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muckefuckThis 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 ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
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!
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!