Finally, as a special bonus, here are my favorite memories from last year's burn. I never really wrote the whole thing up, but I did get a chance to jot down reminders of some moments that I really enjoyed:
In “Tango’d Up in Blues”, the camp that played nothing but tango music and blues songs from the 30s, late late at night I happened to walk past a man and a woman slow dancing together. They were both wearing fursuits (with a hood, rather than a full mask), identical from the tip of their tails to the tops of the pointy ears, and they were looking into each others eyes with such love and emotion that it was wonderful.
My father was with me this year, for his first ever trip to Black Rock City. By the second day my he had seen a ton of weird things, but hadn’t really had a lot of exposure to the gift culture of Burning Man. Flossie Starbutts the Third was making coffee for everyone every morning, but none of the free bars had opened yet. We were sitting under the shade canopy of the Shack of Sit (“Where Sit Happens!”) watching the crazy folks on the playa. Suddenly there was a terrible dust storm that erased the view completely, and out of the storm strode a lone figure in a picture-perfect black hat and Clint Eastwood duster, it’s flaps billowing in the wind. That’s right, it billowed.
He walked up to the Shack, and someone said something like, “What’re you packin’, pardner?”. He whipped open his jacket to reveal that he’d gotten it custom tailored to have three pockets on each side of the lining. For each pocket he’d bought a brand new silver flask, and he’d filled each flask full of a different 10-year-old single malt scotch. The leather holster on his hip contained shot glasses, of course. My father drank his Talisker and tried to come to terms with it all.
Later on, ‘Cyclopedia organized a massive shoot out, “at noon, 100 paces from the Man”. We wheeled a wagon carrying a huge tub of water and seventy-five cheap squirt guns out into the middle of the desert. By five ‘till 12 a crowd of about twenty had gathered, and we loaded up and stood in a circle. ‘Cyclopedia and I had spent the morning making green and red sashes so that people would have a place to holster their pistols, which most people did. At noon Tickles blew a whistle, and we all drew and fired! Some people ran around the circle shooting everyone, others collapsed and died dramatically on the sand. I used my sash as a blindfold, and was executed by firing squad--in the desert heat it felt wonderful!
Eventually we began squirting pedestrians and bystanders on their way to the Man, which was fun until one woman loudly and firmly told us that she had not wanted to get squirted. On the one hand, it was hard to see any problems--we were avoiding anyone with camera equipment, and by the time she’d finished telling us she had already dried. On the other hand, however, consent cannot be overrated, so we developed a new strategy. Tickles (the smallest, least threatening of us) would stroll over to an art car or cluster of cyclists and begin talking to them while the rest of us, guns behind our backs, strolled nonchalantly towards them. Many of us whistled tunelessly, to further the illusion of innocence. Tickles would then say, “Sure is hot, want some water? Raise your hand if you want to get squirted”, while gesturing with her pistol. The minute their hand went up, a crowd of twenty descended upon them, screaming and firing their plastic weapons.
On Saturday my father stayed back at the edge of the playa, away from the crowds watching the burn. By that point he was clearly enjoying himself, and had made a lot of friends, but I could tell if he really “got it” or not. When I came back through the dust after the Man burned to ash, he gave me a huge grin and opened up his arms for a hug, saying “Happy Burn, son!”
Banjo, an accomplished musician in his late sixties, taught me how to play the saw. And then we were interrupted by a young fellow, early twenties or so, or stopped by to discuss harmonica with him. It was so great to see these two musicians talking so freely, regardless of the half-century disparity in their ages. Banjo plans a mean harmonica, for sure, but it was clear that he thought that this young guy was a better player and was very interested in all that he had to say.
They were talking about pitch bends which are usually done by sucking air through the harmonica while bending the note. Banjo mentioned that he had once met a fellow who claimed to have heard of a technique of “blow bending”. The young guy was working on mastering the technique himself, and demonstrated for us. It was a real life version of that old samurai movie cliche: “I have often heard of the so-and-so technique, but never have I seen it done!”.
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