I was still pissed. I mean, you couldn't ask for a more appropriate movie to show at an art car gathering, and the bastards just killed it right when Benny Hill was being sniffed out by the Child Catcher.

The parade the next morning seemed thin. Not the showing of cars, but the spectators. Compared even to a small parade we would do weeks later in Bozeman, MT, the turnout to see us on Lyndale and Lake streets was thin. But it was fun just the same. Ned and Ramon and Chiquita and the gang all arrived from their broken-down-bus-delayed journey just in time, and I mean minutes, to catch the tail of the parade. Nutty.

But if the crowds were lacking during the parade, they made up for it, showing up in hoards to view the art cars where they were displayed all day during the Lyn-Lake Street Fair. There was a fashion show that had everything from Chiquita in wild head gear and feathers to some poor guy dragging his obviously reluctant wife and kid through a promenade of nuevo road kill wear. And the awards ceremony gets my vote for the best one I've seen yet, if for no other reason than NO CASH PRIZES WERE AWARDED.

I think pitting artists against each other with monetary prizes is extremely wrong-headed. The awards Jan Elftmann & crew from Intermedia Arts dreamed up were fun, funny and appropriate, and any moneys distributed went for gasoline: the one indivisible factor in every car artist's struggle to participate. I say the awards were "appropriate," yet I myself received the award for "Most Dangerous Car." If nothing else, I appreciate the humorous sentiment.

The rest of that parade day was a blur of Duke Q&A and postcard sales, live music, food, crowds, and occasional light showers punctuating an otherwise hot and sunny day. The Fanatics summoned up the last of their road-deadened strength and played a six-song set on Ripper's trailer-cum-portable-stage ending with Time Bomb World, a song, according to Ned, about how fucked up everything is. They were well-received and even garnered a request for a CD.

I let one person paint something on Duke that day, and I wasn't sorry I did. Sixteen-year-old Rachel the someday-architect wrote, "Start at the beginning, go through the middle, get to the end and then stop." Simple and yet profound. I aim to follow the advice out here on the road.

The next day Jan and Dave hosted a breakfast at their place. The food was wonderful and I recall feeling really at home for the first time in a long time. The feeling stemmed from watching Chiquita prance around and stick baby carrots up her nose. I thought of all the times I had tried over the past year to relate to Jill's peers at Oregon State University parties. Tried and failed. I took another look at Chiquita and knew why. I wished I'd found just one person like her to relate to in Corvallis. But that kind of wishing is irrelevant. You are who you are. You are where you are. And now, I thought, thank God I am here amongst my kind.

While we were hanging out at Jan's, Stockton's dog Bob got nicked by a car zooming down the ally where he was tied up. Ned took the blame upon himself for that and some earlier incident involving Bob the dog, and I saw Ned cry for the first time. Stockton became very angry at Ned and took off, effectively abandoning the caravan for a few days. Sheila and I and others comforted Ned. And though it was certainly not an enjoyable moment for him, I, myself, felt a great rush of humanity upon seeing him cry. It was as though I hadn't seen any man but me cry in a hundred years, and it helped me in a way.

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Last update April 1, 2004