Congress Avenue, inexplicably and without context, on a Thursday, transformed inconveniently into a carnival.
The bank tower on 7th and Guadalupe slowly changing colors from blue, to green, to purple, and back to blue.
A place where floodlights cast your shadow 20 feet tall on the Visitor's Historical Center, and people in cars could see you dancing two blocks away.
A prince of England cutting the world's largest birthday cake with his sword.
A movie theater's marquee, where you know an archangel danced if you saw the movie "Michael."
A garage sale that ran for eight months, on Congress, six blocks south of the Capital of Texas.
Five dead finches with deep green and blue feathers, like gemstones, at the base of the Omni Hotel.
The Oscar Meyer Weinermobile parked in front of the light pink granite state capital.
A three-story, white greek revival 1880s townhouse slowly driving down 7th street, with a pitcher and crystal goblet filled with water to prove that it didn't shake at all.
A priest in black vestments with a blood-red mantle performing the mass for the dead, standing in the shattered glass of a car windshield, where a man has committed suicide by leaping from a hotel window, on Good Friday.
The same priest blessing a parking garage.
The same priest shoving police barricades aside because a race was scheduled around his church on a sunday morning, and shouting at a cop.
12 people dressed as mounted emu riders, but that was on Halloween and didn't count.
A Ku Klux Klan rally, where a black police officer dragged a 70-year-old woman away for smuggling eggs in her purse, and the audience shouted "Go Home" louder than a full sound system.
A shaman explaining that anodyzed aluminum cups were the greatest invention ever made.
Grackles eating packets of sugar in the trees, creating a snowstorm of sparkling crystals