Hot Import Nights is about reborn cars and porn stars, a potent display of North America's obsessions to reinvent itself, under the hood or under a bra. Over five hundred, mostly Japanese cars open themselves up like overzealous virgins on prom night, revealing stylized, rebooted interiors, souped up exhausts and spoilers better suited to science fiction than the bumper-jammed I5 into San Diego. Over 9000 people are shocked and awed at this outdoor event, sizzling under a desert sun and the relentless glare of metal and silicon. Cars may have boots, but to make this work the organizers needed booty. For a couple hundred bucks, just about any wayward southern girl carrying more silicon than a PC plant in her tits will be yours. For a picture at least. It's a potent formula - the Hot Import Night brand has been successfully developed into a national touring event, generating millions of dollars and a faithful following by those who took The Fast and the Furious just a little too seriously.

In this tarmac of diesel dust and overpriced dreams comes Esrock, completely out of his element and out of his mind. It's the USA, where that batshit crazy despot-in-training has united the country like a broken zipper, creating an atmosphere of dangerous patriotism and rebellion. Men in uniforms and guns seem over eager to devote their peculiar devotion to violence, just give us the word W, any word. I was picked up at six in the morning, when vampires settle in for a good day's rest and the working class rise to serve the rich with valour and sleep in their eyes. Although Wake and Bake means an early start to a late day, I refrained from such activity and do so prior to any flight, ever since I swear I saw a demon chewing the wings of a plane, my plane, en route somewhere or another. Just like in the Twilight Zone - the movie that cost actor Vic Morrow his life but still included his fiery death in the scene for good footage. I refrain from flying fried (frying flied?) just as I refrain from getting on any aircraft that has a C grade actor on it. These guys will do anything for attention, and make good copy. "Peter Boyle of I Love Raymond died tragically in a plane crash today. Along with 300 other people, but fuck them. Peter Boyle is dead! We'll miss his comic genius, and his devotion to C - grade celebrity. Now the weather..."

After ransacking the executive class lounge, securing as many cans of Clamato as necessitates a litre of vodka, we boarded an otherwise uneventful flight. Welcome to Los Angeles (why is Los Angeles not Las Angeles, or Las Vegas not Los Vegas?), and LAXit as soon as possible. A typical measure of chaos securing a vehicle, as is common with all modern travel, Awaiting the vehicle in question, a Mercury SUV with the fuel efficiency of a bombed oil field, I stared down the natives, inflated in weight and ego. Fake breasts were immediately present, which set a precedent for protuberances all weekend. There is something not right in the US of A, like milk past its sell by date. As the Jamaican says so eloquently, if the milk turns out to be sour, I ain't the kind of pussy to drink it. "They appear more conscious of race," says Marvelous Jerry. At this point, a manboy walks past with a prison tat on his neck, reading Baby Boy. America has more people in jail than any other country on earth, completely out of proportion to its population. Baby Boy, with his cool latino looks, must have made a lot of bubbas very happy.

We drove through on the 405 to Irvine, where the head offices of HIN are located. Amongst another faceless office park, their swag-heavy offices are manned by shorts-wearing quasi-ethnic staff, the lack of gray hair noticeable by its absence, A few hours of tittering and tattering, a chicken burrito that could feed New Guinea and emerged in tact just a few minutes post consumption, a successful meeting with the no-hair CEO, The I5 was thankfully traffic light that afternoon, as we drove along the coast to San Diego, that sleepy city just 20 minutes from Mexico. The event would take place in the parking lot of Qualcomm Stadium, a Hot Import Daze, different from the norm in that it takes place during the day and lacks the nightclub feel of its night time brother. Unfortunately, her plane was cancelled and sporadic calls were making his sure thing weekend look anything but. Jake's attention was distracted due to a nasty neighbour, hassling him about adding yardage to deck, prompting a crash course of Esrock's Aggression vs Assertiveness theory. While Jake delicately argued his case over something or another (assertiveness), I was prompting him to threaten his opponent with violence and all manner of violation (aggression), Regardless, we checked into the hotel, hit the hot tub and the sauna, sweated the stale airline air out of our pores, and drove to Gas Lamps, San Diego's bar district. It was not late, but food options were as limited as Iraq's weapons of mass destruction. The area was charming enough, yet lacked an element of soul common in many American cities. A bland meal, a bland culture, saved at the last minute by the Hustler store, with its abundent collection of plastic lovers. Swings, glass dildos, animation - there was more than enough to consider when a women in a skin-tight red PVC outfit asked us if she looked OK. Anyone in shape and in PVC looks OK, We headed back to the hotel, polished a few Ceasars, and retired. I dreamt about golf and long Mojito days.

Early start, and a drive to the site, already a hub of activity. The HQ was an RV, blessedly air-conditioned and amped. The iPod got to work, and walkie-talkies dispensed. While the day consisted mostly of signage and general set-up tasks, it was in the Mule that I found my calling. A 4 wheel drive golf cart that roared like a hacking smoker, it could turn on a whistle and almost certainly kill or maim at speed. The cars arrived with their overzealous owners, a glazed doe-eyed girl in toe, most likely confusing the size of the various exhausts with the size of various peckers. If the parking lot was the skin of a drum, the sun had sticks, relentlessly beating out a tune like a nine-year old with no rhythm whatsoever. The main excitement was my 25ft forklift maneuver, standing on the forks, tying up a large vinyl sign on one of the stages while Jake drove the forklift below. It was very exciting, but noone was there to see it. Dumb heroics need witnesses like gin needs tonic. I met my first porn star, who's name I have forgotten but who's melons pierced through the late afternoon air like bazookas. I hung a life size poster of her, which looked nothing like what she looked like up close. There is more Photoshop in porn than you realize. The day finally ended, and we returned to the hotel to a few Bloody Mary's and finely crafted blunt of Mexico's stitcky tabicky. Being the USA, we had to be more careful than we would normally. As Keith Richards put it, "I don't have a drug problem, I have a police problem." So do US stoners. Marvelous Jerry, his long lashes fluttering, faded like the dreams of a washed up actor, and Jake and I decided to hit the streets. We wondered, lost in space, eventually completing a circle, arriving back at the hotel, and bumping into HIN people looking for action. You would think that these Californians, throwing the city's biggest outdoor party that weekend, would be sorted for all manner of debaucheries. Alas, we wandered in search of entertainment, which is not easy to discover in the urban corpse that is San Diego. It would be my luck that we should find In Cahoots, a genuiwhyne country western bar. Pick-up trucks, cowboy hats, mustaches, machismo. The real deal. What they don't tell you is that people dance in time, to choreographed moves straight out of an old episode of Fame, I want to live forever, I want to learn how to fly. And dance to country music. Several of our party could not accept this particular side of Americana, but adventures often call for a little two-stepping beyond your limits. The bouncer took an immediate dislike to the Esrock flamboyance, Perhaps I shouldn't have told him he looked cute in that hat. It was my pleasure to discover that cowgirls are horned up minxes, and feature in abundance at any country bar. Observing the modern redneck, I felt like David Attenborough discovering a troop of wild chimpanzees in Borneo. The dancing reminded me of windsurfing, the music of late night frolics in the hay that being an urbanite I was cruelly denied. It was just a matter of time (and vodka tonics) before I would invade the dance floor in the middle of a tricky two step, immediately courting the favour of several beautiful girls and the stares of unimpressed mullets with military backgrounds and names like Biff, and Buck, and Billy-Jean. My accent was as out of place as a dipstick on a canoe. Naturally, this didn't stop me from talking to as many people as possible, many of whom responded with marzipan milky stares. One girl told me she was in the navy, and travels around the world on aircraft carriers. I asked her if its true that sailors liked dropping the soap, but the reference eluded her. We danced briefly until I weirded her out completely by telling her I was really into Arabic music. I pondered what percentage of the establishment were hunters, and then became really scared about what W is going to do to the free world when these idiots re-elect him. Another chonger in the parking lot, and we hit the Jack in the Box (which would be better named "Turd out your Asshole"). I befriended a giant from Minnesota (he was like, almost chosen for the State, like, basketball team) who tried to sell me life insurance. As a rule, I steer clear of tall men in pick up trucks selling anything, so a polite decline and cab ride later, we were back at the hotel for a few hours of sleep before the big day. I dreamt of Tim McGraw eating out Faith Hill on the back of a horse as it galloped the final stretch of the Kentucky Derby.

As with any RV or tour bus, no number two means no poo - poo, but my sign obviously spoke with a confusing accent for the next morning a sizeable log had been chopped, rendering a poofy odour at the HQ. The sun started its drumming again, and more signs needed to be put up, more items Muled over the lot, which was now crammed with all sorts of spaceships parading as Hondas. I had become one with the Kawasaki Mule, narrowly missing cars and people as I zipped around the lot. The show went from 12 to 7pm, cost $19, please stand in this line for ticket purchases, this one for will call, this one because I like making people stand in lines for no reason. With a headset, it was amazing how I became a person of authority. As the masses arrived, they loved asking me questions. They would say things like "How much does it cost? " and I would answer "Bagpipes used to be made from the guts of sheep." They would ask "Do you know where the toilet is?" and I would answer "Geese make better watchdogs than poodles." I actually told them the truth, but my accent had the same effect if I had said the above. A word about the cars: Young men spending thousands of dollars, polishing their chariots, elevating the Honda, Acura, Toyota, Nissan and Hyandai into the white trash cousins of Porsches and Lamborghinis. Some featured three or more DVD players, in case you feel like watching three movies while driving. Others featured more amplification than a stadium concert, in case you want to make your ears bleed at high speed. Some could shake, rattle and roll. The army had a sound-infused Hummer, the border patrol, the navy and the Marines all had recruiters out in force. The Marines would even teach you how to do pull-ups, so long as you gave them your name, address, age, and phone number. A fair trade off. Anyone dumb enough to fill out a form to do a push up is dumb enough to go to war. The cars competed in dozens of categories, such as Best Car, Best Undercarriage, Best Exhaust and Best Chance to Kill Someone in the Next Roadrace. Its competitive, this Import industry, also known as Tuning Cars or Street Cars or Custom Cars or Kids with Too Much Time and Money Cars. One fight broke out, three cars got dented, but truth be told, it was all about the pussy.

They were everywhere. Firm asses busting out of shorts, jackfruit breasts of silicon facing Allah. Some promoted cars and companies, other promoted themselves. The Bikini Lounge featured porn stars signing pictures (just $5) or posing for pictures (just $5), usually with a greaseball manager/boyfriend/mother counting the cash close behind. Truth be told, I have only seen women like this on the pages of porn mags. To see them in the flesh is like seeing your favourite actor picking his nose, and although you may be able to buy anything with your Visa, it is still plastic. These girls could fuel a million wet dreams, but up close they appear as fake plastic trees in a forest lacking real human sexuality. Still, I like walking in forests and there was much to look at. Dressed in their strings, leering was expected. I decided to have my picture taken with as many as possible because I had a walkie talkie so how could they refuse me. The 50th Anniversary Playboy Playmate was actually quite accommodating and even asked me several questions as to the nature of my accent. I tried to answer her, but couldn't take my eyes off her plushed-up knockers. Having a head set also meant being on stage during the Bikini Contest, an immediate highlight of my life for no other reason than the sheer proximity of so much tits and ass. Looking at my pictures, I am still speechless they come from my camera. It truly is tough being Esrock.

The crowd were mostly rednecks, ruffians, gangstas, geeks and the gauntlet of sub-cultures that run between them. It was a glimpse into the heart of America, the kind that makes me glad I live in Canada. The stages featured hip-hop artists, or washed up porn queens finding new avenues to revenue as self proclaimed house DJ's. At one stage, the music ceased and the iPod came to the rescue. I hit the BC Lions Party playlist, because I figured rednecks are the same wherever you go. Meanwhile, heatstroke was taking its toll, and many a red neck was getting redder. One would think that in San Diego, with its hard sun and desert climate, people would be aware that spending all day in the sun could be a little risky. Temperatures were kept in check by overstuffed cops (give us the word W!) and for the most part, all went smoothly. Taking down sponsorship banners takes approximately 1/8th of the time as putting them up, and just a few hours into the night, the parking lot resembled a landfill of water bottles, discarded swag, flyers and the dreams of those who's efforts and dollars had failed to secure a 5ft plastic golden trophy. Jake and I raced our Mules (his had a bigger engine and I regrettably ate his dust) and we finally cleared out after an exhausting 12 hour day. 20km away, Tijuana beckoned like a cheap whore on the waterfront, but I could not rustle any takers to join me on that last trolley into Mexico. Instead, we spent several baked hours between hot tub and pool, breaking for a bland meal at Denny's (the only 24 hour restaurant in the vicinity, oh Diego, you cruel bastard) and crashing like street car named Desire into the lamp-post on the corner of Hacienda and 2nd Avenue.

And thus begat another weekend of sin, a working holiday deep into the heart of another bizarre subculture of North America. Hot Import Nights travels to 17 states this year, and is the premium event of its nature. Been there. Done that. Yes, I took these photos.