Scrub, scrub, scrub.

"The Road! There's no place like the road, there's no place like the road. Take me there Mr. Wizard." Soon enough, my little pretty! First you must pay penance for the fucking bowling pins and American Glider sled and ammo case and other stupid shit you blew your windfall on. Car decor. Gotta watch that.

It's a bad habit, having an art car. It's an obsession, really. Which is why I do it. I like anything that absorbs me to the point of obsession. I'm obsessed with writing, drinking wine on a train and writing, women with haunting bedroom eyes, and hunting down goodies for my car, in that order.

Typically, one tries not to buy too much of what goes onto an art car. It's almost anathema. It goes against the grain of the recycled art thing. However, when the obsession hit hard like it has in the past few weeks of preparation for this road trip, and you've got a picture in your mind of what you want for your car, finding it in a dumpster is tough. So you go nuts and blow $25 on a full set of bowling pins. What are you gonna do? Bowl.

There's something to those bowling pins that I should hit upon before I take you on the road with me, and that is this: I secretly love bowling. Bowling has this social stigma about it that somehow wormed its way into my consciousness during a decade and a half of life in California. I mean, I was on the bowling team in junior high school back in Massachusetts, but once I hit Cal, bowling became uncool and somehow remained that way forever for me.

But now, by bolting bowling pins on my fenders, I'm making restitution with the gods of bowling. I'm coming out of the bowling closet, as it were. I'm saying, "Hey! I bowl and I'm artist to boot. Go gnaw on that one, you social pidgeon-holers."

I mention this because really this is the whole gig behind the gig. This is the "theme" to the car for which there is no theme. This is the essence of Duke. Yes, Duke. His name is my name, too. I named Duke after Hunter Thompson's alter ego Raoul Duke from the classic "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." But beyond that, the Thompson thing disappears into history.

From roughly 1993 to the present, my car took on a life and a soul all its own, but with very definite shades of me. Duke is my id, my alterego. He is my altar, my shrine unto the life I have created and the people I have known. He is my statement about me. Me the bowler who can't admit his perversion any other way. Me the trunk nut, the pirate's treasure trunk dreamy soul that never quite shook off Tinkerbell's magic dust. Me the complex and chaotic, creative soul wandering, wandering on endless seas of pavement, peering out the brass portholes at a world too big and complicated to take in with any greater field of vision the 8" diameter ship's window. Me the kid who never got a tree fort quite cool enough and never, ever got the go-kart he lusted after for years.

Me, who built the grown up go-kart to end all go-karts, complete with a plush tree fort (sans the tree) with 15 square feet of bubble sunroof sky and the whole thing masquerading as a stage coach stacking of classic old travel trunks. That's me. That's Duke. Now back to the toilets.

God, the fucking toilets. How do I get myself into these things? I am reconciled in my suffering only by a recent admission of Ned's that he'd just spent the day moving furniture for $10/hour.

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by Pineapple Publishing and Consulting
Art Cars in Cyberspace ©2004 Pineapple Publishing and Consulting
Contact us at artcars@artcars.com

Last update April 1, 2004