Ode to My Art Car
A carbituary by Phillip Solomonson aka Philamønjarø
It was my ’94 Saturn, two-door sports coup, We drove straight to Burning Man, out from South Loop. No ordinary road trip by conventional means, A camouflaged-desert-vehicle, now on the scene.
The year was ’08 and I had time on my side, To transform my car, and oh how we tried. Pen to paper, and stencils for design, An unhinged idea, we had crossed the line. In a North-Side garage, where a mate kept an art car, I tried to one-up him and raise the bar. Sanded and spray painted, a case to be exact, Cargo hold, periscopes, nightlights, Attack! Flaming interior to stay within theme, I couldn’t have done it without my great team. It was Kurt, Erik, and Lee, who helped work away, The car was complete, by departure day. We packed every nook, with a load on the top, Weighing down clearance, you could see it drop. Street legal and tested, all points were reviewed, Our spirits were high and feeling renewed. My co-pilot Carlos, a green bunny on loan, From campmates who staked out, our new desert home. Straight through, two days, with overnight breaks, Drove ’cross country, ’til it took all it could take. We reached the gates, in a blinding sandstorm, Five-foot clearance, to make out a form. A week in high desert, with sand, wind, and grit, Did the car no favors, not helping a bit.
A festival week, and after the burn, At sunrise we departed for our return. The car drank up oil at an alarming rate, Hoped not an omen that would seal our fate. Thirty-eight hundred miles in our round trip, A 100K-odometer, we knew we pushed it. This little four-banger, turbo and all Was more than it could handle, with gear to haul. Grinding and lurching, I sensed something wrong, Pray dashboard Jesus, the trip’s not too long. So pushed the limit and drove through the night, Only stopping for gas and an occasionally bite. Reminiscing of people had we met on the road, A farmer, a trucker, and a meth head, we’re told. Sweet Home Chicago, with pending concern, The car would soon die, so I would learn. Once safely at home, it seemed not so odd, Like the Blues Brothers car on a mission from God, It died in our parking lot, minus the fame, But my wife is convinced, the car died of shame.
Phillip Solomonson aka Philamønjarø is a photographer and producer.
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