Concours d'LeMons: When life gives you lemons, have a car show

Yes, these were the world's ugliest, worst selling and/or generally most vile wheeled eyesores ever hit with the ugly stick. Yet we love them. Who can explain it?

This was the third Concours d'LeMons, a celebration of road-going repugnance unmatched among the world's great concours.

This year's aberrance was held at the much smaller but more centrally located Laguna Grande Park in Seaside, Calif., which was, perhaps appropriately, covered with goose poop from the many fowl that frequent the venue the rest of the year.

“This year we opened it up to spectators for free,” founder, organizer and chief class judge Alan Galbraith said. “So they're getting exactly what they paid for.”

Consider the camouflage, stretched Krystal Koach limo subsequently recustomized by Lasky Coach Works of Hollywood. It was built for screen siren Roseanne Barr in 1993.

“There are thousands of black limos in Hollywood; she didn't want one of those,” current caretaker and hopeful seller Eric Kendall said. “She wanted something different.”

So Lasky painted it in camo good enough for the survivalist with class to attend his or her prom, reunion or secession convention. A desert-racing spare tire rides on the deck lid and the license plate reads, “RMGEDON.”

“The Catholics hate that,” said Kendall, who said good, churchgoing neighbors have keyed it and left nasty notes on the windshield.

It's for sale--a bargain at only $8,000.

Next to the limo was Gary Lieb's Alan Kulwicki tribute Hooters-sponsored Ford Tempo.

“I park it in front of my house and irritate the crap out of my neighbors,” said Lieb, with just a skosh too much pride.

There were the usual Gremlins, Pacers, Corvairs and Renault Dauphines, too. Remnant heaps from the 24 Hours of LeMons races made up the motorsports paddock and a genuine Tatra graced the Euro Trash section.

“We're having fun with it and so are the entrants and the spectators, and that's the main idea,” said Galbraith.

Start shopping now for that perfect Pacer and, who knows, you might win the coveted Worst of Show next year.

By Mark Vaughn