Ever have one of those Sunday mornings where you just want to enjoy your pancakes and the mild hangover buzz only to be disturbed by someone complaining about his job? One solution is to hand him an old laptop and encourage him to go shoot it. If he replies, “Good idea, but I need to go put on my sea monster costume first,” then you might be at East Jesus, and if you’re at East Jesus and someone says, “I’m on a mission from God,” then you better go see what Royce wants.

I’m afraid my reporting on the events of this weekend will not be comprehensive because there was just too much happening, in such a large area, and at all hours of the day and night. I mean, sleep is just as important as art and eating in maintaining your health, so when you awake from a nap and there’s a 25-foot tower topped by a crow’s nest planted and cabled off into several surrounding trees you have to shrug and find somewhere else to take a piss.

Then again I did get to witness a few of the new art exhibits as they were installed, like Leslie’s metal sculpture by the bottle wall and Royce’s “MoonRaker” atop the Tower of Barbarella. Other things like magically appearing palm trees or propane-powered flamethrowers I simply credit to the mad geniuses who are happiest when working at playing.

I was working in the kitchen on fitting as much food as possible onto our buffet table so I had to miss the Art Slam competition to see what team could assemble the best piece of assemblage art in the time allowed from the identical piles of materials provided. From the sounds in the garden I guess it had become quite the spectator sport, or perhaps it was just a lot of backseat artists shouting out ideas.

I did see and hear a lot of music as we seemed to have been infested with wandering minstrels in the garden, gypsy camp concerts behind the sunken house and a few various blues jam sessions around the piano. Probably should mention the guitar classes around the fire and the many computers making noise around the living room table.

Most important to me was that I got to see lots of fire: gouts of flame rushing into the night sky every time someone pushed the baby’s belly button, fire twirlers and dancers around the Medicine Wagon, fireworks explosions in the wash, the stovetop flame of a burner heating coffee and, best of all, the campfires ringed with smiling faces.

Because the best part of a party is friends, whether they be old friends reuniting and remembering, or new friends meeting and being inducted into the Church of the Chocolate Martini; from Captain USA riding in on Greg’s dad’s motorcycle on his way from San Diego to Georgia to parents from as close as Palm Springs. From all directions they flocked to the desert to enjoy this thing we call freedom. To take time from their busy schedules to come out here and work and play with society’s castoff debris, and to say thank you to Charlie and everyone who has cared enough to get involved. So as my new friend in the sea monster suit with the smoking rifle and mangled laptop in hand asked, “Where you want to hang this art?”