This whole mad journey will make a book, of that I am sure. But for now it is my duty to keep abreast of the action, to keep time with the rhythm of every passing day.

Ned, Johnny and Chiquita were just here. How many times was Christ tempted in the desert? Well, these guys were my last temptation today. Or so I hope. They came from Rapid City, where the bulk of the art car caravan sits encamped in the rather modest surrounds of Rapid's light industrial outskirts. Chiquita escaped with Seven and I the night before last and together we overnighted on some forest road just past the sign saying "Rushmore 2 Miles."

Yesterday we were all due to meet up at the front entrance to Rushmore at 9 a.m., a targeted rendezvous time that I pretty much knew would never draw fire. We got there around 11 a.m., figuring the film crew and band bunch would be running at least a couple hours late. Come to find out they'd decided to not even do Rushmore that day. That, and by the tone of Ned's voice on the cell phone, they were more than a bit unhappy at our miniature mutiny. I was unfazed. If I'd learned anything in the past year of following Jill around the country from one place I hated to the next, it was that you can't hang where you ain't happy. You can't sit in a pile of shit and paint the Mona Lisa. God, that sounds like some bad country music lyric.

But that's what you get for getting the story as the story unfolds. Pure gonzo, barely edited visceral lip service. What? I don't know why I said that. Just sounded good, I guess. In truth, this is anything if lip service. This is lip-smacking butterscotch Sunday licorice toffee stout beer through a straw. This is a the Titanic steamer trunk that never sunk. This is your life raft to the Afterworld. Grab your ankles and kiss your butt naked foot masseuse on her honeydew melon.

I just love that phrase: butt naked. Sometimes it's buck naked, other times it's butt. Before Chiquita and the boys departed without me to go see the Crazy Horse monument, it was she and I butt naked for a long, quiet swim out into the lake. In the calm aftermath of the storm, the water's surface sat still as a mirror in an empty room. When we stood up in the shallow water by the shore, the two pre-pubescent Kansas City boys in the next campsite howled in disbelief, "THEY'RE BUTT NAKED!" Chiquita, perhaps in part because she's French, simply laughed and made no attempt to hide herself.

Anyway, after one quite peaceful night spent just off a dirt road a mile or two into the woods, we opted for a fee area campground here on Lake Sheridan. We had intended to just continue camping at our newfound free spot out in the woods. But some local kids had turned us on to the lake suggesting it as a good place to take a swim, a lake accessible to Seven and relatively cheap at $2 per car. But when we got here and discovered that we and our three vehicles could all camp for $13 per night, well.. there was little hesitation. And once in site #64, we learned that Seven's Golden Age National Parks pass cut the cost in half. Thus, $6.50 per night for three people and three cars.

Chiquita, however, had other plans. As a member of the gang's on-board rock band and truly the caravan's shining & eternally-smiling, multi-colored wig-wearing happy-go-lucky lucky charm, she was due back in the industrial zone for band practice. Chiquita the silly, the silicone-toting optimistic adhesive of an otherwise wretched band of battling male egos. This caravan, and especially its so-called celluloid leader, owes Chiquita its very existence, I think. The possibility that I may break away at any moment is very real indeed. And Seven has sworn to join me saying, "Anytime you wanna go, I'm on your bumper." And almost nightly one can observe the sparks of dissension amongst Ramon and his carry-on investors.

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Last update April 1, 2004