"This calls for a beer! Anyone wanna drink with me?" 'Yeah,' I said to the wrecked Harrod at the scene of the crime on a lonesome stretch of Texas highway. But Alexis and a few other well-intentioned fun-spoiling watchdogs would have none of it. They tore the beer from the distraught Harrod's hands and escorted us all back to our chariots for the now-adrenaline buzzed last leg to Fredericksburg.

There were pledges to return for Bambi in the morning, to skin the damn animal and mount it's lens-encrusted head on the grill of the Camera Van. It was said that Harrod should craft a loincloth from its pelt to be worn on special occasions, primal moments when the blood of the art car artist rages in the beastly engine like rocket fuel, and the mutant and wonderfully-warped reality of Road Art howls out of hoarse lungs like fire from the throat of an over-primed carburetor! But no one ever went back.

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Last update April 1, 2004