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Croquet: summer’s perfect expression of violence |
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On the Fourth of July I was standing in my parents' backyard playing croquet and feeling very Heathers. Now this is a game (or is it a sport?) that handles aggression in the best possible way. You may scoff, but think about a recent highly publicized boxing incident: Mike Tyson, who's a CONVICTED RAPIST and is being paid an obscene amount of money to try to beat someone unconscious, is suddenly the pariah of the world because he bit Evander Holyfield's ears. Is this a joke? Sportswriters across the country are shaking their heads and crying, "Isn't it too bad that Tyson has shamed this great sport and will be forever remembered as an ear-biter?"--like that's so much more terrible than being remembered as a rapist. Besides, people get their ears pierced all the time; I don't see anyone paying money to be pounded senseless. Anyway, I'm just mad because I'm overtired from all the idiots in my neighborhood lighting off fireworks night after night after night. Fireworks are one of those things I really don't get. Big fireworks shows are one thing, but I don't understand spending tons of money on puny Roman candles and the like. I think it's a guy thing. First of all, fireworks are so phallic (you get them going, they shoot stuff into the air) that if he could, Freud would probably return from the dead to get some. Almost every woman I know, including me, has a scary story about mean boys aiming some stupid fiery explosive device at them. My dad was always telling us precautionary tales about kids running and falling with sparklers in their hands. The sparklers always ended up right in their eyes. Maybe it's because I was tired, but I really enjoyed the croquet, where the rules are clearly pro-violence. You're rewarded for going out of your way to hurt other players; it's really easy to cheat; and there are no allegiances or rivalries strong enough to last beyond one turn. Plus you can drink margaritas while playing. I discovered the best diversionary tactic in the midst of an intense match, when I tried to distract the other players with questions about the moles that have been turning the yard into something that looks like the Mars photos and feels like a sponge under your feet. Just as I was hearing about the latest mole-removal technique, I looked down and saw one--dead, luckily, with a picked-clean skull and feet (though the body had yet to be skinned). A freshly dead rodent with sharp teeth is worth at least two extra hits. While fireworks caused sleep deprivation for much of the weekend, the O'Connor's Rooftop provided one relaxing interlude. This space on the top of the Yamhill Market building is the best of all worlds as far as concert venues go. (Well, unless you want to get a drink. I sat down briefly at some friends' table and was told by the waitress that I couldn't order a drink because she didn't "know" me yet. But I didn't feel bad. She told another table she wouldn't wait on them again because they gently complained that 30 minutes was a little long to wait for a beer.) But this minor problem aside (go to the bar yourself), Saturday night's sold-out Pink Martini and Satan's Pilgrims show was great. The rooftop only has a few shows throughout the summer; try to catch at least one. There's a great view of downtown and plenty of tables. I wondered why people were giggling at the well-dressed owner of Torso, who walked around with an entourage of women impeccably turned out in vintage style, until I saw Austin Powers on Sunday. It was a near duplicate of the first scene. Crazy.
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