Flame Retardant: a questionable account of Burning Man 2012 (5 of 8)

DUST MITES by Bolivar

In keeping with my defeated ambitions, I’ve missed most of the shows, art and burnings I wanted to see. I’m no longer upset about that and have accepted my slackerdom.

But I did manage to come watch Burn Wall Street ignite. Too bad it’s not on fire. The mock-up of the New York Stock Exchange is full of people who won’t be evacuated anytime soon. Maybe it’s too dusty to burn right now. Unfortunately it’s too dusty to wait around for it.

It’s not that I’m full of anti-capitalistic sentiment. I just wanted to see something reminiscent of Burning Man ’96, when other corporate totems were burned in the event’s last true celebration of anarchy. At least that’s what I’ve gleaned from documentaries.

I head back to camp, nearly running over several darkwads to whom I bark curt suggestions of illumination. Attempting to sleep, I have a bad dream involving a floating zombie cat over a great gushing reservoir. I wake in a sweat around 2am to the painfully redundant song “Get Low” by Lil Jon & the Eastside Boyz. It sounds like the final bars are being dragged out way too long, which was feeding my nightmare. I get dressed and venture back out.

It’s been a good week, but not phenomenal. One more thrill would make it complete. At least that’s what I tell myself.

Exploring the backroads, I find a nice mom-and-pop dive: a full-size, outdoor bar decorated from top to bottom with trinkets. It’s also literally run by a mom and pop. Their adult daughter is drunk and hilarious. In my opinion, the heart of Burning Man is in these out-of-the-way places. I hang out for a couple of hours and banter with a woman from San Diego who is friends with the family. It goes nowhere but I tell myself I’m okay with that.

I move on to another small bar surrounded by an arrangement of couches under a large festival tent. There are a handful of people still awake and socializing. I meet a stunning Swedish girl called Narnia and her American boyfriend, Randall. The three of us begin a riveting conversation about the 1953 Iranian coup d’état, but their drunken friend keeps interrupting us in an aggro-playful manner.

Let’s just call him “Brett.” Maybe 6’1″. 180 lbs. Class 3 fratboy. The first I’ve spotted the entire trip. He keeps interjecting things like “Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey… These were some fine-ass bitches running around today, right bro?”

And I keep deflecting with replies like “Absolutely! Nothing that puts pep in a gentleman’s step like top-shelf bitch! You look like a man who prefers the vintage. Am I right?”

Then I give him a bro-ish fist bump and he stumbles away for a few minutes.

Brett is precisely the sort of specimen that challenges “Radical Inclusion.” On a cynical note, I know a few women who would fuck him.

On one of his return visits, he suddenly barks at me, “What are you, a fag?!”

Well shit. A full-on Class 4. This is exactly the sort of person I say warrants a throat-punch regardless of the setting. I stare directly into his face as I make a mental inventory of my resources. The walking stick/flashlight in my right hand. My steel toe boots. Regardless, I’m already aiming directly for the groin. Nothing fancy.

(Fashion note: I removed the leather tip of my left boot to expose the actual steel toe underneath. Then I coated it with a clear, industrial-strength epoxy. It gives your footwear a nice, post-apocalyptic touch.)

Brett’s eyes are wild and unfocused. I realize how unsatisfying this would be; the fight equivalent of date rape. I’m irritated that this may be the highlight of my Burning Man: a braggart tale of kicking a drunk fratboy in the balls and watching him vomit on himself. No. I ignore the sterile little HAL 9000 voice telling me to punish him and opt for something stranger.

I answer, “One way to find out.” I grab him by the waist and begin a fast, furious dryhump. The thick, padded codpiece over my jeans bangs against his legs.

Amazingly, he flips back into party mode and begins wooting and humping back. He once again retreats to a couch. Time for a graceful exit.

Randall asks to see my walking stick. I oblige him but say I’m leaving soon. He inspects it for a moment and compliments me on the mounted lamp. Then Bretts asks for it and Randall hands it to him. What the fuck?

Brett starts swinging it around. He’s probably going to break it. I politely ask him to give it back. He doesn’t. Then I politely put my elbow over his wrist and twist the stick out of his hand. I spin around and throw a feigned elbow at his nose (which deliberately does not connect) and then gently use the stick to knock his trucker hat off his head.

Brett yells, “What you got, huh? What you got?!”

A scene from the movie Tombstone with Val Kilmer and a tin cup comes to mind. I swing the stick around like a sword in a playful series of martial art flourishes. I don’t like to show off, but this is my nonviolent solution. Silly enough to avoid engagement. Deft enough to show I can knock his molars out. I finish with a bow.

The fucker actually applauds and cheers.

Randall, however, looks pissed at me. Something is more wrong with this situation than I realized. I leave before it gets any worse.

I’m biking back to camp now, finally admitting that there’s nothing more for me tonight. Then, only a couple of blocks from the Duckpond, I spot a sign that I’ve somehow missed all week:

Swing City – Santa Monica Muscle Beach  

A sex camp? No. There’s a scaffolding rig maybe 30’ high suspending a consecutive row of 6 flying rings. Rings from which gymnasts perform aerial feats. I’ve never done anything like that before.

The lights are all on, but no one’s around. I climb the launching platform, which looks like a section of gym bleachers. I take off my hat, gloves and codpiece.

After a quick stretch, I hold the first ring with both hands and step off the platform. I swing out to the second and grab with my left hand. I pull back on the first ring to charge my momentum before releasing it to grab the third.

My feet are dangling 4 feet from the ground. I could let go if necessary, but it wouldn’t be pleasant. My boots feel like they’re made of lead. For some reason though, being improperly dressed makes this more fun.

Pull back and swing to the next.

Kicking my legs out helps, but only slightly. I’m relying almost entirely on arm strength but I understand the pendulum motion required. The proper technique is revealing itself. It’s like an isometric puzzle.

In the air, I feel heavy like a wrecking ball. The sensation is liberating. I swing out in a wide arc on the sixth and final ring. My legs flail out from under me as I spin around almost parallel to the ground.

Holy shit!

I focus on my grip lest I go flying into Swing City’s shade structure. The endorphin rush is electric. I catch the previous ring for the returning trip, which now seems twice as far.

I’m suddenly aware of how little sleep I’ve been functioning on all week. I can feel exactly which tendons will be the first to tear. They are taut like guitar strings. I just have to push myself. I’ve always been able to push myself.

The launching platform is only a few feet away now. There’s a purity in the exercise; a meditation.

My boots slam down on the dismount.

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