Ransom

Oh Gawd, I can't believe you actually pulled that piece to the surface again. LOL Maybe I should have used a different example, and that thread would have stayed buried. But, really, it was like a pack of wolves on a wounded deer.

This might be worthy of being a topic in its own right. Actually, I think these definitions are fairly accurate. However, the definition of reeanacting wasn't the issue, it was use of derogatory language. And don't get me wrong, the greater percentage of posters on Twill are informative, and dedicated. I admire that. But there are a few who could get their point across without using terms like Farb, Pollywood or Hollywood Pyrates, Polyester Pyrates, etc.... And although it has been a long while back, I have seen instances of newbies being literally attacked on this forum for asking a simple question like "What do you think of this shirt I'm thinking of buying?" In that particular instance, the newbie disappeared and never posted again. And I'm sure he didn't have very many kind things to say about the Pub. Nothing like that has happened in a long time, but I use it as an extreme example of how language can be hurtful. There is not a thing wrong with being passionate about what you do, and being proud of your accomplishments, but language is powerful, and the wrong words used to make your point can be hurtful or insulting, even if that was not your intent. I should also add that the other side of that coin — terms like Stitch Nazi, Thread Counter, etc — are also just as hurtful and insulting.

Ummm. Eyes, I think that job has been taken...although, I'm sure there could be more than one bombardier on board.

I rest my case... Yes, the term "Elite" has been used several times recently, on the thread concerning philosophy of reenacting. To answer Quartermaster James... No one is bashing anyone, and this thread is not about putting down PCers. It is people voicing opinions about why they do or don't post in Twill. I personally don't give a rats ass if you want to be a thread counter, or if you choose to be the 50 gazillionth Jack Sparrow wannabe. There is room for everyone, and no group should feel themselves superior to another. The bloke who takes hours of time to look and act convincingly like Sparrow is probably no less dedicated than the bloke who spends hours pouring over history books to get a sleeve seam right. It appears the only few getting their hackles up here are ones dedicated to PCness...honestly, the rest of us don't really care. Come on, Quartermaster, calm down. We do this for fun, remember?

The Ralph Lauren model looks like one of those encephelytic(?) Bratz dolls.

LOL, are you sure we weren't twins separated at birth? Yeah, I read the book years ago, and then bought the series. I've watched it hundreds of times, and still laugh. So, yes, I do try to take it all in stride, and yes, wine does help! Fortunately it's finished now, and life has gone back to as close to normal as it gets at our place.

Shame, really. Fortunately, Oregon welcomes the Lady with open arms, so I'll still be able to sail on her when she visits Coos Bay.

I go to Twill on occasion to see if I can find answers to a question I may have. The rest of the time I find Twill kinda amusing, in a "How can they debate the curve or straightness of a seam for six bloody pages!" If that's what floats their boat, fine by me. I just don't care to get bogged down in the minutia of garb. I'd rather be out having fun in my sorta-kinda historical garb. What gets up people's nose, I think, is when words like "Elite" are used in conjunction with PC. It implies that the PCers are better than those who don't care if their slops seem is curved or straight, but are merely happy to be wearing slops. And I must say, that a few of us had a really laughing-good time doing the totally non-PC girly-girl thing at Ojai on Saturday. Yeah, the next day we were back in our kinda-sorta PC garb, but letting go once-and-awhile and being silly is good for everyone, I would think. Keeps things in perspective.

You and your family have all the prayers I can send.

I don't know, Michael, there is a ton of Halloween stuff out right now. Just go to any...Michael's ...and ck it out. I can't see that delaying the due date is going to make much of a difference. If you wait, do they then become Thanksgiving PTCs ? LOL Hmmm, a pyrate Thanksgiving...now, that would be a fun theme for a Thanksgiving dinner.

CHAPTER SEVEN September 17 Artesian spring, San Cristobel Island Chicken! God rot him, if he didn’t smell chicken. Gray Dog sat up, drooling like a newborn. His stomach wrenched at the smell of food. He drank again from the spring, then stood, his nose searching for the source of the tantalizing smell. Then his brain kicked in. How the hell could he be smelling cooked chicken on an island that’s supposed to be deserted? He dropped to the rough ground. Had Renaldo landed the Vautour somewhere while he’d slept? Had he survived six days of rowing and starving only to be caught again, and probably shot? And if not Renaldo, then who? Low as a lizard, he crept to the edge of the rocks and looked down toward the bay. His heart lurched. His mind became a whirlpool of confusion. He shook his head, refusing to believe what his eyes beheld. People. A large camp swarming with dozens of people. It wasn’t possible. Rage shook him. A blinding, hateful rage at the betrayal. Just when his fortune looked to be made. God rot them all, who were they? Where had they come from? He looked again, but what he saw didn’t make sense. He listened, trying to ignore the crawling hunger that threatened to overcome his caution. He heard voices, but the people were too far away for him to tell if they were speaking English, Spanish, or Portuguese. Shite, with his piss-poor luck, if not Renaldo, they’d be Frenchies, and he’d spend the rest of his days chained to an oar. Why? Why would God curse him like this? Then it struck him, clear as church bells. “Sweet Jesus, I’m in hell. I’m dead and damned and this is God’s judgment on me. I’ll be spending eternity crawling around this island like some dog, looking for treasure and never find it.” Well, hell or no, he had to eat. He waited until dark settled like a cloak over the palms, then picked his way down the hill, heading for the campsite of the enemy. For it didn’t matter what country they came from, they were his enemy until he could find Renaldo’s stash and leave San Cristobal. If he was damned, well, curse God, he’d be damned with gold in his pockets. When he was as close as he dared, he hunkered down behind a group of palms, watching the strangers. Which only confused him more. They spoke English, but there were many words he didn’t understand. Even more alarming, was the way they were dressed. Some wore frock coats of fine cloth, or shirts and breeches like his own, but others wore a strange mix of items, made from cloth he didn’t know. Most of the men wore weapons, but to his surprise, so did many of the women. Women! Holy Mother of God. Not your dockside trollops, either, but ladies. But why would ladies be wearing swords and knives? Was this a colony? He inched closer, the smell of food making him frantic. Strange tents shaped like mushrooms or church domes clustered under the palms. As he watched, one of the ladies bent over, pulled a cloth away revealing a red crate, and lifted the lid. Inside, Gray Dog saw ice. Ice? Where did they find ice? I’m dreaming, he thought, this can’t be real. Ice in hell? It almost made him laugh. Then he saw the woman take an odd container from the crate, pry it open, and dump tiny sausages onto a wooden plate. Saliva pooled in his mouth. A potbellied man came up to the group. On his shoulder was a large parrot, but it didn’t move. Was it stuffed? Why would a man wear a dead parrot on his shoulder? The man made an announcement and moved on. Gray Dog heard something about a bilge rat, and glanced quickly toward the ocean. There was no ship moored at the pier. Why wasn’t there a ship? Was it out to sea, due back at any moment with more men? A ship had to have brought these people. They didn’t look to have been marooned, as they had provisions. No pier had been marked on the map. Nor any notation made of a colony. Who were these people? They looked real, but ... wrong. It was all wrong and impossible and he was suddenly afraid. Maybe he wasn’t on San Cristobal. In all the vast ocean, he had missed it and landed on some strange island not marked on any map. Merciful God, maybe it was a lunatic colony. Was he trapped with a bunch of madmen? Yet, the shape was the same crescent. La Perla was there, dangling from the southern horn, like the gem it was named for. It must be San Cristobal. To blazes with that, he thought. To blazes with everything but getting food. To his surprise, as if they’d read his mind, the people closest to where he was hidden began to leave, heading for a bonfire someone had started in front of a palm-roofed shelter. He nearly jumped for joy. Quick and careful as could be, he came up behind one of the strange tents, checked to be certain he wasn’t being watched, then yanked the cloth off the nearest crate shape, revealing one in green. He grabbed one set of handles and dragged it into the shadows. With trembling fingers he probed the shiny metal catch until, mostly by accident, he got the crate open. Inside was ice, as he’d seen in the other one, along with hard blue bricks freezing to the touch. And food. But it was encased in strange bags. Gray Dog lifted one and sniffed it. The bag felt slippery, but inside he could see what looked like slices of meat. He tore the bag open with his teeth. The smell and taste of ham almost made him faint. He shoved the meat into his mouth, choking and swallowing. He ripped open another bag and found cheese, sliced thin and laced with holes. He discovered peeled boiled eggs, which he stuffed into his shirt to eat later. He found huge strawberries, some kind of melon, and tiny cone-shaped canisters of what tasted like sweet treacle. He was too hungry to pay attention to the unfamiliar materials the crate and packages were made of. When the worst of his hunger was satisfied, nausea rolled over him like a deep wave. He held his breath, struggling not to puke up the food. Hunched over the metal crate, the debris littered around him, he took deep breaths, willing his stomach to stop cramping. Eventually the sickness passed. He stayed hunched in the shadows, suddenly exhausted, afraid he would pass out like he’d done after drinking the water. He couldn’t allow that, here where the strange, mad colonists could find him. Before leaving, he gave the cluster of tents one last quick inspection. There were at least six more crate shapes in the area. Then he spied it. Not ten feet from the tent, left standing in the middle of a flimsy table, was an open bottle with a brightly colored parrot painted on the side. Gray Dog checked again that he wasn’t being watched, crept to the table, picked up the bottle and sniffed. He barely stifled a yelp of delight. Rum! With a last, furtive look toward the bonfire, he danced a little jig, then turned and melted into the darkness. As he slunk back to his side of the island, the half-empty rum bottle clutched to his chest, he could have sworn he heard the sound of a fiddle playing his favorite reel.

At the next event, I'm coming as pyrate Elvis.

I hardly ever do either, but am having a grand ol' time in a certain thread, throwing out ideas/opinions, sort-to-speak. It's been fun. (It's that term "elite" that I just couldn't leave alone. LOL )

Just a quick intervention: So far, no one has pointed any fingers at anyone, done any name-calling, or done any of the other less than admirable dust ups that come with two opposing sides discussing a hot topic/topics. These are ideas open for interpretation and free discussion. And threads will drift, come back OT and drift again. Unless it goes totally sideways, that's okay. Right then, Mod-voice turned off: Let the fun continue...

I'm not altogether sure if it was the insurance companies who made the testing rules, or the paranoia of the "governing body" of the SCA. We never knew. And the example I stated was only one of the snafu's with rules we ran into at the equestrian events. We tried to get them to allow individual waivers...nope. Couldn't do that either. It was a real pain in the a$$.

The "Elite" deciding what and where and how much over the rest of the so-called "plebes" (non-elite — but then there is the issue of who decides who is elite and who isn't), smacks a little too close to "We'll save them from themselves" mentality. With blanket insurance comes blanket rules. If I may use an example: The SCA covered equestrian events under their blanket insurance. We were handed a set of rules we had to follow. Rather than use the National Show Horse Assoc. (Another governing body with years of experience with all types of horse events) they made up their own. Which put us in the position of having to run "ability" tests on riders before each event, and decide at what level they could compete. Which opened up a huge case for liable if said person inured themselves because they really couldn't ride as well through a whole even, as they could a few turns doing walk, trot, and canter around the arena (which was all the rule required). We even tried to get that changed to having arena stuards, who would eject any horse/rider who was acting in a unsafe way, regardless of their level of expertise — as does the NSHA. No such luck (although we did it anyway). So, at any given event, we were saying "this person can ride at this level." If said person inured themselves or anyone else, what would prevent them from coming back and saying, "Well, you said I could ride at this level, so it's not my fault. Therefore, I'm suing you for a false assessment of my skills." I don't know how you could have a blanket insurance policy that would cover every reenacting scenerio including black powder pistols, cannons, swords, boats, and even at Ojai, horses. Nor do I think any insurance company would risk an all-inclusive policy for so many liabilities.

Gah! No thanks. I merely wanted to point out that, even if the East coast governing body (by some miracle) actually worked, then a few years down the road, the West coast decided to create their own governing body, then, say the South and Midwest does the same...who then governs the governing bodies? Each coast, or midland, is going to have different priorities, depending on the number and type of events held in their part of the world. I don't think one set of rules is going to work for each region. I would also be afraid these satellite governing bodies would end up creating more regional differences within the pyracy community than there already are. Oh, and I vote for M.A. d'Dogge for Pyrate King, just as soon as he's done with the dishes.

See, and right off the bat, you've created a division — East vs West. (This was in reply to Sterlings idea of an East coast group going first)

Why meet at an East Coast site? Why not the South? Why not the West? You see where this is going? Why not meet in Utah during the Bacon Fest (that is a joke, but...) located in the middle of the country so everyone wishing to have a say has an equal travel time? It's logistics. Where would you hold such a congress where all the players could come without it costing them a fortune in air/car travel?

But, does not a governing body, laying down rules, by it's very nature, nip some individualism in the bud? Not disagreeing with your statement, just wondering if everyone who ends up in a position to make decisions for the governing body would have such an open-mind? Not all of my experiences, over of period of aprox. 35+ years of doing some kind of reenacting, have been bad. However, some have been horrendous, and caused wounds that never healed among the people involved. And you made my point...some people just don't play nice, and it has been my experience that the more power you give people, the less nice they can be. Like Michael said, it is a very noble idea, but not very practical for the type of reenacting we do.

Nip what in the bud...individualism, or megalomania? You risk killing both— one bad, one good. In most of what I've ready about groups always being in flux ( which is true to some degree or another), everyone talked as if these spit-ups were done amicably, with everyone going their own way with "Hail fellows, well met, but we're going to go off and do..." My experience has been the opposite. Groups don't always expand, they explode. Members leave in anger, frustration, and then do all they can to bad-mouth the group they split from. The original group is fractured by loyalties within — some sympathizing with those who have left, and some staying loyal to the core group — torn as to which way they want to go. I also don't think you can compare military reeactment core groups to pyracy. Military pyracy is an oxymoron. The very nature of the game we all play prevents a core group from being feasible or necessary. With military groups you have set uniforms, the precedent of following orders, and the preexisting division of units. With pyracy you have the opposite precedent. Rogue groups doing their own thing in direct opposition to existing maritime laws. Individual events that cater to the needs and wants of the individual groups would serve the pyrate community better than an all-encompassing governing body.

A very happy Natal Day to you Kate. Cheers!

Is this still on? Is the deadline still Oct. 30? Haven't heard anything in a while. What is the final count of players so I know how many cards to make.

Plunderer? Piffle. Everyone knows it's Roguettes that have the real power! (Just don't tell Stynky I said that!)