Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 17

Post the Eighty-Fourth: TALES FROM THE BUTCH SIDE

Happy Friday, Gentle Reader! It’s time for another horrific edition of

You may have noticed that I have trouble passing as straight these days, or desiring to pass as straight. In fact, I’ve publicly stated that I never want to be mistaken for straight again in my life. However – sometimes, circumstances dictate that one must venture into the lair of the beast. In this case, I was compelled to attend a friend’s birthday party at a self-proclaimed redneck bar in the middle of Belfair, Washington – and it’s hard to find a smaller town than Belfair. It seemed self-evident that if I carried out my standard self-expression, I would wind up a martyr, like Matthew Shepard or Brandon Teena. Naturally I took to social media to inquire how to pass to avoid being murdered.

I got some excellent suggestions from various people – to think of it as a cultural exchange, to think of it as a sort of reverse Halloween in which the goal was to look my least fabulous, to think of myself as Jane Goodall amongst the chimps. I took off my ever-present stealth pearls, donned a plain black t-shirt and the only jeans I own – which are a misses size 12 – and the kickass boots I mentioned in the last post. My uncle Syn reassured me that they’d just mistake me for a hipster, so while I was still nervous, I girded my loins and went.

The loins are girded, but nothing else is.

I tried to summon all the rules I used to use to try to pass, when I still wanted to do such a thing. Always look slightly pissed off – slouch – don’t use none of that high-falutin’ language that is bread and butter to you – never touch another man ever, apart from handshakes and bro-hugs – and if you’re doing a bro-hug, one sharp clap on the back, not two, unless you’re exceedingly intimate, and make sure to break away as soon as possible, as if affection itself is super icky. You know the sort of thing.

Sick ride, bro.

So no shit, there I was, there in the Lion’s Den, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as I had thought it might be. I actually managed to have a decent time – especially as I confessed to the birthday boy – and everyone else in our party – that I am not super great at playing butch, and they all swore that if shit got started, they’d have my back. I felt pathetically grateful, as one does, and while that in itself bothers me, I still have that gratitude.

Um, thanks, bro.

As the evening wore on, my confidence increased, and I began dropping the act – only a little, mind you, but the alcohol certainly helped my confidence and I’m not very good at the whole straight thing anyway. We ran into Jemily’s sister, Andi – and as it turns out, Jem doesn’t speak to either of us. We bonded. Miss Heidi and I went to sign up for Karaoke – we were going to sing Elephant Love Medley from Moulin Rouge, as it was in the book, but the hostess couldn’t find the song; we wound up singing I’ve Got A Lovely Bunch Of Coconuts instead, and actually brought down the house. I have no idea how that happened – but Heidi and I were actually singing in the same key, which was a feat all by itself.

At any rate, Gentle Reader, while I would certainly not go to the redneck bar by myself, I had an excellent evening, and would go again with the right crowd.

Tagged: Belfair Washington, Gay Boys In Redneck Bars, Passing Privilege, Redneck Bar, Straight Bar, Straight Boys, Straight People are so very strange

Post the Eighty-Third: In Which There Is A Terrifying Puppet Museum

It was with great trepidation, Gentle Reader, that I decided to explore Bremerton. I had gotten off work, and I had three hours to kill before my lift would be available. Bremerton is a bit of a rough area, generally; there’s a spot called Heroin Hill directly adjacent to my workplace. I figured that my best bet was to head down towards the ferry-docks, where things aren’t quite as run down.

Briskly up the hill I went, and just as briskly back down, past Our Lady Star of The Sea, and past the Colonel’s old place.  I wandered disconsolate for a bit, and then I stumbled upon what was evidently the Goth kid’s answer to Diagon Alley. There was a gorgeous old boarded up theatre -

This photo is from a few years ago (Thanks, Internet!) – it’s much more dilapidated now.

- and a number of vintage clothing shops, as well as one vintage clothing/costume shop called Ish. It was there I found a genuine vintage pair of military shit-kickers that dated to at least Viet Nam for twenty dollars. Yes, please.

You need to understand, Gentle Reader – these boots were actually hobnailed.  Word.

Ish also rents their pricier items – actually, most of the things I was interested in were rental only, which was a pity – but I suppose one only needs so many brocade blazers and no more. At any rate, I highly recommend browsing their racks, should you find yourself in squalid old Bremerton for some reason.

Next door to Ish, I saw a sign advertising a terrifying puppet museum. That is, the sign didn’t actually say “Terrifying Puppet Museum” – but it’s an understood fact that any puppet museum is going to be terrifying. It’s an undeniable fact, like the wetness of water, or that spring follows winter, or that I drool over straight boys.

Alors. Into the Puppet Museum slipped I, and the softness of the light was surprising. I was greeted by a grandmotherly woman; there was a play area – the whole reception area looked a bit like a preschool. Admission was free – although there was a fishbowl for donations – and I parted the velvet curtains, and stepped toward my doom.

I didn’t take any photos myself at the museum, as I’ve heard of the work of R. L. Stine, and it appears that the more horrific puppets don’t have online images. Trust me when I say that there was some really freaky shit, man.  However, to its credit, the museum had puppets that were several hundred years old, as well as puppets from all over the world. They were very comprehensive for such a baffling institution, in a town that I’m fairly sure is not that receptive to culture.

The point of this post, Gentle Reader? Next time you can’t avoid being in Bremerton, I highly recommend taking a visit to 4th avenue.

Tagged: Abandoned Buildings, Bremerton, Goth, Terrifying Puppet Museum, Thrift Stores, Vintage Stores

Music Monday: Aux Champs-Élysées

Gentle Reader, do you recall my attempts to entertain you through song? Because I do. I recently stumbled across my little video trove and was appalled,  darlings. I’ve rather improved since then. Don’t believe me? Proof:

I hope you enjoy the new series, because it’s not going anywhere for quite some time. Happy Monday, Readers!

 

Tagged: Aux Champs-Elysees, Music Monday, Tyler J. Yoder, Ukulele

Poetic Interlude LXXI

This week’s poem is just a draft, I’m afraid. Ought I to work it into a final form, or let it fall by the wayside, Gentle Reader? You decide.

A Draft

Another indignity darkens my door
Degraded again and again -
I never felt lucky until I was poor:
I never quite lived until then.

But these machinations are taking their toll

I wonder what might have become of my soul
My options grow slimmer while I’m growing old 
It seems human value is measured in gold. 
Tagged: Drafts, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Tyler J. Yoder

Post the Eighty-Second: G.I.S.H.W.H.E.S.

The Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen is a celebration of art and kindness that shatters Guinness records and normalcy alike, put on by actor Misha Collins. It’s in its fourth year, Gentle Reader, and I was so enchanted with the idea that I put participating in it on The List. You only have a week for you and your team to complete 180-odd items.

The Task: Participate in GISHWHES

The Execution: Prior to the actual event, our team – Team Fighting-Gurgle – met online, got to know one another better, recruited like-minded people from all over the world to join us in our burgeoning quest.

Aja! Aja! Fighting!

It was announced a few days in advance that this year’s Guinness Record Attempt would be held in Seattle, and would be a costumed event. Three of our team live in Washington state, so we knew we’d be well represented. We waited with bated breath, and soon learned that we’d need three french maid outfits, complete with headdresses, as well as three “Still-life Hats” – hats modeled on still-life paintings. We’d also need to be comfortable with holding hands with strangers.

When the morning arrived, I met Mica for the first time; we then met up with Rae, who I’ve known for years online, but have only met a few times in person. This was around eight or nine in the morning; we had to be in Seattle by 12:30 – plenty of time, right? Traffic said otherwise; our leisurely drive with time to stop and get ready at Rae’s place in Covington became a madcap dash with large swathes of a frustrating crawl. We arrived in time, though, and got into the line stretching around the little park where we were all to meet; the gentleman from Guinness came to make sure we met the entry requirements – we were dressed as maids, we had our hats, we had our note cards with our legal information and our papers bearing our team names.  We were ushered into a small, sweaty, overcrowded gymnasium, where we waited two hours for the festivities to begin.

After the first two records were successfully broken, all three-hundred plus French Maids were allowed to step outside into the blazing sun. Some of us were off the hook for the third record attempt – there were more of us than expected. Those of us who were watching were led in our cheerleading attempts by Misha Collins; my teammate Rae is seen here directly on top of him.

 

Mica is behind the pyramid, spotting the acrobats so that no one gets hurt; I can be seen in the background trying not to get in the way or knock the pyramid over.

 The rest of the week was spent in feverish crafting and spontaneous moments of beauty and art and love as we Gurgles tried our best to complete the challenges expected of us. I was mostly busy with work and with a mental breakdown, but I tried my best to contribute where I could, in modest ways.

Meanwhile, my teammates did abnosome (abnormally awesome, obviously) things like this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXn4-euG85Y&amp

and also like this: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3XkUtYCo5FM&amp

Furthermore, like this: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYpNY9LviiQ&amp

And also also these:

The Verdict: Would I do this again? Absolutely! This was an amazing experience, and I wish I’d been able to participate more heavily. I HELPED BREAK WORLD RECORDS, Y’ALL. And was involved in hijinks. And there were a massive amount of people who registered to donate bone marrow.

My friend Rosalind explains GISHWHES the best, though, I think:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TilUBpC4_SA&amp

Tagged: Architecturally Superior Birdhouses, Bikes Becoming Spaceships, Cars Breakdancing, Cat Food Trucks, Free Hugs Covered In Honey, French Maid World Record, G.I.S.H.W.H.E.S., Kindness, Misha Collins, Novel Life Forms, Pope Tattoos, Random Acts, Team Fighting-Gurgle

Post the Eighty-First: A Day On Lake Washington

It’s not often that Miss Ward is on this side of the world, Gentle Reader. Once every year or two or three, she’ll drift through briefly to see family and friends. It’s always a marvelous time when she’s here.

I’d just started a new job* the day she arrived – and suddenly I was in the midst of G.I.S.H.W.H.E.S. – and I don’t drive. It was therefore impossible to meet with her before this last Sunday, so we made arrangements to go visit Mr. Darling up in Town and stay the night.

Or so we thought.

It came to pass, while we were on the bus up to see him, that things weren’t arranged at all. Darling was only expecting Miss Ward – and he wasn’t expecting her until eleven that evening. It was around nine thirty in the morning.

He graciously rolled with the mix-up, and off we went to get brunch on Broadway, while we figured out what we would do with our day. Naturally, we decided upon a pastoral adventure right in the heart of Seattle. Off we trotted to Darling’s place to pick up picnic supplies, art supplies, and his new ukulele.

Miss Ward and Chordelia help me tune Darling’s as-yet unnamed uke. Miss Ward’s uke, Nancy, remains in Baltimore.

Once we arrived at the Arboretum – which neither Ward nor I had visited before – we wandered through the wilderness until we chanced upon a little bridge leading towards the water.

We soon found a shady spot under spreading trees; Darling and Ward worked on sketches, I tooled around on Chordelia – we watched the college boys kayak on the lake.

Later, I gave Darling a uke lesson – he’s just starting out. We picnicked and shared a bottle of Rex Goliath’s Cabernet Sauvignon – because it’s the best red you can get for five dollars. We wrote an exquisite corpse or two, we read one another’s tarot, Miss Ward and I spontaneously figured out the chords to Hallelujah while Darling sang – it was a perfect, golden, afternoon.

Around sunset, we finally returned to Darling’s apartment; we were all too exhausted to go out. Instead, we played this charming little card game called Once Upon A Time – you’re dealt a hand of fairy-tale elements as well as an abrupt ending. Whoever begins crafts a story, trying to use all the elements in their hand, that will fit their ending; the other players try to interrupt and hijack the story for their own purposes. It’s a fast-paced game that results in quite delightful silly stories, with elements like the Swamp Window Laundry Kingdom, and Beggars who have been transformed into Clothes, Tiny Dragon Princesses Who Are Served Up For Dinner, and Frog Wives.

Dear lord, the frog-wives. The frog-wives quickly became a theme. There were buckets of them, and one actually jumped through the window of Darlings’ second-story apartment. All in all, it was a perfect end to a perfect day.

*********

*The job is newish. I’ve actually returned to a job I left two years ago.

Tagged: Art-Knock Life, Darling and Ward, Frog Wives, Lake Washington, Pastoral Adventures, Seattle, Tarot, Ukulele

Poetic Interlude LXX

Eve
 
Her crisp, translucent arm hesitates,
Reaching for pink-and-pale-green flesh;
It is forbidden.
A slither; his sweet words -
That intoxicating scent. It was too tempting to stop,
Or to observe that flickering tongue in her ear.
Lascivious, luscious, pushed past her boundaries:
A rush of juice and flavour and knowledge,
Dripping down her chin.
The serpent slunk away,
No more to be seen.
 
Defiled.
Damned.
She bit again.
 
Resistance: The firm walls at center,
Protecting, like as-yet-unknown motherhood, the womb.
Sudden, the mad rush to finish,
Before a drop is lost.
 
Her skin, now speckled, mottled like flaking paint,
She faces her punishment,
For trusting,
For tempting as she was tempted,
Uncertain of what she had become,
Or what she had gained.

©2013 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

Tagged: Eve, In Defense Of Free Will, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Religion, The Garden Of Eden

Post the Ninety-Second: In Which We Find Kubla Khan

And thus we conclude our Ren Faire retrospective, Gentle Reader. If you’re in Washington State, USA, please drop by – the second weekend starts tomorrow, and there’s another after that! Or you could visit the Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire Website for more details. Also, to my beloved companions of the last decade and more, Hail Paisley! Make sure that Last Sunday is everything I would wish it to be. 

Gentle Reader, I am very excited to write this post. I hope that I have time to edit it before it goes live – a little more than a week from now. I just had a memory pop into my head, from Faire, and since we’re doing a Friday series about Faire for right now*, I just had to put down my wineglass and start it.

Picture it: I am dressed as Hamlet; my best friend, Miss Ward, is dressed as a fairy in blue. We are both holding parasols; we are perched on the back end of a convertible, that will convey us from the camping site of the Faire up to where the Faire actually is. This is Miss Ward’s last time here before she flies to Korea, on her own in the wide world for the first time. We are making the most of our time together, and are both tremendously excited.

Chauffeured

We wander the Faire, as one does; when one has been doing this as long as we have – and we stopped working it long ago, mind you – there is a tendency to just change costumes, go and take a turn around Merchant’s Row, and return to camp, and then repeat. In this instance, Miss Ward wanted to do the full tourist thing – take in some shows, visit the vendors, and so on.

It came to pass, as we first entered the site proper, that Miss Ward ran into someone we’d known for years. I don’t know the actual name of her character, but as she handed out white rocks and always refused to speak, we have called her the Crack Fairy since time immemorial†.  The two blue fairies are seen exchanging a moment, here:

I’m fairly certain that fairies don’t do Crack. They just sell it.

And then – oh, this is the moment that inspired the post! – we saw an Abyssinian maid, and, in fact, on a dulcimer she played – she ought to have been singing of Mount Abora.

If you don’t understand the reference, it’s from Coleridge’s Kubla Khan, written because of a dream, never finished, and one of my favorite poems. Both Miss Ward and I happen to know it by heart, and on seeing the girl, playing the instrument named above – we began to recite‡. Not in tandem – we alternated lines, until by the last stanza, in perfect unison, we finished.

“His flashing eyes! His floating hair!

Weave a circle ’round him thrice -

And shut your eyes with holy dread,

For he on Honeydew hath fed

And drunk the milk of Paradise – “

A completely spontaneous moment of poetry.

*********

*Well, by the time you’ve finished reading this post, we’re done, really. I hope you didn’t mind it; I promise to write about my Farewell Party/Triumphant Abdication that’s due to take place THIS SUNDAY very soon. By the way, if you see this, Gentle Reader, and you’ve ever been to Paisley Glen, please come by, if you can, and bring everything full circle.

†2003

‡Kubla Khan, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced:

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:

And ‘mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:

And ‘mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw:

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight ‘twould win me

That with music loud and long

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

If you made it through all that – it’s not that long, and it’s a lovely recitation – well, here’s a bonus photo. I have a dead bird hat. You’re welcome.

If you can get any more skeptical than this, do let me know in the comments.

Tagged: Abdication, Faire, Fairies, Kubla Khan, Miss Ward, Paisley Glen, Poetry, Ren Faire, Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire

Post the Eighty-Ninth: The Invention of Fancy Time

We continue our exploration of my sorrow at not attending Faire this year even though its totally a positive thing  my history with the Renaissance Faire. I hope you enjoy this revisited post, Gentle Reader. 

Gentle Reader, the Faire continues for three weekends. As I said last Friday, this is my last year, but I thought it would be fun to continue with Faire-related posts each Friday, while I’m on site doing the sorts of things described. Therefore, Gentle Reader, I shall craft you a tale, of the origin of something called Fancy-Time, which takes place at seven o’clock sharp, whenever you need an extra bit of joie de vivre.

At Faire, unless you’re working it, there’s no real division between day and night, such as cocktail hour. You’re in a field, and drinking begins quite early*. The days are broiling hot; you’re dehydrated, you’re tipsy, you’re in a field in a costume and nothing makes much sense, except a sense of passion and history. It’s hot and chaotic and combines all the thrills and tension of being backstage at the theatre with the dangers of the savannah. Sometimes, people collapse from all of this.

Which may explain scenes like this.

It came to pass that, when dear Miss Ward dropped in from South-East Asia one day, it fell to me to entertain her. She’d been abroad, and her former haunt surely wasn’t fancy enough any more, and we were all too exhausted/stressed to tidy up. Nonetheless, We’d have to class the joint up before she arrived. I dashed into my tent, where there was a profusion of finery, and madly started tossing outfits to the people lounged about.  I decided that we were going to host a formal dance in Miss Ward’s honor, at seven sharp, and people had damn well better dress up. Time period wasn’t important, and mixture of elements was encouraged; fanciness and frippery were the only requirement. Once attired, we took some photographs, and went on a tour around the field, inviting the other households to our little ball.

How could they say no to a face like this?

Miss Ward arrived; our household was attired in splendor to greet her. Unfortunately, no guests showed up. We posed for a group portrait, deciding that our fanciness was an end in itself – the whole point of having nice things is to use them.

Pictured: Glamor

A trifle cross, we paraded once more around the field, resplendent. People saw us coming, and dashed to find their own finery, throwing whatever silks and velvets were handy onto their weary frames, joining the procession. Soon we were thirty strong, and the strange combinations of outfits made a peacock look monochromatic. The heat was beginning to get to us, though – but wait! What is that, in the distance?

A water-buffalo. Which, in this context, is not the animal you are familiar with, but a truck with a large tank, hired to spray water over the dry, dry, field, so that people don’t burn the place down. As one, we broke into a run, heading for the cold, clear, water.

When we reached the gorgeous spray, we danced and cavorted in it. Our followers joined us, reveling in the cool refreshment, not one of us giving a damn about the water on our fancy clothes. We followed the truck, and had our formal dance, drenched, in its wake.

*********

* Morality is rather… different at events such as these. It’s more shocking when you don’t invite someone to share your tent of an evening; drinking happens early, and often, and nobody thinks anything of it. It’s a bit of a roman holiday, truth be told.

Tagged: Fabulous Parties, Fancy Dress, Fancy Time, Paisley Glen, Ren Faire, Ridiculous Life, Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire

Post the Eighty-Sixth: The Renaissance Faire

Gentle Reader, last weekend is the first time in twelve thirteen years I’ve missed a weekend of The Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire – or its predecessor. I made this choice for myriad reasons, but it doesn’t mean I’m not a little sentimental. This week, we’ll be revisiting last year’s posts on the matter. 

Yesterday, Gentle Reader, I realized a terrible truth: I have wasted spent precisely one year of my life on what would become the Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire. This year that I’ve spent – spread out over the last twelve – includes 24 hours of 7 days of 52 weeks. It’s a significant portion of my life, and I’ve spent most of it as head of the household that I run ran. This year, King Edmund I of Paisley Glen is hanging up his crown.

When I first realized I was a queen.

By the time you read this, I will be greeting old friends, setting up camp, and preparing for our Opening Ceremony.

The ceremony, during set-up, involves this jacket.

It also involves a monkey at the organ, if that helps spark your imagining of how we roll. Also, that’s a real organ, albeit electric, and we use it for dramatic music.

Today marks the first night of my last year at this event, and I’d like to mark the occasion by telling you a little about our silly little household. After all, the bulk of my adult life is tied up in it. It fostered my love for costuming, for history, for not complying with the demands of traditional lifestyles.

PICTURED: Not a traditional lifestyle.

In my teens, the faire started out a few miles from my parent’s house. Naturally, we’d end up there – there is very little to do, in a rural summer, when you don’t drive. I’m not exactly Opie, after all. After a year or two, we founded our household, Paisley Glen – named for the bright pink dollar-per-yard fabric we festooned in the foyer.

Seen in the background here

Oh, yes – our encampment had a foyer – as well as a picket fence, a swimming pool, etcetera, etcetera.

Not joking.

The next year, we were camped at what became our traditional corner – the ground there became our right. At the corner of Paisley Lane and Paisley Avenue, we opened our doors, and opened our eyes to what we would become – when the wind blew my tent into another encampment, we annexed it, calling it Paisley Poland, which would become the first of our duchies. We refused to recognize anyone else’s sovereignity, making other leaders dukes and duchesses of our realm – including the head of the whole damned faire. This year – 2002, I believe – was where I connected with Ex-Husband outside of school for the first time, and we shared an illicit bottle of Peach Arbour Mist.

This is what Paisley Glen looks like during the heat of the day.

When the faire changed owners and names, years later, it was a bit of a wrench – the original owners had purchased a large woodland area, intending to hold the faire there, but the site wasn’t ready – the new owners hadn’t taken over yet. This year, there was no faire, but that didn’t stop us: We held a picnic in a public park in our garb, we held a household-only camping event at somebody’s house, we camped in our designated spot at the soon-to-be-lost new site. We did what we always did: we were utterly ridiculous in the face of reality.

In the new country, after the coup that left the faire with new owners and a new name, we followed the faire: this was our home event, even if it had moved and changed. By this point, we were well established; completely distinct from other households, we were the place to party, due to the generosity of our open bar. We had proper, upholstered, furniture, not just camp chairs. We claimed to be Victorian time-travelers, re-enacting the Elizabethan age for a lark. Our costuming spanned five-hundred years, mixed and matched, and nobody minded. Not quite like the other ren-rats, we were well liked.

Immigration is exhausting.

After we attained the new site, we were constantly striving to be bigger and better than before. The Lord Von Hale has built us many magnificent set-pieces and structures over the years, including our portable bar, that grew out of my Majesty’s original booze-cage.

The original

The improvement. Obviously, there isn’t a photo of the current version. Dang. Also, please ignore the mess; I was making bloody maries. Oh, hey! Notice the same pink paisley drapery above my head?

A portable clock-tower – sixteen feet tall, with a belfry – has replaced the original muffin-dome.

This is the Muffin Dome. Please excuse the photos. This is either during set-up or during take-down.

Our silly mythology, peerage and parliament, our pretend customs and ceremonies, have grown, evolved, and changed. We even have a second generation – well, first and a half – of younger siblings who don’t remember a life without the Glen.

This is about five years into his Paisley Participation. Kid’s graduated high school, now.

They’ve grown up believing all the silly bullshit we spout, and take it as a solemn duty, almost as if Paisley Glen were the church they were raised in. It’s peculiar, and it’s wonderful.

Over the years, drama has increased, mounted up; there is tension between various factions; we play politics for fun, but sometimes those pretend politics are deadly serious. This is part of why I’m abdicating my crown; I’m done with the drama. The Glen, as much as I love it, has been holding me back; almost all of the founders of this institution have moved on. I need to, as well. This is why I’m leaving the comfort of our little household, where I’m regarded as a literal king; the world is wide, and I need to explore it. I’ll never do that, trapped in the habits of twelve years.

Goodbye, Paisley Glen. I love you.

Here are some additional photos, because – well, because of Nostalgia. Enjoy them, Gentle Reader.

My long hair is conducive to courtly love.

The official breakfast of Paisley Glen.

Our fireplace, and some ceramic portraits.

I’m so young, here. The MS paint editing shows the age of the photo.

This is an attractive outfit, if you’re blind. 2009 Yes, that’s a leather kilt.

Mr. C.W.L. Darling, the porn star, in his youth.

This is the other way that Paisley Glen looks during the day. Same pink fabric, on the right.

My first time. The turtleneck I’m wearing is stretch velvet, because that’s period. SHIT. I’m sixteen here, folks.

The official State Portrait, with all the Regalia.

Fun Fact: I have a hat that’s a dead pheasant.

This is a perfect photo of what Paisley Glen’s all about. Not about the drinking, but about the *toasting*. This, THIS, is what it’s all about. A campfire, some cocktails, and some sentimentality.

Tagged: Drinking, Living History, Nostalgia, Paisley Glen, Ren Faire, Renaissance Faires, Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire