By the time I get back from lunch, the main stage has started up, slowing business considerably. The rest of the afternoon is pretty idyllic. We recover from the morning. Shanon goes catatonic in a chair. I watch the concert and go buy t-shirts. A gaggle of hovercrafts cruises by every now and then, and we do some business. Having gotten shafted for electricity, we finish up when night falls-- no lights. We pack the booth, and I wander down the hill to watch Marilyn Manson. All the day's stress lifts as I pump my fist in unison with fifteen thousand other Angry Young People. "I wasn't born with enough middle fingers . . . " Yeah.

July 28, 2001. Post-Gazette Pavilion, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

It is six-thirty in the morning, and I am in a meeting. God help me. The vendors have gathered in the parking lot, handing in booth fees and fighting for spaces. I begin to wonder if I've just walked into the most pretentious group of people ever. Actually, it's just my morning grouchiness talking. The lady who sells banners has a pet chihuahua who weighs eight and a half ounces. My husband, who is making his debut as a henna artist today, pets it, addressing it as "light snack." The parking lot reeks of marijuana, and by the end of today I will understand why. Steve (the King of the Village of the Damned) informs us that we have a sold-out crowd of twenty-two thousand. After dissappearing briefly on Steve's golf cart, Mom tells us we're stationed directly in front of the beer stand.

Beer. That word by itself sums up today. They're serving fishbowls full of Coors Light. Fishbowls, I tell you . . . fishbowls! And you can get two at a time! The smell is making me nauseous and depressed, and today's crowd is doing about the same. We're doing a bit of business, but nowhere near what we did the last show. My husband is slowly and shakily slinging kanji onto the lower backs and upper arms of twenty-somethings who are drunk at noon.

Shanon looks angry. Mom looks tired. I try to keep smiling, and make sure no one spills beer on the pattern books. This crowd is intoxcated, belligerent, and broke. We're not too far from the West Virginia border. I bend over to pull a fresh stack of waivers out of one of our boxes.

"Whooo!"

I look up. This man is so West Virginian. I say nothing.

"Oughtta be illegal fer ya ta look that good, baby, bendin' over like that. Whatchyoo doin' later?"

"Sleeping."

"Sleepin'? Ya should come party. Wanna party with us?"

"By the end of today, I'll have put in a fourteen-hour workday. No partying."

"Uh . . . oh. Whooo!"