Blazon of Arms: Cardona-Cortez

            We had been talking about building a coat of arms to represent us for a while now. So I finally sat down and did some research on heraldry and coat of arms symbolism.  It was an interesting endeavor though not entirely gratifying. Turns out that heraldry is not entirely standardized—despite the consistency that does exist! So for the most part, it’s anything goes! I am writing this up to explain the details of our crest—such a write up is called a “blazon of arms.” With that said, let us begin at the top:

According to www.fleurdelis.com, “a ‘coat of arms’ consists of several parts: the shield, the mantling, the helm, the wreath, charges, and the crest (note that not all arms have crests).”

Our crest is the Annulet, the three interlocking rings above the helm. This signifies fidelity; commitment. Above all things, we must have a commitment to each other in order for this coat to exist! The three rings themselves represent three supports: physical, spiritual, & financial.

The Helm represented here is merely a placeholder for the helms that will be placed here later. The two I have in mind are from my creation:  The Montarsis Knights and the Black Montarsis Knights. These symbolize the potential to bring out the best and worst in each of us. The Montarsis Knight helm will sit in front of the Black Montarsis Knight helm in a symbolic gesture that we strive to always keep the darker aspects of ourselves in check.

Though the mantling around the helm and shield should reflect the colors of the design itself, I chose to use our favorite colors: Blue & Purple (Azure & Purpure as they are called in the classic heraldry terminology.)  It just so happens that Blue is the symbol for truth and purple is the symbol for royal majesty, sovereignty, and justice. Though we can be a bit full of ourselves, I would like to think the purple does reflect our desire for justice in all affairs. Though I am more than certain Isaac would prefer the majestic definition apply to him.

The shield is quartered with a chevron placed atop. The colors of the shield, Red (Gules) and White/Silver (Argent) represent military strength and peace/sincerity. By military strength I allude to our gaming ability as formidable foes on the playing field. Despite, Isaac’s ravings, we do desire peace in our house. The green (vert) chevron represent hope, joy, and loyalty in love. Since we constantly strive to make each other laugh and seek each other's best interest, this color is befitting our love for each other. 

The top of the shield (chief) bears a black crow. This symbolizes our love for our friends and support of them in their endeavors. (This surprised me at first—the symbol, that is, not the fact that we love our friends. But after thinking about it for a bit, it kind of makes sense in that crows do tend to flock together.)

The left side of the shield (dexter) is the small bear. Bears, as a heraldic symbol, represent strength, cunning, and ferocity in the protection of one’s kindred. As a symbol in the gay lifestyle, a young bear (or younger bear in a relationship) is called a cub. Isaac embodies all these elements. This is his symbol. My symbol can be found on the right side of the shield (sinister) as I am the bear of our relationship and also seek to extoll the virtues of the bear.  I think everyone agrees I tend to overprotect at times.

The morning star, found at the bottom of the shield (base), represents armor and strength of crushing force. We use this symbol to further represent our commitment to our resolve. Once we have made up our minds regarding a plan of action, we can be hard pressed to change our direction. We consider this a virtue.

Last but certainly not least, our motto: Est Adversus Vos Mundi.  

This has been our motto from the very beginning of our relationship though we didn’t know it at the time. We certainly do not say it in Latin, but it is still very relevant. The figurative translation being: “It is you and me against the world.”

The Prism (pt. 1)

 

 

The Prism is home.  Not just for Mark but for many of those who do not feel comfortable in just any bar. “When in Rome…” His friend, Lalo, always said.  Mark’s teenage friend was full of old clichés.  Now, many years later and having gone separate ways, the cliché belongs to him—locked in Lalo’s voice as it chases forever in Mark’s memory.  The outside of the home is simple enough—Four non-descript tin walls with a dark roof and a single lamp over the door.  Making his way from the gravel parking lot to the bar, he hears the jukebox muffled by the walls.  He looks around and counts the cars in the parking lot. 

“Fourteen. Not too shabby.” 

            He walks along the building towards the door noticing the newly installed lights under the roof overhang. 

“Hmm.”

He is even more shocked to find the door outlined in marquee lights, chasing around the otherwise plain off white frame and a canopy over the sidewalk leading up to the door. Mark chuckles.  Gripping the handle firmly, bowing his head, he pulls the door open and goes in.  He always bows his head when he enters the Prism.  Not out any reverence or silent prayer but to shield his eyes from the glaring lamp over the door. The lamp makes everyone squint when they enter the bar and screw up their faces as they try to focus quickly in the dark—everyone except Mark. Once he steps in, the heavy beats of a club song, grossly out of place here, wash over him; he takes in the scene completely unaffected by the switch from extreme light to dark and the jukebox plays, “Where are you my love, where are you my love, I want to know you…”  The bar is as simple inside as it is outside.  A single pool table surrounded by four men—all looking at Mark—sits near the door.  A fluorescent lamp lights the table as trails of smoke snake through the air.  The men wear jeans, baseball caps, t-shirts, and leather—leather vests amid leather worn faces.  In the middle of the pub, a bar with a single attendant dominates the front room.  The bar itself seems swollen against the limited space.  It leaves very little room for people to navigate back and forth. The back room has a much smaller bar and several dartboards.  Mark never cared for such things and consequently found himself in the back room only when he was with his friends.  Tonight, he is alone.   

            “Mark!” calls out Pete, the Bartender. Mark smirks.  Years of coming here has certainly left its mark—like “Cheers,” the sitcom, everyone knows Mark. Everyone?  No—just the bartender.  Mark is a quiet man.  He makes friends easily enough but no more than any other guy. Pete on the other hand, has a following.  Growing up in the height of the racial and sexual revolutions left its impression on him.  Emulating his heroes, Pete has won many a pageant as Tina Turner or Diana Ross but everyone jokingly refers to him as Rosa Parks which isn’t far from the truth in a small-minded town like San Antonio in the 70’s. 

            Climbing onto a barstool, Mark begins the game.  Shifting eyes, fleeting glances, subtle innuendoes—looking for someone interested in passing the night and if he is lucky, maybe a while longer.  Pete places the rum and coke cocktail in front of him.    Throughout the bar couples and groups litter the pub like animals at a watering hole.  His glance takes him into the fixated eyes of another, who happens to be looking his way, jarring Mark to quickly look into his drink. He takes a sip.  Like the sleek wisps of smoke weaving in the air rising to dissipate amid the rafters, Mark feels his courage leave him.  It is so hard meeting anyone.  Outside is even worse.  As Mark stirs his drink, he catches the red light of a neon sign bounce out of his glass.  “Lalo,” he says to himself.  About fifteen years since last he saw Lalo.

 

                        

“Hey lets hide,” Lalo said to Mark with a hint of excitement in his voice. Lalo’s hair could never stay back or rather a lock of it couldn’t.  It always fell forward and curled under his left eye. He wore his favorite run-of-the-mill red jersey with a big blue star outlined in white and faded blue jeans.  He would have made a great lineman.  Not too fat but enough to take the hits and give a few as well. A grin over took Mark’s face as he nodded his approval watching the lock of hair swing about.  Lalo took the lead.  He ran down the street to the corner of the block in a Southside neighborhood, where the Puma St. Automotive Shop lay dormant in the night.  It wasn’t always a shop though; once it was a lot with abandoned cars thrown about.  It wasn’t an official dumpsite but the city had other things to worry about at the moment.  That moment turned into days followed by weeks and then months.  Until one day someone called it the Puma Drive Dump and it kind of took. Finally, when the lot went out of control with cars everywhere, Mr. Zamarripa, the neighbor who lived across the street from the eye sore, bought it out and converted it to his own automotive yard. 

                    Running along the broken curb, Lalo and Mark found the loose board in the fence that the large Honeysuckle bush hid from the rest of the world.  Only the kids of Puma St. knew where to find it.  It was Tino’s turn with the flashlight and he had already counted to a hundred.  Making his way from the corner of the street, he began his hunt for the other players.  The game was an upgraded version of hide-and-go seek.  Except it was played at night.  The seeker, armed with a flashlight, was charged with finding everyone within the confines of two restrictions: the seeker had to stay on the street and had to call out by name whoever he spotted.  Mark held the loose plank as Lalo scurried into the automotive yard.  Mark followed.

                    “You know this is against the rules,” Mark commented, “we can’t hide indoors or behind anything larger than a parked car.”

                    Lalo fell to one knee and began to whistle, “It’ll be our little joke.  If he can’t find us or anyone else, then he’ll be hunting all night.” Lalo’s voice betrayed his mirth at the idea of Tino searching all night long.  From around the corner charged Max, the Rottweiler custodian of the Puma Drive Dump.  However, Max knew the boys since before he was weaned from his mother so he dashed without malicious intent instead, with high-pitched whines and pawing.

                    “How’ya doing Max?” Lalo rubbed his hands over the dog’s floppy ears. 

                     “So where are we gonna hide?” Mark inquired making it a point to rub the dog’s ears as well.

                    “Up there!” Lalo pointed to five cars stacked on each other.  The pinnacle of the metal mountain was a beat up ‘79 Monte Carlo with a purple front end against a brown body.   

                    “Terry!” shouted a voice from up the street.  The boys quickly scrambled to the top car. They jumped in the back seat and ducked down.  Mark lay pinned under Lalo as they both struggled to hear Tino.  Silence followed. 

                    “I think he’s still lookin’,” commented Lalo, “we better stay here just in case.”  Mark didn’t protest.  As far as he was concerned, he never wanted to move from this spot.  He realized his feelings for Lalo when during a game of football, on an ordinary afternoon, Lalo tackled Mark and Mark felt a tingling sensation where Lalo touched him.  Even Lalo jumped back rather quickly as if he had been shocked.  Neither one of them ever spoke of it.  The young age of fifteen brought awareness to Mark that hit most children his age, but his desires did not lead him to Dona, Michelle, or Destiny, instead they led him to Lalo.  Now Lalo was lying on top of Mark and almost instantly, the craving began.  The hot, torrid desire to reach out and touch Lalo was almost overwhelming.  The hair on the back of Mark’s neck stood on end as Lalo’s breath bore down on him.  “Just lay still,” Mark told himself. The seconds turned to long minutes that stretched into hours as he tried to soak everything he felt from Lalo’s body into his memory.  Then his ears rang.  A buzz sounded as comprehension dawned on Mark.  Lalo was touching him!  Along his side, Lalo stroked his flank moving his hands up and down becoming more confident in his actions.  Mark turned himself around to face Lalo.  Lalo lifted himself up so Mark could move but then settled down again once Mark rolled over.  Lalo’s hair covered his face and hid his eyes in darkness.  They both lay motionless for a moment waiting for the other to respond.  Lalo’s breath was tight and controlled. 

                    “Destiny, is that you,” Tino called out from up the street. 

                    Lalo reached up to Mark’s shirt and began to unfasten the buttons.  He pulled the shirt away.  Lalo then sat up and pulled off his own shirt.  Dropping it to the side, he settled on unfastening his belt buckle. 

This Funny Little Thing Called Love...

Nothing could have prepared me for Isaac. Not the person, per se, but the relationship. Nothing could prepare me for this disrobing that we are going through. At first, I did not understand what others, that are in relationships, meant when they told me we have a lot to go through and even though we have spent over a year and half together, we still have so much more to go.

It’s like trying to explain the color red to a blind person or sound to a deaf person. Yes, they can still perceive red or sound but not the way we would ever think to explain it.  It’s not until now, going on two years, that I am beginning to understand. Before it was on the fringes of my reality—my consciousness—but as of late, I am becoming more aware of it. What I am alluding to is my pride and, by the same notion, to his pride.

At first, my pride seemed like a thick sweater but now it has become a heavy overcoat and I am wearing my overcoat and Isaac is wearing his. Sometimes we take it off and sometimes it goes back on. Sometimes, I have mine off and he has his on and then he takes his off but then I put mine back on.

We get into these bicker sessions that seem to really stress us but then, out of the blue, one of us yields and then we both regret saying things. Isaac makes me apologize and then I make him apologize.  I know he loves me. I certainly do love him. I don’t know what to think about this revelation I am going through but I will continue to try to remove this overcoat from my shoulders when it comes to Isaac.   

A Pretty Strange Dream.

Now I have some pretty exotic and detailed dreams--I guess that is why Isaac hear's me laugh while I'm asleep. I chalk it up to my overactive imagination and my love for reading—so my fantasy world can be highly detailed. Ask anyone from my D&D group. Well, I had a nice one last night and I thought I’d share it with you:

A family from outer space visited earth. They didn’t have bodies like you or I so they manufactured some to “wear” during the course of their visitation. The bodies were highly detailed and gender appropriate. The family consisted of two parents and one son. Their visit wasn’t covert at all (like on 3^rd Rock from the Sun). Instead, they had the government’s approval to stay as long as they wanted. I was a government agent assigned to their well being and answer any questions they had. I had a partner that reminds me now of Wanda Sykes. Together, we were to educate them on the human experience and the American life. I don’t know how I was picked for such a job but hey, it’s my dream right?

So the story picks up on a regular day during the work week. The son is in class and I am at the office. The father is with “Wanda” (I can’t actually remember her name so I’ll call her Wanda.) He is hosing down the drive way—not to clean it mind you, just to see the water cascade in sheets. He is fascinated by it.

            “Are you gonna clean it?” asks Wanda.

            “Clean it? Is it dirty? And if I clean it, won’t it just get dirty again?” says the father.

            “Well then why are you hosing it down?”

            “I like the water. We don’t have such things from my planet.”

            “You don’t have water? How do you drink?”

            “We don’t need to drink. This stuff is so different.” As he says this, he turns the hose onto himself and proceeds to soak himself.

            “What you need is a baptism. Have you been saved yet?”

            “Saved? From who? Is there danger?” He drops the hose and looks around some what alarmed.

            “From the devil. Don’t you have Jesus on your planet?”

            “No, he never visited. From what I’ve heard, some people here killed him.”

            “Well, I mean God. Don’t you have God?”

            “Oh, that is Jesus’s father right? No, he never visited either.”

            “Of course he has, he’s the God almighty! He made the entire universe. You, me, everything.”

            “Why do you keep talking about him? No one has ever seen him or heard from him except others that no longer exist. Yet you talk about him like he could show up any moment.”

            “He can. He is very much alive. He is the father of all life.”

            “I know, I know, you, me and everything right? Your obsession with this person is strange.”

            “All of your family needs to learn about him and be saved.”

Suddenly it’s late in the afternoon. Wanda and I pull up to the house for our routine afternoon visit. We walk right in to find all of them secluded in their rooms. Wanda goes to the parent’s room while I visit the son. I knock on his door he calls me to enter.  I enter another hallway with two more doors: one his bedroom and the other the bathroom with the shower running. His head pops out the bedroom and with a grin invites me in. He is a tall (about 7’) and has a swimmer’s build. His hair is jet black and his skin a pale tint. He is standing before me in his boxers.

            “I was just about to take a shower. Would you like to join me?”

            “Uh, no. We don’t actually bathe together routinely on this planet.”

            “You should, it is great fun.”

            “I’m sure it is. Have you been bathing all day?”

            “No, I just got home.”

            “Ok, good. I realize that you and your parents enjoy the water a lot but it isn’t good for you to stay submerged in water too long. Your bodies may lose too much of its natural oils it needs to survive. Over long periods of time, you could cause yourself injury.”

            “Ok, I won’t stay in all night.”

            “Another thing,” I walk over to his personal sink area he had in his room. He has all his drinking glasses filled with water. “When you rinse out your glasses, you can put them here to dry out. You don’t have to leave them filled.”

            “But isn’t that what they are for?”

            “Yes, but you don’t have to fill them up all the time. Once you’ve cleaned them and let them dry, you can put them away in your cabinet.” I open the cabinet to find he has filled all those glasses too.

            “If you leave water in them, the water tends to go stale.”

            “Is that why they taste different? I didn’t know what it was. Is stale a bad thing?”

            “I’ll explain more on that later. Right now, Wanda and I need to go file our reports. We’ll be back later to explain more.”

            “Well, you will but not Wanda.”

            “What? Why is that?”

            “My dad has just put her on fire.”

            “What?”

            He stares off into the distant for just a bit and says, “Yup. Just now. She won’t be working here anymore.”

            “Oh, you mean fired! She’s just been fired. Fired! Why?!”

            “It appears she’s obsessed with some dead guy that she insists his father has visited our planet.”

“I better go check up on her.”

“Are you coming back for dinner? We’re gonna eat—a lobster.”

“Uh, I’m not sure.” I go outside to find Wanda pacing back and forth by the car. I don’t say a word while she starts shouting.

            “They canned me. Me! They can’t do that. Just who in the hell do they think they are!”

I get in the car and she gets in too. Next thing I know, the alarm is going off.

           

Coming Soon In The Pecan Grove Review XIII

I have another short story coming out in the Pecan Grove Review XIII (PGR).  Though I work for the Pecan Grove Press, the PGR is a separate animal all together.  For those of you interested, I present it here in its entirety with limited commercial interruptions:

Fiddle, Faddle, Feedle

                By Luis A. Cortez

                The unusually large and blazing sun climbs to its zenith casting a watchful gaze below to see a lone soldier lying under a blackened dead tree.  The branches seem to bow towards him as if to caress Refugio—now in the throes of death. To him, he thinks he can hear the roaring flames of the sun and stretching wood of the tree. His soiled white shirt is marred with an ever growing blood stain. His hands cradle the bullet wound that lies under his heart. In the distance, he can hear the battle raging over the next hill for the little unknown fort occupied by the gringos. His breath is shallow and it is beginning to get harder to breath. He licks his dry lips and he imagines his lungs filling up with blood. If the blood pouring out his body does not kill him first, surely he will simply drown here in the desert.

                “Pinche gringos,” he laughs at the irony. He sees a shadow move about his legs. He looks up to see a brown owl sitting on a low hanging branch taking an interest in him.

                “It looks like I’m not going to die alone.”

                The owl looks away as if curiously drawn to something else; the sounds of battle pressing on.

                “I’m sorry, mi amigo, that I am not more entertaining for you. Perhaps if I were feeling better, I would do a little dance for you, eh?” Refugio laughs at the idea of him dancing for an owl in the middle of Texas—so far from Mexico City, his home.

                The owl turns back to Refugio, regards him for a second or so, and says, “Fiddle!”

                “Fiddle?”

                “Fiddle!”

                “You’re a strange owl, senor. I was told that owls said ‘who’, not ‘fiddle.’” At this curiosity, Refugio moves to hoist himself up to get a better look at the owl. As he does so, his hand brushes up against a full water skin beading with cold water droplets along its leather hide. This was not here before. He recalls drinking the full contents of his water skin some time back. He picks up the new skin, moistens his lips, pulls back the top and quenches his thirst. He keeps his eye on the owl and the owl, in turn, watches him.

                “You didn’t bring me this did you?” Refugio ponders the idea for a moment before admonishing himself. “Of course you didn’t! You’re just a pinche bird!  Refugio, you’re going crazy.”

                “Faddle!” The owl screeches.

                Refugio falls silent. He just sits there trying to hold himself up to stare at a brown owl sitting on a low hanging branch.

                “Faddle!” the owl screeches again and Refugio visibly jumps at the owl’s proclamation.  The owl spreads its wings and flaps furiously. A single brown feather shakes loose and flutters to the ground to rest on the back of Refugio’s hand. Suddenly, Refugio feels a sleek, smooth movement traverse around his wrist. He looks now to see a large grass snake coiling around his arm. He screams and tries to shake it loose but the pain of his open wound over takes him and he collapses to the ground. The grass snake licks wickedly at the blood soaked shirt and after a few seconds looking at the wound, the snake dives into the bullet hole!

                Refugio screams in shock and pain as the snake writhes to enter his body. Just as Refugio is about to seize the snake and throw him away, the owl swoops down to clasp the snake and carry it back to his perch. Refugio cannot believe his eyes as the snake, trying to get away from the owl, is brandishing the bullet slug in his mouth. The owl begins to eat.

                “I know you, tecolote,” Refugio announces as he clasps onto his injury. He rocks back and forth trying to sooth the angry wound.  His vision blurs in and out of focus. The loss of blood is beginning to take its toll. He raises his hand to make the “sign of the cross” first touching his forehead, “En nombre de padre…,” he begins but the owl suddenly discards the snake onto Refugio making him jump to shake the dead and mutilated snake off him. In the distance, despite the battle, Refugio can make out a wild cackle. Refugio turns his attention to the bird.

                “There was an Owl lived in an oak,” recites Refugio, “Whiskey, waskey, weedle!”

Refugio recalls his time in California on one of his many duty assignments. There he met a soldier from the United States Calvary. They exchanged anecdotes and scary stories while getting drunk late into the evening.

“And all the words he ever spoke,” Refugio calls out but his vision is blurry again. The Owl seems to fade away leaving an old crone standing in front of him.  “Were fiddle, faddle, feedle!”

“No, no, mijito,” says the old woman, “I need a young man to get me around. You will make a fine horse, you will.” Again she cackles. Her face is a twisted visage of wrinkles. One of her eyes is milky white. Her shawl is tattered and her dress is poorly stitched up. Her image fades away and the owl has returned.

“Feedle!” cries out the owl while thrashing his wings again. A number of feathers fall from the owl to land on Refugio’s legs. Quite unexpectedly, Refugio is overtaken with a new pain rushing from his feet. He screams out and tries to shake the pain from him but the pain endures. Refugio has forgotten about his bullet wound. He tries to scramble to his feet but his legs fail him. Then, to Refugio’s shocked amazement, his left boot bursts open to reveal a misshapen foot. The toes look to have merged together and his ankle has expanded ripping his sock and revealing brown fur. He continues to scream as he hears his bones snapping and resetting themselves. His right foot does the same. His legs have transformed into the legs of a horse.

Refugio begins to panic. His mind races back to the story the corporal shared.

“A Gunner chanced to come that road, Whiskey, waskey, weedle!” Refugio drew out his pistol and pointed it at the owl. “Says he, ‘I'll shoot you, Silly Bird!’”

As he tries to finger the trigger, he notices his fingers are now melded together. The finger nails are turning black and brown fur is growing out his skin. His whole body lurches forward as his shoulders push apart. He can sense his neck growing, what seems to him, to a monstrous length.  He tries to scream but his voice breaks and he sounds like a neighing horse! He fumbles the pistol and tries to regain his composure. He levels the gun onto the owl who his now thrashing about on the branch. Between heaving breaths and concentrated effort, he says, “so fiddle…faddle…feedle!”

A clap of thunder rolls across the sky and the owl seems to implode leaving only a bundle of brown feathers to fall to the ground. Refugio is wracked with pain once again and he passes out to the fading cackle in the distance.

He awakens to the voices of two military medics. He opens his eyes to see them standing over him. He tries to talk but all he can manage is a groan.

“No se preocupe. We’ve got you. You must have one hell of a story to tell. How did you get all the way over here on two broken legs and a bullet wound?” Refugio tries to raise his head but finds it to too heavy to lift. He raises his hand to see five blood stained fingers. He thinks to himself, “maybe I dreamt this. Maybe it was a hallucination?”

The other medic says, “I think he ate a bird. Look at all these feathers!”

Two Love-vely Bunch of Coconuts on a Sunday Afternoon!

This past weekend, Mike, Ken, John, Jonathan, Isaac, and I made our way up to Sherwood Forest Faire. It is a renaissance faire that is much smaller than the Texas Renaissance Faire we attend in the fall. It’s about two-hours away vs. the four Houston trip and so, for the second year in a row, we just made a day trip of it. I blew about 70 bucks on a rental and drove us up and back. We all had a blast! Ken wore his Roman soldier armor, and Isaac and I wore our senatorial robes. Though I could certainly do an hour-by-hour replay, I will save you all the trouble by only highlighting two of our favorite moments! Needless to say, the mead was flowing; otherwise, we wouldn’t be nearly as bold as we were!  

To begin with, once we got there, we wanted to show Mike the jousting—yes, Mike is a Renaissance Virgin. So we headed over to the lists—that’s where the jousting takes place—but realized we were a half-hour too early. We went, instead, to get some food. We approached a vendor that sold all kinds of fried stuff: mushrooms, fries, sausages (Italian and Polish), artichoke, steak on a stick, and various other oil-immersed goodies. Isaac was eyeing the sausage, and I wanted the artichoke.  It smelled delicious and I guess everyone else thought so too because there was a rather lengthy line waiting for service. We took our place in line and watched the vendor—simply because he was so animated.  The vendor was announcing each order in a loud, comical manner, and asking for the currency in pounds. Of course, we all knew he meant dollars and everyone went along with it. Isaac was enchanted with this guy especially since he really made a big deal whenever he was tipped! It went something like this:

                “ OOOOne order of sausage and fries!!!!! That’ll be 8 pounds, my Looooord!  Neeeeext!!!!” But before the guy left, he took his change and left a dollar in the tip jar. “ Ooooooh! We have a tipper!!! Thank you, sir!!!! Thank you! Many blessings on your hhhooouse! Neeeeext!!!”

This went on for every customer. I guess Isaac thought this guy was doing an awesome job at entertaining us because when Isaac’s turn came up, he left the guy a couple of dollars but they were folded up in such a way as to like  a bunch of bills. In a louder (if that was possible) voice, the vendor really shot off and said,

                “Ooooh! Thank you, my Loord!!! You are toooo generous! Somebody give that man a kiss! Somebody kiss’em!”

Isaac, however, just laughing the whole thing off, turned around and started walking towards me—as I had moved out of the line to make it easier for everyone.  The vendor, however, wasn’t giving up:

                “Haaang on!!!  Sir! Sir! You sir!! Is no one gonna kiss that man!!!??!!  Hey you!!!”

By this time, people stopped and turned and those in line stopped Isaac to tell him the vendor was talking to him.

                “Come back here! If no one is gonna kiss you, then I’ll do it myself!!!!”

At this, everyone broke into laughter but I quickly put myself in front of Isaac and shouted back!

                “OOOh hell no! This is my boyfriend! No one kisses him except me!!!!!”

                “Well, give him a kiss then!!!!”

At that, I spun around and planted a kiss squarely on Isaac right in front of everyone! I didn’t give a damn! I was claiming what’s mine!  We got some cheers and some claps but I think everyone just looked away! HA!!!

The second incident happened much later in the day after poor Isaac was really tanked. We were winding up the day with a final trip to the hatchet throwing booth—seeing Isaac and Jonathan throw hatchets while drunk is hilarious as hell—when we were stopped by one of the park employees. He announced himself as John Little. And, yes, he certainly did look the part! He was a tall burly man with a rosy nose and cheeks.  

                “Pardon me, my lords, I pray thee a word. Today I am going to get married but those two guards guarding the chapel won’t let me in! Seeing how you two are dressed so, you must be lords of Rome (At this point, he notices Isaac has purple trim on his toga) In fact, you must be Caesar! That means you must be Brutus (me) and he (Ken) must be your Praetorian Guard! I am certain with masters such as you accompanying me, I can get me in the chapel! (Directed to Ken) You look scary enough! Show me your war face!”

At  that, Ken says: “Grrrr.” Not shouts. Not growls out. Not even a nasty cat grrr. He just lifts his lip while standing there and says: “Grrrr.”

“You see?!” continues Little John, “with that, I’m sure we can get in! So will you help me so I can get married?”

Keep in mind, he is saying this in a loud voice and we are definitely in ear shot of—oh, it seems—the entire park so suffice it to say that put us on the spot to help this character. Ken shrugs at me and Isaac is waiting for me to respond and I just can’t pass this golden opportunity up so we swing around and march right up to the chapel.  Little John is delighted and he leads us. We get there and just as Little John steps up, these two (Latinos) English guards stop Little John and bark out:

                “No, no, no! We already told you; you are not allowed in here.  The Sheriff of Nottingham is already inside and he left strict orders for you and any of your lot not to be allowed admittance.

                “But…but…but…I have two lords and…and…they want me to show them the chapel!”

                Realizing what is happening, Isaac turns to me and asks, “Please speak for me? “And I respond, “Uh uh, this one is all yours. Do it! Just have fun with it!” He looks up to Little John and steels himself. He then steps around Little John and yells out,

                “Do you know who I am! I am Caesar! Emperor of GREECE!”     <---silly me, and here I thought we were Romans.

                The guards look like they’ve been slapped in the face! I can’t tell whether they are surprised by his outburst or whether they are trying not to laugh but they repeat the title over to each other:

                “ Caesar of Greece?! Ceasar of Greece?!  Oh! That sounds important!”

                Without missing a beat, Isaac continues: “I’m here with Brutus (points to me) and my guard (Ken says grrr.) and we want to see this chapel!”

                “Well,” says the guard shifting uncomfortably, “we better let you in then.”

Poor Isaac is never gonna live this one down!

Chicago style deep dish pizza--with San Antonio influences

Yesterday afternoon, Isaac and I tried our hand at making a Chicago style deep-dish pizza! It was an adventure, to say the least, and one that I advise should not be taken lightly. To begin with, we made our own crust. We had a recipe so it wasn't like we dream it up from scratch--Oh my, can you imagine the hell that would be?

I started the dough at 4pm. It takes an hour to proof so just after 5, I punched it down and rolled it out. I used a springform pan for our creation so as to make it easier to remove from the tin. After laying out the dough and spreading it out across the pan and up the sides, I let it proof for another twenty minutes. During that time, we prepared all our toppings--well, not really toppings as they went inside the pizza. We sliced up the mushrooms, onion, red and green bell pepper. We cooked the Italian sausage and chopped up the Canadian bacon. Once the dough proofed for a second time, we were all set to lay "in" the pizza. We started with layering the mozzarella cheese--we used slices. The meats came second: pepperoni, sausage, and bacon. Finally, all the veggies: bell peppers, onion, and mushrooms--we didn't cook any of the vegetables. We let the oven do that.   finally, we topped it off with more mozzarella cheese--this time, shredded. Notice I haven't mentioned the sauce yet. I didn't forget. We didn't use any until the last stages of our creation! Once the toppings were layed down, we put another layer of dough on top! We punched a few holes to vent and then covered the entire thing up with sauce. We dabbed it with garlic (as we forgot to include that in our ingredients until the end!) We sprinkled it down with parmesan and mozzarella cheese. We baked it 400 degrees for forty minutes!

It came out a little charred on top but the inside was pure perfection! We enjoyed it thoroughly! As we sat there (Isaac, Ken, and I) scarfing down our pizza, we talked about what we would do differently. I thought the sauce was enough but the boys wanted more so next time I will probably coat the first layer of cheese with sauce and place the meats and add another coat before layering the veggies and then add the final layer of sauce once I place the dough top. Also, I probably will not place cheese on top until half the cooking time has expired. This will still give the cheese plenty of time to melt but not so much time as to char. One last note: the bread came out really thick. Thicker than I remember from Chicago. So next time around, I think will roll it out a bit thinner. I can't wait to try this again!