After my first Pennsic, I wrote:
“I never felt the need to have a persona, so I didn't. There was talk of giving me a name, and I think if I'm ever going to assume one, that's how it will have to happen. I mean, my persona is and always will be a saucy gypsy, but for now, she remains nameless.”
She is no longer nameless.
My second Pennsic was very different from the first. Brother and Girlfriend had broken up about 3 months after my first one, and at the time he had requested that I (and the other Clanmembers) maintain our friendships with her and not choose sides. In private, he specifically told me that, regardless of what he decided to do, I should return to Pennsic if I wanted to. That I would no doubt be missed if I didn’t return. Luckily, he decided to return as well.
Unfortunately, so did ex-Girlfriend.
Which might not have been a problem, but Brother had fairly recently gotten engaged, and ex-Girlfriend had even more recently found out.
Camp was…how do you say…a little tense.
Even though their times at War only overlapped by a couple of days, I spent that time trying to both spend time with my brother and not ignore my friend. Naturally, this largely resulted in my spending most of my time with people who were neither one of them. I spent my second Pennsic becoming a Swiss national.
Meanwhile, Omar’s attempt at a bigger, better onion dome had only been halfway successful, and he wasn’t able to provide accommodations for two as planned. So I camped with Ashlyn and shared his living/dining/kitchen space under the dome. My stay at Pennsic also wasn’t as long this year – due to other Mundane-world factors, I only came for a very long weekend this time.
All of these factors meant that:
1. I had no true home to call my own. Gypsy!
2. I was a social butterfly within camp. Social gypsy!
3. I spent quite a lot more time outside of camp. Par-tay gyp-say!
In the four days or so I was at War that year, I think I went out every night. Middle weekend is the BEST time for parties, but that’s another post.
One of the first nights I went out, I was with Ashlyn…and I think Scoundrel…and I have no idea who else. We went to a camp that hosts an Irish Pub of sorts on certain nights. The place was fairly dead, but the Celtic band played on…
…and one random woman was bellydancing.
That’s right. Bellydancing to Celtic music.
This woman was…a bit more advanced in years than your typical bellydancer. And obviously not fully aware of her surroundings or her mental capacity. We joked about her for the rest of the night.
“I think that’s my Pennsic persona. I opened the first falafel shop in Dublin.”
“My name is…Babaganoush. Babaganoush…O’Malley. You may call me Baba.”
(I would later change my name to Babaganoush O’Reilly, because no matter how much I try to deny it, I am fundamentally incapable of resisting the allure of becoming Baba O’Reilly.")
Baba has a mysteriously ambiguous accent. Mostly because a certain running clan joke (which I will not retell here because it is completely nonsensical) only works in an Indian accent, but obviously a gypsy must sound vaguely eastern European. Have you ever heard someone speak with an Indian/Russian accent? Unfortunately, my clanmates have. Over time, her accent has settled into semi-Romanian. Which is, of course, just right.
Over the course of the short time I spent at Pennsic that year, Ashlyn and I developed quite a schtick. (No really – our neighbors complained about the late-night giggling next door.)
“Have you met my beautiful daughter Tabbouleh?”
“Come here, my little falafel. Come to Baba.”
Hanging out near one of the food tents one morning, Ashlyn noticed a man on a wagon taking pictures of passersby. She referred to him as the Pennsic paparazzi.
“Don’t talk to me about your Papa. His name Razzi. He left me for that hussy Ensalata!”
“Of course, his second wife, Caprese, she lovely. They very happy now, with three beautiful children. Mozzarella, Basil, and a little Tomato on the way.”
My new persona meshed well with brother Omar. One of Omar’s breakfast specialties is pancakes. As we sit under the onion dome making breakfast, passersby often stop to take a look. Omar is polite…always invites them in for a closer inspection. He has his own schtick:
Passerby: How do you get the curvature in the dome?
Omar: Young, supple saplings…very flexible…nah, they’re tent poles for a pop-up dome tent.
This evolves into:
“Welcome to Omar and Baba’s International House of Pancake. First come, only served.”
“Tabbouleh! Time to make the pancake!”
“But MaMAAAH….”
The International House of Pancake turns into the falafel stand by lunchtime.
This year, I would be making dinner, and Ashlyn(Tabbouleh) would be juggling or playing with the kids in camp. I screamed across camp:
“TABBOULEH! DINNER! FIVE MINUTES!”
and, ten minutes later:
“TABBOULEH! DINNER! NOW!”
One night, she had a little date-type thing in another camp. I said:
“Tabbouleh! Do we need to have sex talk?”
“Yes, mama.”
“NO!”
I think there was more early material, but it has sadly faded over the past two years. Rightly so, as our compatriots grew more than a little tired of it being repeated ad infinitum around camp as we refined our act. The problem was, THERE WAS ALWAYS SOMEBODY WHO HADN’T HEARD IT YET. Now, they have all heard it, and simply address me as Baba. When I go out, I introduce myself as Baba. I’m sure to those who take this whole Pennsic thing seriously, people like me are incredibly annoying, but to be frank, I can’t be bothered by those people. The SCA in general, and Pennsic in particular are supposed to be…wait for it…FUN. The day it stops being fun is the day I’m out.
So, my little falafels, come. Come…to Baba.
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