The Southwest - Part 20

So a few minutes ago I lined up to get my usual triple-crack macchiato - I DON'T HAVE A PROBLEM I CAN STOP ANY TIME I WANT TO - and guess who lines up behind me?

The fuggin' BLIND GUY.  Oh my gawd he can smell me.

As I waited for my order to finish, I was frantically trying to decide which fist to throw first: Lefty, or the Widowmaker?  You know, to hit the blind man with.  I told you your honor it was self defense! 

Thankfully, he ordered a brewed coffee (how plebeian) then walked right past me toward the bathroom. 

Crisis averted.



Annnnd we're back.


August 30th until ??? - "Welcome Home."

Driving well into the night, we arrived at the middle of nowhere.  Pulling up to the front gate, we were approached by a girl dressed as some kind of bunny-dinosaur.  I didn't ask.

She only had one question: "This your first time?"  What did the Prius give us away?

As we quickly learned, all "virgins" to Burning Man must go through the same ritual: we were ordered out of our car, and told to lay down on the playa.  Then, make dust angels.

With this essential task completed, we were each handed a length of steel rebar and told to hit a giant bell as hard as we can, yelling "I AM NOT A VIRGIN ANYMORE!!!"

Pleased with our offering, she hugged us with a genuineness that is all too rare in this world and said "Welcome Home."

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As it would turn out, the dust bath was very liberating, but hardly necessary.  Five minutes on the playa and you are caked with layers of sediment - like a spray on tan.  Made of desert.

I'm gonna be honest with you guys, this is actually where my travel notes end.  Evidently I was  way too intoxicated  having too much fun to be scribbling down observations.

Also, there's nowhere to keep your pen, when you're naked. 

So here's the deal, I'm just gonna wing it, piecing together what I remember between the blackouts and the stuff there is no way in hell I'm telling you about.

We followed the sound of techno music into the city.  And it is a city.  By this time there were already over 40,000 people in Black Rock, with hundreds more arriving at all hours of the day. 

The official 2010 census from Black Rock City counted 51,454 citizens, 293 Bureau of Land Management citations, and 8 arrests.  A good year.

Black Rock City is laid out in a semi-circle "C" shape, with The Man in the very centre.  Around him is an open space, known as the Promenade, and behind him a vast expanse of nothingness.  They call this the Playa.

Also, there's an airport.  Just because.

The airport offers free plane rides, sky diving, and membership in the mile high club.

Let me see your pilot's license again...

The city itself is made up of circular avenues, bisected by streets named after the numbers of the clock.  Every clock numbered street leads straight to The Man, making a system that even a drunk (or 50,000 of them) can navigate with ease.

The Man, in all his glory

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We set up camp around 8:30 and Kyoto, which at the time was the edge of the city.  By the next day, we were practically the downtown.

No strangers to setting up camp in the dark, we decided to half-ass it and hit up the party while it was still kicking.  As it turns out, the party literally never stops.  When I awoke the next morning, only half inside my tent, which was only half assembled anyway, the music was still playing.  Loudly.

What struck me about my first night in Black Rock was just how bright this city gets.  Everywhere are strobe lights, spot lights, disco balls, and multi-colored lasers.  Everyone is wearing LEDs.  And sometimes only LEDs. 

Black Rock at night is like watching Tron on E.  Actually, for many Burners, that's probably the case.

I have SO many pictures, some of which are actually SFW.  Here's a taste of Burning Man by night:

Today's show is brought to you by the letter E

Don't lie.  You're a little turned on right now.

I don't even know, you guys.  I don't even know.

This thing is actually interactive.  It plays music, changes colors and spits fire (of course it does), all of which is controlled by three stations spread out around it and free for anyone to use.  What could possibly go wrong?


In case you didn't know, the theme at Burning Man is always FIRE.  

This is where the party at.

 This is the second story of the Heart Machine.  A mobile club (you read that correctly), that roams around the playa and sets up in a different place every night.

These guys are from Toronto and are waaay more normal than they have any right to be.

One group, Nexus, deserves particular mention:

This is what happens when pyros get engineering degrees

If you only knew the power of the dark side...

 For those of you wondering, yes, that is a Tesla coil.  And they're playing with it.

--------------------

 By day the experience is a little different.  For starters, it is hot as hell.  There are those who say yes but it's a "dry heat".  I hate those people.

While many of the hardcore party-goers spend the day hibernating, a whole different breed of Burner emerges during the day.

These are the types who attend the hundreds of yoga classes, workshops and other events I'm not sure how to classify, such as "The Human Car Wash".  Exactly what it sounds like.

Of those workshops, about half of them are sex education.  The other half are technique.

Just like we have Remembrance Day and Black History Month in the real world, Black Rock has its own holidays and traditions.  For instance, the million bunny march.

Again, this is exactly what it sounds like:

Yeah.  Why not?

Wabbits!

Other festivities include "Critical Dicks", a parade of penises for which nothing can adequately prepare you.  Also, Wednesday is "Official Shirt-Cocking Day".  You've been warned.

As I mentioned earlier, it is fuggin' hot in Black Rock.  Getting around during the day requires a great deal of effort and a lot of patience.  Luckily, there are home-made bars (some with home-made booze) on every corner.  The "Playa Surprise" is pretty much the only drink on offer.  Never the same, it usually involves some kind of exotic liquor mixed with much-needed gatorade.

You get used to it.

Many of these fine establishments also have their own greeters, encouraging you to come in out of the heat, take a load off, and keep drinking til dark.  The end result being that you are typically smashed before you even reach the port-a-potties. 

The heat, however, only partly explains the public nudity which is endemic throughout the city.  What makes Black Rock City so special is that you can pretty much do anything you want.  The only rules are: no cars on the playa (with some notable exceptions which I will explain later) and no money can be exchanged inside the city's limits.

Black Rock City is a gift economy.  Everyone contributes something to the community, whether it be booze, art, music, booze, food or booze.  It is a remarkable experiment in human nature.  And it works.  It really does.

The other mantra of Burning Man is self-sufficiency.  Everyone is responsible for bringing their own food and water, and this is an integral component.  Self-sufficiency means no dependency.  Everyone is equal.  The Black Rock Rangers, the medics, the firefighters, the guy who drops you out of the airplane, everyone is a volunteer.

Now, I know what you're thinking:  Free booze?!  Where do I sign?

Besides the bars, there are also many fine-dining establishments, some with gourmet menus.  Of course, whatever you order almost invariably comes back as a grilled cheese -- a Black Rock staple.

And the price is always right.

This was my favorite place.  Because it had soft-serve ice cream.  And free refills.

I took this picture before I knew what pedo bear was.  Now it's that much better.

------------------

 Seeing as how it takes several hours to circumnavigate Black Rock, most citizens travel by bicycle.  In fact, if I have one word of advice for potential Burners it's bring a bicycle.  Also, don't order the Playa Surprise.

There are exceptions, as I mentioned above.  These are the Mutant Vehicles.

I've never been so tempted to steal a car

"All units, suspect is driving a red... nevermind."

Believe it or not, those are two of the smaller mutant vehicles.  Others are two stories tall, and look more like massive land yachts than actual cars.  Some of them actually ARE yachts. 

And of course, the vast majority of them spit fire.

-------

The best part of Burning Man is the Burners themselves.  As Black Rock City is a lifeless desert 51 weeks out of the year, the city really is what people make of it.

I made some great friends in my week at Burning Man.  To protect their identities, I can't give their real names, so let's just call them Pippy Longstocking, Colonel Sanders, and Claire.  You know who you are.

I had a ton of fun roaming the Playa with you guys (Colonel Sanders and I got mistaken for a couple on more than a few occasions).  Probably because we were biking around naked.  And because he totally digs me. 

Also, I want those pictures deleted.

One day a bunch of us played Ultimate on the Playa.  Because you just have to.  The organizer, we'll call her Wonder Woman, gets special mention.

Though I ended up coughing up black stuff the rest of the evening, it was totally worth it.

Why you ask?  Well, Black Rock Mesa has no trees, and no moisture.  Thus, the ground everywhere is covered by a thick layer of dust.  Dust which quickly becomes airborne and then finds its way into your tent, eyes, lungs and most sacred places.

Sometimes there is so much dust as to allow near-zero visibility.  This is called a whiteout.  In case of a whiteout, veteran Burners advise that you put your thumb over your beer, slip on your gas mask and man up. 

This was my first whiteout.  Also the last picture of me in pants.

There is one tradition at Burning Man that does not involve sex and intoxicants.  Probably.

This is the Temple.  The Temple is a different structure every year, always unique, which acts as the unofficial soul of Burning Man.  Every year, Burners come to the Temple to reflect on the struggles that have defined them.  Some pay their respects to those they've lost.

Many write notes and slip them into the Temple walls, others sign the Temple itself.  Messages range from "I miss you, Robert" to "I'm still here, rascals!"  (Okay, it didn't say rascals).

Then, you guessed it, they burn the fugger down.  The result is a real cathartic experience.  Something about arson has a finality to it.  A feeling of putting the past behind you.

It is powerful.


---------

Honestly, trying to really explain Burning Man is next to impossible.  It reminds me of that scene in Contact, where Jodi Foster tries to tell NASA what she's seeing: "No... words... should've... sent a poet..." 

Lack of special effects budget aside - seriously, the alien was her father?!  Come on - I am in a similar predicament.  The only way to truly understand Burning Man is to go there, something which I highly recommend.

All this is also to say that I'm skipping to the end.

The burning of The Man is a truly unique experience.  I mean, it's a giant bonfire with 50,000 people, all decked out in LEDs.  The mutant vehicles surround the crowd, competing for who's DJ is  better  louder, and blasting fireballs into the night sky in what is now really starting to resemble a pagan ritual.


There's even a pregame show:

As always, the theme is FIRE

Then come the FIREworks.  Because you can never have enough fire.

I'm sure they've got a permit for those

Then, they light him up.

It Begins

By this point, the crowd is positively delirious, with 50,000 people cheering and dancing amidst stirring renditions of "The Roof, The Roof, The Roof is ON FIRE".

"Let's burn this motherfugger down, Pookie!"

PS. if you get the the Pookie reference, post the movie in the comments and you win a prize!

Then The Man (seen above, defiant to the last) finally falls, and everyone rushes his still burning remains.

After a whole week of partying, the 50,000 Burners draw on their reserves of sheer willpower to go crazy for one last night.

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The next morning is surprisingly civil, given an entire city is experiencing a week long bender induced hangover at the same time.  We drove to the airport in Reno, stopping at a Dunn's for our first cooked meal in a week.  You can tell the Burners in the establishment, mostly because they look like they walked out of a post-apocalyptic movie.  Which in some ways, they did.

I caught my flight, where I was again bumped up to first class.  I could get used to this.

This turned out to be especially fortunate, since they offered me hot towel service.  When the flight attendant came back, the towel was black.  Keep em comin!

When I finally arrived home, I had memories to last a lifetime, a powerful but satisfying hangover, and the best godam shower of my LIFE.

The Southwest - Part 19

August 30th - Pilgrims in an unholy land

This is it guys.  The moment you've been waiting for.

Today, we left for Burning Man.

Leaving Las Vegas one is struck by the utter desolation that is the state of Nevada.  Seriously, no one lives here.  Not even Mormons.  Nothing grows, except the burning realization you should have topped up on gas before you left.

This is bat country.

The road to Black Rock Mesa took nine long hours.  Along the way we passed all of five cars, two houses and incontrovertible proof that the Pentagon has too much money  a naval testing base.  In the desert.

For the first time in the entire trip, we found ourselves out of range of NPR.  Hold me I'm scared. 

As always, one could tune into the station that only plays Glenn Beck.  Desperate to listen to anyone's voice but each other's, we did just that.  Now my soul hurts.

Arriving in the first town for like, a bajillion miles, we were wondering how we managed to get lost in a state with only three highways.  Remembering the Cisco incident, I was skeptical.

Thankfully, it was inhabited.  As we drove toward what was surely the last gas station on Earth we wondered how we were going to find a place that doesn't exist 51 weeks out of the year.  Pulling into the station, we found this:

Property of Washington Inner-City School Board

Yep.  We were definitely on course.

Apparently these guys (all 30 of them) had driven in from Michigan.  This was actually their second bus, as the first one had broken down somewhere in Colorado.  Naturally, they had to take a few moments to pimp out their new ride.

They gave us the final step of directions: turn right, then drive 70 miles into nowhere.

Sounds good to me.

The Southwest - Part 18

Totally still August 29th - "You know what we need man?  Some rope."

I'm told that after the Double Down Saloon, we headed over to eat at the Pink Taco.  I'm told this, because I don't really remember.  Apparently the food was delicious.

The next thing I do remember is staring at a wall of assault rifles in the sports store.  We had walked in to buy a low-profile tent, since the wind had nearly stolen ours a few times in Utah. 

So the "camping section" consisted of two tents, a cooking stove, and enough firepower to invade a small country.

Apparently, when Americans go camping, they make ready to defend the Alamo.  Cause that worked out so well the first time.

In front of me was a dizzying array of fully automatic weapons, each boasting about its considerable "stopping power".  You know, in case the deer is wearing body armor. 

Over forty high-powered rifles to choose from.  And two tents.

I couldn't resist inquiring.  The nice lady behind the counter informed me that a customer can walk in, choose something particularly lethal, and - after a cursory security check which amounts to little more than a literacy test -  walk out with their assault rifle the same day.  Ammo is by the register.  Next to the gum.

There was something in her voice I couldn't quite place until afterward, me being intoxicated and all.

It was pride.

All we are saying, is give peace a chance

So I am currently busy working on a serious piece of writing for a competition.  I know, I know, "what happened to you man?  It used to be about the music."

While you wait for the next installment of the Southwest, here's a little something to tide you over.  It's called Masturbate for Peace.  You're welcome.

If you find the above link offensive, you obviously don't belong on the Internet.  Go play in the yard.

Some choice favourites from MFP:

"I’m going blind for mankind."

 "My bush doesn’t go to war."

"I cum in peace."

"Saving the world, one tissue at a time."

"Drop pants not bombs."

"Exercise your right arm not your right to bear arms."

"Fuck war, then yourself."

“I love the smell of my palm in the morning.”

"Kill kittens, not people."

"Give your Bush the finger."

"Stop the war, I want to get off."

"War is out, pound your trout."

"World peace is at hand."

"The human race has one really effective weapon, and that is laughter." (Ok that one's Mark Twain, though if he were alive he would totally be an MFP).

The Southwest - Part 17

STILL August 29th - Will you still respect me in the morning?

Now that we were flush with cash, we decided to go for food.  Beer is food right?

A friend, or should I say former friend, of mine had insisted that anyone visiting Las Vegas just has go to the Double Down Saloon.

I don't know about you, but to me a name like Double Down Saloon sounds like a quaint little tex-mex restaurant.  This being Vegas there would probably be some video poker machines scattered around.
 
Well friends, this is not tex-mex.  

For those of you who have been there: shame on you.

For those that haven't, the Double Down Saloon is the self-described "happiest place on Earth".  Greasier than the KFC sandwich named after it (and far more guilt-inducing), merely crossing the threshold immediately drops you three rungs down the social ladder of polite society.

The Saloon is located in a nondescript building, with no signage anywhere.  So the paramedics will never find you.  Walking in from the hot Vegas sun you squint into a nearly impenetrable shroud of darkness.  As it turns out, this darkness is a metaphor; for your soul.

Seems legit to me.

Once the door had slammed shut behind us, I found myself instinctively reaching for my  rape whistle   wallet.  From somewhere to the right I heard a voice: "You want a drink?"

I couldn't see him, but he promised booze.  I had to risk it.

"I'll take your finest beverage, drop-shotted into your second finest."  I'm all class.

As it turns out, there are two specials at the Double Down.  The first is the notorious "Ass Juice", sold to unsuspecting newbies with the slogan "from our ass to your glass".  The second, the famed the Bacon Martini.  Which is exactly what it sounds like: awful.

I got one of each.  At the barman's advice, I also bought two beers as chasers. 

So I have good news and bad news.  The good news is, despite their best efforts, the Ass Juice is fucking delicious.  The bad news is the Bacon Martini is concentrated evil. 

It is literally made of vodka with pieces of bacon floating in it.  Thankfully (most of) the bacon bits are strained out during pouring.  The result is a salty, alcoholic monstrosity that will not only put hair on your chest but your head on the floor and someone's hand down your pants.

Stubbornly ignoring everything my mother ever tried to tell me, and a very determined gag-reflex, I managed to finish the Bacon Martini.  

At this point, I had consumed four drinks in the span of about half an hour and had completely abandoned all thoughts of breakfast (and being a responsible adult).  

Had I not been mercifully tanked at this point, I would have gone home to bathe in hand sanitizer. 

My mom would be so proud.

The Southwest - Part 16

Still August 29th - It's not gambling if you KNOW you're going to win...

Believe it or not, we did not go to Vegas for the oxygen bars.

Having never gambled before, I decided to give it a spin.  You know what they say, "When in Rome  Caesar's Palace..."

So buzzing on my oxygen high, I decided the only sane thing to do was hit the gaming floor.  And hit it hard.  That's when I discovered the craps tutorial taking place.  I decided to attend.

The tutorial was as overwhelming as it was incomprehensible.  After a half hour of intensive study, I now knew you played with dice.  Seven's were good, except when they weren't.  I figured that was enough.

Determined to lose my money in time for lunch, I approached the nearest craps table and put down my twenty bucks.  First lesson: twenty bucks buys a surprisingly small stack of chips.

Undeterred, I moved to put half my chips down on the loneliest square I could find.  Immediately, the grizzled vet to my left grabbed my wrist and said: "Don't play the field.  That's just the casino bending you over a barrel."  Thanks guy who's been gambling since last night.

That was lesson two.

Intrigued, and only slightly in fear for my life, I put my chips next to his.  Then something amazing happened.  We won.

Like an eager child presented with the cookie jar, I reached for my winnings.  Again, the man grabbed my wrist and said "Let it ride."

Note to self: wash wrist.

Then something even crazier happened.  We won again.  And again.

I started getting into the swing of things.  The free drink lady (slash my new best friend) was making the rounds and I got a White Russian.  Because you have to.  And "The Dude" is my hero, yo.

My vet and I kept winning for the next half hour when he said "Whelp, it was good to meet ya son.  I'm-a go hit the bar."   (Read: "You got a purdy mouth, boah").

As my good luck charm, and what was left of my comfort level, were about to disappear, I picked this moment to cash out.  With over a hundred bucks.

Lesson Three:  Apparently I am good at gambling.

Brought to You by E3! (And Toblerone)

Big news guys!  Today is BTYBP's first ever GUEST POST!

That's right, I have discovered the joys of slave-labour  outsourcing.  They terk our jerbs!

As I am way too hung over to post today (just kidding.  I'm still drunk), E3 graciously offered/was coerced into giving us a taste of the good stuff happening over at her crazy-sexy-awesome resolutions blog, Everything Comes From Now.  Seriously, it's like if Angelina Jolie and a T-Rex had a baby.  And then that baby went and got an English degree.

Anyone with a new year's resolution should definitely check it out.  If you don't have a resolution, what up?  YOU THINK YOU'RE BETTER THAN ME?!

Everyone be nice.  She's new here.  

So without further ado...  Here.  We.  GO.

They say that getting started on a new goal is the hardest step – and that's especially true if the universe is out to get you. Let me set the scene.

After two weeks of delicious treats (hello, Christmas!) and lazing about (gym? What gym?), T and I decided to get our butts back in gear for another round of "pretend we're really fit". This usually ends the same way – T gets down to a ridiculously lean 12% body fat, his biceps triple in size and he ends up looking even more like a male fitness model. I end up with ever so slightly less pudge (hooray!).

Caught up? Good. I came home from soccer practice the night before DAY 1 OF AWESOME FIT ME, and since I had just worked out during my time off AND it was my last night of freedom, I did what everyone would do. I broke out the Toblerone. Not just any Toblerone. Dark chocolate Toblerone (om nom nom). I did this, and even shared it with T (why yes, I am a saint! How kind of you to notice). Unfortunately, it was about 9pm, and I vastly overestimated my ability to metabolize caffeine. I may not be an athlete, but if there was a Caffeine Olympics, I would definitely medal. Or so I thought.

*fast forward to 3am*

T and I are both awake, but I'm in bed trying to sleep and he is in the living room creating as much noise as possible, periodically coming into the bedroom and turning on the light.  I will end him.

At 7am, I drag my sorry ass out of bed to go to work. T is dead asleep, with his work-from-home ability to sleep in. I will end him.

At about 11:30am, I trundle off to the gym filled with the excitement that only comes on day one of trying to establish a new good-for-you habit. I get to the gym and unpack my workout gear – t-shirt, gym shoes, socks, sports bra….shorts? No? Shit. I will admit to working out in less than ideal outfits before (hello non-sports bra, that running date we had a while back was fun, wasn't it?), but I just can't work out in my jeans and go back to the office. Universe 2, E3 0.

Defeated, I decide to use the time to renew my car's registration. I get to AMA and they are closed. To add insult to injury, as I am leaving the parking lot, I am rear-ended. Well-played, Universe.

(More than) a little shaken, I stop by the bookstore to pick up a new day planner, because shopping + organization = happy. They don't carry them, even though they are listed as a vendor online. What's the score now? I've lost count.

HOWEVER, I did end up getting to the gym that night. The moral of the story is that sometimes the universe will score more points than you. And that eating dark chocolate is exactly like taking speed.

E3 can be found over at Everything Comes From Now yammering about going to the gym, eating after going to the gym, and hurting her knee by going to the gym. Pie comes to visit there too!  She also writes for LiLu's gymin' blog In It To Gym It. 

The Southwest - Part 15

August 29th - Marketing 101

So after a thoroughly gluttonous night in Vegas, I awoke, bleery-eyed* and made my way to the lobby of Luxor.  At least I think it was the lobby.  This pyramid is built like a maze, either to confuse potential grave-robbers or trap the elderly. 

*According to dictionary.com "bleery" is not a word.  "Did you mean beery?"  Yep, that'll work.

As last night I had experienced the buffet to end all buffets, the last last thing I wanted was more food.  So I settled for the next best thing: the oxygen bar.

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, it's that machine in the hospital that pumps oxygen directly into your face via tubes up your nose.  Like much of the medical industry -- the ass-less gowns, nurses who are mildly attractive at best, and DISCOUNT BRAND JELL-O -- the purpose is to make you as uncomfortable as possible so you'll fake your recovery enough to get you out of there. 

However, unlike the hospital, the oxygen bar in Luxor is administered by a pretty girl and not a doctor who thinks he knows better than you.  I told you it's athlete's foot NOW GIVE ME THE MORPHINE!

So the girl hooks me up and immediately proceeds to give me a back rub.  Oh Luxor, I've misjudged you.  She busts out all sorts of crazy and wonderful massage devices and begins telling me about how she's "balancing my chakras" and "restoring my chi". 

Between her skillful manipulations and what was by now a pretty serious oxygen buzz, I am purring like a kitten with a fresh saucer of liquid cocaine. 

And that's when the pitch came.  In an instant she went from "me love you long time" to late night infomercial.  In practiced fashion she begins to list off the various benefits and payment methods for each of the little devices with which she had seduced me into this stupor. 

This goes on for twenty minutes.  And of course, I can't leave as I am literally attached to the bar by my face.

All I know is that when that sweet sweet O2 stopped flowing, there was an array of  mythical creatures  tacky little products arranged in front of me and a very expectant looking masseuse.

You are good, Vegas.  You.  Are good.