The Heritage Industry

Saturday, August 23, 1997

I picked up my nephew J--- this morning and we drove to the Troll in Fremont, after making a few stops to buy some needed items. The troll is a cool statue underneath a bridge in an arty/funky neighborhood of Seattle. This was our chosen venue for Trollsylvanian Heritage Day.

We were there first, then Jayson and Nick arrived. Nick is always puffing and blowing when he arrives anywhere, because his vehicle of choice is an adult trike, the kind you might see in a senior housing development. The gearing on this thing makes it not easy to pedal. He loves it, though. He ducked up behind the statue to change into his T. clothes. J--- and I helped Jayson unpack all the things he had been assigned to bring.

Jayson did a great job on formatting the costume web page and some written material that Nick had sent him into posters that we taped up to the cement pillars, so people could understand what we were doing there. We also had handouts with our contact info, so people could find us again if they enjoyed what we were doing.

Dave Volk was another Cacophony member that came by and joined us. Luckily I had an extra vest, and the rest of his clothes fit in to what we were doing. We joked that he was a "Reform" Trollsylvanian, since he wore pants rather than a long skirt, a pinstripe shirt instead of white or cream, and no hat.

Jayson went up to the top of the bridge (there is a main highway up there) to tie a rope and hang a hula hoop down where we were, to be used in a T. stick-tossing game. We thought nothing of this at the time, but shortly afterward a police car drove up. The officer observed us for a few minutes, then got out to speak to us. Turns out that there were three cellphone calls to 911, saying that there was a cross-dresser on the bridge going to either commit suicide or dangle himself from a rope! We had forgotten that a week or so ago, some Greenpeace protesters had slung ropes off the bridge (over the water, not where we were) and hung suspended for a few days, trying to block the fishing boats. As soon as the cop realized that we weren't doing anything like that, he went away.

So whenever some folks arrived at the statue, we started speaking to them, welcoming them to T. Heritage Day, giving some short spiels on T. history and customs, demonstrating T. games and offering T. snacks. People's reactions varied from bored and annoyed to enthralled and amazed.

We got some people to try the stick-tossing game, giving a troll doll for each player. This was a big hit, especially with the kids. Funny that troll dolls that they would normally not want became prized items!

The best game was one that was suggested by my nephew: The Bladder Stomp. The rationale: since Trollsylvania is a country with many rivers and streams, parents would tie a bladder to a child's ankle to prevent drowning, should the child fall in the water. The children realized that trying to stomp on another child's bladder was a fun game! The modern adaptation uses balloons tied on with ribbon, and adults and children can play. This was amazingly fun! We played twice, and would have played more but I didn't bring enough balloons.

When we'd had enough fun and were starting to get tired, we packed up and cleaned up and left. My nephew said to me, "It's been such a long time since I went to Archie McPhee's." Since I am a softie, I caved and we went there. (It's right in the neighborhood anyway.) I bought him some sunglasses, and a Monkey King boxing hand puppet, and a weird alien puppet for his brother.

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In the evening I finished up critiques on two other journals. I had started one of them a few weeks ago, due to misreading the schedule. The other was for a diary that I have read daily for quite a while. While I don't feel required to read the entire journal when critiquing, I like to if I can. I do this with most journals I read, not just those for critique. The entire body of the journal seems to be "of a piece" to me. The changes of tone and design interest me, and the built-up detail of the journaller's life makes zir real for me. The journal is like a termite mound, slowly growing each day bit by bit; each little entry is both a work unto itself, and part of the greater whole.

Did I really use the word "unto"? Sheesh!