I'll be safely ensconced in the bosom of the family, as my sea of brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, hangers-on, dates, neighbors, assorted friends, and various orphans that have nowhere else to go for the holiday, along with their assorted boyfriends, girlfreinds, exes, and future exes, will congregate at the parental mothership ancestral abode to eat, drink, watch football, and play dominos until such time as we are all too drunk, sated, and tuckered out to drive home, at which point we'll load up all the beds, sofas, and empty spots on the floor with snoring turkey-stuffed blobs of protoplasm, until we wake up on Friday, and drink hair a' the dawg until all the canines in the local family group have given up their fur to such point as they are all as bald ass nekkid as Sinead O'Connor and Vin Diesel's love child. It is not unknown in this clan for a few such luv chilluns to come into being at any of these holidays. :-)

A good time will be had by all, though most of us will not remember it. :-)

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There are several traditional celibrations held each season during the last few weeks of TRF for and by the cast and workers. On the fifth weekend is the party known as GiggleFest, a wacky sort of cross-gendered bacchanalia that I'll have to write more about later. On the sixth weekend is Naked Jester, a night of comedy skits and parodies that poke fun at the faire. (the script for a skit I wrote and performed one year for it is here)

Finally, after Day 14, the last of the season, there is a more serious cermony, The Toasting, where one and all are invited to toast and remember, among other things, those who have been with us in the past, but are no longer.

It's a bittersweet night. By the seventh weekend, there is a part of you that is truly relieved to have the season end, as you are physically and mentally worn out. If you have a regular 9-5 mundane gig, as most of the cast does, you've worked seven weeks straight without a true day off. (more if you count rehearsal and workshops) At the same time, you're already starting to miss the friends you see there every year, most of whom will scatter about, and despite your best intentions and solemn oaths otherwise, you'll probably not see again until faire cranks up again.

This year was especially poignant, as there were a few more missing comrades than is typical. Jeff Baldwin, the entertainment director, arranged for several of the musicians to perform appropriate tunes. The two I most enjoyed were performed by Jim Hancock. Jim has been a staple of this and other faires for many years, along with being a regular at the Kerrville Folk Festival, where he's played with such notables as Michelle Shocked.

He sang "Here's a Health To The Company," most appropriate to the occasion, and one entitled "Beggars to God." Though it was new to me, it must be a tune well known amongst the cast there, as everyone there sang the chorus along with him. Beneath this curmudgeonly crust of mine, I am secretly a sentimental cuss, and it brought tears to my eyes. It hit me hard. "Make love to each other; be free with each other, Be prisoners of love 'til you lie in the sod, Be friends to each other, forgive one another, See God in each other, be beggars to God." Seeing the words there on paper does no justice to the tune, so go track down the mp3 somewhere, or better yet, click over to Jim's website, buy the CD, and yell at him for not having a sample of that song available yet. (It's from his album "The World Turned Upside Down," which I immediately bought the next day)

These maudlin sentiments clung to me the entire next day, as we packed up our camp for the year, and headed home. The song had reminded me of an old friend, Carey Smith, a sweet and tender girl who was killed in a motorcycle accident in her early twenties. That was about eight years ago, and I still miss her. Try as I might, I could not keep the tears from periodically welling up that day as we drove back home.

CG finally noticed the tears dripping down from behind my sunglasses and asked me what was wrong. As I tried to tell her, it got worse, and I ended up crying like a damn baby, and had to pull over before I drove off the road.

Isn't it strange how one simple song can rip open an old hurt that you think might have scarred over after all the years, and force you to feel it all over again? "Be prisoners of love til you lie in the sod" Words to live by.

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Lord Entropy is always garbed in exotic leather armor - as well he should, as he owns a shop making such armor. This is one of his more exotic designs, new for this season.

One evening, late, during the fireworks, I managed to get a closeup shot I thought was kinda cool. With a bit of tweaking in my freindly neighborhood image editor, I came up with this...

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