On our trip to Leavenworth, we passed through Monroe, which I had always assumed was a town of little note. Not so! At one point, Evan looked over and gasped “Reptile zoo!” The two of us chorused louder than any child could manage from the backseat, “REPTILE ZOO!” and demanded that we stop and visit. Emily temporarily halted our pleading by suggesting that we could stop in on the return trip, a compromise to which we were both amenable. I looked up their website on my phone and discovered they had an albino alligator, whose name we decided would be “Chompy”. I further decided I wanted to ride him. Unfortunately, by the time we got back from Leavenworth, the Reptile Zoo was closed for the day, and I was a bit too tired to throw the mighty tantrum that sort of disappointment mandates. So, on New Year’s Eve, we made a special trip to the Reptile Zoo. I was so excited about this trip, I made up a special song and dance number entitled “Goin’ to the Reptile Zoo” which essentially looks like any of my other dances but involves the tuneless singing of “We…are…going to…THE REPTILE ZOO!” over the top, along with some fist-pumping.

After we finished fooling with the big snake carving out front, I noticed that there were signs everywhere about where one ought to deposit one’s gum. The Reptile Zoo, in fact, seemed more concerned about gum than all of my grade school teachers combined. What was the deal with the gum? Is gum inherently the anti-snake? Do iguanas seek out discarded gum when they want to blow bubbles but end up making a mess everywhere? Does someone loathe minty-fresh breath?

When we got inside and paid our entry fee, I asked the woman what was up with all the gum signs, because clearly there must be a big issue, right? Right? Someone died and gum was involved, right? Wrong. Apparently someone dropped some on the carpet once and it made a stain. I don’t know that carpet stains should be among their biggest concerns–after all, they’re sharing a room with the WORLD’S TEN DEADLIEST SNAKES!

…oh. Actually, devenomization is probably for the best. The owners are apparently a little blase when it comes to fang-based danger as some of the tanks had cracks in the glass or little holes that snakes were furiously poking at with their noses in an effort to wreak bitey havoc. Also, after the camel incident* and the tiger incident** and the goose incident*** and the seagull incident**** and the cat incidents*****…I am far better off when nearby animals are not only behind glass but also deweaponized as much as possible. Nearly all of the animals in open-top enclosures had signs indicating that they either might bite or will bite, and that sort of certainty keeps even me from putting my hands where they don’t belong.

^{Handwritten signs in marker only add to the feeling of danger. The only writing implement more dangerous-feeling is the crayon, because the crayon says you well and truly just do not give a fuck.}

Danger! Chompy! Escapees! And BBQ! ALL UNDER THE CUT.

Last weekend, I went to the Scottish Highland Games in Enumclaw, which served as a lesson in expectations versus reality. For instance, I’m not quite sure what exactly I expected to see as soon as I crossed into Enumclaw’s borders, perhaps dudes getting it on with horses on every streetcorner, but no, it was merely every other streetcorner. At the games themselves, I expected an authentic Scottish experience…and that wasn’t so much the case, either. First things first: I entered the grounds only to discover that the Scots have not learned their lesson from not merely one, but FOUR Terminator films, and have doomed us all by creating Skynet. The second thing I learned is that while the venue may be low on commodities like flush toilets, they do believe in providing group showers. Somewhere along the way, I realized there wasn’t really an authentic Scottish experience to be had. Much ado is made about the storied history of kilts and the exclusivity of individual tartan patterns to specific clans, but they’re neither as old nor as traditional as many people believe. No matter what Mel Gibson donned in Braveheart, William Wallace was not wearing a kilt in the 1300s: the kilt wasn’t invented until 1725, and it wasn’t adopted as a symbol of national identity until the ninteenth century. It has since been reclaimed by schlubby men who don’t want to wear underpants and who always have mysterious chef boy ardee stains on their wifebeaters in the form of the Utilikilt. As for tartan designs, “The sixteenth century writers who first noticed the Highland dress clearly did not know any such differentiation. They describe the plaids of the chiefs as coloured, those of their followers as brown, so that any differentiation of colour, in their time, was by social status, not by clan. The earliest evidence which has been adduced in support of differentiation by a clan is a remark by Martin Martin, who visited the Western Islands at the end of the seventeenth century. But Martin merely assigns different patterns to different localities: he does not differentiate them by clans; and in fact the evidence against differentiation by clans is strong. Thus, a carefully painted series of portraits of the different members of the Grant family by Richard Waitt in the eighteenth century shows all of them in different tartans; the portraits of the Macdonalds of Armadale show at least ‘six distinct setts of tartan’; and contemporary evidence concerning the rebellion of 1745–whether pictorial, sartorial, or literary–shows no differentiation of clans, no continuity of setts. The only way in which a Highlander’s loyalty could be discerned was not by his tartan but by the cockade in his bonnet. Tartans were a matter of private taste, or necessity, only. Indeed, in October 1745, when the Young Chevalier was in Edinburgh with his army, the Caledonian Mercury advertised ‘a great choice of tartans, the newest patterns’. As D.W. Stewart reluctantly admits, this is a great stumbling block in the way of those who argue for the antiquity of the patterns; for it seems peculiar that, when the city was filled with Highlanders of all ranks and many clans, they should be offered not their ancient setts but ‘a great choice of the newest patterns’.”^(source) I get it, people want to feel a connection to history, to their ancestors, but is inventing tradition the best way to do it, instead of actually learning about their history? All they’re doing is making it easy for purveyors of bullshit to make a buck off of them. Buy a printout of the names of your ancestors, matted in whatever pattern was registered for them in the ancient 1960s!

^{I bet these guys wish they knew they could have gotten something other than puke-colored kilts. Woof!}

Whatever the intentions of the Scottish Highland Games were initially, it’s pretty well become like any convention gathering: a place to sell elf-ears to true believers. I saw, in no particular order, GothScots (“You may take our lives, but you’ll never take our black lipstick!”), druids, pirates, Legolas’ groupies, a dude fully dressed like The Crow–it’s like history has come to life right in front of me!

^{Oh shit, it’s Stevie Nicks!}

Instead of hot men in kilts battling one another on a field with their bare hands, there was a dog parade, and not-so-hot guys in kilts handling their poles.

There was also a booth selling a variety of authentic Highland weapons…like Frodo’s blade Sting, and Link’s Master Sword. Notable Scottish warriors, both! After ingesting some greasy ‘Scottish’ fair food, mocking the GothScots with some bored teenagers working the lemonade stand, and listening to some Celtic ‘singers’ yowl like dying cats, I joined Jeanine at her booth and helped her card jewelry/misuse her supplies. That’s where I also met the lovely loree_borealis. We were seated next to the Sketchy Brit Foods booth, and across from a business with an unfortunate name. When I first looked over, I thought it said:

^{“We’ve got a fix on your anus’ RFID chip, ma’am, it’s crossed the border into Canada!”}

When Laurie looked over, she thought it said:

^{New terminology for a cheating bastard?}

So, we had many a laugh at the poor proprietors of Wandering WAngus. Eventually, I crafted a handpuppet out of a brown bag, named him Brownie McCleod, and tried to sell people their fortunes for a dollar shoved through his mouth-hole. Apparently there is a market for elf ears at the Highland Games but not so much for paper soothsayers.

^{Who wouldn’t trust this face?}

After we posed for a photograph in front of the shop, we put it up for the night and then went to Muckleshoot to taste of their buffet, which devolved (of course) into an eating contest of sorts for me. Apparently my stomach does have upper limits and those were reached and nearly breached as I groaned my way out of the restaurant. After we’d finished, piemancer joined us and we were off to another restaurant in the casino for drinks and chatting. It might not have been a day full of history, but it was a day full of awesome! Here is a bonus ‘fair bear’ peeing out the name of the expo: