While the rest of Monterey Car Week spends its energy polishing chrome and hushing crowds around eight-figure Ferraris, one corner of Seaside spends its Saturday morning doing the opposite. On the lawn of Seaside City Hall, the Concours d’Lemons gathered its usual assembly of rust, regret, and questionable life choices for another free spin at the title nobody actually wants to lose: Worst in Show.
Where Pebble Beach fires confetti cannons for its winners, Lemons greets its champion with a barrage of silly string, which feels appropriate for a show built entirely on the premise that not every car deserves a trophy, and some deserve a fire extinguisher instead. Running from 8 a.m. to roughly 1:30 p.m. the same day as Concorso Italiano and Exotics on Broadway, Lemons remains the one event on the calendar where admission is free and the cars there have never once tried to earn a coveted gold trophy.
This year’s field did not disappoint anyone hoping for automotive chaos. A 1959 Citroën showed up towing a 1981 Renault R5 Turbo, presumably in case one wounded French icon wasn’t enough. A 1960 Lloyd sat parked nearby, so small and spartan that spectators were convinced it must have rolled off an East German assembly line, though its actual crime was simply being West German and cheap. A 1972 Porsche 914, rusted into something closer to abstract sculpture, spent the morning roasting chicken out of its rear trunk, turning “engine bay” into “kitchen” with minimal renovation required. A cheerful yellow 1969 Volkswagen Beetle covered in sunflowers did its best to counterbalance the general theme of decay with sheer enthusiasm, which is its own kind of achievement.
Elsewhere on the lawn, a 1985 Audi 4000 S wore a Cannon Ball livery signed by Brock Yates, a nod to an era when questionable decisions on public roads were considered sport rather than a felony. A 1932 Franklin and a deeply weathered 1946 Packard held down the prewar end of the spectrum, proving that dignity, like paint, fades with time. A Baja-style 1975 Datsun 280Z looked ready to leave the pavement entirely, while a 1978 Lincoln Mark V, its back seat and trunk converted into a makeshift truck bed and decorated with a generous helping of Marlboro packaging, looked like the Marlboro Man had traded in his horse for a luxury coupe and immediately regretted the decision by converting his luxury coupe into a pickup.
The livestock and horror categories were well represented too. A 1977 Toyota Hilux carried a Jack in the Box clown in its bed that unsettled more spectators than any mechanical failure could. A Ford F250 diesel arrived with its own guard dog on duty, which may be the most effective anti-theft device on the entire lawn. A 1964 Ford Country Squire, clearly a demolition derby veteran, wore its dents like service medals. And a 1975 Lincoln named Buttercup, fully covered in fur and topped with a saddle and horse for spectators to ride, single-handedly answered the question of what happens when a car show and a petting zoo decide to merge.
True to tradition, the judging panel operated under Lemons’ longstanding promise to be unprofessional, inattentive, capricious, and thoroughly open to bribery, with liquor and food remaining the preferred currency. A well-timed bribe earns a car the Ribbon of Dishonor for its windshield, and this year’s roster of guest judges once again included recognizable names from the automotive world willing to risk their credibility for a good laugh.
The class list stayed just as inventive as ever, sorting entries by origin and offense with categories like Rust Belt American Junk; Unmitigated Gaul for the French entries; Rueful Britannia for the British; Needlessly Complex Italian; Der Self Satisfiedkrauttenwagen for the Germans; Soul-Sucking Japanese Appliance; Swedish Meatballs; Kommunist Kars; and Wonders of the Korean Peninsula. Special awards carried their own flavor of absurdity, including This Car Should Have Been a Lawsuit, Best Back Seat, Slightly Better Than a Go Kart, Sight for Sour Eyes, Driving on a Prayer, along with a few more categories. By the time the silly string settled and the last Worst in Show trophy changed hands, the lawn at Seaside City Hall had once again proven its point. Monterey Car Week may crown its kings on the eighteenth fairway at Pebble Beach, but somewhere in Seaside, a Lincoln in a fur coat and a Porsche cooking dinner in its own trunk are just as much a part of the week’s legend.
Ode to the Concours d’Lemons
Gather round the rust and ruin, hear the silly string cannons roar,
Where a rusty 914 sizzles supper on the floor.
There’s a Lincoln wearing horsehide with a saddle on its roof,
And a judge who’ll take a whiskey as sufficient, binding proof.
Here a Beetle blooms with sunflowers, there a Franklin creaks in pain,
A Renault rides a Citroën like a toddler on a train.
The Hilux hauls a clown doll that nobody asked to see,
And the guard dog judges harder than the panel, in a show all for free.
Forget your Best in Show, dear friend, forget your trophy shine,
The crown here goes to whoever’s car most closely resembles brine.
So raise a bribe of bourbon, pin the Ribbon of Dishonor tight,
And cheer the misfit fleet that somehow, someway, still runs right.
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