Groups of Marilyn Manson fans wander through, with a fastidiously cultivated necrophiliac dress code. They look over heated in black vinyl and velvet, but endeavor to maintain a dour, disdainful, deranged look. The headbangers wear just busted jeans, tattoos and a mullet. When acquaintances meet, they shout "Whoooooaaaaaauuaaaaggghhhhh" and throw a few punches and body slams at each other. There's a steady trickle of customers, but most of them are running short of money fast from buying $10 fish bowls full of beer. It's difficult to keep beer off our pattern books. As afternoon crawls on, more hot, drowsy, dizzy drunks insist on flopping in our chairs and on our mats, and pick fights when we ask them to leave. I'm astonished that I'm still making money, but Shanon and Rich are having trouble keeping busy. Most of the requests are for Celtic knotwork, especially the spiky heart one, and dragons, and I handle those. The rest are for rude Kanji, which Rich and Shanon do.

We try to amuse ourselves by mullet punching, but it's hopeless. Mullet points pile up like Polish words on a Scrabble board. Gwyn wanders off to see the other vendors. They're all miserable.

About 3 pm, a young woman is looking at the pattern book with her friends, and I ask if she'd like to be hennaed. She says she hennaes, herself. I ask her if she'd like to buy one of my pattern books, and she looks astonished, "YOU'RE Catherine Cartwright Jones?" "Yes." "Oh My God!" She gets very excited. She'd been telling her friends that it was so shabby that someone had gone through Mehandi, Henna Page, and Reverend Bunny and had collected all the patterns and was passing them off as their own. She had been on the Henna Forum for some time, and was astonished to meet me. I sit and chat with her about henna, terpines, and I henna her arm from knuckles to elbow. She's giggly, happy and a bit starstruck, and it makes me feel much better.

By evening, when the major bands come on, very few of the crowd aren't drunk, and work is sparse. Explosions go off in the amphitheater to start Marilyn Manson's show. We go to plug in our lights and find that the power drop has been stolen. Perhaps security removed it when they found inebriates sitting slumped on the 1000 watt converter/outlet box. We bag it and pack out. We've made money, but not near enough to compensate dealing with 22,000 drunken mullets.

I used to like beer. The smell gags me now.

The Pittsburgh media reports over 150 arrests just in the parking lot at Ozzfest.