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October 2, 2001 jerkins On Sunday afternoons, a group of teenagers assembles in the park behind my house.  They carry padded swords and lances and talk to one another in what they imagine to be Old English.  To my ear, they speak a pidgin Monty-Python-meets-Justin Wilson.  They dress in what they believe is medieval garb, but which looks more like He-Man clothing from the Castle Grayskull Collection;  one guy even wears what looks to be a Skeletor mask. I have assigned the combatants and their entourage names: Sir Porky; Sir Jermaine; Sir/Lady Butch; Maid Corpulence; Skeletor; and assorted Oafs and Varlets.  Try as I might, I am unable to decipher the rules which govern their activities.  There seems to be no point.  The group is "cloven in Twain" and the two resulting clans engage in fierce chatting before retreating to their respective camps.  After some strategic standing around, some of the male warriors remove their jerkins and flex.  Then each side attacks the other in a cataclysmic charge that resembles a soccer game among toddlers.  Having met on the field of battle, the knights proceed to brandish their weapons before, again, subduing the other with idle banter. This ritual is repeated all afternoon until one of the players runs out of smokes.  They disband and that's it until next week.  You should come over and watch.

©  2001 by the beastmaster