I'd barely been at Lebowski Fest long enough to start in on my first White Russian when an unassuming woman in overalls approached me as I surveyed the 26 lanes of midtown Manhattan's Lucky Strike bowling alley, all of which were filled with die-hard fans of The Big Lebowski, the cultishly adored 1998 Coen brothers movie with Jeff Bridges. They had congregated to bowl, drink, and revel in their collective appreciation of "The Dude" and all he represents. DVD bonus material — mostly interviews with the Coens — was being projected on screens above the pins. Creedence was playing over the loudspeaker.

In a thick Minnesotan accent, the woman introduced herself as Mrs. Knudsen. Behind her was her husband, Mr. Knudsen, and together they projected a desperate sense ofurgency that took me aback, surrounded as I was by hundreds of costumed disciples of a film character whose life revolves around bowling, sandals, and Kahlua cocktails.

Mrs. Knudsen asked if I had seen her missing daughter and showed me a picture of a high-school cheerleading team, pointing out an attractive blonde girl posing in between her friends. The photo was worn in a way that would suggest the couple had been showing it to strangers for weeks, maybe even months, in the hope that someone would recognize her.

"I'm sorry... I haven't seen her," I stammered, sad for them but confused as to why they were looking for their missing daughter at Lewboski Fest, in a bowling alley. "Did she go missing somewhere around here?"

Mrs. Knudsen then flipped the