Rex & KiKi are Barefoot in Florida: At the Renaissance Faire

“Are you sure you want to go to this thing?” KiKi asked.

The first hundred times she asked, I thought it was an interesting question, because I usually get accused of being the less adventurous one. I’m the one who actually enjoys being home occasionally, and has been known to spend an entire Sunday afternoon binge watching Netflix’s Daredevil, or Vikings on Amazon. So, to be asked if I really wanted to leave the house to do something seemed a stretch.

I politely reminded her that, if I suggested it, of course I wanted to do it. Who wouldn’t want to go to a Renaissance Faire in the lush rural forests of Lake County, Florida. We would drink mead, widely known as the elixir of the gods, dance round the May Pole to the sounds of Celtic fiddlers, enjoy a rousing joust with knights hurling off the backs of their steeds as their opponent’s lance splinters into a million pieces, and cheer on the noble warriors who fight to the death in a provocative game of human chess. Elle was completely pumped as well, having told her classmates and social studies teacher how excited she was about going, ad nauseam, all the merry ol’ week long.

Of course, I know why KiKi was asking. Renaissance Faires are just not her thing, the same as comic conventions, and theme parks, and midnight movie releases. She likes to drive long distances to places we’ve never seen, and probably aren’t going to see again. Oh, and if she has to wear a costume for it, it better be a Halloween party (truth be told, I don’t do the whole cosplay bit either, but as I writer, I find it fun to observe what everyone else comes up with).

“You’ll have fun,” I told her. “Besides, it’s been years since we’ve gone.”

“I’m just glad you’re not wearing that lame wizard costume again.”

“Dad had a wizard costume?” Elle asked.

“It wasn’t just some old wizard costume. I was Merlin,” I told her.

“’Sword and the Stone’ Merlin or the one with the blue paint on his face?” she asked.

“Definitely ‘Sword in the Stone’ Merlin,” I answered. “You know the rule. I only paint my face to be the Joker.”

KiKi rolled her eyes, and requested the address for the GPS.

“12835 County Landfill Road,” I told her.

“We’re going to a Renaissance Faire in a landfill?” KiKi asked incredulously. I could have sworn I heard her add under her breath, “best place for one.”

“It’s not in the landfill,” I told her. “It’s just nearby the landfill, probably on the opposite end of the road.” Of course I was wrong.

“Who puts on a Renaissance Faire in a landfill?” I bemoaned as we got out of the car.

“It’s in the part they covered up,” Elle said. “It’s not like it smells of rotting garbage, or anything. Lets go! There’s already a line for the tickets.”

“They’re just trying to make it realistic Sweetie,” KiKi said to me, “by making sure we all have bubonic plague before we leave.”

Once inside, it was easy to forget how near a gaping hole of trash we were. The booths were charming and nestled between a mini-forest of trees. Street performers sat at each crossroad with lyres and lutes while full blown acoustic bands and actors performed on the many main stages. In the center of the village was an area for authentic pre-17^th century style artisans from the Society for Creative Anachronism. They had blacksmiths and weavers, as well as culinary artisans making cheese and butter. Everywhere you looked there were costumed actors playing roles from royalty to street rats, and if they noticed that much of the rabble were wearing modern jeans and t-shirts, they didn’t let on.

I talked KiKi into forgoing the shopping for the moment so we could go to the Falconry show. She saw the wisdom in that, as she knew I would have drunk a goodly portion of mead by the time we got around to the shopping. One of my favorite parts of the Renaissance Faire experience is the bird show, if for no other reason than it amazes me that these majestic creatures don’t simply fly away and leave the handler looking like the court jester. At one point one of the hawks flew out of the trees and streaked within inches of my face on its way down into the arena to snatch a training decoy. It was breathtaking to see that bird so close.

Next, we went to the mead hall which was a little disappointing. I’ve actually made my own mead in the past, and while it’s a bit pricey to make because of the high volume of honey, I contend that it was a better tasting, and definitely more authentic recipe than what I received at the Renaissance Faire. KiKi ordered a Bud Light. A Bud Light at the Renaissance Faire! The fact that they even had it was disturbing! “At least I am enjoying mine,” she said to put an end my fifteen minute rant on the subject. For the rest of the day, when I went to the mead hall, I ordered the amber ale.

Next, on the agenda was Human Chess with the Rogues Theatre. In Human Chess actors trained in stage fighting line up like the pieces on a chess board and battle it out to the death with swords and clubs, and when nothing else is left, their bare hands. There is always a premise, usually something about a foreign king trying to illegally marry a princess to acquire lands he does not deserve. As the pieces move into what should be killing positions they do battle. The difference here is that you are never quite sure which combatant will actually win, because the attacking player does not automatically take the piece as in a regulation game. I was impressed with the quality of the fighting at the Lady of the Lakes Faire. It seemed that the majority of the combatants were well trained and some of the falls were spectacularly realistic (ie: wow, that looked like it really hurt, where are ye olde royal medics).

This was not, however, the case with the jousters from Noble Cause Productions. It started with an overly long bit of pomp and circumstance, that included a boring bit about lancing some rings (which consequently went badly for at least one the horseman who, breaking character, complained to the others about his paige, boo). Then, they took three feeble passes at one another before one faked the loss. I’ve seen much more realistic jousting in previous years at this Faire. There were no splintered lances or instances of knights being dismounted by their opponent. It was like they weren’t even trying very hard. It looked overly choreographed too, and so we opted not to return for the second show.

“Now, this show is actually quite good,” KiKi told me as we watched the Matimoniacs, a husband wife comedy team who’s schtick is to give marriage counseling, even though they don’t seem to always take their own advice. The Empty Hats, a Celtic style musical troop, also had KiKi grinning ear to ear, and it would seem even happy to be at the Renaissance Faire.

At the end of the day, we wandered through the vendor’s area where it seemed everyone found what they were looking for, except me. I was hoping to find a pewter drinking horn, but no matter where I looked, there was not one to be had. There were plenty of mugs and other such vessels, but nothing like what I was looking for. There were a lot of actual horns as well, many crafted as powder kegs for flintlock rifles. There were quite a few polished horns too, but I already have quite a few of those.

KiKi bought a gorgeous ring that looked like the many branches spread out at the top of a tree. On the end of each branch, like a leaf, was a topaz. She also bought Elle a silver ring that looked like a dragon wrapped around her finger.

“There aren’t too many people in here,” KiKi commented to the owner.

“That’s because this is all real jewelry,” she told her, “so it’s too expensive for most of them.”

“Well, it’s exactly what I’m looking for,” KiKi beamed.

Elle found a fur and leather shop manned by a loud Viking who kept telling everyone who passed that they had dropped their pocket. She bought a beautiful black and white fox tail to strap onto her belt loop. She also picked up a tiny purple hat from the Steam Punk shop. Yes, that’s right, Victorian Steampunks were present at the Renaissance Faire. That seemed, to me, to be at least as out of place as the multiple fez wearing Doctors shlepping around. Steam Punks and Time Lords, what is the Renaissance coming to.

“I really had a lot of fun today,” KiKi said on our way out through the parking lot. “Even if you didn’t.”

“Yeah, we should come back next year,” Elle added.

“Just because I was complaining the whole time doesn’t mean I didn’t have any fun,” I said, realizing that a guy wearing a t-shirt and a 1920s style newsboy cap gripping about continuity errors at a Renaissance Faire might come across as a little foolish. “I think you’re right Elle.” I was smiling now. “I think we should come back, and what’s more, I think I should dig out my old Merlin robes for next year.”

“Isn’t Merlin from the Middle Ages, not the Renaissance?” KiKi asked with a sly smile.

“Well, technically yes,” I said, “but he was made famous in the Renaissance. Sir Thomas Mallory’s Le Mort d’ Arture was…”

Elle looked at KiKi, then they both looked at me, and just shook their heads.

Rex & KiKi are Barefoot in Florida: Florida Cavern State Park

As many of our travels begin, we woke up one Saturday morning with nothing to do. KiKi asked, “what do you want to do today,” and I answered with the usual, “I don’t know.” I’m not sure why I answered this way, because I know that an answer like that is the best way to ensure that I will be sitting in the car for a good long time.

We had been talking about going to tour Florida Caverns State Park ever since our stop by the Ruby Falls cave during a family visit in Tennessee. KiKi loved that cave tour and had been itching to go on another one ever since. Besides that, caves are somewhat unique, and not something Florida is well known for. It always seemed like a really long drive though, and hence we kept putting it off until we had some other excuse for going toward Pensacola, such as my indecisiveness.

I called the park to check on the price and availability of the tours. To get into the park was $5 a car and the tour was only $8 for adults and Elle, our daughter, would be $5. If you’ve done any traveling at all around Florida you would recognize that as a real bargain. While they don’t make tour reservations, in case you don’t show up, the park ranger who answered assured me it would not be a big deal, so long as we made it sometime before the last tour began. That would be at 5 p.m. According to the current time, and the distance we had to drive, I estimated we should arrive around 4:30 p.m. if we kept the stops to a minimum – plenty of time. So, we hopped into the car and headed off down the road.

Of course we hadn’t gone far when Elle got hungry, and there is just something about being trapped in a car in a time crunch that makes everyone have to go to the bathroom twice as often. As I was about to pass the third rest area, amid loud protests, KiKi informed me that we had somehow made up an hour of time, as the arrival time was now 3:30 p.m. according to the GPS. Knowing full well that skipping a couple of rest areas and the obligatory five miles an hour over the posted speed limit would not make up an hour, I couldn’t help but be confused. Yet, there it was, arrival time 3:30 p.m. And then it dawned on me, the caverns must be far enough west that they fall into that portion of the panhandle that was in the central not the eastern time zone. We had a full hour that we hadn’t even anticipated. I jerked the wheel to the right, and into the rest area we went on two wheels.

With the extra hour ahead of us, we started taking a few unnecessary risks. A pit stop for snacks, stretch breaks at all the remaining rest stops. We were having a grand old time, even when we hit that desolate stretch of I-10 between Tallahassee and our destination. Finally, we got to the park at 4:00 on the money, and pulled up to the ranger’s station to pay for our tour. That was when the air was completely let out of our sails.

“The last tour is sold out,” The ranger, who conspicuously sounded like the one I had spoken with earlier, told us.

I was flabbergasted. I had called ahead. I had arrived nearly an hour early. I had done everything right, and yet we were being turned away after a six hour drive across state. I felt like Clark W. Griswold, only I didn’t have a moose to punch. Just as I was about to drive back to the sporting goods store for a BB gun, KiKi leans over from the passenger’s seat and says, “But we just drove all the way up here from Orlando.”

And that is where it all started to change. There is something about KiKi that doesn’t allow anyone to say no to her. After a few minutes of smooth talking, she convinced the ranger to set us up on what he called the night tour. The tour didn’t actually happen at night, and that would have been irrelevant anyway since we were underground. It just meant that they turned off all the electric lights, so that the guests were reliant on flashlights, just like the early cave explorers would have been. This special tour is suppose to be reserved for people camping overnight in the park, but since we had a master of persuasion, an unusual circumstance, and the tour hadn’t filled up yet, they allowed us to participate.

That cave tour didn’t start until 6:30, so we had some extra time to enjoy the park’s other attractions. We went to the museum which had displays about the local wildlife and archeological information about Native American tribes that once called this area home. A nice exhibit, but not enough to consume two-and-a-half hours. Next, we hit the gift shop where KiKi contemplated buying a sticker, but decided she didn’t want to sully her BMW. I bought a Zero bar and shared it with Elle. After that we took an easy hike around the park to find Blue Hole Spring where we relaxed, and enjoying the view. Eventually, it grew late enough to meet up with the tour group back at the gift shop.

Our tour guide, Bill, was courteous, informative, and funny. He pointed out a variety of formations created by the various stalactites (they hang tight to the ceiling), stalagmites (They grow up mighty from the floor) and pillars where the two join together. He had a nickname for every room in the place. A room that appeared to have a great pipe organ was called the cathedral and another room he called the pantry appeared to have carrots and potatoes hanging from the ceiling. There was a heart of stone in one room and a stalagmite formation that cast a shadow that looked like the sinking of the Titanic in another.

It was amazing to behold such natural beauty and to contemplate the millenniums it took to form these structures below the earth. At a centimeter a century, I can’t even fathom the time it took for these features to grow out of the cave walls. Eons before any life we are familiar with exited on this planet many of these structures already possessed majestic forms. Even more magnificent is the way that they blossomed out in such an array of dazzling earth tones, highlighted by the reflections of our flashlights off the slick water dripping down their faces – browns and greens and yellows nearly glowing in the dark. But the most beautiful of them all were the sparkling white features that appeared like great sculptures of pure ice and snow. It was as though some great baker had frosted the cave with the sweetest icing, so beautiful that it could never be eaten, only gazed upon in awe and wonder.

“This is beautiful,” I said.

“Beautiful?” KiKi answered. “This is scary and weird. Didn’t you see The Decent. People die in caves. This doesn’t even look natural. It shouldn’t even be. The only reason we can even come down here and have a good time is because there are two other families with us and God doesn’t kill children.”

I was completely flumoxed. “I though you loved caves,” I whispered between my teeth. “This was your idea!”

“I do. I love this.”

At one point in the tour we turned off all the flashlights to experience total darkness. Bill explained that if someone were to experience this kind of darkness for a long period of time, such as several days or weeks, they would go temporarily blind. He then informed us of an interesting phenomenon that happens in total darkness. “If you stick out your tongue,” he told us, “there is a bacteria on it that glows faintly in the dark.” Of course he immediately clicked on his flashlight, and there was Elle with her tongue sticking out. Thankfully she drew all the attention and no one noticed me slurping my own tongue back into my mouth, too.

A few more twists and turns and there was the exit. Our spelunking adventure had drawn to a close. We left the darkness of the cave and I was surprised to see that the sun hadn’t even fully set yet. We had been on our tour for about 45 minutes, but it seemed like no time had passed at all. We had a choice of hikes back to the parking area, and though we wanted to take the longer path, the light was fading too fast. We also had a really long drive ahead of us, another six hours, and this time, the time change would be working against us.

Why collect autographs?

My family and I recently attended the Orlando Toy and Comic show, and found it to be disappointing. The venue was to small for the number of venders scheduled, and the people running the show didn’t seem very forthcoming with information about what was going on and when, and it cost $15 a person to get in. I’ve been to similar sized shows in Daytona where the tickets were $5 and my daughter Elle got in for free. I was willing to pay the extra cost though because this show had advertised several creators I wanted to meet and have sign some of my books, which I assumed was the reason that the ticket cost was so high. Then, the biggest disappointment of all. Two of the four people I was anxious to meet, so I could chat and get an autograph, didn’t actually show up. There was no forewarning either, like a sign out front informing people before they payed to get in. Just a “hey how ya do” and “here’s your wrist band.”

At one time I might not have been so miffed, but I was really anxious to get my autographs. When I first started going to these shows back in the stone ages, it was different. For me it was all about finding a bunch of old Batman books in the quarter bins (otherwise known as the dollar bins today). Sure, I had met a few people here and there, but I was never much of an autograph hound.

That was my friend, we’ll call him Ringo. He was always sending off letters to minor celebrities, mainly musicians, in hopes they would write him back and include an autograph. Most of the time they did, and he had an extensive, if not suspect collection. How did he know after all that it wasn’t their personal assistant signing all that stuff. I don’t know whatever became of Ringo’s autograph collection, but I do know that I now have a whole wall of authentically autographed comics, but I’m not entirely sure how it all started.

Why collect autographs at all? As my wife KiKi frequently points out, they are just other people after all. They all put their pants on one leg at a time as the adage goes. So, why get all excited? I guess for me it comes down to three things, the creator’s greatness in my estimation, the opportunity for conversations it affords, and the stories I can tell about the experience.

When I went to Comic Con in San Diego last year, I saw, heard, and experienced a boatload of amazing things. But the memory I come back to the most is turning a corner in Artist’s Ally and seeing Bruce Timm, the creator of Batman: The Animated Series – my Batman – siting alone, sketching my favorite hero. I stood there mesmerized watching every stoke of the pen until he competed his work. I was not entirely sure he knew I was there at all, but when he finished he looked up at me. I was semi-speechless as I stammered though a nervous accolade and asked If he would sign my copy of “Mad Love” (As you well know, he is the co-creator of Harley Quinn). He was very gracious to a forty some year old man who had just turned 13 again. Why did I want his autograph, because his great work has had a real and lasting impact on my life. I liked Batman as a kid, the way kids like whatever hero they just saw on TV, and then like a different one after the commercial, but The Animated Series was a game changer. After that I was, am, and will always be a Batman guy. I’m wearing his shirt right now.

So, in that and other cases, the autograph represents a brush with greatness. I would never go on eBay and buy a Bruce Timm autograph, or any other one for that matter. Without the moment the memento is meaningless. But I have several autographs from those I consider great: George Peréz, Neal Adams, Chuck Dixon, Marv Wolfman, and Jim Steranko.

When I got Steranko’s autograph it was on a recent cover he had done for Batman Black and White. He talked at length about the whole thought process that went into creating that cover. He was telling me that if you can’t add something new to the character it’s almost not worth doing. “But what do you do with a character that’s been around as long as Batman?” Turns out he had plenty of ideas, including the addition of the radiating spikes out the cowl that allude to him as a Christ like character, the puzzle pieces under Arkham, and the ants that are seemingly blotting out Batman’s legs. What does it all mean? It means Steranko has an interesting mind and I dig it. He wouldn’t let me get his picture with him though. He said he reserved that privilege for beautiful ladies.

What a great conversation, which is another reason to collect the autographs. When I first started collecting autographs I was a little nervous to start conversation, but I quickly discovered, that not only can you actually talk to these guys but you should. When I met Tony Daniels recently, he relayed some of his firsthand experiences working on Batman and Detective Comics, which is fascinating to someone like me, who is also interested in publishing. Getting to know the ins and outs of an industry you want to be a part of is imperative, and these guys are a wealth of knowledge.

Even if you’re the nervous type, you defiantly want to praise the creator’s work. Jimmy Palmiotti gave me a really nice quick sketch of Jonah Hex on my All Star Western #1 because I related that it was my favorite non-Batman book of the New 52. I also received a beautiful gold signature placed in the perfect position from Darwyn Cooke after I praised his variant cover for Detective Comics #37 as “My favorite Batman cover ever” (It’s the one where Bruce Wayne is asleep in the chair, Batsuit still on, with the cape and cowl slug over the headrest. Alfred is covering him with a blanket.) These creators like to know why you want their autograph too. If you make it a little personal, so will they.

When I met Mark Waid at ComicCon, we had a funny little conversation. I told him he had become something of a joke around my house. I had been trying to get him to sign my Daredevil #1 for the last three years, but I couldn’t because I live in Orlando. So, I had to chase him all the way to California. He knew right away what was up because he had canceled his MegaCon appearances several times due to illness. He was a good sport about the ribbing and signed several things for me that day to “make up” for the absences. What a great guy.

I’ve also had opportunities to beef in the autograph lines. When I met David Finch, one of the books I asked him to sign was a Batman story he had worked on with Grant Morrison. It had a great shadowy cover and the silver pen he used really made the signature pop. He commented on what a great writer Morrison is, and I told him that I no longer buy Grant Morrison’s books. This was soon after he had killed Damian Wayne in that second rate Batman Incorporated book of his, then told the media that he was “As dead as Thomas Wayne.” Peter Tomasi had been on fire with his run on Batman and Robin, which I was actually enjoying more than either of Batman or Detective. The silent issue notwithstanding, the rest of the run became pedestrian at best without Damian. Finch was surprised by my reaction, but understanding. Oddly, Damian Wayne did not in fact stay as dead as Thomas Wayne. You can thank me by donating to my Kickstarter, once my book is finished.

So, I guess the answer to the question of why I collect these autographs is because it adds to the story. I can hang a book on the wall and it’s like hanging a memory up there. I can pull a book out of a box and remember the time I met the person who created that story or drawing that moved me. I see people in lines getting things signed and then running to the CGC table to get them sealed up, and you know what that deal is all about. You see them getting three copies of the same book signed and you know the score. It’s all going to be on eBay in the morning. That gig just doesn’t appeal to me. I want a signature for the same reason I wanted the book to begin with. It makes a great story.

A tribute to the greatest T-shirts I ever owned (in Memoriam, mostly)

Like everyone from my generation, I have owned something like a million T-shirts. While most of them simply covered my body for a time, there are a few that stand out for a variety of reasons. They might have an exceptional cool factor, been especially telling about some area of my personality, or were given as gifts by special people. As a devout Generation Xer there is a part of me that feels these shirts are indicative of who I am as a person and I therefore find it necessary to create this list. As no favorites could possible be indicated, I will present my list in purchase order.

Superman logo on a white shirt with long blue sleeves: Having spent my early childhood on a farm in Ohio in the 1970s, this was the first shirt I remember owning that did not have snaps. Not only did it not have snaps, it didn’t button up at all. My best friend, we’ll call him Alowishus, had the same shirt, which meant that we could wear it to school on the same day and fool the teacher like in that movie about the twins (Okay, that never worked, but it was worth a try). My third grade year I managed to wear it to school on picture day, which resulted in a one of my favorite school mug shots, and a firm paddling from my horrified mother.

Ghostbusters logo on white shirt: When previews for this movie hit the airwaves it was all my friends and I could talk about (a conversation spurred on by the fact that many of our parents couldn’t decide if it was okay to let us watch, or if it was “of the devil.” A bit late, in my estimation, after letting us all watch Raiders of the Lost Arc, Poltergeist and First Blood). When it finally came out my older step-brother took me to see it, giving me tons of street cred at the elementary school. Of course I had to have the T to remind everyone who they were dealing with. This was the first time I recognized how cool it made you to be the first to see something. Of course, that whole “go to the first show on the first day” mentality has grown into a marketing strategy over the years, but in the fifth grade, that idea was revolutionary to me.

Queensrych, Empire logo on a black shirt: This was the shirt I purchased at my first ever rock concert. I was a junior in high school, and I couldn’t even tell you how I convinced my parents to let me go. The previous year I had gotten in trouble for having a bootlegged Stryper album, and now I was allowed to go see Queensrych who’s album was most decidedly not promoting any Christian deity. It was a phenomenal show. Even though Empire had just come out, they were still doing the entire Operation Mindcrime show, compete with the first ever live giant video screens. Of all the concert T-shirts I have bought, at $20 this one was the cheapest and the best.

Original Star Wars poster (the one where everyone is holding a blaster and Han‘s looks more like a lightsaber) on a white shirt with blue trim around the neck and sleeves: Nothing special about where I got this one. It was at a J.C. Penny’s. What was amazing was that it existed at all. This was pre-prequil and Star Wars was not the cultural phenomenon it is these days. To even find a shirt, much less one that awesome, was a rare treasure. For a college student who could still tell you where his old Star Was sheets set was (because it was still on his bed), this couldn’t have been more exciting.

Batman 66 logo on a white shirt with black trim on neck and sleeves: Another golden oldie that I found at a time when it was hard to believe anyone would be producing these shirts for kids, much less adults. Produced in the lull between Batman and Robin and the Christoper Nolan series, when it was commonly felt that Joel Schumacher had destroyed the character forever by reverting to the reviled ’60s version, someone had the audacity to produce a blatantly throw back shirt. I loved it, and wore it threadbare.

American Flag with baseballs instead of stars, and stripes made to look like the diamond on a white shirt: Each ball had the retired number of some great player, Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Ted Williams, and of course Jackie Robinson. The metaphor of the shirt was so simple and true, baseball and the USA are one in the same. There are so many parallels between the national pass time and the state of our country’s philosophy and affairs that I can’t even begin to go into it here, nor should I need to if you know and love the game. Suffice to say that I wore that shirt until the hole in the armpit became so big that my wife refused to be seen with me when I wore it.

Daredevil on a black shirt, with glow in the dark concentric rings to show his super sensory powers: This is the first shirt on the list that I still actually have and wear, although I wear it less and less because I’m not sure how many washes it has left in it. The glow in the dark hasn’t worked in years, and because that stuff is rubbery, sometimes it kind of sticks together when it comes out of the dryer. The picture itself appears to be a Joe Quesada drawing, or a really good knock off. Its a great shirt and I get compliments almost every time I wear it out to pop culture events.

Dark blue shirt with the words “Vintage 1974”: This is one of my recently acquired shirts, but I know that it, like the others on this list, will be worn until it is to ragged to wear in polite society. The reason it is so special is that my daughter, Elle, picked it out for me to wear on my 40^th birthday. She was so proud of herself that she couldn’t wait until my birthday to give it to me, so I got it about a month in advance.

I’m a Proud Husband of a Freaking Awesome Wife on a grey shirt: On the bottom of the shirt, in parenthesis and in very small print it adds: (…and yes, she bought me this shirt). And yes, she made me add this one to the list.