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 of urgency 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 cheerleading picture over to reveal a black-and-white image of a farm that looked like it had been clipped out of the Dust Bowl chapter of a 20th-century American history textbook. She explained that her daughter had run away from the Knudsen farm, just south of Moorhead, Minnesota.

Then I realized what was going on.

"Actually, I think I might have seen her a few lanes down," I said, trying to suppress a smile. "I think she was in a green bikini."

Still straight-faced, Mrs. Knudsen only thanked me solemnly before turning to show the photo to someone else. It was surreal. I'd been at Lebowski Fest for 10 minutes and already I felt like I was in some sort of self-contained alternate reality. I headed back to the White Russian bar. If I was going to make it through the rest of the night, I was going to need to channel The Dude. So far I was being very un-Dude.

I've seen The Big Lebowski several times and know the story well, but, stunned by the pleading eyes of a woman claiming to have lost her daughter, I couldn't recall the brief mention of the Knudsens as the family Bunny Lebowski ran away from to come to Los Angeles. They don't appear in the film, they're barely even mentioned, but the private investigator they hired to find their daughter does show The Dude the pictures they gave him. One is a cheerleading portrait so he knows what she looks like; the other is a shot of a hilariously depressing Midwestern homestead, which the P.I. was instructed to show the lost Knudsen daughter in an attempt to make her homesick.

A few hours after making me feel like an idiot, the "Knudsens" would step onto a platform in the middle of the bowling alley as Will Russell — who founded Lebowski Fest along with Scott Shuffitt 12 years ago in Louisville, Kentucky — introduced them as participants in the costume contest, the main event of every Lebowski Fest. They would smile and pose for pictures and soak up surprisingly wild applause from a crowd that couldn't help but appreciate the originality of their bit. Later they would receive one of a handful of trophies for costumes, judged solely by audience response.

After over a decade's worth of Lebowski Fests, which take place in cities across the country a handful of times per year, finding creative ways to embody obscure aspects of the film that have yet to be touched upon has become an increasing challenge among seasoned attendees. Dressing as The Dude or Walter or Maude is encouraged, of course, but if you take up a minor character — or, better yet, a fleeting reference — and turn it into a costume, you are exalted. In attendance this past Friday night at Lucky Strike was a pair of dudes dressed up as Metallica roadies, complete with laminated "Speed of Sound Tour" badges in reference to one of The Dude's previous occupations. One man was dressed as the Port Huron Statement, the '60s manifesto The Dude claimed to have helped write. There were bowling pins and there were nihilists threatening castration. There was even The Dude's paunchy landlord in his nymphic dance routine outfit. There was also, of course, an overabundance of Dudes, Walters, Maudes, and Jesuses, all strutting around the premises drinking, posing for pictures, and working quotes from the film into their conversations whenever possible. It was a scene, man.

Part of the reason The Big Lebowski has managed to accumulate such a massive and loyal cult following despite flopping at the box office — it was pulled from theaters after six weeks — is not only how particular its sense of humor is, but how just about every line, inflection, gesture, and facial expression in the film is emblematic of this particular sense of humor. There are countless reference points for people who "get it," and because most of America doesn't get it, and because it is something that cannot be fully explained, Lebowski Fest has become a haven for like-minded individuals who likely have trouble expressing their fascination with the film to friends and family who don't see what's so funny about, say, a line like "Obviously, you're not a golfer."

Several of the attendees I spoke with admitted that it took more than a few viewings to truly appreciate the film's sense of humor. Its wit is understated, and taken at face value, most of the "jokes" aren't really that funny. There are no standalone one-liners that would play in any context other than the hyper-specific vision of early-'90s Los Angeles the Coen brothers created for The Dude. To let this wildly foreign environment soak in to the point of understanding, multiple viewings are required. In this sense, the whole film is essentially an inside joke, its genius only apparent to those patient enough to stick with it. It's kind of like that friend you insist is hilarious "once you get to know him," and it's no coincidence that the most ardent Lebowski fans are more often than not that very friend.

The Dude's carefree, uninhibited existence is an unattainable ideal, but Lebowski Fest allows fans to get as close as possible. Within the confines of Lucky Strike on Friday, house robes were flaunted in public with no social consequences. Fans who privately pined for a world in which the film's offbeat humor was accepted by the masses were suddenly granted their wish. Everyone in attendance could drop out-of-context one-liners freely and with encouragement. I asked a young, excited man named Moe with a wide-open, floor-length bathrobe, who had traveled up from North Carolina, what his favorite Big Lebowski line was. He tilted his head back and yelled, "Am I the only one around here who gives a shit about the rules!" in a way that would have drawn suspicious looks anywhere but a Lebowski Fest. Here, such enthusiasm was praised. He was as close to living as The Dude as he was ever going to get. It emanated from him, as it did from practically everyone else in attendance.

And what is the one and only thing The Dude makes an effort to do? Where does The Dude find his zen? The Dude bowls. This, of course, is why Lebowski Fests are held at bowling alleys. Watching that black ball slide down a polished lane and hearing the glottal, wooden crashing of pins as they're smashed into chaos is what grounds the activity of both the fest and the film. When the outside world proves too burdensome: "Let's go bowling, dude."

The lanes at Lucky Strike were packed, but eventually I started talking to a man named Brandon who invited me, Moe, and Moe's sister Zine — who had large, expectant eyes and braided brown hair kept in place by a homemade Maude Lebowski viking helmet — to join his group. While Moe and Zine could have been teenagers, Brandon was in his thirties, had just gotten married, and was using Lebowski Fest as a means to unwind before he'd have to hit the road for his job in sports television. Football season is fast approaching.

Brandon wasn't in costume, though. His aim that night was to win the trivia contest, another hallmark of every Lebowski Fest, and jeans and a Lebowski t-shirt would do just fine. He claimed to have seen The Big Lebowski over 100 times, which is probably a prerequisite for having any sort of chance to actually compete. Throughout the night he kept us updated on how he felt he did as he made his way through each round of questioning. Every time his name was announced as one of the advancing contestants, everyone in our group exchanged high-fives before Brandon would steal away from the lane to continue regurgitating little-known Lebowski facts before the judges.

He kept coming back unsure of himself, but any apprehension melted away as we made our way through frame after frame, happily exhausting all of the The Big Lebowski's bowling-specific one-liners. We were "throwing rocks" and "slammin' em"; everybody else was "dead in the water." After I managed two strikes in a row, someone behind me yelled, "The creep can roll, man!" a reference to The Dude's acknowledgment of John Turturro's character's bowling prowess despite being a registered pedophile. ("Eight-year-olds, dude...")

We might have been the only bowling group not decked out in costume. To our left was a young, suave, dark-haired "Jesus" imitator, dressed in tight purple pants, a purple bowling shirt, and purple nail polish on his pinky's fingernail. He carried himself exactly like Turturro's character, meaning his pelvis was featured prominently in strike celebrations. Next to his group's bowling balls a small rug was laid out. You could say it tied the lane together. To our right were Robin and Harry, a couple from Louisville, Kentucky, who had come up to celebrate their 12-year wedding anniversary. It was their fifth Lebowski Fest, and Harry, his bushy mustache starting to gray, was dressed up as The Stranger, the film's deep-voiced cowboy narrator. Looking down the lanes, it was impossible not to think about the wildly disparate backgrounds of the bowlers. The presiding spirit of The Dude was the great equalizer, though. At Lebowski Fest, everyone was practically family.

The Dude is far more than a nickname or character in a film. The Dude is a state of being.

At the core of every Lebowski fan's appreciation of the film is indeed the ethos of The Dude, which is far more than a nickname or character in a film. The Dude is a state of being. The Dude is relaxed. The Dude is unencumbered by the strictures of a job or any other responsibility. He exists in a blissful state, bowling, drinking White Russians, smoking grass in his bathtub, aimlessly perusing the aisles of a grocery store in sweatpants. He is of his time and of his place.

In The Achievers: The Story of Lebowski Fans, a 2009 documentary about Lebowski Fest, Jeff Dowd, the real-life inspiration for the character of The Dude, boils down what Lebowski Fest is all about: "These people like to hang. That's a good thing in this world. Because the world, with your work and stuff like that, tends to separate us and make us competitive. I'd venture to say that most people who go to churches, the fundamentalists... There's a lot of the 'hang' in that, too. The religious 'hang,' so to speak."

Inside Lucky Strike, the prevailing vibe is borderline religious. There is an intense solidarity among those involved, and guards have been let down. Everyone there knows they share a deep common ground with everyone else. It's why, for one Friday night, a bowling alley might have been the friendliest place in New York City. There was total acceptance, and with total acceptance comes total freedom to be oneself, and with that comes a hell of a good time, the kind that is rare in the outside world that Dowd speaks of.

The Dude's existence is one we all envy, to be so comfortably ensconced in our own environment, and for fans of the film who feel out-of-place in their nine-to-five office jobs, or social circles, or even in their families, The Dude's lack of concern with what people think or of any sort of results-based bottom line is infinitely relatable. He is a divine soul, and many have extracted something of a moral code from how he lives his everyday life. Unfortunately, it's a code that is hard to truly apply if we want to also do things like earn a living or keep up appearances socially. But those things aren't important at Lebowski Fest, where above all else, The Dude abides.

Brandon ended up getting pretty far into the trivia contest, lasting through a few elimination rounds to make it to the finals. It was him and two other contestants vying for first prize, and he'd at least be guaranteed a trophy for finishing in the top three. But he wasn't as optimistic upon his final return from the questioning room. In fact, he knew he had fallen short. The other two finalists were currently in the midst of a tie-breaker to determine the winner. There were still plenty of frames left to bowl, though, and our lane's server had yet to announce last call. Brandon's mood quickly buoyed and, like the more casual Lebowski who centers the movie everyone was here to celebrate, he was able to find a silver lining.

"Hey, there's nothing more Dude than a third-place trophy."

This content is created and maintained by a third party, and imported onto this page to help users provide their email addresses. You may be able to find more information about this and similar content at piano.io