In Quad We Trust

Fishnets and tattoos. Frilly skirts that are too short and pink underpants that peek out from beneath. Crash helmets and beer.

Tegan and I went to the roller-derby last night. At first, reading the rules in the program, I was baffled. There are more refs than active players on the ring, but after 2 minutes I understood why. Some of them call points, some penalties.

A cluster of nylons and kneepads jostle each other as they coast round and round. The crowd yells and stomps a thunderous rumble on the metal bleachers as one blonde bomber from the "Church of St8in" levels a competitor from the out-of-town "Terrimedix" as she tries to pass, sending her sprawling into the spectators kneeing in the crash-zone. I might add that according to announcements, in order to sit there you must be 18 and cannot be drinking beer. You also may not help any of the girls up.

Enormous entertainment. We know a few of the skaters. One of them, a polish girl who works at the dog wash, always seemed very nonassertive and a little meek, but her skating name is Slavic Slayer and she was throwing some nasty blocks.

Yup. I think we'll be doing that again.