I was pretty excited to hit the Renaissance Festival in Larkspur last weekend, but it wasn’t due to a penchant for jousting. (Too much “Blahblah Sire” this and “Blahblah Milady” that; not enough poking each other with sticks.)
I’m not crazy for old-timey crafts sold in places with “shoppe” in their names, or busty maids singing of bonny lads, or pirate-themed stores where you can buy skull rings and Jolly Roger-emblazoned flasks.
When I get a hankerin’ for the RenFair, I just put on my Tinkerbell costume, call my gyro a “mutton sandwich” and watch “The Tudors.”
I’ll admit wandering around with a turkey leg in one mitt and a beer in the other is tempting. And I don’t currently own a crossbow or have a steady enough hand to do up my own Popeye-inspired anchor tattoos in henna. But that shit doesn’t keep me up at night.
I still couldn’t drive there fast enough Sunday. Why? Because when I play RenFair at my house, there’s nobody to make fun of except my cat who does not appreciate being dressed as Sir Isaac Mewton. (Every time he falls asleep, I toss a crabapple at his head.) Frankly, the people watching is so stinking good at the festival, I knew it’d spell the most epic game of Yours.
You may know the game too; it’s sometimes called “Your Date for the Evening,” or “He/She’s On Your Team” or “10,000 Babies” — and by “sometimes,” I mean I just made up “10,000 Babies” as another name right now, but I bet somebody will use it this evening at the bars.
Now, the ultimate Yours player is someone who doesn’t go for the easy mark. You don’t just find a dude in mismatched plaids and shout to your bestie, “You wanna have 10,000 babies with him!”
If you’re any good, you’ll aim much, much higher. Think about what qualities your friend abhors in others, and then zero in on that. For instance, due to a trauma in college (attending), I have a bongo phobia. I also have to fight back a gag reflex when I see dirty, hairy manfeet. So when my girlfriend spotted an otherwise handsome dude on the Pearl Street Mall doing a handstand and batting at his bongo with dirty, hairy manfeet, it was a very solid Yours call, garnering both hate and respect.
Luckily there was no line at the crossbow booth, because it turned out to be a wholly pathetic round of Yours at the RenFair. Sure, there were dudes rocking shimmery tights and gold-colored balloon shorts who were not getting paid actual money to dress like that. And girls pretending to be unicorns with their white, furry, cloven boots peeking out of corseted dresses. And terrifically pudgy Captain Jack Sparrows pinballing down the street knocking over wizards wearing glasses and Tevas. In fact, nearly everybody but this asshat — who rolled to the fair in a purple tank top and shorts — arrived to the fete dressed for the occasion. I could almost hear them. “Prithee, Cousin, do you spy yon barelegged maid? She doth dress like a whore. She is THINE!”
I went to the RenFair looking to play Yours, but I’m pretty sure I got Mine.