More from 1992: last in a series.

The same day as the kimchi dinner, we went to an "anarchist picnic" outdoors in the meadow. The day kicked off, inexplicably, with a rendition of "One Tin Soldier" by a Cincinnati punk band. The audience draped along the banks of the river, clad in black, watching seriously, as if it were TV.

I passed a PETA table littered with pamphlets and magazines. The pamplets were generally garish and gruesomely illustrated, with eye-catching titles such as "The Horrors of Vivisection" or "These Animals Suffer." I thought it would be more entertaining to apply those headlines to the animal-rights magazine with Paul and Linda McCartney on the cover.

Moved on to a table covered with painted rocks. "Punk rock" read one, available for a donation. I asked the guy at the table how many had been sold. "Quite a few," was the response. "Well, there's a sucker born every minute, isn't there?" I replied without thinking.

It made a bad impression, but not as bad as the fellow in tennis whites who stormed up next to me at the bookseller's table. "What's your platform?" he asked. I wanted to point him to the stage; the platform's over there, I nearly said, but refrained.

(I don't know what I had against the anarchists, honestly. The only possible grievance I can remember involves going to an anarchist potluck and not getting one of my plates back. I can only hope it's out there somewhere, serving the collective good.)