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

LEAVE by Damian

The sun isn’t up yet when Medium Tim sounds off “Woodstock is over, you dirty hippies! Escape from Black Rock City!”

I’m not quite coherent or cohesive when my body rises and begins stuffing things into a duffle bag. I don’t snap out of autopilot until Tim announces we should leave in 15 minutes.

God knows why I didn’t put more of my belongings in the truck yesterday. I’m taking apart my tent while brushing my teeth and getting dressed. There’s no way any of us are leaving in 15 minutes, but it is important we beat the Exodus. The line to leave Burning Man can be a brutal stretch of your sanity. I remember once being stuck in a car for 6 hours before even reaching the highway.

Of course, I also remember the time I got stranded here without a ride home.

And the year before that, a miserable few of us were left to breakdown the entire camp by ourselves. We didn’t finish until 4:30 am.

There are many terrible epilogues a burner can be dealt. If we can just dodge a few more bullets, we’ll have gotten away with murder.

I cram the last of my gear into the back of the truck and put the lock on. I’m climbing into the driver’s seat when I spot a familiar someone riding by on a bicycle.

Quick! What was her name?

“Francesca!” I call out. She glances back and skids to a stop.

“Gimme, like, 90 seconds,” I tell Tim.

“What the fuck, Damian,” he sighs. “You better make that shit count!”

Nearly falling out of the truck, I resist the urge to sprint to the black-haired girl in the road. She’s wearing a shaggy blue parka and has obviously been out all night. Still looking hot, though.

“You remembered me,” she croaks. Her voice is almost gone.  “Good eye and good memory.”

“You make an impression on both.” She smiles, happier to see me than expected. Great smile.

“How was your Burning Man?”

“Relaxing,” I say. “Stress-free. Exactly what I wanted.”

“Your camp doesn’t waste any time, does it?” she asks as she looks over at the few straggler tents that remain of the Duckpond.

“We’re not big on long goodbyes. How long are you here for?”

“Leaving after the Temple burn. Will you be around for that?”

“Naw. I’ll leave it for the people who need it. Let the shushers and the chatterboxes duke it out.”

“Very generalizing. And which category would you fall into?”

“That would be ‘truck driver’. We’re about to haul away the camp’s parts and pieces in about a minute.”

“42 seconds!” shouts Tim from the truck.

“Well that’s too bad,” Francesca says. “You never came back to dance. Guess you’ll never know if I’m any good.”

“Guess not. Just like you’ll never know if I’m a good kisser.”

“Ha! Well I guess we have a burning conundrum.”

“You have a fiery lexicon.”

“So you think you’ve earned a kiss?”

“Oh, absolutely not. But seeing as how I reached out and seized such an unlikely gem of synchronicity today, it would be a shame to let such a rare playa moment go to waste.”

I can’t believe I just said something that stupid, but I don’t flinch.

She squints her eyes at me and says, “Maybe you earned a peck.”

“A peck?”

“A little peck.”

Green light. I make this one count.

When I get back to the truck, the engine is on and Tim is scrolling through his phone for driving music.

Without looking up he says, “Nice to see you pull a rabbit out of a hat back there.”

“And for my next trick…” I say, shifting the gear into “D” and slowly rolling our asses out of the near-empty lot we called home for the past week.

The roads are so clear that staying under 5 mph is like a Zen exercise. I can’t believe there are no other cars. We’re actually beating the Exodus. I want to floor it so bad. I want to step on the gas before the Universe, the playa and God all change their minds. The entire way to the gate, we creep along like the Pink Panther behind the back of that guileless inspector.

And then, freedom. Open highway. I’ve never felt such triumph from something so unremarkable.

Leaving unscathed was our last stunt. We’ve had our fill. Next comes hot showers, warm beds and the glory of survivors mistaken for returning heroes.

Exit stage west. Restore default settings.

Flame Retardant: a questionable account of Burning Man 2012 (7 of 8)

INDIVISIBLE

Bolivar:

I’m watching the Man burn from roof of the Death Star art car. It’s owners were generous enough to give a few of us Ducks a ride out into the playa. We couldn’t have asked for a better view. The burn itself is a fine display of pyrotechnics, even though it hasn’t emotionally moved me since my virgin year. Likewise, the Duckpond has become adept at breaking down camp and packing the trucks by mid-afternoon. Very few of our veterans and de facto leaders stay for Burn Night anymore. It’s ultimately a night for the virgins. I’ve come to vicariously enjoy this denouement of their week-long adventure. I’m with a group of them now. Seeing the firelight and wonder on their faces reminds me of my own virgin year.

I’ll continue coming back here until the light is too far from me to validate the effort. I miss the innocence of my first couple of burns, but have no need to mourn them. Most people’s taste for this event has a finite timeline. I’m already a relic. The magic of Burning Man will favor the newer burners, the newer Ducks, as much as it will be shaped by them. The sooner I embrace this reality, the more gracefully I’ll age.

But a couple of them did wear their clubhouse T-shirts tonight instead of actual costumes. Maybe we’ll work on that for next year.

Pinball:

So the Man is burning and I had to go drop a deuce of spades. Blame it on the Adderall. Unfortunately I couldn’t find a port-a-potty and ended up walking all the way back to the ones across from the Duck Pond. When I came out the fireworks had already begun. I’m circling the blaze from a mile away like some wary animal. Walking towards it doesn’t seem like a realistic option. I don’t know where to go or what I want. Too tired to dance and too numb to care. It’s fitting. The event and I have grown estranged. Some time apart might be in order.

I can hear the faraway cheers of the city’s population declaring in no uncertain terms that they are where the action is. They are a mirage. I’ve been chasing them for years but have never pinned them down.

I see the Man and it sees me. The party rages on and leaves me in the dust. I can admire the poetry in that.

Damian:

They burn the thing. Great.

The massive assembly scatters quickly and the chaos of Amateur Night begins. Maybe that’s a little harsh, but Saturday is the time of the week that feels most like a Spring Break free-for-all. As the effigy collapses, so do many pretenses of civility.

Just today, Nadine caught two strangers fucking in her tent. Right on her bed. The dude had the casual, apologetic attitude of someone who had just caused a light fender bender.

I’m with Medium Tim, Nat and a couple of other Ducks making an abridged exploration around Burning Man. A few of us need to sleep enough to drive the trucks in the morning. But who knows? Maybe we’ll get into some last-minute mischief.

Probably not.

We find a bar that’s only serving drinks to people who pick up 10 pieces of MOOP (ground litter). I try but can’t find any. A rotund young fellow in a lizard-print kimono looks way more frustrated than I am. I let him have my flask and its contents.

Passing by Ashram Galactica, there’s a woman sitting outside with a boy maybe 8 years of age. His face is painted up. He likely did it himself. The kid, who I assume is her son, looks tired and unhappy. It’s clearly past his bedtime. Tim tells me to shut up even though I don’t say anything.

Flame Retardant: a questionable account of Burning Man 2012 (6 of 8)

PUSS IN BOOTS by anonymous

I hold her hand on the way back to my tent. Her fingers are cold.

This side of camp is quiet. No one is around to see, judge or whisper. It’s a rare moment of serenity unburdened by the opinions of others. The anticipation I feel seems almost vulgar by comparison.

One of my favorite songs is blaring somewhere in the distance. A wink from the universe. This may be the pinnacle of my week.

Once inside the tent with the door zipped shut, our conspiracy feels complete. There’s no particular reason to hurry. But as we kiss, there’s an urgency that derives from an understated truth: We’re on borrowed time.

Burning Man is nearly over. We both sacrificed much to be here. I don’t know if or when I will see her again. But the desert has given us a window that we accept with haste and gratitude.

We roll around on my sleeping bag fully clothed until the kissing unfolds seamlessly in foreplay. Her skin tastes like sweat and playa dust.

I’m flooded with an inexplicable sense of relief when we strip off each other’s clothes.

She leaves her boots on for me.

I take a moment to look at her body and simply bask in what’s in front of me. How did I get this lucky? It’s like I’ve stolen something beautiful from the gods.

My condoms are still linked together along the perforated edges. I accidentally tear open two instead of one.

She tells me to go slow. She says she’s a little afraid. I promise to be gentle.

I click off the overhead light and end whatever shadow theater our silhouettes may be revealing to the outside world.

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.

Flame Retardant: a questionable account of Burning Man 2012 (4 of 8)

INTERLUDE by Damian

A mutual friend told me that Ivy would be dancing at Distrikt today. Since Distrikt is almost directly across from the Duckpond, I don’t mind making a sweep of the massive, gyrating crowd. But 15 minutes was the limit I put on this little Where’s Waldo? exercise. I’m not chasing anyone this year. Searching for people, waiting for people, at Burning Man will devolve into “Waiting for Godot” before you know what happened.

I’m about to leave when here comes a tall, beautiful woman. She has jet black hair and is wearing some sort of skin-tight, space corset adorned with esoteric symbols. She very beautiful. Many would say she’s too tall for a man my height. Honestly, I’m a little intimidated.

Then I remember that I don’t give a shit. I’ll never see this woman again and have nothing invested in this interaction. I go for the easy opener.

“What do those symbols mean?”

She stops and stares at me without a hint of emotion.

“You’re the first person to ask me that,” she says.

“Really?”

I look again and realize her techno-corset is actually painted on; she’s completely topless. It’s so well done that it really resembles a textured fabric from a short distance. Better to just pretend I knew that the whole time.

Her green eyes are already searching for a more interesting location than my immediate company.

I ask, “Are you saying most people are too busy gawking at your body?”

“Pretty much.”

“I guess you should keep better company.”

“And that would be you, right?”

“I may have a little time later.”

“I’m flattered.”

“I’m Damian.”

“Francesca.”

“Good to meet you.”

“Excuse me, folks,” says a young guy walking up to us. He’s wearing a steampunk vest, an army helmet and has a video camera wrapped in plastic. “How’s it going? I’m doing a project and I need some volunteers. I’m making a time capsule for people who come to Burning Man 10 years from now. Can I record both of you separately giving some brief advice to future burners?”

“As long as it’s from the neck up,” Francesca say. He points the camera at her face as he steals a quick glance at her sci-fi painted breasts. Which are fantastic.

“And… go,” the man says. I wonder why he didn’t say “action.”

“DON’T BE SO QUICK TO FORGET EVERYTHING YOUR PARENTS TAUGHT YOU. HANDS TO YOURSELVES, BOYS. ASK BEFORE TOUCHING. ‘NO’ MEANS NO. IT MAY BE THE DESERT. WE MAY DRESS LIKE SLUTS AND SAVAGES, BUT YOU STILL BETTER BEHAVE LIKE GENTLEMEN.”

“Ouch!” I say. “That’s a serious preemptive scolding for the future.”

“You can’t coddle them,” she says without looking at me. This whole moment is clearly a forgettable interlude for her. “Who says there’ll even be a Burning Man 10 years from now?”

“Your turn, sir,” says the camerman. I think for moment.

“MAKE NO MISTAKE: YOU ARE A CAUSE OF THE VERY ENTROPY YOU BITCH ABOUT. YOUR GENERATION IS NOT THE OUTCOME OF NATURAL SELECTION. THE KINGDOM IS FULL. DON’T BRING YOUR SOCIAL DECAY TO BURNING MAN. THE EFFIGY IS INSIGNIFICANT. THE PLAYA HAS CHANGED. BLACK ROCK DOESN’T WANT YOU KIND ANYMORE. IT HAS A NEW GOD… and Safety Third.”

The young guy laughs, turns off the camera and thanks us. Francesca is staring at me.

“That came from deep,” she says, holding back a smile.

“Yours was so good, I felt I had to escalate. I don’t even know what most of that meant.”

She squints her eyes at me me for a moment then says “You ever think about sitting down with someone?”

I grin and say, “My camp’s bar has some comfortable seating. It’s right across the street.”

She laughs.

“I’m actually going to dance at Distrikt for a while. You can join me… if you can find me.”

“You any good?”

She makes a gasp/scoff like she genuinely can’t believe I had the nerve to ask that. Interestingly, she had barely flinched when I said the crazy shit.

Without another word, Francesca does a saucy little strut towards the dance floor to the beat of the music, looks back at me once and disappears into the crowd.

I take my bike and pedal out into the street feeling strangely satisfied.

I’m not chasing anyone this year.

Flame Retardant: a questionable account of Burning Man 2012 (3 of 8)

LOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE by Pinball

So I know what they say about me. Just between you fine readers and myself, about 80% of it is kinda true. The trick is to shift that 20% bullshit in the right places. Don’t be fooled: Bullshit is not always a problem. It can be a cosmetic. Your job. Your family. Your social circles. It’s always one unspoken masquerade or another. If you keep your mask on and dance well, you will be rewarded. Burning Man is no exception. Amongst the desert-goers, we construct “playadentities” on a number of levels. They’re like art cars for your ego.

I didn’t invent these rules and I never claimed to be good at them. Judge me all you want. Consider any sense of moral superiority I inspire in you as my gift to the community. Everything I’m going to tell you is true, but you didn’t hear it from me.

But in the spirit of honesty, my memory of most of the week is a dusty fucking blur. The chronology is especially hazy, so I’ll condense what I can into a fast-forwarded approximation:

Alright so my camp the Duck Pond is having our Early Bird Sunday night party. We’re balls-deep in a full-tilt rager by the time the gates are scheduled to open. The Pond may spend all year sharing duckie photos but when the clock strikes partytime they’re All-Pro. Madrone asks for my help moving Freddie who drunkenly passed out in the wrong tent. Turns out he got dosed with date rape drug but luckily Freddie didn’t get fingered. I meet a girl with blonde dreadlocks who might’ve qualified as my “Mondaynighter” if we had bonded more. We slam shots of bourbon, share vitamins in my tent, make out and I crash. Next thing the sun is up and I’m pissing behind some cars with NO MEMORY of getting up to pee. When I get back to my tent the girl is gone but this isn’t a problem. I ponder this mystery a few seconds before sleeping off a few more hours of the inevitable hangover. After I can no longer hide from consciousness behind my eyelids I go sit at our front porch. This area of community shade has become cozy with hammocks, a table stocked with booze, a bean bag chair and an unnecessary sign that reads “FRONT PORCH” (which I wonder if belonged to the camp known as the Front Porch). Plenty of lush trappings that can lull you into a self-congratulatory stupor, but like all things at Burning Man it’s refreshing in moderation. I have a strange conversation with Bolivar who won’t come out of his tent for some reason which is probably self-pleasure related. He’s an intense weirdo who thinks he’s a tough guy. Some people think his outfits are clever, but I’m not the only one from whom he earns blank stares. I try to be nice even though he’s too old for the angry college dropout vibe he gives off. Whatever. It’s his problem and we’ll go on pretending to be friends for years. I leave camp and head over to the French Quarter. It’s impressive and the 2^nd story balcony is packed. Advertised treats include coffee, lemonade and gumbo but I have no patience for the long lines and move on. The air is dusty but hardly apocalyptic. Center Camp is as uneventful as ever and host to a more undesignated breed of burner as I weave through the hula hoop aficionados, capoeira show-offs and the Black Rock equivalent of street urchins. I hit my threshold for sage and B.O. before finding a punk rock show on the back of a flatbed truck with a DPW mosh pit next to a dragon art car. I stop at a bar called Homojitos which I didn’t immediately recognize was a gay bar. I stay for a mojito anyway (excellent) and converse with the bartender while another man with a camera takes about 40 photos of me. On the way back to camp I spot a massage workshop with a posted schedule which I note but never revisit. The daytime party at the Pond is raging so I stick around. Melanie (who I’d made an effort to be nicer to) haplessly fucks up our tenuous rapport by telling me my “work ethic has greatly improved this year.” God knows why she thinks her opinion is important but I consider that her problem. I meet a cute college senior from Vancouver who studies film. Back at my tent, we discuss Guillermo del Toro movies and her budding bisexuality before we make out. I jot down where she’ll be later which I promptly but unintentionally forget. Later I enjoy my campmates’ anecdotes, jokes and little white lies like fine hors d’oeuvres before dinner, which consists of a lovely Cuban spread. I ask Joe if I should feel guilty for kissing a 21-year-old but he assures me that she should feel grateful. I stuff my face like a hog and lay in my tent where I start to dream before I’ve fully fallen asleep. 4 hours later I wake up mumbling about fascist dystopias before slamming an energy drink and meeting Jason for a night ride. Turns out he’s a formidable road dog whom I hadn’t gotten to know before. We drift from one sound system to the next and find some people with a flat tire. Amazingly Jason has a spare tube in his hydration pack along with a pump. He fixes the wheel, saves their night and thinks nothing of the deed. We discuss life, women and Alaska as we cruise the playa and I silently reassess my own merits. Robot Heart is rocking out as the dawn shines its rays on our night-weathered faces. I spot the blonde dreadlocked girl I made out with earlier snuggled up with an older guy on an art car/giant chair known as Chairman of the Bored and I decide not to wave. Leaving my bike I wander aimlessly until I come face-to-tentacle with El Pulpo Mechanico aka the Steampunk Octopus. Its originality, craftsmanship and very existence is awe inspiring and represents everything I believe is right about Burning Man but I am absolutely unmoved by the wonder I find here which is a sign of me being dead inside and possibly having a problem.

Flame Retardant: a questionable account of Burning Man 2012 (2 of 8)

SOLITARY REFINEMENT by Bolivar

I had a plan to maximize the use of my time at Burning Man. In classic playa fashion, my lofty camping resolutions have fallen completely by the wayside.

– Directive 1: Complete the construction of all costumes and accessories before coming to Burning Man.

– FAILED. My nighttime costumes and daytime apparel are at various stages of completion.

– Directive 2: Keep an itemized list of all personal effects and their stowage designations. Maintain proper stowage throughout the week.

– FAILED. I did afford myself a minimum level of organization with the purchase of a pair of 3-drawer carts. Six drawers labelled for toiletries, food, etc. It may sound efficient, but it was improvised. The point was to have it plotted out in advance.

I’m crouched on the carpeted floor of my tent surrounded by costumes, hardware and scrap material. The Nevada sun shines brightly through the Nylon walls. We are well into Day One of the event and I have only left my tent for tools and bathroom breaks.

– Costume A centers around a Mad Max jacket I constructed in 2010. Football shoulder pads are painted and riveted to the jacket with a couple of spikes for accent. A piece like this threatens to take itself too seriously. That’s why I’ve lightened it up with a few goofy buttons on the lapel. I also slapped on a large Duckpond sticker. It further softens the looks, fills in a blank spot and shows my campmates I’m not too anti-branding to represent.

– The only work this requires is the addition of the LED touch lamp. Multidirectional and nicer than the ones at Walgreens, I can attach it easily with wire and zip ties.

I recall a conversation with Joe while using the machines in his workshop. I said that if given the choice, I’d rather wear an unlimited array of sophisticated costumes than have amazing sex everyday on the playa.

Toiling away, I try to ignore the music and the cheers outside.

– Costume B is the “Tactical Tux.” It consists of a paintball vest, amber safety glasses, white formal gloves, and any combination of pants, footwear, and thermal top. The vest has been outfitted with various metal, plastic and nylon parts to not only give it a “future SWAT” look, but also resemble a tuxedo.

– This takes a lot of hole punching, drilling and screwing. The outfit will do for the Wednesday formal. I wish I had been smarter with the trousers.

I’m covered in sweat. My fingers are sore. This is detention. Purgatory. Follow-through is the only escape.

“Bolivar,” a man’s voice calls from outside. Judging from the opaque shadow, he’s standing about 3 feet from my tent.

“Yeah,” I call back as I struggle to fit the last screw into the vest.

“Hey bud! The fuck you been?”

Fantastic. It’s Pinball – the absolute LAST person I need to talk to when my own mistakes are keeping me from having fun. I already know how this conversation will go.

“In here, trying to finish up some projects,” I say.

“Projects, you say? You mean you’re not entertaining a lady or two?”

“Why, did you bring any?”

Pinball laughs, “Well the games have just begun.”

“Not for me they haven’t.”

“You really been in there all day? Everyone’s been asking about you.”

His condescension is thinly veiled today. All of the veils we wear in the default world become very thin out here.

“Everyone?” I say, thankful that I don’t have to look at his smug face. “That’s a stretch. I’m sure you’re keeping the Pond wildly entertained in my absence.”

“You must be making your world-famous costumes,” he continues. “You’ve got some discipline, Bolivar. It’s mid-afternoon and I for one have been waiting all goddamn year for this. I would’ve said ‘Fuck it!’ and dropped everything hours ago.”

“That’s your philosophy, right?” I deflect, trying not to reveal my shock that it’s mid-afternoon. “Not just a camping strategy, but Pinball’s world-famous approach to living.”

“It’s a Zen principle with universal applications. You should try it sometime.”

“I look forward to purchasing your calendar of daily affirmations.”

“Ya wanna know what the calendar says today? It’s Day One of motherfucking Burning Man!”

“Well, shit. I must’ve lost track of time.”

“Get outside and play,” he says, finally walking away. “It’s fucking bananas out here.”

“Thanks for the forecast,” I shout after him.

In the distance, I hear him reply, “Quack!”

“Dick.”

Pinball, like the actual game, is better in occasional, nostalgic doses. Some of the ducks seem to like him. I’ve never been impressed with the tales of his supposed sexual misadventures. The playa has enough psychic vampires.

– Costume C (FAILED) is maybe my 5^th reimagining of the “Clockwork” look. The bowler hat is opened in the back and fit with a brain-shaped piece of plastic from a Halloween gelatin mold. LED “shoelaces” loop into holes drilled into the brain. Joe cut and assembled this “thinking cap.” I’ve also bolted a longhorn belt buckle to the padded, martial arts codpiece that is worn over the pants.

– Unfortunately, I fucked up the army jacket. It needed a tiger-print fur yoke, lapel spikes, and a few odd and ends. But it’s only adornment is the “Nietzsche is my Co-pilot” patch I pinned on the back, and several letters have fallen off of that.

So what? Let it go.

Fucking Pinball. My mind has been running in circles all day in this goddamn tent. My inner voice didn’t need encouragement for skepticism. I brought all these materials and half-finished pieces out here. I’m won’t leave them to take up space in a corner while I go around Black Rock dressed like a pedestrian.

You’ve been unemployed for months. Getting this done before Burning Man was the least you could’ve achieved.

My budget was small and my funding came late. I had to take care of the essentials first. Costumes and accessories are a premium package.

But the premiums ARE essential for you. Plenty of people are having a great time right now (RIGHT NOW!) without the cosplay. What do you get out of this?

That’s the point. Not enough burners are stepping up. Virgins try too hard to fit in. Veterans don’t bother to stick out. Creativity has taken a backseat to debauchery. I want to demonstrate how Burning Man is a blank canvas. That anyone can shape the culture in the moment.

So you want to be an inspiration? What a pretentious contribution!

Maybe. But “Radical Self-Expression” implies a risk of ostentation, doesn’t it? That’s what an expression does. It tells the world something. And I’m willing to sacrifice an entire day of Burning Man to do that.

Oh, you are. It didn’t have to come to that.

Live and learn.

You never learn. You’ve been making this same mistake all your life. No real organizational skills. No follow-through. This is why you washed out of your last job.

That wasn’t my world. This is.

Someone in the camp shouts that it’s dinnertime as the final piece snaps into place.

Flame Retardant: a questionable account of Burning Man 2012 (1 of 8)

ARRIVE by Damian

It’s Saturday afternoon and we’re finally approaching Black Rock City. We’ve been on the road since dawn hauling our camp’s infrastructure in a rental truck. Our early morning disorientation was a fitting precursor. Now Pandora’s box is finally in sight and the familiar unreality is setting in.

My friend and driving partner, Medium Tim, is in the passenger seat looking dispassionately at the ever-slowing procession of cars in front of us. Don’t be fooled by the name; he’s 6’3” and built like an Alabama cinderblock shithouse. You’d never guess from his intimidating physique that he was a San Francisco software engineer with a heart of gold. (That proverbial heart, by the way, is cast entirely from the thin gold flakes that float in bottles of Goldschläger.)

Traffic has now slowed to a stop. We’re officially in line. A few people have gotten out of their cars and are socializing. One acne-scarred young man is walking aimlessly in a utilikilt without a shirt. His thin pale torso and unconfident posture suggest he doesn’t attend many outdoor festivals.

“No!” Medium Tim shouts. “It’s not time to party yet. Get back in your fucking cars! Express yourselves later. Or how about you don’t?”

I chuckle and he asks if that was mean of him. A cheesy rock song is playing on the radio. It will be the last of the non-electronic music we hear for the next week.

I glance over at the SUV next to us. There’s a man with long hair, a woman in a sequin-studded cowboy hat and a little boy in a child safety seat in the back.

“Well the good news,” I say to Tim. “is that we finally made it to Disneyland.”

“You got a problem with children?”

“I love children. Just not at the movies and not at Burning Man.”

“Whatever, dude. You’re a monster. Child-hater! You should just dress like Freddy Krueger and creep around Kidsville every night. They’ll beg their parents to never bring them to Burning Man again.”

“That’s so wrong… and genius. Let me rephrase this. There should be some limits to the age and/or number of kids running around out here.”

“So you’re not Freddy Krueger. Maybe just the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”

“I’ve never actually seen that?”

“Are you shitting me? You’ve seen Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas 700 times but you’ve never seen Chitty Chitty Bang Bang? You are a goddamn monster.”

“I’m a child of the 90s. Fuck yourself. Look at that kid in the car next to us. He’s, what, 3? Does he really need to be here? How many parties would you bring a baby to?”

“My kids is a dog and she’s almost 20. That’s beyond octogenarian in dog years.”

“She looks good for her age.”

“I’m not on the pro-kid side of the debate,” Tim says. “There are too many fucking debates. I just like to bust your scrote. You’re always nostalgic for an era of Burning Man you’ve never been to.”

“Let’s not deny we’re in an age of decline here. We got the ticket lottery, plug-and-play camps, growing police presence, guerilla commodification stunts…”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve read your blog. It’s like the rantings of the Unabomber. You spend too much time feeding the Facebook trolls.”

“So you’re not cynical, Tim? This is like your 12^th burn.”

“13^th. And I am cynical. I don’t know if I’m getting everything out of it that I want anymore.”

“But we still come back. There’s still something here we can’t get elsewhere, right? Something more than the sum of its parts?”

Tim doesn’t answer. Neither of us subscribes to the myth that BRC is a utopia where everyone’s dreams come true. Make no mistake: You can be left to wallow in your misery like some archetypal tragic fool. Every year, burners come here with their hands out and their hearts open, ready for the playa gods to gift them some grand, serendipitous blessing. At the end of the week, more than a few find themselves alone in their own custom-crafted hell, holding onto the random pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit anywhere.

We’re almost to the gate when the DJ on the radio announces that someone has lost a cat. As he gives a description of the animal, the restrained contempt in the DJ’s  voice suggests that his disgust at such an avoidable occurrence matches our own.

“Now I gotta worry about running over toddlers and cats,” I say. “God, wouldn’t that be fucked up? People die here every year, but if a kid died it would be a catastrophe.”

“You think that’d be the end of Burning Man?”

“Potentially. I don’t know. That would definitely be the end of the accused.”

“You would go to prison if you ran over a kid,” Tim says. “Even by accident, the courts and the media would crucify you along with the whole fucking event. They’ll say you were a anarchist and a hippie and someone will rape you in Nevada prison.”

“Are you saying I’d be raped because of the ‘anarchist/hippie’ label?”

“No, you’ll be raped for the label of ‘sweet meat’ you’ve got written all over your androgynous face. Quit worrying about yourself and your own violated poopshoot, you selfish bastard! The goddamn future of Burning Man is at stake here!”

“Eat a medium dick.”

We finally reach the ticket takers. I roll down the window and say, “What seems to be the problem, officer?”

The ticket guy grins. “Wanna tell me why you were going so fast?”

“My wife here is going into labor,” I say.

“I just need to make it to Camp Stork-n-Torque in time to have a safe and blissful delivery,” says Tim.

The ticket guy looks at the large, muscular man in the passenger seat and chuckles as he scans our tickets and early arrival passes. He says, “Newborns are always party-appropriate.”

I open the back of the truck to show him we’re not hiding stowaways or contraband. While I’m back there I retrieve my goggles and the over-decorated respirator I call a “riding mask.”

“Speaking of the Unabomber,” Tim mutters.

I say, “If you can’t handle the freaks, make haste exiting the kingdom.”

The ticket guy hands us back our papers and says, “Well you folks drive slow and have a good one. Welcome home.”

Tim screams “God bless us everyone!”

“That’s a mighty fine lady you got there.”

“She’s a looker,” I say.

Post-playa re-entry: an update

The massive preparation for this year’s Burning Man is my excuse for the radio silence as of late. I arrived back home exactly one week ago, almost to the minute. There is a notorious decompression period after the event. I know this sounds strange to the uninitiated, but it is a real phenomenon and its intensity can vary. Since this was a relatively mellow burn for me, I expected a softer transition back to the “Default world” (aka Defaultia).

Perhaps I underestimated the unyielding clockwork of fragmented glaciers that is the city life of San Francisco. The day after my return, everything in the “real world” seemed a massive, cold monolith that was looming overhead. Every bit of unfinished business seemed to be pounding angrily at my door. The pedestrian masses resembled the daily marches inside a military prison (not that I would know).

I’ve been evading these mundane horrors through the ancient art of procrastination. Aside from two social outings, I’ve only left my apartment for food. Way too much of my personal gear is still covered in alkaline dust. My priorities have been sorting and uploading Burning Man photos and napping, which I almost never do. I’m finally making a dent in the bottle of Bulleit that I surprisingly only half-consumed the previous week. All of my dreams are a unintelligible mosiac of desert imagery – the mark of a playafied subconscious.

As far as the decompressing process, this is actually pretty tame.

But my subterfuge was soon threatened by… a job opportunity. It seems I can return to a career I spent a year trying to distance myself from with a company I once quit without a confirmed alternative. This required applying online, which required the Frankenstein, corpse-cobbling task of writing a cover letter. I hate writing cover letters. I would rather write my own father’s obituary. Especially a cover letter to the effect of “Hi guys! I know I left 3 years ago because I couldn’t take the bullshit intrinsic to this line of work, but I sure would like to re-enter the vicious cycle!”

As you can imagine, this is an uncomfortable dilemma to face so soon after stomping around the desert dressed like a post-apocalyptic ranch hand. (A more comprehensive report of that experience will soon be posted, then I promise to put the topic to bed for a while.)

So long story short, things are in flux. Today I managed to stave off my own malaise, as well as the gastrointestinal effects of bad Vietnamese food, to perform well at the interview. Decisions will have to be made. Compromises are inevitable.

What would be the opposite of a honeymoon? Whatever you’d call that, it’s over.

But for you, dear readers, that means I’ll be manning the soapbox very soon!

Mazel tov,

Damian

Shut Up and Spectate!

Burners. We’re a proud and preachy lot. Admit it. Our occasional zeal often stems from the catchphrases that are impressed upon us during our virgin year. “No Spectators” is a particularly hollow sentiment that enthusiasts have been kicking around the dust like a taxidermy hedgehog. It has gone from a plucky encouragement of participation to the low-hanging fruit for burners who desperately need to be better than somebody.

Let’s take a look at this overworn battle cry and explore its relevancy.

No Spectators is not in the Ten Principles. There is the Participation principle, which includes “We achieve being through doing. Everyone is invited to work. Everyone is invited to play.”

In the brief span of my Burning Man years, I’ve had some painful conversations with very self-satisfied attendees (especially newbies) explaining how spectating ruins the event. It’s like listening to teenagers on a bus talk tough about snitches. Or adults on Facebook complain about haters.

As far as I can tell, the primary targets of our righteous Burning brethren are usually a) people with cameras, or to a lesser extent b) people who are standing still.

We have this idea of a lecherous “tourist” snapping nudie photos to smuggle back to his dorm room, abduction van, country club, etc. I can agree that attendees with a rude fixation on anatomy are a drag. You should always ask before you a photograph or film a disrobed stranger.

But we all like to commemorate our exploits, right? What if photography or filmmaking is your art? You would think that it goes without saying that using a camera is not taboo in and of itself.

But of course, burners love to hammer flexible suggestions into dogma. Larry Harvey was quoted as saying:

“… photographers are sometimes harassed. And not necessarily because they’re being intrusive or violating someone’s personal boundaries, but simply because the use of a camera indicates to somebody that they’re a spectator. Sometimes I wish we’d never promoted the phrase, ‘No Spectators.’ Who are these people to say that these individuals aren’t participating? The fruit of a photographer’s work doesn’t appear until after the event when they produce images. They’re engaged in a creative pastime, it just isn’t immediately apparent…”   http://aquaburn.com/

There’s also a peripheral tendency to brand anyone on the playa who is quiet, observant, shy, subdued or not radically-something. Can you imagine someone calling David Best a spectator if he didn’t want to do the cabbage patch dance for a grilled cheese sandwich?

Perhaps a true spectator just sits around without contributing art, labor or charm. Even then, you’d have to conduct an investigation with character witnesses, background checks, DNA samples…

The whole No Spectators notion, or at least the level to which we take it, begs the question “Are we expected to be interactive at every given opportunity?”

I think a fair amount of problems at Burning Man come from over-participation. People invite themselves into private areas, climb structures, break toys, interrupt conversations, disrupt performances and rituals, take and touch without asking, overcrowd, overdose, overreact, and literally party till they drop.

Pictured: your constant obligation

My point is that it wouldn’t kill some of us to chill out and just take in the ambiance. There are now over 60,000 of us, there’s a lot going on and we’re in the middle of the goddamn desert (I call it that lovingly). Sit down. Shut up. Drink some water. It’s still an art festival, right? Go contemplate a masterpiece. We got plenty. Try using your eyes, ears and brain. Your mouth, hands and ass could probably use a break. Maybe, just maybe, being a spectator every once in a while isn’t such a bad thing.

 

(Picture by Jim Lee. Yeah, it’s from Batman. Trademark of DC Comics and Warner Brothers. The other is from South Park. The one where Cartman and Cthulhu destroy Burning Man. It was hilarious. Trademark of Comedy Central, Trey Parker, Matt Stone, etc)