A&E

With cheeky pirates and hot barbarians, the Age of Chivalry ren fest thrills again

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For the 22nd year, the Age of Chivalry Renaissance Festival made magic in Vegas. (With plenty of pirate humor.)
Photo: Erin Ryan

It's not often you see a rough dude stroke an Elven sword and say, "This is bitchin'." Or a hula-hooping gypsy. Or a knit squid hanging from a noose in the candlelight of a pirate's tent. On Saturday night in Sunset Park, I was inside of this wondrous tear in reality—the Age of Chivalry Renaissance Festival. It's a themed extravaganza that doesn't stick to the narrow definitions these fairs usually do, meaning you might see an anime dragon with glowing eyes or a "door harp" carved with a Star Trek totem. Basically, if you nerd out on anything, you will find your tribe.

It's impossible to paint or take enough pictures to describe Age of Chivalry, so instead, here are a few random nuggets of the experience.

Pirates, pirates, everywhere

I hear him before I see him, and he's not going easy on the rubes about to hurl ripe fruit. Welcome to "Pelt the Pirate." The pelting involves tomatoes, and the pirate stands with his head through a hole, like a criminal in the stocks. But instead of begging for mercy, he's trying to make his attackers do that. To one teen, he yells an insult we're supposed to take as an impersonation: "I'm in a band called Never Gonna Get Any!" He laughs at the mostly sad throws. But when the red mush connects, he celebrates along with the hurler. His pirate brethren are giving boat rides on the lake and interesting life tips from a booth. Good Advice & More advertises everything from money-laundering strategies to breast exams (hence the "& More"). And it wouldn't be a theme without the unavoidable Captain Jack Sparrow lookalike, who appears, for some reason, in a Polynesian watchtower. As I stare up he says, "Lose something, love?"

Why have a shoulder parrot when you can have this?

Why have a shoulder parrot when you can have this?

Christmas shopping in October

Know someone who needs a scabbard for her teacup and saucer? Or a camel ornament stitched like a baseball? Or a spooky mandrake root for $165? Everywhere I look there are convincing artifacts, like garments from other times and realms and fine weapons, some crafted after movie blades and others the work of true artisans. For those seeking black fairy wings and matching bling, there's the Swashbuckle Emporium and its "fine plunder for discerning tastes." But the gift of choice for wide-eyed adults is a puppet griffin that sits on your shoulder and animates through the movement of delicate wires. They're as real as you want them to be.

The great corset escape

It's hanging in the low light, this rich green figure-tamer with brass fasteners and a bustled half-skirt. It's the only one left in this color, and it's a size zero. The merchant is convinced I can squeeze in, and squeeze we do. Once the hooks are locked, she goes to town on the strings in back, tightening in a specific sequence that erases about six inches off my waist and feels both comfortingly sturdy and oppressively tight. (Thank goodness I tried it on before I hit the meat pies!) She promises that as difficult as it is to get into, it's a snap to shed. With one finger, she pokes near my belly button and slices upward. The hooks pop like magic. And after that, I see corseted gals everywhere, many with cleavage trying to make its escape while the hooks are still securely fastened.

Do you know the pickle man?

All around the park, there are rolling coolers decked in green fabric with signs that read simply, "PICKLES." This is genius. Especially because the young knaves slinging the snacks are so clever. I take a picture of one as he digs through his inventory, and he asks if I want to buy a pickle. I pass, so he asks if I want a free joke.

Him: "What do you get when you cross a pickle and a deer?"

Me: "Umm ..."

Him: "A dill-doe."

I tell him it's a good free joke, and he asks if it's good enough for a tip. This kid could make it on the mean medieval streets.

Let's feast!

Last year, the turkey specialty of Sir Rodney's Legs blew my mind. It was succulent, and the bone-in smoked meat proved to be the smartest festival food, as it came with no utensils or mess. But since I've never had a cheesesteak, I figure Philadelphia would approve of my maiden voyage happening among actual maidens. My sandwich is served open-face, with lots of black scrapings from two straight days of grilling. It can't kill the awesome of this meaty, gooey-cheesy, oniony train-wreck. I think my companion is a little sad about his gyro right now. Nearly every booth is selling garlic fries, but only one has both pita-za ("cheese or bilge-rat loaded") and Highlander Balls. Still, we pass these savory temptations and head to the most fragrant spot in all the land—the roasted-nut kiosk. Because nothing goes better with the violent "bone dance" than pecans loaded with caramelized sugar.

Not to worry, he survived.

Not to worry, he survived.

Look Mom, no fire extinguisher!

From the real jousting to the raucous celtic jams of the Wicked Tinkers, entertainment is one of the biggest draws of Age of Chivalry. When you arrive after nightfall, you're guaranteed a lot of dancing with fire and wrestling with bone. There is literally a leg bone that two fierce opponents grab and try like mad to hang onto as they wrench and spin and punch and kick and tackle each other. I'm sure it must be choreographed to some extent, like WWF, but it still comes off brutal. Some guy in the crowd yells, "Let's see a real fight!" And he's challenged to come down and start one. In his Cleveland Browns T-shirt, he looks hilarious next to the warrior smeared with black mud and sporting all kinds of leather and muscles. This must be a plant situation. There's no way a total rookie would dare, is there? Either way, T-shirt guy goes down after a surprisingly decent fight, and of course, someone in the audience yells, "Punk bitch!" Way to pull me out of the ancient fantasy. Thankfully, it's restored by the Snake Army, a wonderfully strange mix of a vaudeville troupe and a cult of fire worshippers. One dancer flings a flaming hula-hoop around her neck. Others put out blaze after blaze with their tongues. And the master of ceremonies, dressed as a hobo, spits his bottle of hooch in the air and lights it up. We just miss the last show by the Gypsy Time Travelers, and are heartbroken, because we wanted some "Fabulous Storytelling with Live Anvil Accompaniment."

Behind the curtain

As enchanting as the staged parts of the festival are, I feel its magic most on the long walk to the gate when it's over. The hard-core fest-goers, the guilds who build a lot of the set pieces and costumes and performances that make this feel authentic, are gathering to get the real party started. An old wizard soaks his feet in a wine bucket, and a super-hot barbarian strides past with a toothbrush jammed in her mouth. They're recharging for the next round. All we can do is peek into their elaborate encampments, at the cheery glow of campfires or the lavish silks of antler-decked halls. It reminds me of walking off a broken ride at Disneyland, seeing the animatronic effects and sets in a way they're never meant to be seen. And suddenly, I'm kinda glad I can't get a better look.

Pearls of something

The best two things I learned at the 22nd installment of Age of Chivalry? 1. "Never mess with somebody with a bigger army than you." 2. If you light your fishnets on fire, just pat it out and keep on dancing.

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