This crowd is disgusting. They're trying to haggle over prices with me. Business is slow as hell. I try to go watch the concert to cheer myself up-- no good. Aside from the previous adjectives, this crowd is mildly racist. I hear murmurs of "black bitch" as I make my way through the masses. The much darker-skinned men of Om-Baba Imports have been hiding in the back of their booth, nervously passing a bowl for about six hours. I don't blame them. Someone vomits disturbingly near the booth. It's chunky. The entire venue stinks like cheap beer, and I begin to fall into a full-scale panic attack. I need to be alone and breathe, but this is impossible.

Quite honestly, I think I've repressed my memories of the rest of the day.

We pack. On the way out, I accidentally-on-purpose hit a drunk guy in the head with the booth poles. Beaten and exhausted, Mom and Shanon and I return to the hotel, and my husband decides to make the drive home tonight. We count money. Shanon has had an awful day, and could barely afford to pay me. I tell her it's okay. We're all in this together, you know? We go to B-W3's to eat a late dinner, and I destroy a basket of chicken wings. Mom announces she's going over to the bar to get a drink, and that it's not going to be a fishbowl of beer.

August 30-31, 2001. DTE Energy Center, Clarkston, Michigan.

We roll into the bed and breakfast late as hell. I sit down on my bed for a minute and suddenly it's time to get up. I shower, and we head for the venue. I'm impressed. There are trees and water here. There are no fishbowls of beer.

The airbrush body painter is positioned next to us, and he and I know that there is a giant loophole in our country's indecent exposure laws. Opaque covering = dressed. No one said anything about fabric. He painted some friends of mine at Woodstock '99 and I was impressed with their pictures. He and I get an idea. If I'm right next to his booth all day with painted boobs, he and I will both get more business. As soon as his electricity is up, I remove my shirt and opt for blue flames and bats, which he does free of charge. I love them. So does everyone else. Mom and Shanon are impressed. Guys stand and grin at my bat-boobs long enough for me to sell them some henna. I'm also sending the airbrush guy a fair amount of business. Girls like my paint job, too, and I introduce them to henna. As I spew a sales pitch, I hear the click of a camera and look up to see a guy walking away.

"Did you just take my picture?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."