“These are priceless” she says, sneaking another glance, gushing a genuine giggle at our third identical set of $9.95 Excalibur keychains. Each action portrait begs remembrance of all previous rides on "the 4.5 acre wooden roller coaster" this 2003 season: I, with the same farmers’ tan where my shirtsleeves have parachuted up; an afro of rattled, windblown hair framing an androgynous face. She with her mouth open, breasts spilling over my forearm; whitened fingers clenching my bicep with such fervor that you can almost see the bruising in these immortalized, plastic-ized, mementos.