I headed back to the ren faire this time. Oh sure, I’ve been to ren faires in Florida, including BARF. If you aren’t from Florida, you probably thought that was a commentary on the fair itself. No, it stands for Bay Area Renaissance Fair.

I’m not really the rennie type, mind you. I never have been. Still I go each year, largely because I can get some good shopping in, people watch and marvel at all the people who find a ren faire the be-all, do-all.

I guess it could be. It’s just not for me. I don’t judge others for like ren faires. I obviously don’t hate them, for I travel to them voluntarily.

I have even performed at one. Oh, let’s go there first. What a nightmare that was. It wasn’t the fair’s fault… more the people that asked us to perform with them there. It was in Deerfield Beach. Animal and I were to entertain at the pirate ship (i.e., a skiff turned into a boat). The usual suspects were there, including the oddball pirates Captain Dan and Holly Roger, who are hired to stand around and mug for photos all day for what I assume is less than minimum wage while their handlers cash in on their performance.

Animal and I weren’t getting paid a dime. Not that we wanted any. Money usually comes with a price that has to be paid along the way, and in this case, and we didn’t want to follow no stinking rules. Especially inane ones.

Renfaire Robb, praying to the pirate gods for forgiveness.

Like the ban on having an libations while at the fair. If you pay your way in, there’s fun drink to be had. If you’re a performer, it’s verboten.

What kind of pirate is a teetotaler? I usually like to have a nip or two or three while I sing. I have never had formal voice training, so a beer helps relax my vocal chords and I do a lot less damage to them, especially when singing for two or three house straight.

So we weren’t about to go with this nonsense. Instead of taking the paltry pay of paid admission ($20 to be a shackled, rule following performer), we paid our own way in. That way we could do whatever we wanted to, and not really feel guilty about.

Before you go off saying, “oh, that’s just Robb’s rules, or in this case Robb’s just rules, I do hold a real job now where I have more rules and regulations than you can ever imagine and I somehow follow each and every one religiously.

I just don’t believe that a ren faire can be much fun without a little cargo in the hold, so to speak. I could have used a lot more that particular day. This was absolutely one of the top three worst gigs we had ever had. We couldn’t wait to get out of our assigned time and go shopping.

Cyren was smart. She didn’t even wait around for us to finish. She went off and did some “pre-shopping” while we did our time at the ship. The stocks would have been more enjoyable, especially when we had to listen to the rapping pirate guy that later appeared on America’s Got Talent. I’ll give you a hint folks, he doesn’t have any. It was the only time in my entire life that Howard Stearns and I agreed. But I digress.

Back to the ren faire. There is some part of me that enjoys these events. It’s not the stepping back in time thing. I don’t speak with a pseudo-British accent. I don’t have that skill set. Instead, I’m just me.

As such, I prefer going on pirate themed weekends, which this first weekend at the Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire happened to be. I guess I feel like I am more among my own ilk. Perhaps too much at certain points, as I inevitably ran into one of the former Thryce Wycked Wenches who my ex-whatever used to perform with. Oh, sure the usual dirty looks and innuendo behind my back. Like I’m not used to that. Hey, I’m from Florida where everyone knew my dirty laundry. I might as well have hung it all out to dry next to the Washing Well Wenches. And Leah was her usual aloof self, never quite looking me in the eye as she struggled to come up with idle banter. She had no way of avoiding me, seeing my son and then, too late, seeing me next to him. Ah, those awkward moments in life. For her, not me.

OK, so I have no idea what the real draw is. In the “real” world, I can swagger into any bar in Seattle loaded to the gills with weaponry. In Florida, I couldn’t take my sword into BARF, even though it’s so dull it can’t cut a cube of room temperature butter.

Refreshingly, they don’t even bother checking at the gate at the ren faire here. I saw zip ties so you can piece tie your weapon. But I didn’t see anyone with a weapon get stopped to double check that their weapon was tied off. Ah, it’s still a little bit of the Wild West here, thankfully.

I’m still not sure how it all seems to work at a ren faire. There were polyester pirates walking side by side with medieval knights, Walmart fairies cavorting with decked out royalty. And then there’s me. Just an old hurricane casting about for the next port in my ongoing storm I call life.

Maybe that’s what I like about ren faires. It’s the chance to be whatever you want to be, and no one else gives a rat’s ass. It’s a time when a man could be a man and sheep were afraid because of it. Wait, that sounds a lot like Idaho, doesn’t it?

In the Emerald City, having a hankering for those medieval corn dogs and shaved ice they were selling,

– Robb