engage in vigorous thumping of each other using large padded sticks. We spoke with one of the participants who proudly told us, “It really hurts!” Personally, I find the battle scenes ridiculous looking. A bunch of grown men run around whacking one another until one of them falls down, which usually happens within 30 seconds. The costumes are great, though, and include shields made from old road signs. Every year I wonder why the heck these guys go to all the trouble of painting elaborate coats of arms on the front of their shields and neglect to paint over the orange CONSTRUCTION ZONE emblem on the inside.

The best part of the Jubilee Medieval Faire can be found among one’s fellow fairegoers. At least 40% of the people in attendance arrive in costume. Some actually dress like the folk of the middle ages, but some don’t seem to care what the theme is and wear bizarre renditions of their own device. A couple of Darth Vaders were there, along with more than a few Ninjas and cowgirls. I saw at least a dozen otherwise normally dressed adults with animal tails inexplicably flopping behind them. Many others had small horns poking from the sides of their heads. The opportunity to bare one’s breasts seemed to be irresistible to women of all ages. Judging from the vast quantity of deadly-white flesh Dylan was staring at all day, I’m guessing there were many a sunburned boob by the end of it.

People at the Jubilee Medieval Faire seem inordinately willing to make complete asses of themselves, which greatly enhances the fun of it all. Middle-aged women proudly flaunt their flab in numerous belly dancing troupes. (Where the heck were these gals when I wanted to dance with retarded people in LeRoy?) There were so many belly dancers strutting their stuff this year I have to wonder if belly dancing is on its way to becoming what line dancing was in the ‘90s. I hope so because it really doesn’t look all that difficult. I’ve never learned the steps to the Electric Slide, but I’m fairly certain I can swivel my hips for minutes at a time without falling down. Toss me a Hoola-Hoop and I can conceivably entertain you for hours on end.

If an award were to be given for “Most Embarrassing Person” at the 2005 Medieval Faire it would go to a young man I like to think of as “Belly Boy.” Amid the belly dancing women of one small troupe, a lone man swiveled and gyrated with such feminine sinuosity you’d swear he must have been infused with massive doses of estrogen. It was like a train wreck- you couldn’t help stopping to gawk. A crowd formed and Belly Boy took that to mean he was even better at this belly dancing stuff than he’d thought. One of the female dancers beamed proudly at him and announced to the shocked and sickened onlookers that this was Belly Boy’s first public performance. Glancing around at the looks on the faces of the red necked men in the crowd, I began to worry it might also be his first public beating.

Fortunately, Belly Boy was allowed his shining moment and, as the haunting middle-eastern music swelled to a crescendo, he made the most of it. With a haughty flutter of his eyelashes and a perky shake of his nipple rings, he twirled his way into the nightmares of impressionable children and homophobic mid-western farmers forevermore.

Much Love,

--Mom

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

March 17, 2005

Dear Robby,

Top o’ the marnin’, Laddie! And a happy St. Patty’s Day to ya, a course!

Enough of that Irish rot. No offense to our ancestors, but I don’t like corned beef, cabbage gives me gas, and I think it’s unsanitary to kiss a Blarney stone without first washing it with Lysol. And I really hate that Irish music they sometimes play at trendy Chicago pubs. You'd have to be drunk to appreciate it, which makes a sort of ironic pub business sense.

Besides, St. Patrick’s Day is now on the politically correct shite list.
Today our diligent school principal made an announcement forbidding the kids from pinching one another. She almost uttered the phrase,
“St. Patrick’s Day,” but caught herself just in time and instead referred to it as, “a special day for wearing green.”
I guess you can’t go around saying “Happy St. Patrick’s Day” in a public school anymore. The separation clause of the constitution requires you to say, “Happy Special Day for Wearing Green” instead.

Personally, I think that’s prejudice against the Irish. I didn’t hear anybody complaining about the kids’ Valentine exchange. So what does that tell you? St. Valentine is okay, but St. Patrick has to hide in the closet?
St. Valentine was a Roman priest, an Italian. Perhaps the Mafia has something to do with this “special day for wearing green” malarchey.

Next year, on Valentine’s Day, I plan to raise a big fuss and make everybody call it “A Special Day for Organized Crime.”

School is out and I am officially on Spring Break! I’ve been officially on Spring Break for three hours and I’m already bored senseless.

I guess I’ll have to paint the bathroom. Painting a bathroom is very complicated. I have to figure out how to take the towel holders off the wall and tape off the mirror. How do you paint behind the toilet tank? Do I have to take the damned thing OFF? Do I have to take down the medicine cabinet, or can I paint around it? Maybe I’ll just paint right over it and let it blend in with the room. I also have to either take the light fixture apart or figure out a way to get around it. Maybe I can somehow cover it with a plastic bag. Also, how can I paint with the light off? I’ll have to drag a lamp in there somehow. Geez, it would be easier to get a paper route and use the profits to hire a professional to paint the bathroom.

I won’t, though. I’m of those “do it yourself” types with everything but auto repair. I even cut my own hair sometimes. But auto repair is beyond even my extensive abilities. Rudy’s too.

We made complete fools of ourselves at Auto Zone just last weekend. I knew a brake light was out on my car because an idiot light was on in the instrument panel. (Ironic, isn’t it? A light comes ON to tell you another light is OFF.) I enlisted Rudy to fix it and off we went to Auto Zone for a new bulb.

I asked Rudy if we shouldn’t test the brakes to see which light was out. He said he knew which one it was, and I didn’t question it. Why would I? We bought the replacement bulb and went back out to the car, where Rudy spent 15 minutes trying to figure out how to open the housing on the back dashboard. Finally, I got the guy working the Auto Zone counter to come out and help. It took him about 15 seconds to open it, remove the old bulb, and screw in the new one. He remarked that the old bulb didn’t look burnt out.

I again suggested we should maybe test the brake lights, just to make sure. Rudy scoffed and insisted he knew it was the middle one. “It went out last year, too, don’t you remember?” The Auto Zone Guy said it wasn’t a bad idea to check, so I got in, started the car and stepped on the brakes. The left brake light did not work. So we all trooped back inside to buy that replacement bulb. The Auto Zone Guy helped install it, and was kind enough not to say a word about people who assume they know which of their lights are not working simply by guessing it must be the very one they most recently replaced.

As long as we were in the company of an Auto Zone professional, I thought perhaps we might settle an ongoing argument Rudy and I have had about the right turn signal. Sometimes the turn signal would flash normally, other times it flashed very quickly. It seemed to me it was doing this randomly, but Rudy said it only flashed quickly when the lights were on. I had tested his theory and found it to be total bunk, but he remained adamant. He claimed that, since the lights go on automatically, I was just too stupid to realize they were on when it was flashing quickly. Was it always cloudy when the turn signal flashed quickly?

I considered this and thought maybe it was possible, given that I have been driving this car for two years and didn’t have any idea the lights came on automatically until Rudy said that. I always turn them on manually as needed. Come to think of it, I had noticed that the lights sometimes brightened when I pulled into a dark garage, but I thought they must always be on and I just only suddenly noticed it in a sort of flash of sudden driver awareness. Or something like that.

I explained about the turn signal to the Auto Zone Guy, and Rudy proceeded to demonstrate. Sure enough, the right turn signal flashed quickly when the lights were on, but not when they were off. The Auto Zone Guy had no idea why that would be so, and suggested we change the bulb and see what would happen. He asked Rudy to open the hood.

Rudy, being such an expert on automotive concerns, pulled the little lever and opened the trunk. The Auto Zone Guy did his best not to smirk and said he didn’t think Rudy had popped the hood. Rudy said yes, he had.
I said no, he hadn’t. Rudy came around and pulled at the hood, but of course it wouldn’t open. I smirked at Rudy and went around the car to make a big show of closing the trunk. Then I pulled the other little lever and opened the gas tank, thus demonstrating that I, too, am a geeky loser.

The Auto Zone Guy did his best not to roll around on the parking lot laughing his ass off. I found the correct lever and opened the hood so the Auto Zone guy could replace the bulb, declare the problem solved, and get rid of us. He was probably in a hurry to get back inside and start a "Let's-All-Laugh-At-The-Dumbassed-Customers" assembly with his fellow Auto Zone employees.

I suppose I’d better get back to thinking about painting the bathroom.
I should give it a top-to-bottom thorough cleaning before I start painting anyway. And its getting kind of late in the day at this point, so maybe my best move for today would be to go buy new towels. Yes, that will give me the motivation I need to get painting! A new shower curtain, too! And a bath mat! I probably should shop around for the best deals, too. This could take days and days.

My god, I am shocked by my ability to procrastinate indefinitely and without guilt.

Happy Special Day for Wearing Green!

Much Love,

--Mom

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