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Once a year, Gainesville is host to a dork fest. And I mean a dork fest of the most astounding proportions. It's called the Hoggetowne Medieval Faire, where the middle ages come alive with all the things you might expect to find there, like beer and funnel cakes and bad British accents and goofy IT guys walking around in tights. IN TIGHTS! (Now, how am I ever again going to be able to look at him with a straight face when he comes to fix my network connection?) 

Though I mock the event and its participants with enthusiasm, I have found myself attending every year since I've lived here. Heaven knows why. I blame the atmosphere of Florida--sunshiney and largely devoid of common sense.  

           
Belly dancers were common sight in England during Late Antiquity. 
As were guys with fancy dinner napkins on their heads, fondling their balls.

I have no idea why I frequent this event every year. I think it's going to be fun, but I always leave feeling mildly depressed. Maybe it's because I generally dislike humanity and being close to it in large numbers always makes me a uneasy. Especially when humanity is busily eating overpriced, poorly prepared fair food and mauling caged animals.

Poor Judy was getting a raw deal. For three bucks, you got to ride her for five minutes. Your three bucks also got you relatively close to the guy who swatted her backside every couple of seconds as she lumbered around the cramped and dirty enclosure. I wasn't the only one feeling sorry for Judy. Several people felt badly enough to hold signs outside the entrance to the fair. 

"Save Judy!" 

"Stop Animal Cruelty!" 

"An Elephant Never Forgets!"

What really got to me, however, was that Judy's advocates appeared unconcerned by the treatment of the camel, the llamas, the goats, the donkeys, the horses, the hawks, the falcons and the owls, all penned in or chained up and none of whom appeared pleased by their predicament. One falcon flew the coop and perched in one of the impossibly tall pine trees that lined the fairgrounds, causing the cancellation of subsequent bird shows. Part of me wanted the falcon to stay free, but I knew from a conversation with one of the bird wranglers that the falcon was accustomed to captivity and would die unless he came home to his box--with a lock and some holes at the top. 

To hell with the goats and the birds! Save Judy!

Why? Why do I torture myself? Perhaps because I used to enjoy these things once upon a time and I'm attempting to recapture my youth. Here is God's honest proof. Granted, I was only 17, but that's no excuse.

Sherwood Forest, New York State, circa 1982