Celtic Fest Report: Men in Skirts

I've taken your upbraidings about my dereliction of duty to heart and I am prepared to make amends. As I've explained, this is interview season, so I'm likely to have some unscheduled interruptions as I write this; bear with me.

Due to poor planning, neither monshu or I had a proper meal before we left for downtown. By then, it was 12:30, but I knew that the Heavy Athletics Competition were slated to start at 11 (After actually seeing how they were run, I doubted that they had actually commenced on time, but I didn't know that when I was in the bus.) and I was worried I'd already missed the timber. So we breezed through the vendor area, confirmed that there was decent-looking food to be had (looks deceived, but that's another post), and hustled to Butler Field.

Diagonally opposite from Petrillo Music Shell, a corner of the field had been roped off with multicoloured pennants. A row of tents stood in the northeast corner, occupied by families and hangers-on (at least once, I saw a competitor take a break to tend to an infant--everybody say "Awwwwww!") with coolers and other gear. There was a microphone set up in front of this, but seemingly no MC; one or more of the organisers/participants--particular a man I'll call MacMoustache--would wander up to it and give us a smattering of rules, results, and jests, all of which could be taken with about the same level of seriousness. (For the Weight for Height competition, for instance, MacMoustache gave an account of the rules that the competitors then went on to systematically violate.)

As we arrived, we saw from a way's off two or three men messing about with tape measures: The Weight for Distance competition was in progress. This couldn't be more straightforward: Lift a 56# metal weight by a ring connected to a short chain, swing yourself around a few times, and send the weight sailing as far as you can. The contest was wildly uneven. We witnessed a couple throws that seemed quite good to us, but that was only until a real heavy athlete took his turn: Kevin Carpenter.

At the risk of never hearing the end of it from monshu, I confess that Kevin is the foremost reason why I was at Celtic Fest. He made the cover of the suburban edition of the Reader last year, when Celtic Fest was held outside of Chicago, and I swore then that I must see this man toss a pole. I'm not usually into musclebears, but if you could see his floppy light-brown hair and neat goatee, his handsome features and his truly remarkable upper arms, you might fall for him, too. If not, watching him fling 25 kilos twice as far as the guy before and after him as his kilt swirls in the air might do you in.

Welcome, by the way, to the most disappointing discovery of the day: These were not true Scotsman. There were many opportunities to see under the kilts, despite the lack of gusty weather. One man even changed his right in front of us; two hitched theirs up over their waistband during the Weight for Height. Without an exception, what they wore under their kilts were lycra shorts. monshu wanted them all disqualified for this reason alone, but this wasn't close to being an official competition anyway--as one of the commentators made clear when he pointed out that Kevin's throwing style for the Weight for Height would not be allowed in one.

We left before seeing if Kevin won that competition in spite of his unorthodox technique, but he dominated the Weight for Distance and the Caber Toss. Two other men made a good showing in the first of these: MacMoustache and monshu's fear-cinnidh, Jeff Campbell. Campbell was also one of only three men besides Kevin to successfully toss the caber. If you know anything about this event, you know that the pole must turn end over end before it lands. What I didn't realise is the delicious tension this creates as you hold your breath to see if the forward momentum is enough to carry the tip away from the tosser or if the caber will momentarily stand upright before falling back toward him.
( Here's what a proper toss looks like )

What I didn't realise about the toss is that it is for accuracy, not distance. A judge runs around behind the tosser (in one case, almost running into him!), picking a point on the horizon to be 12 o'clock based on the direction of the tosser's stance. The closer the caber falls to 12 o'clock, the better the score. (For more information, see the complete official rules--with illustrations!) The disappointment of a competitor watching mournfully as the top of the caber falls at his feet heightens the thrill of a successful toss; each of these was greeted by cheers and applause from the assembled crowd.

The crowd, incidentally, was as entertaining as the competitors. Most of them were standing with us in the shade alongside the sidewalk that defined the eastern edge of the playing field. There were four bears on a stone bench to my left who I suspect were there for much the same reasons I was. Shortly after we arrived, I heard a guy struggling with the lyrics to "Mrs. O'Leary's Cow", so I sang the first verse for him and welcomed him and his companions to Chicago. "What, we don't look like we're from here?" If you were really a Chicagoan, bucko, you'd know whose friggin' cow it was! In the information gap left by the announcers, I overheard a lot of speculation about the actual rules, as well as admiration for anyone who could even lift a telephone pole, much less throw the damn thing. Everyone seemed to have their own theory about how a fool game like this got started, most of which involved whiskey and a lack of other outlets.

Although we were anxious to eat, I coaxed Ceannfhionn into hanging around long enough to see one or two trials of the Weight for Height. The same weight is used as in the Weight for Distance, only instead of hurling it away in front of you, you're tossing it behind you, up over your head and, hopefully, over the bar above your head. (Another way to look at it is that the risks to spectators inherent in hurling a sharp-edged metal weight several yards are turned back onto the hurler.) They began at 11' and had moved to 12' or 13' (again, poor announcing strikes) before we left. As others were hitting the bar, MacMoustache and the unruly Mr Carpenter were tossing it at least a foot above that. To put the competition into perspective, MacMoustache likened it to tossing a 6 year-old through a second-story window one-handed (say, if you've locked yourself out or something). I'll leave y'all with that image.

Celtic Fest Report: Food for the eyes, not for the mouth

This is for all of you who felt that the previous post had too much about the games and not enough about the men who played them. I probably would've written more about each one if a decent attempt had been made to identify them; I've named the only two I had names for and I figured that a plethora of monikers on a par with "Mr MacMoustache" would get confusing, fast. (A dedicated tartanist could've distinguished them by clan at least, but monshu knows only enough to identify his own fir-cinnidh.)

He was a looker, no question. Tall, broad, and built, with enough of a belly to keep me interested. His dome poked through a close-cropped ring of black hair and his moustache was an elegant handlebar, thin and waxed. His kindly voice was a little too soft for announcing, but it seemed perfect for the amount of friendly trouble the participants were all giving each other. The whole event really did have the feel of a touch football game at a cookout or some other event where the jockier menfolk all co-operate to get some competition going while their families stand back and alternate between bemused indulgence and active encouragement.

The other point of interest was older and rounder, with reddish-blond hair and beard both trimmed to buzzcut length. His thick arms seemed less disproportionate next to his huge Santa belly, but they also seemed to have less strength, since he failed to impress in the competitions. For most of the caber toss, he was the judge, meaning that he held a clipboard and went chasing after the tosser as the latter tried to get control of the pole and then build up the proper momentum. (This was hard enough downhill and almost impossible going up a slope, yet this fact seemed to be ignored in the trials; each contestant just picked it the caber up wherever the last one had left and started stumbling toward the centre of the playing field.)

There definitely was an almost embarrassing surfeit of eye-candy at the fest. Best of the street fairs I've been to this summer in this regard--and I'm including Market Days (though acknowledging that there was far more skin on display then). If I were giving out awards, I would've pinned the gold ribbon on the man we saw at the tea shop. He was definitely middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard. (Those of you who have known Nuphy, think of him circa 1995, before his daughter forced him to keep his face fur trimmed.) His broad, open face with attractively squinty eyes was topped with a green tam o'shanter worn at a properly rakish angle. He had on a white, wide-sleeved, rough-weave, Ren Faire-type shirt, a kilt with lots of red and green in the tartan, and green knee socks that matched his cap. I chose the free table with maximum scopage opportunity--he was sprawled enough to expose an inviting amount of hairy thigh--and when I returned with my beer to find that everyone had taken the seats directly opposite the old Tam, I said, "Somebody is going to have to move." I thought I got a couple glances of recognition from him, but it could've been wishful thinking.

The "tea shop" was just a tent with a few tables next to it, but it was an island of relief on an avenue awash with mediocrity. Now, the Celtic countries are justly unfamous for their cuisine, but we weren't in one: This is Chicago, a place that knows how to eat. So it was embarassing that the best food any of us had was a Thai egg roll. e's baked potato wasn't even cooked thoroughly, monshu's "shepherd's pie" was a fancy name for ground beef topped with mashed potatoes, and my "fish and chips" was two of Mrs Paul's finest on a bed of straight-from-the-bag fresh-frozen fries. Thank god for the malt vinegar! But I heard no complaints about the coffee at the tea shop and can vouch that the hot chocolate was well worth drinking. (The chocolates, however, were an embarrassment; the tasted like nothing so much as the supersweet sub-Brachs crud we used to get at Christmastime.) I was also well-pleased with my beer: For two tickets more than a Coors, I could indulge in a Blue Moon.

The ticket system, btw, seemed expressly designed for maximum confusion. They came only in lots of eleven, which were sold for $7. Stealth advertising? No, just a scheme to make sure the City got her cut: Each ticket was "worth" fifty cents, meaning that a minimum $1.50 contribution was inevitable. Free admission, indeed! Just make sure you bring your own six-pack and sandwiches!

Oh, and a camera!