After months of peace my teeth have once more turned against me. The insurgents, the bloody sappers, have wormed there way through to the very core of the kinggum. Woes to the fall of capitols, why must man dabble at the mouth of the gorge, sure to fall, down, down into the depths of biting impression. Incisive victory shalln’t come soon, only the veneer of peace remains until the gritty mold of old can be struck down and the new one braced, the citizens banded together under the law of a greater tooth.
All this to say, my mouth hurts. My wisdom teeth, though slow growing, are doing so in a sort of spiral, hog’s tusk fashion, at perpendicular angles to my face. It’s somewhat of a distraction. Bad puns help.
Rum does, too.
On sunday, Mary and I spent our afternoon at the Renaissance Faire’s Celtic Fling. Less a Renaissance celebration and more an amalgamated cosplay shindig, the Fling acted as an opportunity for attendees to try out their various, lip-service paying fantasy costumes with unabashed pride. Being that this was the Celtic carnival, a great number of kilts made their way into the normal repertoire of anachronistic knights, time traveling pirates, and all together bizarre sexy monks. Seeing all this, Mary and I of course decided we had dire need of our own costumes. As a Scot (Cameron Clan, Aonaibh ri chéile and all that) I’d already on my kilt. Somehow, though, a Utilikilt and a black tank-top just didn’t seem enough for the event. Mary’s accidental sexy Jedi getup, was, she decided, right out.
While I smoked a cigar and drank beer on the side of the walk, Mary got fitted for a corset. I mostly watched the passers by, unwilling to take my cigar into the shop lest it damage its wears. I was within sight of a sign proclaiming a haggis stop and was greatly tempted to abandon both my cigar and my girlfriend in acquisition of said disgustingly created, deliciously dispatched comestible. I held strong.
Having emptied my beer and finished my cigar and seen only glimpses of Mary’s back, I turned from the siren’s allure of ground lung in sheep’s stomach and made my way up a ramp into the Casta Diva. Inside, I found Mary not only be-corseted, but be-skirted, and be-bustled as well. I was, with very little personal cachet, fitted for a vest much in the style of Mary’s corset, a man-set, of sorts. I suppose I could have turned down the fitting, but several people did tell me I looked “cool” and that sort of vast praise can’t be ignored.
Vests synched, crappy credit cards juggled, and buyers regret firmly relegated to the lands of tomorrow-days, Mary and stepped out of the dark shop and into the bright (it was cloudy, so slightly less dark, really) light of the public eye, now at least as silly and just as confident as all those sexy steam-pirate-dragon-knights.
Thence off for more beer, haggis, and semi-Celtic happenstance. All in all, a sunday well spent.