There were only two games left in their season and if I didn’t go to one of those I’d have to wait until September for a chance to see the Boston Derby Dames play again. So up to Wilmington I went to the Shriners Auditorium. Shouldn’t it be the Shriner‘s Auditorium? Shriners‘?

I watched three periods of action packed all-female roller derby. But I still don’t think I could explain the rules to you very well. There are jammers and there are blockers and even though these girls have knee pads and elbow pads and helmets on they don’t have any hip pads and when they fall on the cement track I wince and make one of those quick inhaling hissing noises.

It was the Boston Massacre vs. The (Baltimore) Mobtown Maulers. The Boston Massacre mascot is a guy dressed up in a lobster suit and I caught myself smiling at watching him rhythmically slice his big red claws around as he danced to Jump Around blaring on the loud speakers. Is there anything more Boston than that? A lobster dancing to an Irish-centric rap band?

For some unexplained reason, and still unsolved, is why the Baltimore mascot was a kid dressed up in a hotdog suit. wtf?! A crab would’ve made more sense, right? And what an epic battled that would’ve been. Lobster vs. Crab. Two crustacean enter. One crustacean leave.

What struck me as most interesting was the mix of the crowd. Considerable lesbian contingent; butch couples hand-in-hand. Considerable goth contingent; piercings, colored hair. Yet very family friendly too, and in fact just a generally friendly vibe all around. But what added another great layer to it were the Shriners. This is their house remember, and they’re there taking tickets, acting as security, manning the concession stands. Cute overweight old men in their red windbreakers and tiny red fez hats with the tassels falling off them. A-dorable. I want to take a pottery class and make a Shriner-within-a-Shriner set of nesting dolls like those Russian babushkas. I’m convinced I could make a killing. Then again I also want to hand one of them a pair of cymbals and slap him on the back and yell “Clap Monkey Clap!”

To fuel my passion for this new business venture I eat cheeseburgers. Three of them. These are ordered one at a time and I try to time my visits to the concession stand so that I get a different server each time. I’m concerned they’ll remember me and judge me. Or call me a fatty fatty bobalatty. “Eat Fatty Eat!”

[ see: roller derby pics ]

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