Ren Fest 2014- Opening Weekend

A recap of each weekend posted here for posterity, for reflection, and for to share the joy.


Opening Weekend: Highland Games (resulting in lots of kilts and bagpipes, both of which I greatly enjoy)

-Saturday was full of greeting Village characters that I haven't seen in the better part of a year. It was satisfying and comfortable to walk around the site once again.

-Performed with Sef as "The Homewreckers" in the first round of Vilification Tennis. We came out strong, and lost our match with dignity. I could feel the difference a year of improv and comedy made in my stage presence and connecting with the audience.

-Our afternoon gig, participating in the Mead Social as the peanut gallery of jokesters and storytellers ended up being great fun. Charles Sutter, Winemaker, gave a naughty limerick where he cuts himself off instead of saying the final rhyming word; "clitoris".  At the back of the crowd, Merry chimes in with, "...her arras?" "What?" sputters Charles. "It's a curtain." Merry explains, as our troupe explodes in laughter, further confusing everyone. When we perform Hamlet, Polonius is stabbed through the "arras" (a rich tapestry, in truth), which the troupe mistakes for part of human anatomy during the show.

-After hours, I sat with friends inside a delicious, air-conditioned trailer to trade stories of our first day. Even managed to have a few good conversations amidst the cacophony of the Tavern-turned-dance-club. Teamed up with friends to assault the Porter with back scratches, temple rubbing, back and hand massages. Because he deserves it, after putting out First Day fires for 12 hours.

-I discovered how much fun it is to share my ice cream cone with friends. As each took their taste, I smooshed the cone onto their face for good measure. One Puppet Troupe girl licked the extra off the other Puppet Troupe girl's nose.

-Sunday's first show ended being a speed-through of "Goldilocks and the 2 Little Pigs". It took longer than expected, because the troupe and audience couldn't stop laughing at the ridiculous situations.

-We had an extra performer for the next fairy tale, so we performed, "Hansel & Gretel & Steve". Steve ate all the breadcrumbs Hansel dropped, so the other children let the witch roast him first as a diversion before shoving her in the oven.

-A shop worker called me in off the street to ask for a taste of my ice cream cone. He might have been just flirting, but I stepped into the shop and smooshed his share onto his face. His buddies crowded in the shop erupted with glee! "You earned that," I quipped, and smiled sweetly before taking my leave.

The Funny.

There is some dark stuff in this post. There is also some lovely stuff. I hope it balances out.

Sometime late Sunday night or early Monday morning, Robin Williams ended his life. Something was happening to him where he felt there was no better alternative than to die. All the things that could be listed as good parts of his life, career, and reputation didn't fucking matter. For Robin, they probably hadn't mattered in a while. Depression lied to him and convinced him there was no way out of the Screaming Dark, no way but one.

No, I didn't know him. I've never met him, corresponded with him, nor have I any reason to grieve his death over the loss of life statistically happening constantly around the planet.

Still, I grieve.

I can't remember the first time I saw a Robin Williams film, or if I saw him as Mork or doing stand-up, he has always been a ubiquitous, hilarious component of my childhood. My brother and I watched a lot of movies on the Friday nights during Mom's weekend to have us. As much as we bickered about everything else in life, we could always find a comedy that we both wanted to see. So we watched "Hook". Then we'd watch it again first thing Saturday morning.

Slapstick and sword fights? Yes please.

We saw "Toys". It was entertaining enough for kids, sure, but a lot of the absurdity went over our heads. That's why I love watching it now, though; discovering jokes I was too young to comprehend.

Half the time I couldn't even pick up on the plot.

Seeing the film, "Jack", was an absolute--solely because of the name of the lead actor. The scene of Jack exploring in the yard is a brilliant piece of acting. Watching Robin act the child made me realize how astoundingly talented he was. Robin gave Jack wonder, gentle curiosity, and sheer delight that shines in happy children. The movie was not a comedy, but how could a person not be captivated by a character such as Jack?

Ugh. The feels! All the feels!

Becoming a fan of black comedy was like arriving at a great party where I knew everyone and felt completely comfortable. Plus Robin Williams was there. "Death to Smoochy" was this roller coaster ride of hilarity and piteousness. An awkward vignette of the shiny & new replacing the worn & old plays out in the context of children's television entertainment. Naughty things and bad words happening in a "sunshine zone" seemed refreshing, relevant, and perfectly wry.

It's a thin line between "wacky" and "psycho".

I didn't care for the whole Heaven and Hell thing going on in "What Dreams May Come", but I loved the idea that everyone's paradise and punishment is formed by their self. Another dramatic film where Robin's performance inspires both delight and devastation. The pain of the characters really is sourced from the depths of the actors. 

An oil-painted world really is the best heaven, though.

I can't imagine the absolute desolation his family & friends feel now. I can't even begin to conceive how Robin himself felt on the Last Day, nor on the days, weeks, and months preceding. This was a man who, even though he loved his family, career, and comedy, couldn't manage to stay alive one more day.

...

Within all that craziness, the energy, the hilarity, the imagination, and the inspiration the real Robin sits in the center of it all--Prospero conjuring sprites and storms. He was hurting and couldn't reach out for help. That's something a lot (a LOT) of people recognize in themselves, and losing yet another soul to the Screaming Dark is demoralizing. Considering so many people have been that close to killing themselves, to have been so entirely overwhelmed with even just the natural state of existence, it is terrifying.

 So now I grieve. My heart is broken because a truly brilliant, funny, kind man suffered and succumbed to an insidious disease that I fight and help my friends fight every day. It shouldn't have to be like this. But it is like this. I will never never never give up. There is a hole in the world where a dazzling, gentle, hairy, genius actor should be, and a deep deficit of comedy potential. I can think of nothing better than to always always try to make up for that deficit with levity, wackiness, hijinks, and dick jokes.

That's how I feel. My Facebook feed is choked with people expressing their concern, their sadness, and their shock at the suicide of Robin Williams. I will not apologize for adding one more missive to the queue.

And if you don't like it, why don't you go suck on a dead dog's nose.

Frosted Goofball. Om nom nom.

I'm Going to Make This Mark.

So I am trying to be an entrepreneur. Well, so is everybody, I guess. Entrepreneurship is the New & Shiny Thing, which replaced Enlightening & Shiny Yoga, which took over from X-treme & Shiny Doritos flavors. I'm not one to jump on the bandwagon for any trend; it's just that I have a really shitty time participating in the "traditional" workforce. 

Side note: When I say "traditional workforce", I refer to the 9-to-5, 40 hours weekly, uniform, dependable career. The ceaseless grinding through decades of one's life, just to earn enough money to buy a camper and drive around the country after retirement. If one can afford to retire before developing health problems. All that? That is bullshit.

I'm not going to pick apart my entire work history, family life, and my current attempt at recovering from depression in order to justify why I'm not searching the want ads for anything that amounts to a living wage in Minnesota (Hint: not fucking much). The long and short of it is: I have crap motivation. None willpowers. Having a job doing the same tasks for the same clients with the same coworkers drains my enthusiasm for showing up to work faster than a Dachshund hearing bacon fall on the kitchen floor.

IT'S THICK-CUT MAPLE SMOKED

So I moved into this rickety old house with the Original Manna, set up my sewing space in the living room, and started telling people that I could sew things for them.

...and it worked.

I have had a mostly steady flow of projects since then; friends with burlesque costume ideas, cosplay requests, moms-of-friends with tailoring needs, and Renaissance Festival garb requirements from all and sundry. I have never been more content with a daily job before now. I love all the aspects of my projects, from pattern design for a costume through to disassembling ready-made clothes for tailoring. As I suspected, my schedule is really full with Ren Fest costuming for the next month. This is incredibly awesome....but also horribly terrifying. 

From many, many (many) past experiences I know that when I get overwhelmed with too much to do, I shut down completely. I withdraw from progression on anything, take too many naps, and begin a downward spiral of shame and procrastination. There's less than a fortnight left before Opening Day of Ren Fest, and I can feel the panic setting in. I can feel the sensation of hopelessness bleeding into my waking moments, stealing my ambition. Except there's this tiny, little lizard-brain voice in my head shouting that I cannot go stagnant again, because this time in my independent career is most crucial to establishing a good work ethic and a positive reputation with my clients. It sounds like hyperbole, but to fail now is to die (creatively).

I found a video that sustains me, though. When it seems like I'm about to dive headfirst into the tar pits of my own misery, I watch this, I recite the lines with it, and I try to believe in me all the things ZeFrank is saying for himself: 

And I always, always shake off the things I don't like, just like ZeFrank in the video. **grrrraah**

Then I forgive myself.

Then I get back to work.

Lots of Big Words Are In Here.

My previous entry discoursed on how fucked up snack-food flavor combinations are. My example being those little peanut-butter & cheese-flavored crackers of sin you can get from a vending machine.

When asked, a number of my cherished readers also divulged in their strange, food-combo guilty pleasures (Names have been changed to protect my whereabouts on the night in question):


Mrs. Sassy-pants- "I get a small mac & cheese with meatballs and a side of pot sticker sauce at Noodles and Co...I dip the meatballs in the sauce, then pour it over the pasta to finish it. It's more dinner than snack...a guilty, weird, pleasure." (Damn, lady. You are a rockstar of weird foodstuffs. I tip my hat to you.)

Tiny elf woman- Peanut butter on apples. (Newsflash: this is a perfectly acceptable and non weird way to consume peanut butter. I still included it because peanut butter.)

Distant pen-clown- Jelly on grilled cheese. (I fully support this one, for the same reasons that jelly sammiches dipped in chicken noodle soup are amazing.)

Mad Max Jr.- Grilled peanut butter and bacon. (How, in my tedious 32 years on this world, did I never discover this?! What promises did you make to some arcane, dark god to receive the knowledge of such a combination?!)

Original Manna- Grilled cheese with ketchup. (Is this an east-coast thing, you weirdo?)

***Cheers, everyone. You have successfully lived up to my expectations of having unusual friends.***

Now on to the actual blog post: 

...eh, fuck it. I'm hungry now.

Snacks Are Weird.

I have been wondering about snacks for a while. I was probably drunk at the time, but I suddenly realized that people mix food flavors in the most unnatural, horrifying, delicious ways. Completely blew my whiskey-soaked little mind.

First example: Peanut butter & cheese cracker sandwiches =/= cheddar with a peanut butter schmear.

It's very difficult to make peanut butter NOT look like poo.

If you haven't eaten these, you've at least seen them in numerous vending machines, glowing sickly orange in the night-florescence of highway motels, summer camp, and college campuses. Four little, dry squares of cheese-flavored crackers & peanut butter. The salty-sweet, crumbly-gooey magical combination guarantees the snack's continued distribution to rest stops and kindergarteners around the country. Take the basic flavors, though; peanut butter and....cheese? How much rum was drunk to make that sound like a good idea?

...I still love those cracker sammiches, though.

Tell me, my cherished readers: What strange food combination do you snack on? Do you have a gustatory guilty pleasure do you harbor?

Finished Projects, All White.

I love colors! Obviously not in my own wardrobe, which is given to shades of black and stripes. In general, though, bright & bold colors inspire my imagination. Both my yarn and fabric stashes overflow with colorful selections with which I can plot and plan and fantasize.

Ergo, I'll be sorting my brag posts chromatically. I start with the color comprised of all color: white. Mainly because these photos were the impetus for this theme.

Rocking out--FOR SCIENCE!

A wedding dress was brought to me, 3 days before THE Day. It needed just a wee bit of adjustment at the sweetheart neckline. It took me more time to disassemble the dress than to perform the tweak! A locking backstitch modified the neckline, invisible fell stitches to close up the lining, and plastic snaps swapped out for metal.

Hand-stitching bridal wear; the most terrifying form of meditation.

The most frightening part about working on this dress was making sure my hands were clean the whole time. Still, the end result fit the lovely bride like a pretty, lace glove!

Except, you know...right side out, like a normal person.

This shirt I was commissioned to replicate exactly from the client's favorite that he had worn out. He wanted 3 shirts identical: the ruffled collar, the french seams, and even the double layer of cotton plisse used. Lucky for him, I found the exact fabric at my fabric outlet warehouse.

I'm pretty sure the dress form is what
makes the shirt look feminine. Mostly.

I bought enough fabric to make this one, to gauge how much time it took and what order of steps I needed for such a project. When I returned to get more fabric, I struck out. I could not find the bolt anywhere! I wandered through every. single. aisle. of S. R. Harris, but could not spot it!

S.R. Harris is like this, only more organized.
And the Ark is 50% off the marked price.

The shirts weren't due until August, so I didn't panic too much; I was months ahead of schedule! Those months passed. I looked in chain stores, online, and re-combed the warehouse. None fabrics. Until last week.

A warehouse employee and I picked through the aisles. The countdown to the deadline is a month away, and now the client has been asking after his shirts. Still nothing. I chose a random bolt of cotton to make do, and resigned myself to disappoint yet another client.

Then I looked up. I was storming through the rayon/lycra aisle, and here was the exact plisse I needed. Out of all the sections where plisse should have been (seersucker, broadcloth, cottons, linens), who decided to stuff it on a shelf with all this rayon?!

Froofy, yes. Artificial? I think not.

8 yards of washing and ironing later, I am about to start on the last 2 shirts of the order. This fabric is so lovely to use, I'll be returning to the outlet for more as soon as I can afford to.

...If I can manage to find it a 3rd time. Cross your fingers, you may want to buy from me something made with this great stuff!

It was like sewing with the dreams of little babies.

Next, On "Life Styles of the Weird & Demented"…

When we moved into the Haus of Manna, I knew for certain that I would need a sewing space in one of the common areas. My bedroom is small, strange and has a door that goes to the laundry in the basement (but that’s another story). Original Manna & I successfully arranged the living room to serve our purposes; she has her computer desk, there’s a butt-swallowing couch right across from the TV, and I have a work space. 

I'll admit: I staged this. It's never this tidy

Over here is my standing work table. It was a butcher block construction from IKEA, but now it is an unfaltering plane of creation. Storage underneath is for craft materials and patterns. And stuffing. And some works in progress. In fact, how many works in progress (WIPs) can you see in this photo? The dress form is a vintage 60’s model my Aunt found for me. She named it Mathilde because the size on the box was “M”. 

Many WIPs is considered a badge of honor. Or distraction.

This is where the noisy magic happens. Yes, there are 3 machines in this photo. No, that’s not all the machines I have (there’s one more in the next photo). Yes, they have names. Also pictured is my inspiration bulletin board, my bag of knitting (only 2 works in progress!), my sewing box, the thread rack, and my Nerf gun. 

...Wait...Nerf gun?

This is my Nerf gun. There are many like it, but this one is mine. It’s for cat discipline. Original Manna’s cat likes to be on high places, including my work table. It also comes in handy for the occasional Roommate Nerf Skirmish.

Efficient, accurate, and looks like an alien laser.

At the end of the machine table is Minerva. At the moment Minerva is sporting the Carmen Miranda-inspired turban I made for a friend’s burlesque number. Naturally, the fabulous shades finishes the look in a glamorous, skin-less way. 

That Minerva...she's ahead of her time.

My library and notions are stored below. The last machine is there, also. Yes, it, too has a name. I love collecting books with information on any and every aspect of sewing or fashion design. That way I don’t really have to remember anything; as long as I know where it’s printed! I have several different boxes and bags in which to store my myriad groups of notions. I guess I like the idea of buying cute, clever, coordinated storage units, but I always believe that money would be better spent on more fabric. Or yarn. Or books about either.

I read "The Dictionary of Fashion" to Franco sometimes.

Speaking of fabric, I have lots (big surprise). It’s carefully organized into transparent boxes which are haphazardly stacked on our porch. In the past month, I’ve managed to edit out some fabric that I don’t need, and I need to do another pass to further narrow down my collection. “But why, Manna?! Why would you want to get rid of any fabric?” you might say. Well some of you. The ones whose stashes rival mine. You know who you are. 

Just looking at it makes me happy. Is that crazy? Maybe.

The short answer is: no space, no patience. If I only have so many boxes into which to cram future projects, I’m going to be picky. On the bright side, my friends will be able to pick up some new lovelies from me soon!

Sure, my work space has a sloped floor that makes it hard to sit at the high table with a rolling desk chair (but also makes it damn hilarious); sure, I have to share valuable elbow space with the modem-thinger; sure, it needs more light….but it’s mine. It’s how I want it. It lets me explore and repair wonderful, vintage coats such as this: 

A vintage faux-Persian lamb coat that needed lining repair.

I admired the hand stitching on a shoulder pad.

Some very close, neat machine stitching. It was a pleasure to
repair this coat and match the stitch styles used.