Burning Man Recap

I think about going to Burning Man every year. When it comes time to start buying tickets, the desert starts whispering to me. "Out here," it murmurs, "you can be anyone, or anything."

In 2006, I followed the voices. With almost no preparation, I cast out for the playa with little but water, food, sunscreen, and some objects to juggle. After a few hours of elation and exploration and explosions, reality hit me hard: the voices lied. I was out in the middle of the desert with a bunch of strangers, most of whom had come prepared with friends and partners. After a couple of days feeling like the loneliest, least interesting person at the world's greatest party, I threw in the towel; I came home and spent the rest of my vacation binging on video games.

This year, I went again. Hell, I doubled down; I bought two tickets, figuring that hey, I had six months to find someone wonderful to share this with. I also figured that it would drive home the lesson I learned the first time around.

Lesson 1: Do not burn alone.

But as Burning Man approached, my efforts proved inadequate. The burners I know are amazingly warm, generous people, but I still didn't feel close enough to them that I felt I could ask for a lot of emotional support. Worse, I was still as unattached as ever.

Fortunately Nala, my girlfriend-turned-ex-girlfriend-turned-good-friend, threw me a lifeline. I was complaining about my ticket dilemma, she said she had always wanted to go, and before I knew it we were negotiating a price for the ticket. I had a campmate.

We took off a bit later than expected, but still hauled our sorry carcasses out to the playa in plenty of time. The trip was long and exhausting, and Nala spent a good portion of it talking about her new love for a bicycle repairman. The girl is smitten, and it's easy to be happy for her.

By the time we rolled in, it was about 1:30AM Thursday morning, and Nala's carcass was particularly sorry. Due to a potent concoction of sleep deprivation and car sickness, her stomach had declared itself an independent nation, and kept trying to eject foreigners from within its borders. We didn't bother to set up the tent that night, but just crashed on a tarp by the car. Once Nala was resting comfortably, I went off to get myself oriented, and to talk to The Man.

It's good to talk to The Man. Despite being but a mirror to view my own thoughts through, The Man is always illuminating (and, I suppose, illuminated). This year, he wore a festive yellow, and stood above a canopy of thornlike trees. I don't remember our exact conversation, but I did get the feeling that people had been asking for his wisdom all day, and that it was time for me to find some of my own.

Lesson 2: All you'll find in the desert are the things people brought with them.

The next morning, I wandered over to Poly Paradise, where I had a few contacts. Within minutes, Scix (a wonderful fellow Utahn whom I'd only met once previously) had not only talked the cmadeamp director into letting me stay and found me a good tent site, but also tried to convince a couple of women that I was very cute. His help in a time of need will not be forgotten.

So we went to set up camp. After about a half hour of struggle, we realized that we had no idea how to set up the tent.

Lesson 3: Do not go out to the playa with a tent you have never set up before, or you will be made to attend new age seminars.

Somebody with a name (Keith? Kevin?) offered to take a look at it, if we would take a look at the workshop he was about to start. We looked at the description, and decided that ninety minutes there were preferable to ninety minutes puzzling out tent poles.

The workshop was weird and fascinating, and I think I liked it. One of the exercises was to go around the room, stand face-to-another-face, and just stare that person in the eye for half a minute or so. I didn't expect to have much of an emotional reaction to it, but I did. There isn't enough staring into each others eyes in the default world. We keep our peepers to ourselves, and for good reason. But once in a while, it's good to be reminded of the cost.

There were other exercises, some good, some downright silly. But by the end of it, I felt something of the human connection I was hoping The Man could guide me to.

Later on, Rubah loaned me a book called Urban Tribes, which I should probably review over at Neon Derby Cars. Short recap: it's about why people my age are delaying marriage, what they're doing in the meantime, and how their social networks function.

Lesson 4: If you read an entire book during Burning Man, you may be doing it wrong. But hey, nobody's judging.

Most of the weekend was spent either seeing the sights with Nala, chatting with people back at camp, or wandering out alone while Nala tried to do homework. During my first solo excursion Thursday afternoon, I was wandering along the Esplanade (the innermost road that surrounds The Giant Field of Big, Artsy Displays) when a topless woman grabbed me by the arm, dragged me off the road, told me that my clothes were wrong, and insisted that I take them off. She seemed very certain, so I didn't argue the point. Once I was down to my boxers, she started handing me clothes off the rack. Within seconds, I was wearing a hideous black and white leopard print shirt and bright pink sweatpants.

The woman said I was greatly improved. I was about to object, but then I remembered that I have the fashion sense of a colorblind orangutan. So I decided to take her word for it, and began the monumental feat of convincing myself that I was totally stylin' in those bright pink sweatpants.

It worked. I felt more at home wearing those godawful clothes. People saw me in those clothes and knew that I feared nothing. Twenty minutes after receiving the upgrade, I was pushing around a giant hamsterball with a gorgeous Asian woman inside. Coincidence? Certainly not.

Lesson 5: The clothes do make the man, even if they also make the man look silly.

That evening, I gained access to the Lair of the Mystic Toad and was inducted into the sacred mystery cult of The God Box. Then I got bear hugged by a large, gay pole dancing instructor. Both were life changing experiences. But neither Nala or I are particularly hard partiers, and so we ended up turning in early.

Having me hanging around borked Nala's mojo. I was definitely emitting some sort of Guy Repulsion Field. Every time I stepped away for a few minutes, I would come back to find her being chatted up by some guy or other. It was awkward, but it made me proud. Since I don't generally attract spontaneous female attention, our proximity didn't really affect my chances, and having a beautiful woman next to me got me into a party that I honestly had no business attending. So for me, there was nothing but upside to the arrangement.

Also, I met the woman of my dreams. She was beautiful, with dark hair and big eyes. She works for a co-op in California. I think she said her name was Io. Of course, I didn't get her contact information. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

We were looking forward to burning The Man. Nala painted awesome wings on my back and I dressed in the most fashionable blanket I had. We were ready, dammit. But after spending an hour waiting for the dust to clear, then another half hour trying to find our way back through the dust storm to get some food from camp (with obligatory bickering along the way), by the time I was back in the tent I said, screw The Man. You can't see anything out there anyways.

From reports the next morning, a half hour after I fell asleep, it cleared up and they burned The Man to the ground. The only way I knew how to redeem myself was to wake up at 5AM and do a naked jog around the whole perimeter of the camp. My calves are still sore. That day, we said goodbye to the camp, and packed it in to head home. We thought we could beat the traffic jam, but we were wrong, and so we spent the next three hours covering a distance of forty miles. By the time we were clear of the mess, I knew we wouldn't be getting home that night, no matter how fast Nala asked me to drive.

A few miles out of Wells, Nevada, I noticed something glowing off to the side of the highway. Hoping for a crash landed flying saucer, I pulled over. No luck. It was in fact a small but slowly expanding circle of fire a few feet off the road. While Nala called 911, I tried pouring water on the fire, then beating it out with a blanket. But the fire kept expanding, and Nala kept pointing out that I was being an idiot. A few singed leg hairs later, I decided that she had a point, and therefore retreated to watch the fire be pretty.

Lesson 6, or 7, or something: Do not try to put out a brush fire with your face, regardless of who you're trying to impress, or how easy it looked in that one movie.

Another night's rest under the stars, a three hour drive, and an extended argument over the practicality of pie and coffee later, we were home. Home sweet boring not-allowed-to-run-around-naked home.