(Author’s note: this essay was written in the days and weeks following my first trip to Burning Man in 2018. It was dug out of a dusty corner of my hard drive while writing an essay about my second trip to Burning Man. It was left unfinished, but having decided it’s not as bad as initially believed, it’s now being published with only slight edits.)
(Author’s second note: Readers familiar with this site will recall my predilection for putting my phone the phuck away, which is why this post has no images.)
I am no longer a virgin
I learned…
The importance of eating regularly and drinking enough water, which I often neglect when I’m home. The 9-5-ers anthem has the leeway for a person to neglect themselves.
How to tell time with my fingers and the sun. That lesson only partially stuck.
When playing architect, remember to think about ventilation. A windowless yurt is a sauna.
How to make turbo juice, and why one should.
Sub-lesson: Vodka comes in boxes
If you’re going to play the game, be prepared for the consequences when you lose.
Sometimes a hug and a smile is as good as a few hours sleep when you’ve been awake for 24 hours and on the road for 15.
Say yes. Be weird, and change your socks regularly.
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I made friends.
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I drank, passed out, woke up and drank more. Stayed awake for the sunrise four times. Made a fool of myself. Bore witness to foolishness. Opened myself up. Learned I have a long way to go. I complained. I cheered, I shouted, harangued, howled, teased and cajoled.
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I broke. I came back.
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You can’t not sing Bohemian Rhapsody. There are rules to this world. Some renditions are better than others, but every time I hear it now I’ll think of running to our neighboring camp to belt it out alongside a crowd of fellow revelers, my arm around Romac, trading off “mama mia!’s” and “Let him go!’s” My throat hurt, voice nearly destroyed even though it was only Wednesday (Tuesday?).
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I broke two pairs of quality boots. My Doc Martens bit the dust when I went down a slide. The heel came off the right one. It had happened before, a liberal application of Shoe-Goo seemingly solved the problem for good, but the playa shattered that guarantee.
I think it’s something to do with my right side. With my other boots, a shelter-adopted pair of Levi’s, the right sole started separating at the heel. This a week after I’d hired a so-called cobbler to solve the same problem, and paid him 15 American dollars for the trouble.
Both these problems befell me within two days of arriving, leaving me with a pair of Vans, the kind that are basically boat shoes. Not good for walking or keeping the dust out of cracks and crevices.
Thank god for Tinker and epoxy glue. I left the Martens alone for the week, but the Levis were up to the challenge and then some.
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I got into a fight with a 12-year-old. Her mother broke it up, but it ended with hugs and compliments. I gave her a necklace later.
Thanks Bob.
My emotions can’t be contained by a glass case. I keep them under King Kong sized lock and key, guarded by stoic, shadowy entities with orders to shoot on sight. But when I get excited… there’s no containing that.
“FOLKS! The road is long, and hard and dusty, and we have what you need to get you where you’re trying to go. Turbo juice! No one knows what’s in it but it’s the fuel that’ll get you where you’re going and make sure you have the energy to party once you get there.”
Barking for the Turbo Bar was more fun than it should have been, once I released my inhibitions and went for it. And the beers kicked in. Someone came by with a huge prop wine glass that probably held two bottles plus of wine. He let me hold onto it for him after I convinced him to drink some turbo juice. It made for the perfect prop to get folks to stop.
They say playa dust will destroy everything. My best pants were ruined not by the dust but by the red wine I spilled on them. Which probably mixed with the dust they were coated in. The stain is faded but certainly not gone.
Trace
There are remnants hanging around.
I still have a cooler in my bedroom, full of apples, smashed protein and granola bars, a liter of… some kind of juice (apple something?), and other foodstuffs.
Then there’s the Arrowheads. (side note—I’ve been locked into Jurassic Shark’s latest release, one of their songs is titled ‘Arrowhead’. Cue the Incredibles gif—“Coincidence?? I think NOT!!”)
Just little shit.
I’m going to fill my canteen from the Brita in the fridge, then staring at two 1.5 gallon Arrowhead… is there a word for them? They’re the big boxy ones with the pull-spout on the bottom side. Is there a word??
Sitting on my floor amid the mess of bags, boots, instruments and personal touches smothering the floor space. There’s only a path through the mess.
Still drinking.
Upon departing for Black Rock City, I had:
2x 24 packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon
2x 18 packs of Modelo
1x medium plastic bottle of vodka
1x small bottle of Jack Daniels
1x large bottle of Jameson
Upon departing from Black Rock City I had:
1x 18 pack of Modelo
1x 24 pack of Bud Light
2x 18 packs of Bud Light
3x boxes of Vodka
1x bottles of gin
I was talking to Jim earlier (Big Jim, Jim the Viking with the RV and the ambrosia in a peach yoplait disguise and la-z-boy camp chairs in the shade) about returning from the burn when I was dropping off his gear.
And softening the landing.
And how I spent three weeks house-sitting, starting within 10 days of returning from the playa.
KEEP THE BLACK ROCK SPIRIT ALIVE.
Let’s just say I forgot to take out the recycling and may have something to answer for, if someone has questions. No one beer gets out alive.
But not really. It’s definitely answering to myself. Lines are always being drawn, and sometimes someone hits your elbow while you’re writing and sends a streak across those lines or it’s fun to be aleatoric, but order restores at some point, right?
It’s not a border you come to. It’s a fence you run along. It’s the light-race in Tron.
So.
I’m good. Just drunk. And now it’s tempered by the ironic excuse.
What I’m saying is
I’m not just drunk, I’m recovering from Burning Man drunk.
Really I’m just an alcoholic basking in the romance of something wild and artistic and just across the border of safe.
But it was my first burn, man. My mind is warped and I’m realizing something vaguely profound about society.
No, you’re not. Shut up. Be responsible. Lift heavy things, eat healthy, stop making excuses and wasting time.
Yell at yourself.