Milton Pirates Festival

A number of years ago we discovered the Renaissance festival held in Mississauga. It was, in a word, COOL. They had plays, and vendors and silly games for the kids and, get this, real jousting. Lists, armored knights, horses, lances, the whole sha-bang. My family really loved going.

Then the farmer who allowed the Renaissance festival the land to use decided to sell it for a housing development. And for years, nothing other than whispers of a Robin Hood festival in London and a Medieval Faire in Michigan. Both way too far.

Anyway, Kat discovered the Pirate festival in Milton which is, for us, the far side of Toronto. But it sounded like maybe, just maybe, and off we went.

Short review, if you live on the west end of Toronto, or about a half-hour from Milton, yeah, go ahead. Otherwise, it’s just a bit too small to be worth it.

Best thing are the patrons and on site actors who take part in the scenery. Among them the pickle guy, who sells cucumbers on a stick from a large barrel on wheels.

Two great quotes I heard:

From and an actor who noticed me and my daughter walking into each other “Like two ships passing in the night only to find the sea too small.”

From two girls passing the pickle guy. “I’d buy a pickle if the guy wasn’t so weird.”

Mike

Dangers of Blogging

With the understanding that by blogging my burgeoning writing career (emphasis on burgeoning), my words are essentially public domain, I’ve striven to keep my opinions and statements light-hearted, never to be taken too seriously. For the most part, I believe I have succeeded.

Unfortunately, there will always be people out there who lurk in the cyber shadows with their own private, nefarious agendas. I’ve done my best to keep my children's names private, but I didn't notice them in Kat's eulogy for her dad.

So, it wasn’t too surprising to discover someone from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, scouring the web for my daughter’s blog. God only knows what sickness must be infecting this person’s mind, but I hope they get help. Or shot. Preferably with a small calibre bullet that doesn’t quite penetrate the cranium, doing just enough damage to cause permanent brain damage so that you can only view life from a wheelchair while sucking dinner through a straw. Sick, demented, however you prefer to think of yourself, consider this: if I know where you are from, how much more effort would it take to know who you are? You, your friends--your relatives, I'm sure they would be interested to know your proclivities. Mark my words.

Why just thinking about it almost brings a tear to my eye.

Have a nice day.

Mike