This year the autumn rains came early to the Northwest in the form of a typhoon, the remnants of one over the western Pacific that circled up through the northern Pacific until coming ashore along the Washington-Oregon coast. The weekend forecast had called for a hundred percent chance of heavy rains.
The train of the typhoon remnant was not the same as the ferocious ones, for example the Columbus Day storm of 1962, where the low pressure zone curved north from California. Instead it was coming down from the Gulf of Alaska. Even such the rains were moderate and temperature, and the temperature was a bit less chilly than one would expect from so much grey skies and dampness this time of year.
Nevertheless it was still a good weekend to stay indoors. I'd checked into the Motel 6 out by I-205. It has been converted from another flag and has suites with king-size beds for a moderate price. On Saturday while Red went to a conference of functional medicine and nutrition, I stayed in my cozy room and studied biochemistry while half watching a string of college football games.
I watched the Georgia-LSU game specifically so I could text and call my friend Greg in Memphis. He's a Georgia alumnus and big booster for the college football team, and for the Southeast Conference as a whole.
It turns out he wasn't watching the game in real time, but had DVRed. As such when we chatted in the third quarter, I could only offer general descriptions of my impression of the two teams without giving any details. I told him that Georgia looked really good, and after watching Alabama later, I texted him that his team was the best in the conference. He liked that.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Saturday, September 28, 2013
A Swedish Style of Afterburn
Got a message from Stefan today. He was on a plane coming back from Brazil. He thought it was a good time to drop a line, so he replied to the group email I'd sent a couple weeks back.
He said that since Burning Man he'd been in Turkey, Germany, and Austria, before going to Brazil. I knew he was planning on going there. He and the other Swedes have gone there a couple times a year for over a decade. One of his favorite stories he tells is about how years ago he did ayahuasca in the Amazon jungle. He said that it makes you throw up for an hour, before anything really kicks in.
He lives in Zurich where he works for a global financial institution. He has a wife and kids. Being out of touch with them while at Burning Man was one of the biggest stressors while he was there.
He said he moved to Switzerland from Sweden primarily because of the taxes. He is not a fan of the tax policies of his home country. He is fascinated with the U.S. Republican Party. He likes shooting guns.
Most of the Swedes are like that. Once they get out of Sweden, they easily how paternalistic and repressive their society is, in many ways, despite their love for their country. For example, it's a big deal for Swedes to smoke pot openly, even in the U.S.. In Sweden, the government promotes a very domineering campaign designed to convince Swedes of the shamefulness of marijuana usage. It's difficult for some to break out of that, but once they do, they are among the best of the partiers.
He said that since Burning Man he'd been in Turkey, Germany, and Austria, before going to Brazil. I knew he was planning on going there. He and the other Swedes have gone there a couple times a year for over a decade. One of his favorite stories he tells is about how years ago he did ayahuasca in the Amazon jungle. He said that it makes you throw up for an hour, before anything really kicks in.
He lives in Zurich where he works for a global financial institution. He has a wife and kids. Being out of touch with them while at Burning Man was one of the biggest stressors while he was there.
He said he moved to Switzerland from Sweden primarily because of the taxes. He is not a fan of the tax policies of his home country. He is fascinated with the U.S. Republican Party. He likes shooting guns.
Most of the Swedes are like that. Once they get out of Sweden, they easily how paternalistic and repressive their society is, in many ways, despite their love for their country. For example, it's a big deal for Swedes to smoke pot openly, even in the U.S.. In Sweden, the government promotes a very domineering campaign designed to convince Swedes of the shamefulness of marijuana usage. It's difficult for some to break out of that, but once they do, they are among the best of the partiers.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Portland: Right Bank, Left Bank
Portland is a city divided by a river.
Most of Portland is on the esat side of the river---the right bank. By far most of the population of Portland lives there---in East Portland---on the rolling plain that stretches east towards Gresham. The streets are mostly grid-like in overall character, only loosely interrupted for miles upon miles. Looking closer at the map of East Portland, one notices the breakages in grid symmetry that define neighborhoods and districts in a unique way.
West Portland, on the left bank of the river, is quite different in character. Hemmed in by tall steep hills, West Portland (usually referred to as either NW and SW Portland) seems almost like an island city. The grid of streets is much smaller and gives ways quickly to the isolated roads that lead through the hills to Beaverton and Tigard. The skyline of downtown, although over forty stories in several cases, still does not reach even to the top of these hills. It gives the west side a cozy feeling of enclosure when viewed from the east side---almost like a toy city.
This division by river is actually fairly rare in North America. In other places, Portland might be two cities, divided by s state boundary down the middle channel of the river. NW/SW Portland and East Portland would be not only be separate cities but in separate states. But Portland is a single municipality that spans the river, all of it in Oregon.
Most of Portland is on the esat side of the river---the right bank. By far most of the population of Portland lives there---in East Portland---on the rolling plain that stretches east towards Gresham. The streets are mostly grid-like in overall character, only loosely interrupted for miles upon miles. Looking closer at the map of East Portland, one notices the breakages in grid symmetry that define neighborhoods and districts in a unique way.
West Portland, on the left bank of the river, is quite different in character. Hemmed in by tall steep hills, West Portland (usually referred to as either NW and SW Portland) seems almost like an island city. The grid of streets is much smaller and gives ways quickly to the isolated roads that lead through the hills to Beaverton and Tigard. The skyline of downtown, although over forty stories in several cases, still does not reach even to the top of these hills. It gives the west side a cozy feeling of enclosure when viewed from the east side---almost like a toy city.
This division by river is actually fairly rare in North America. In other places, Portland might be two cities, divided by s state boundary down the middle channel of the river. NW/SW Portland and East Portland would be not only be separate cities but in separate states. But Portland is a single municipality that spans the river, all of it in Oregon.
Monday, September 23, 2013
In Search of Vital Nutrients at the Lloyd Center
Last week actually marked a bit of shift for me in recent Portland stay. Throughout the summer, I had concentrated mostly on the Metro area as a whole, going from suburb to suburb to get a feel for how they fit within the big PDX gestalt.
But when I ran out of my vitamin supplements last week, I found myself looking up the location of the nearest Vitamin Shoppe, which turned out to be in the Lloyd Center, which is Portland's grand old urban mall, built in 1960 and one of the largest shopping centers in the world at the time. It is located on the East side just across the bridge from downtown.
I eagerly embraced a reason to visit the mall for the first time. To be honest, I'm a bit of a mall tourist. In my youth I railed against them, as many people did who witnessed the destruction of old downtown districts in the 1970s and 80s.
View Larger Map
But that anger has long passed in me. For one thing, downtowns found a way of coming back. Moreover, I've made much greater peace with the functionality and even beauty of malls. This is made easier by the fact that it is now malls, rather than downtowns, which have been on the skids lately. The great era of indoor mall building is over.
That's also why over the last few years I've made a practice of going out of my way to visit certain well known malls. e.g. the Mall of America last summer in Minnesota. Heck, back in the old days, I even wrote Wikipedia articles about malls (and successfully defended them against deletion).
So all of that made going to Lloyd Center a bit of a worthy pilgrimage to start a new phase of exploring inner Portland in more detail.
Wanting to soak in the urban experience of it, I eschewed the Freeway and instead drove down East Burnside all the way to 12th and went past Benson High School across the Banfield Freeway on the 12th Street bridge.
From there, one approaches the Lloyd Center on a winding boulevard, as one should. Parking was easy in the large garage on the south side of the mall.
The Vitamin Shoppe was thankfully on the other side of the mall, in a side building separated from the main mall by a small access drive. This gave me an excuse to give myself a tour of the mall on my way through it.
It is quite large and impressive. Recent remodeling has left it filled with bright sunlight over an expansive food court on the third floor. I bought lunch at a hamburger place there. The rest of the third floor is offices of various professionals and businesses. The stores on the second level had a healthy mix of shoppers. Lloyd Center is not a dead mall.
But you tell you're in an older part of the city---the department stores all have electronic anti-shoplifter gateways across their wide entrances. At the Barnes and Noble, the usual security is buttressed by a a grumpy faced security guard.
The fact that the Lloyd Center has a Barnes and Noble is a healthy sign. Dying malls don't support a Barnes and Noble. They support discount book outlets, if at all.
All this gave me a warm fuzzy glow, thinking that the skating rink on the first floor, where a certain infamous Olympic skater one took to the ice, will remain open for the forseeable future.
But that's Portland for you. It has defied the laws of urban decay gravity better than almost any other American metropolis over the years. I first noticed that during the late 1980s and early 1990s, during visits here, and learned the reasons for it from my local friends. But the ongoing fruits of that are still visible today. It's just that it's far more advanced, and more people are in on the secret.
But when I ran out of my vitamin supplements last week, I found myself looking up the location of the nearest Vitamin Shoppe, which turned out to be in the Lloyd Center, which is Portland's grand old urban mall, built in 1960 and one of the largest shopping centers in the world at the time. It is located on the East side just across the bridge from downtown.
I eagerly embraced a reason to visit the mall for the first time. To be honest, I'm a bit of a mall tourist. In my youth I railed against them, as many people did who witnessed the destruction of old downtown districts in the 1970s and 80s.
View Larger Map
But that anger has long passed in me. For one thing, downtowns found a way of coming back. Moreover, I've made much greater peace with the functionality and even beauty of malls. This is made easier by the fact that it is now malls, rather than downtowns, which have been on the skids lately. The great era of indoor mall building is over.
That's also why over the last few years I've made a practice of going out of my way to visit certain well known malls. e.g. the Mall of America last summer in Minnesota. Heck, back in the old days, I even wrote Wikipedia articles about malls (and successfully defended them against deletion).
So all of that made going to Lloyd Center a bit of a worthy pilgrimage to start a new phase of exploring inner Portland in more detail.
Wanting to soak in the urban experience of it, I eschewed the Freeway and instead drove down East Burnside all the way to 12th and went past Benson High School across the Banfield Freeway on the 12th Street bridge.
From there, one approaches the Lloyd Center on a winding boulevard, as one should. Parking was easy in the large garage on the south side of the mall.
The Vitamin Shoppe was thankfully on the other side of the mall, in a side building separated from the main mall by a small access drive. This gave me an excuse to give myself a tour of the mall on my way through it.
 |
| 1991--the first woman ever to complete two triple axels in a single program |
But you tell you're in an older part of the city---the department stores all have electronic anti-shoplifter gateways across their wide entrances. At the Barnes and Noble, the usual security is buttressed by a a grumpy faced security guard.
The fact that the Lloyd Center has a Barnes and Noble is a healthy sign. Dying malls don't support a Barnes and Noble. They support discount book outlets, if at all.
All this gave me a warm fuzzy glow, thinking that the skating rink on the first floor, where a certain infamous Olympic skater one took to the ice, will remain open for the forseeable future.
But that's Portland for you. It has defied the laws of urban decay gravity better than almost any other American metropolis over the years. I first noticed that during the late 1980s and early 1990s, during visits here, and learned the reasons for it from my local friends. But the ongoing fruits of that are still visible today. It's just that it's far more advanced, and more people are in on the secret.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
I Heart Willamette
Went to my college reunion over the weekend. It was a two-day event. On Friday night there was a get-together in SW Portland, and then an all-day event in Salem on Saturday, as part of alumni weekend. The Class of '88 name tags had extra ribbons, for the Twenty-Fifth anniversary. There were 104 of us who had signed up.
I stayed Friday night at the Travelodge on SW 4th, just so I could walk down to the get-together, which was at a bar on River Street. On Saturday morning I drove down to Salem and spent the night at the Shilo Inn on Market Street out by I-5.
It was tremendous fun. I got to see some cherished old friends, and got to know a few people for the first time.
This morning after checkout I drove back to Portland on the back roads along the river, north out of downtown Salem all the way to the Interstate bridge at Wilsonville, the last part in a glorious September rainstorm.
I stayed Friday night at the Travelodge on SW 4th, just so I could walk down to the get-together, which was at a bar on River Street. On Saturday morning I drove down to Salem and spent the night at the Shilo Inn on Market Street out by I-5.
It was tremendous fun. I got to see some cherished old friends, and got to know a few people for the first time.
This morning after checkout I drove back to Portland on the back roads along the river, north out of downtown Salem all the way to the Interstate bridge at Wilsonville, the last part in a glorious September rainstorm.
Burning Man This Year: To Camp Whisker Biscuit
Guys---so sorry about the misunderstanding. Big apologies. I actually really dug your art car---the Sundae. It was a glorious addition to the Playa---beautiful to behold in the night. One of the best looking spectacles of color. Yes, it did feel like it was going to tip over at times, but I trusted the Black Rock City car inspectors to do their job. So it was more like a fun carnival ride. It made it uniquely fun to dance on that kind of platform. Yes, the generator pooped out, and the car waddled along the playa, but that was all part of the fun too. The part about the fumes all my fault for choosing to stand by the generator. You guys rock. Great Burn. Love you all. ---the Captain
Friday, September 20, 2013
Burning Man This Year: Afterburn
Well that about wraps up the Burning Man experience for me this year. As I mentioned, after I got back to Reno I spent an entire week recovering at the Best Western by the airport.
It was quite a rough transition back at first---I had to wait four hours at the Reno airport for my hotel room to be available. A big clusterflop, as they say, and by the time I got into my room, I'd been up for way over twenty four hours, with only a little dozing on the bus trip.
Last year the Afterburn lasted for months, maybe the whole year. In a way, it has done the same this year, although in a different way.
During my Reno stay, I spent a lot of my free time thinking of things I wanted to do different for next year. It may seem like this is jumping the gun, but I've learned that the Afterburn is the best time to capture all these thoughts, and make a plan based on them, so that you can get out your notes in the Spring and remember all the things you want to do, with plenty of time to do them.
Along that lines, I've decided to become an expert in the construction of geodesic dome structures, something I found fascinating as a kid, but ditched along the way, because, as I told a friend recently, "it was too dorky." I'm way past that now.
Also maybe I'll become knowledgeable about portable swamp coolers. That's right up my alley too, and Okki struggled to get his design to work for his hexayurt this year.
Our camp talked about more ambitious plans too---perhaps an art car. Along those lines, I've already contacted a friend of mine who is both a handy mechanic and metal sculptor, about possibly building something like this for us, and delivering it to Black Rock City.
Then there is all the other stuff, the kind of warped vision of life, society, and reality that Burning Man leaves you with, after you go back to the Default World.
Okki is right about me---I'm not very friendly sometimes. I tend to growl at people. He scolds me for being so stand-offish. But I'm truly trying to turn over a new leaf, that way.
One way I already see the world differently this time around is whenever I'm at a coffee shop, or a restaurant, or other service establishment, ordering food or something like that. The wisdom of the Default World would have us believe that the person behind the counter does what they do, provides the conveniences they do for you, for one reason only---money.
Well, of course that's true on one level. Without being paid, very few people would show up to do those jobs at those businesses, if they were not getting a paycheck or tips.
But Burning Man teaches you that human beings often have a need to serve each other some how, to give things to each other. Our cash-is-everything economic wisdom almost seems like a self-fulfilling prophecy at that point.
So I've resolved to treat all people I meet, across a counter or whatever, as if they are doing it for free, like they would at Burning Man. Or least I'll try using that model for a while, even though I know it's not actually true. It makes me feel slightly less cynical right off the bat.
Until next year...
It was quite a rough transition back at first---I had to wait four hours at the Reno airport for my hotel room to be available. A big clusterflop, as they say, and by the time I got into my room, I'd been up for way over twenty four hours, with only a little dozing on the bus trip.
Last year the Afterburn lasted for months, maybe the whole year. In a way, it has done the same this year, although in a different way.
During my Reno stay, I spent a lot of my free time thinking of things I wanted to do different for next year. It may seem like this is jumping the gun, but I've learned that the Afterburn is the best time to capture all these thoughts, and make a plan based on them, so that you can get out your notes in the Spring and remember all the things you want to do, with plenty of time to do them.
Along that lines, I've decided to become an expert in the construction of geodesic dome structures, something I found fascinating as a kid, but ditched along the way, because, as I told a friend recently, "it was too dorky." I'm way past that now.
Also maybe I'll become knowledgeable about portable swamp coolers. That's right up my alley too, and Okki struggled to get his design to work for his hexayurt this year.
Our camp talked about more ambitious plans too---perhaps an art car. Along those lines, I've already contacted a friend of mine who is both a handy mechanic and metal sculptor, about possibly building something like this for us, and delivering it to Black Rock City.
Then there is all the other stuff, the kind of warped vision of life, society, and reality that Burning Man leaves you with, after you go back to the Default World.
Okki is right about me---I'm not very friendly sometimes. I tend to growl at people. He scolds me for being so stand-offish. But I'm truly trying to turn over a new leaf, that way.
One way I already see the world differently this time around is whenever I'm at a coffee shop, or a restaurant, or other service establishment, ordering food or something like that. The wisdom of the Default World would have us believe that the person behind the counter does what they do, provides the conveniences they do for you, for one reason only---money.
Well, of course that's true on one level. Without being paid, very few people would show up to do those jobs at those businesses, if they were not getting a paycheck or tips.
But Burning Man teaches you that human beings often have a need to serve each other some how, to give things to each other. Our cash-is-everything economic wisdom almost seems like a self-fulfilling prophecy at that point.
So I've resolved to treat all people I meet, across a counter or whatever, as if they are doing it for free, like they would at Burning Man. Or least I'll try using that model for a while, even though I know it's not actually true. It makes me feel slightly less cynical right off the bat.
Until next year...
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Burning Man This Year: The Man Who Yells at Famous Artists
While eating my first-breakfast-after-Burning Man in the little diner in Gerlach, the door opened and in came the guy from New York with the fur coat, who had been in line behind me in the bus shelter.
He took a seat at the counter near me, and while he waited to order, we struck up a conversation.
He turned out to be a quite an interesting guy. He was in the line of business of shipping high end art pieces, the kind of stuff that cost millions of dollars and had to go across oceans with ease.
Before this line of work, he had done a number of other things, around New York, bouncing from one interesting job to another. He had decided to go into art shipping and had "googled" his way into it, as he put it.
His clients were wealthy or famous, or both wealthy and famous.
"I get to yell at ----- ------," he said, mentioning the name of a world famous British artist of my age cohort, one that even I've heard of.
He gave me his card before I got back on the bus. When I got back home I brought up the home page. Quite exquisite. The kind of thing you'd want to see, if you googled high end art shipping.
Bonus link with video of White Ocean dance club.
He took a seat at the counter near me, and while he waited to order, we struck up a conversation.
He turned out to be a quite an interesting guy. He was in the line of business of shipping high end art pieces, the kind of stuff that cost millions of dollars and had to go across oceans with ease.
Before this line of work, he had done a number of other things, around New York, bouncing from one interesting job to another. He had decided to go into art shipping and had "googled" his way into it, as he put it.
His clients were wealthy or famous, or both wealthy and famous.
"I get to yell at ----- ------," he said, mentioning the name of a world famous British artist of my age cohort, one that even I've heard of.
He gave me his card before I got back on the bus. When I got back home I brought up the home page. Quite exquisite. The kind of thing you'd want to see, if you googled high end art shipping.
Bonus link with video of White Ocean dance club.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Burning Man This Year: The Sweet Reward of Bacon and Eggs
I wasted no time making a bee line across the Playa back to Center Camp, then circling around behind it to the 6:00 road, and following it through the city down to G, where I turned right and easily found the bus shelters where I'd left my bags.
There were two shelters, one for San Francisco and one for Reno. Both were crowded with dozens of people in a snaking rope line, either sleeping on the ground or standing up. The shelters were flanked by large mountains of bags.
I realized the place I'd put my bag next to the Reno shelter was now in the midst of many other bags. At first I couldn't find my bags, and circled somewhat frantically around the line, having a moment of weirdness thinking they'd been stolen. Then I looked and saw another third shelter that wasn't being used at all. I realized I'd probably left them there, and I was right. They were exactly where I left them.
After that I got in the rope line in the Reno bus shelter. Fortunately it was not long before the bus began boarding. They took us in groups of four, having us bring our bags to back of a big Ryder van, and then getting on a rented school bus nearby
While I waited my turn in the shelter, one of the guys in line right behind me---a New Yorker who was in his Thirties and wearing a big fur coat---was talking loudly to the guy next to him, whom he'd just met, and at first I was peeved because by then I'd been up for so long, and just wanted to veg out. But he was actually quite funny and interesting to listen to, so I didn't mind that he was entertaining the rest of us tired folk.
He'd been camping at Fractal Planet---the dome club at 2:00 towards which I'd sent Kevin off. He'd paid to camp there and be a participant, as many people do when coming to Burning Man. A lot of camps have this kind of open buy-in for participants.
He related a funny story of how he'd messed things up while setting up his tent by driving the rebar right down to the electric wires that had been buried earlier by advance people from the Fractal Planet camp. While pulling the rebar out at the end of the week, he'd gotten an electrical shock.
After about ten minutes it was my turn to board the bus. I toted my bags over to the truck, and then waited for them to check my name on the roster. They had no trouble finding my name on the list. All went smoothly.
The bus filled up until no seats were available. Some of the stand-by people got on as well. Then right on time at six a.m., we left and headed out of the city and onto the Playa where the cars and RVS were still in an endless line to get back to the main road. But the driver did not get into the great line of cars. She forced a gap in them and cut through, and then we were in the pitch darkness by ourselves.
"And this is what we get to do now!" she said with a whoop of joy, and we accelerated down a secret road away from the cars. Everyone cheered. After a mile we went through a BLM checkpoint, and then were soon on the main road by ourselves. We followed the asphalt up a small rise, and from there you could see the line of thousands upon thousands of headlights in the dark that stretched for miles and miles off to the east on the Playa.
The secret road we'd used was not the secret way out of the city that DPW had told me about. The DPW route was simply to get to the Merge Point faster---maybe it would shave an hour off the six hour wait. Most of the Exodus was after that. We'd avoided all that, but somewhere in those headlights were Okki and Ash, and tens of thousands of other people, patiently crawling towards the road upon which we were now zipping along.
We got into Gerlach about twenty minutes later. By then it was almost light. The school pulled into the same gravel parking lot where we'd done Will Call on the way into Burning Man. The driver said we had an hour until we were to board the regular coach bus that would take us back to Reno.
She said the little cafe in town was open and only a block away. That's all I needed to hear to scramble off the school bus as quickly as possible and hoof it over to the restaurant. Groggy, I took ayseat at the nearly empty counter. When the waitress came by I ordered scrambled eggs and bacon, with coffee. It's a fun experience, the first time you order food in a restaurant after Burning Man. You just have to remember to pay for it.
There were two shelters, one for San Francisco and one for Reno. Both were crowded with dozens of people in a snaking rope line, either sleeping on the ground or standing up. The shelters were flanked by large mountains of bags.
I realized the place I'd put my bag next to the Reno shelter was now in the midst of many other bags. At first I couldn't find my bags, and circled somewhat frantically around the line, having a moment of weirdness thinking they'd been stolen. Then I looked and saw another third shelter that wasn't being used at all. I realized I'd probably left them there, and I was right. They were exactly where I left them.
After that I got in the rope line in the Reno bus shelter. Fortunately it was not long before the bus began boarding. They took us in groups of four, having us bring our bags to back of a big Ryder van, and then getting on a rented school bus nearby
While I waited my turn in the shelter, one of the guys in line right behind me---a New Yorker who was in his Thirties and wearing a big fur coat---was talking loudly to the guy next to him, whom he'd just met, and at first I was peeved because by then I'd been up for so long, and just wanted to veg out. But he was actually quite funny and interesting to listen to, so I didn't mind that he was entertaining the rest of us tired folk.
He'd been camping at Fractal Planet---the dome club at 2:00 towards which I'd sent Kevin off. He'd paid to camp there and be a participant, as many people do when coming to Burning Man. A lot of camps have this kind of open buy-in for participants.
He related a funny story of how he'd messed things up while setting up his tent by driving the rebar right down to the electric wires that had been buried earlier by advance people from the Fractal Planet camp. While pulling the rebar out at the end of the week, he'd gotten an electrical shock.
After about ten minutes it was my turn to board the bus. I toted my bags over to the truck, and then waited for them to check my name on the roster. They had no trouble finding my name on the list. All went smoothly.
The bus filled up until no seats were available. Some of the stand-by people got on as well. Then right on time at six a.m., we left and headed out of the city and onto the Playa where the cars and RVS were still in an endless line to get back to the main road. But the driver did not get into the great line of cars. She forced a gap in them and cut through, and then we were in the pitch darkness by ourselves.
"And this is what we get to do now!" she said with a whoop of joy, and we accelerated down a secret road away from the cars. Everyone cheered. After a mile we went through a BLM checkpoint, and then were soon on the main road by ourselves. We followed the asphalt up a small rise, and from there you could see the line of thousands upon thousands of headlights in the dark that stretched for miles and miles off to the east on the Playa.
The secret road we'd used was not the secret way out of the city that DPW had told me about. The DPW route was simply to get to the Merge Point faster---maybe it would shave an hour off the six hour wait. Most of the Exodus was after that. We'd avoided all that, but somewhere in those headlights were Okki and Ash, and tens of thousands of other people, patiently crawling towards the road upon which we were now zipping along.
We got into Gerlach about twenty minutes later. By then it was almost light. The school pulled into the same gravel parking lot where we'd done Will Call on the way into Burning Man. The driver said we had an hour until we were to board the regular coach bus that would take us back to Reno.
She said the little cafe in town was open and only a block away. That's all I needed to hear to scramble off the school bus as quickly as possible and hoof it over to the restaurant. Groggy, I took ayseat at the nearly empty counter. When the waitress came by I ordered scrambled eggs and bacon, with coffee. It's a fun experience, the first time you order food in a restaurant after Burning Man. You just have to remember to pay for it.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Burning Man This Year: In Which My Camp Mates Depart Black Rock City
I figured that the episode at Playa Information was about as good as Burning Man was going to get for me this year. So after lingering a few bonus moments at that wonderful map of Black Rock City, I got back on my bike and went back to camp. Okki and Ash would probably be getting up soon, to attempt to join the Exodus.
When I got back--about 3 AM, the neighborhood had quited down a little. The Euro Dance Camp across the street had stopped playing music, and the exiting cars and RVs were still backed up, but no longer to our camp. Our corner was quiet and dark now.
I wanted to tell them and the others about the secret way out of Black Rock City, at least according to what DPW had told me. In the dark, using my headlamp, I drew maps to the route, and a suggested best way to get there, to avoid the traffic.
While I was doing this, I heard a noise and found Kevin coming out of his tent. Of course I was glad to see him.
It turns out that he and our fallen camp mate had been at the Rampart Medical Camp while we were there---they were in the back room. In any case, all had ended well. There had been an IV, but nothing more. Our camp mate was peacefully asleep in his tent.
At his offering, we used his SUV to take my bags from our camp over to the Burner Express bus stop at 6:00 and G. I was really thankful for that, since it saved me from schlepping them over there in the dark. It wasn't far away by car, but the fact that the City was half-empty meant that navigating the streets was difficult. Many of the familiar landmarks were gone. It was a challenge to identify where streets had been. One had to follow the small orange poles, like slaloming in the dark on a ski slope.
We found the bus stop easily, since I'd already checked out the location. I left my backs in the dark beside the wooden shelter, then we drove back to camp. Okki and Ash were up by now. Their awakening was well-timed since the traffic around our camp had finally dissipated. We all agreed traffic was breaking and it might be the best time to get on the road. I told them about the Secret route. They didn't waste time getting on the road. We said quick good-byes to each other.
That left Kevin and me. Kevin was wide awake, and given that he had only three days at Burning Man, he was eager to go out again, in the waning hours of the official week, to enjoy as much as possible. I told him that I had seen multiple clubs still open, with music playing. I told him I take him out to find them.
On bikes it was pretty easy to follow the old remaining streets in the dark. We headed right for the Playa, along the 8:00 road. aMost of the familiar landmarks from the past week---including the place where I'd spanked that woman from California---had been dismantled, or being being so, and almost everything was dark now. The dark stillness was particularly eerie when we got to the Esplanade.. The "Crashed Blimp" club at the corner of 8:00 and the Esplanade, where we had stopped and watched those freaky burlesque dancers on stage, was almost completely nonexistent by this point---a relic of memory.
All the remaining action was out on to the Playa, so we headed out there. I showed Kevin the remnants of some of the art installations that had been there through the week, as we passed them, including the crashed alien spaceship wedged into the Playa floor at a steep angle (crashed vehicles were a huge theme this year). Then we arrived up the site of the Man, the embers of which were still burning.
From there you could see what remained of Black Rock City. In the 10:00 direction, the great giant DJ clubs were all dark, like ruins. No lights remained to remind one of their past glory.
It was clear all the action was out in the 2:00 direction. The clubs there, smaller than the giant DJ venues, were thrill throbbing with light and activity. The giant geodesic dome of Fractal Planet, which anchored that edge of the city, was illuminated and surrounded by a small crowd of art cars.
Kevin agreed that's the direction he wanted to go---towards the light and music. I told him that I had to drop off my bike now, so this is where we would have to part. We gave each other a warm embrace and went our way into the darkness.
I lingered a bit on the open Playa. I biked up to the rangers who were still tending the embers of the Man to talk to them. The orange glow of the burning Temple was visible to the north. It was still quite a fire. I thought about going there, but realized I didn't need to---I had seen the Temple burn officially.
I realized that it was time to wrap up the week. No sense in dragging it out. So I took a bearing on what remained of the dark city and headed towards what I thought was the 9:00 direction. The Crashed Blimp at 8:00 could no longer serve as my guidepost.
As I approached the Esplanade, I saw dark trailers and tents, with a few lights on, as if it were the edge of a quiet mobile home park in the desert.
The 9:00 plaza was easy enough to find---it was a wide gap in the line of trailers. But Slut Garden was just a memory--workers were taking down the remnants of its scaffolding. I went into the plaza and easily found the remnants of the Playa Bicycle Repair camp. There were a few trucks there, and light coming from the back of one. A man was in the truck loading bikes into the back.
Not wanting to interrupt him much, I rode up and asked where the best place to drop off the bike was. He motioned to an area slightly aside from where I was standing. I put the bike there, with the broken parts duct taped to the bike. I told the guy in the truck about the seat belonging to the Yellow Bike project.
Then I split, on foot at last, back through the dark trailer-park streets and out onto Playa. I realized there was no point in lingering. I would have plenty of time to hoof it, so longer as I went straight back to the bus stop where I'd dropped my bags.
I went out through the 9:00 plaza again, and cut across the Playa one last time towards Center Camp, which was brightly lit and easy to find at the 6:00 direction.
Since I was no longer on a bike, I no longer needed my head lamp The batteries were flashing anyway, to indicate they were running low. So I turned it off, and walked across the dust lit only by the golden neon glow stick around my neck---a raver to the end.
When I got back--about 3 AM, the neighborhood had quited down a little. The Euro Dance Camp across the street had stopped playing music, and the exiting cars and RVs were still backed up, but no longer to our camp. Our corner was quiet and dark now.
I wanted to tell them and the others about the secret way out of Black Rock City, at least according to what DPW had told me. In the dark, using my headlamp, I drew maps to the route, and a suggested best way to get there, to avoid the traffic.
While I was doing this, I heard a noise and found Kevin coming out of his tent. Of course I was glad to see him.
It turns out that he and our fallen camp mate had been at the Rampart Medical Camp while we were there---they were in the back room. In any case, all had ended well. There had been an IV, but nothing more. Our camp mate was peacefully asleep in his tent.
At his offering, we used his SUV to take my bags from our camp over to the Burner Express bus stop at 6:00 and G. I was really thankful for that, since it saved me from schlepping them over there in the dark. It wasn't far away by car, but the fact that the City was half-empty meant that navigating the streets was difficult. Many of the familiar landmarks were gone. It was a challenge to identify where streets had been. One had to follow the small orange poles, like slaloming in the dark on a ski slope.
We found the bus stop easily, since I'd already checked out the location. I left my backs in the dark beside the wooden shelter, then we drove back to camp. Okki and Ash were up by now. Their awakening was well-timed since the traffic around our camp had finally dissipated. We all agreed traffic was breaking and it might be the best time to get on the road. I told them about the Secret route. They didn't waste time getting on the road. We said quick good-byes to each other.
That left Kevin and me. Kevin was wide awake, and given that he had only three days at Burning Man, he was eager to go out again, in the waning hours of the official week, to enjoy as much as possible. I told him that I had seen multiple clubs still open, with music playing. I told him I take him out to find them.
On bikes it was pretty easy to follow the old remaining streets in the dark. We headed right for the Playa, along the 8:00 road. aMost of the familiar landmarks from the past week---including the place where I'd spanked that woman from California---had been dismantled, or being being so, and almost everything was dark now. The dark stillness was particularly eerie when we got to the Esplanade.. The "Crashed Blimp" club at the corner of 8:00 and the Esplanade, where we had stopped and watched those freaky burlesque dancers on stage, was almost completely nonexistent by this point---a relic of memory.
All the remaining action was out on to the Playa, so we headed out there. I showed Kevin the remnants of some of the art installations that had been there through the week, as we passed them, including the crashed alien spaceship wedged into the Playa floor at a steep angle (crashed vehicles were a huge theme this year). Then we arrived up the site of the Man, the embers of which were still burning.
From there you could see what remained of Black Rock City. In the 10:00 direction, the great giant DJ clubs were all dark, like ruins. No lights remained to remind one of their past glory.
It was clear all the action was out in the 2:00 direction. The clubs there, smaller than the giant DJ venues, were thrill throbbing with light and activity. The giant geodesic dome of Fractal Planet, which anchored that edge of the city, was illuminated and surrounded by a small crowd of art cars.
Kevin agreed that's the direction he wanted to go---towards the light and music. I told him that I had to drop off my bike now, so this is where we would have to part. We gave each other a warm embrace and went our way into the darkness.
I lingered a bit on the open Playa. I biked up to the rangers who were still tending the embers of the Man to talk to them. The orange glow of the burning Temple was visible to the north. It was still quite a fire. I thought about going there, but realized I didn't need to---I had seen the Temple burn officially.
I realized that it was time to wrap up the week. No sense in dragging it out. So I took a bearing on what remained of the dark city and headed towards what I thought was the 9:00 direction. The Crashed Blimp at 8:00 could no longer serve as my guidepost.
As I approached the Esplanade, I saw dark trailers and tents, with a few lights on, as if it were the edge of a quiet mobile home park in the desert.
The 9:00 plaza was easy enough to find---it was a wide gap in the line of trailers. But Slut Garden was just a memory--workers were taking down the remnants of its scaffolding. I went into the plaza and easily found the remnants of the Playa Bicycle Repair camp. There were a few trucks there, and light coming from the back of one. A man was in the truck loading bikes into the back.
Not wanting to interrupt him much, I rode up and asked where the best place to drop off the bike was. He motioned to an area slightly aside from where I was standing. I put the bike there, with the broken parts duct taped to the bike. I told the guy in the truck about the seat belonging to the Yellow Bike project.
Then I split, on foot at last, back through the dark trailer-park streets and out onto Playa. I realized there was no point in lingering. I would have plenty of time to hoof it, so longer as I went straight back to the bus stop where I'd dropped my bags.
I went out through the 9:00 plaza again, and cut across the Playa one last time towards Center Camp, which was brightly lit and easy to find at the 6:00 direction.
Since I was no longer on a bike, I no longer needed my head lamp The batteries were flashing anyway, to indicate they were running low. So I turned it off, and walked across the dust lit only by the golden neon glow stick around my neck---a raver to the end.
Monday, September 16, 2013
Buring Man This Year: Mr. Information
My visit to DPW left me on a high from the insight of seeing Black Rock City on a whole new level.
I had told them I was out riding to do reconnaissance for my friends who were napping in preparation for leaving. The DPW clued me into a special way of accessing in the City that avoided both the 6:30 and 5:30 roads. It was the easiest way to get to the Merge Point. They couldn't believe other people weren't using it. I thanked them for their secret knowledge and rode off into the dark.
I had plenty of time to kill---all night. I just had to find a way to get my bags back to the Burner Express bus stop by 6 a.m. I bicycled up to 6:00 and G, looking for the stop in advance, and found exactly where it was, so I would not get lost in the dark later.
Then I went up to Center Camp, but I didn't go inside, since I knew it was closing down. Instead I rode around the circular road to other side and parked my bike. There were about a dozen other people around. Having no agenda, I walked over to the Information Center nearby. It was lit, but I knew it was closed (Ash had gone there earlier to the lost and found, looking for his lost driver license).
Nevertheless much of the info was an outside bulletin board that was stuffed with several thousand posters that had been put up over the week. Reading them I realized they were highly useful and informative. I made a mental note to make more use of the Information bulletin board next year---a daily stop in the morning.
There was also weather info for the coming day, with the warning about rain on Monday. Beside this was a huge map of Black Rock City showing all the camps. Suddenly I realized what an idiot I had been, not knowing about this map, which was incredibly detailed and easier to use.
It showed the true locations and sizes of every registered camp. From this I got a great view of where the least populated areas of the city were. There were several "hidden gem" areas that were near major attractions but which were not highly populated. On the other hand, it was obvious that our location at 7:45 and K was very poorly chosen, since that area was extremely crowded. Next year, I resolved, we will find a better location.
As I was standing there, contemplating the beauty of the map, I heard a voice call out towards.
"Hey! Excuse me!"
I turned around to a young woman coming toward me from the dark plaza.
As she got into the light near me, she said, "are you Playa Information?"
I took a breath and with my calmest voice said, "How can I help you?"
It turns out she had a sick friend who was wondering around the nearby plaza in the dark, with some kind of stomach pains, and somewhat less than coherent. They were looking for the Ranger HQ. I told her where to find it---go down to the Esplanade and then turn right. Then to make sure I led her down there until the little lighted window was in clear sight.
I had told them I was out riding to do reconnaissance for my friends who were napping in preparation for leaving. The DPW clued me into a special way of accessing in the City that avoided both the 6:30 and 5:30 roads. It was the easiest way to get to the Merge Point. They couldn't believe other people weren't using it. I thanked them for their secret knowledge and rode off into the dark.
I had plenty of time to kill---all night. I just had to find a way to get my bags back to the Burner Express bus stop by 6 a.m. I bicycled up to 6:00 and G, looking for the stop in advance, and found exactly where it was, so I would not get lost in the dark later.
Then I went up to Center Camp, but I didn't go inside, since I knew it was closing down. Instead I rode around the circular road to other side and parked my bike. There were about a dozen other people around. Having no agenda, I walked over to the Information Center nearby. It was lit, but I knew it was closed (Ash had gone there earlier to the lost and found, looking for his lost driver license).
Nevertheless much of the info was an outside bulletin board that was stuffed with several thousand posters that had been put up over the week. Reading them I realized they were highly useful and informative. I made a mental note to make more use of the Information bulletin board next year---a daily stop in the morning.
There was also weather info for the coming day, with the warning about rain on Monday. Beside this was a huge map of Black Rock City showing all the camps. Suddenly I realized what an idiot I had been, not knowing about this map, which was incredibly detailed and easier to use.
It showed the true locations and sizes of every registered camp. From this I got a great view of where the least populated areas of the city were. There were several "hidden gem" areas that were near major attractions but which were not highly populated. On the other hand, it was obvious that our location at 7:45 and K was very poorly chosen, since that area was extremely crowded. Next year, I resolved, we will find a better location.
As I was standing there, contemplating the beauty of the map, I heard a voice call out towards.
"Hey! Excuse me!"
I turned around to a young woman coming toward me from the dark plaza.
As she got into the light near me, she said, "are you Playa Information?"
I took a breath and with my calmest voice said, "How can I help you?"
It turns out she had a sick friend who was wondering around the nearby plaza in the dark, with some kind of stomach pains, and somewhat less than coherent. They were looking for the Ranger HQ. I told her where to find it---go down to the Esplanade and then turn right. Then to make sure I led her down there until the little lighted window was in clear sight.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Burning Man This Year: The Last Cruise of the Week
Last year at Burning Man, I saved my most dramatic inspiring solo bike cruise until the very last full night---Sunday. It was then, after a week of following the pack around Black Rock City, then I broke off by myself. I somewhat purposely ditched my companions after the burning of the Temple, and went off to explore the Deep Playa on my own for the first time, meandering from one art installation to another in the stark darkness. It was one of those "Aha, I get Burning Ma" moments that set the tone for this year's experience right out of the gate.
This year, as if following some kind of rule, I saw my most inspiring solo bike cruise until Sunday night again. After we had returned from looking for our camp mate at the medical camp, everyone had gone to sleep (at least for a few hours), I took off by myself once again, for the first time that week.
But this time I didn't go out onto the Deep Playa. I'd already done that. This time I chose to follow the Exodus, the huge line of cars and RVs that were semi-patiently attempting to exit Black Rock City.
Our camp at 7:45 and K was right on the edge of the huge mass of cars that were flowing like a drain to converge on the one exit out towards the road. Cars typically idled at our intersection for a five minutes or more before moving. It was going to be a long night for anyone attempting to leave.
I followed 7:45 radially outward to the L ring, and then to the M- and N-ring steets which had been added later in the week to accommodate the increase in attendance this year. There the traffic was attempting to follow the rings down to the 6:30 road, one of the two feeder roads into the city from the entrance/exit point.
With a thousand cars lined up in the darkness in front of me, I gleefully pedaled along beside them, and weaved through them as necessary, in the direction of their flow. My plan was to follow the traffic for as far as I could, until it was obvious I had reached some kind of turnaround point, such as a gate.
In a few minutes I reached the 6:30 feeder road and followed it away from the city. I could see the cars on the 5:30 feeder road, and the mergepoint where the two roads joined together. It was obvious that the traffic on the 5:30 feeder road was much lighter.
Generally it seems like the city is less populated on the 2:00-6:00 side (the East side) than the 6:00-10:00 side (the West side). Partly is because the roads seem to funnel you that way naturally as you come in, but also perhaps because the huge popular DJ-oriented dance clubs are out at 10:00. Michele was told that our camp was located in the "Gaybrohood," perhaps for that reason.
Up near the Merge Point of the exit roads, I noticed a bright light and what looked to be a structure and a camp alongside the road, in the middle of otherwise empty playa. I came up behind it and stood by my bike. There were quite a few people sitting and tables and drinking.
As I was pushing myself forward on the bike to get a better look, all of a sudden I heard a loud crack and at once the seat of my bike gave way underneath me.
I got off my bike and looked around with my headlamp. From the pieces on the playa it was obvious that the bolt on the seat had broken. It occurred to me that there was probably no hope of fixing it, and that I would most likely be stuck riding around a seatless bike for the rest of the night.
But I decided that defeatism was not the order of the night. I picked up all the broken pieces, and upon examining them, thought there might be an outside chance that the remaining fragment of bolt was long enough to be usable.
While I was attempting to do this, a guy came around from the back of the camp and approached me in the darkness.
"Need help?" he asked.
I explained that the seat had broken, but that I was attempting to fix it.
"Probably won't work," I said, "but you have to give it the old college try."
He watched me patiently as I attempted to put the bolt through the clamp, to hold the seat onto the post. But it turned out to be in vain.
"I think I might be able to fix it," he then said.
He introduced himself as Bustin' Dustin (his playa name). He was in his Thirties, with curly blonde hair and a look of great placidity. I followed him around to the camp, where a couple dozen bikes were parked.
It turned out that the camp was Department of Public Works, the vaunted and hallowed crew of hard-core Burners who arrive many weeks before the start of Burning Man, to lay out the streets from scratch and build the city, and who then also stay weeks afterwards until no trace of the city is left.
Bustin' Dustin was a fourteen-year Burner, and had been part of the DPW for the years.
He wasted no time in addressing the broken seat. It happened that there was a Yellow Bike, one of the free take-it-if-its-there public bikes at Burning Man, parked in the bike lot by the camp. He took a seat from one of them and put it onto my bike. It didn't fit, so it sat really low for me.
"Better than a post sticking up my ass all night," I told him.
He told me that when I returned the bike to Playa Bicycle Repair, just to tell them that the seat was from the Yellow Bike Project.
I thanked him profusely for his help. Before leaving, I lingered for a while asking him questions about the Department of Public Works. A grizzled bearded hippie in a wheel chair, also a DPW veteran, came out and joined our conversation.
The station where we were (it was not the DPW camp per se), was set up to collect donated foodstuffs and sundries from participants as they left Black Rock City. Okki and Ash were going to give them our extra beer, for example. Among the things I asked them were what were the most and least useful items they received for donation during the Exodus.
Toothpaste and tampons turned out to be a highly appreciated donations. On the other hand, when I asked about what made them roll their eyes, Bustin' Dustin pointed to the enormous palette size stack of canned drinks next to him.
I looked at the stack. They were all Rockstar energy drinks, and other similar beverages.
The bearded man in the wheel chair interjected with disgust, "How many energy drinks do they think they need out here?"
I got a big kick out of that. By the end of the talk, I had all but received a subtle invitation from them, to join the DPW.
At that point, it occurred to me that I had finally hit the moment of Burning Man awareness, that I had spent the whole week trying to achieve. I knew what direction I had to go in, for the next time I was here.
Hat to tip to Coop for the link to this awesome time-lapse video of this year's Burn of the Man (Saturday night). You can see the ring of art cars around the Man on the playa. You see also see how ferocious the winds were. Fortunately we were upwind during the Burn, near the 7:30 direction. The ferocity of the winds made me think that the flames had created an updraft effect that was pulling wind into the localized low pressure zone from the fire. After we had our fill dancing there, and walked back to the Esplanade, we had to navigate the massive dust that being flung right at us. One of my favorite quotes of the week when was Gustav, one of the Swdes, while walking beside me with a psychotic Nordic stoner grin on his face exclaimed "Bring on the Storm!" in the demonic tone of a Bezerker heading out of the battle.
This year, as if following some kind of rule, I saw my most inspiring solo bike cruise until Sunday night again. After we had returned from looking for our camp mate at the medical camp, everyone had gone to sleep (at least for a few hours), I took off by myself once again, for the first time that week.
But this time I didn't go out onto the Deep Playa. I'd already done that. This time I chose to follow the Exodus, the huge line of cars and RVs that were semi-patiently attempting to exit Black Rock City.
Our camp at 7:45 and K was right on the edge of the huge mass of cars that were flowing like a drain to converge on the one exit out towards the road. Cars typically idled at our intersection for a five minutes or more before moving. It was going to be a long night for anyone attempting to leave.
I followed 7:45 radially outward to the L ring, and then to the M- and N-ring steets which had been added later in the week to accommodate the increase in attendance this year. There the traffic was attempting to follow the rings down to the 6:30 road, one of the two feeder roads into the city from the entrance/exit point.
With a thousand cars lined up in the darkness in front of me, I gleefully pedaled along beside them, and weaved through them as necessary, in the direction of their flow. My plan was to follow the traffic for as far as I could, until it was obvious I had reached some kind of turnaround point, such as a gate.
In a few minutes I reached the 6:30 feeder road and followed it away from the city. I could see the cars on the 5:30 feeder road, and the mergepoint where the two roads joined together. It was obvious that the traffic on the 5:30 feeder road was much lighter.
Generally it seems like the city is less populated on the 2:00-6:00 side (the East side) than the 6:00-10:00 side (the West side). Partly is because the roads seem to funnel you that way naturally as you come in, but also perhaps because the huge popular DJ-oriented dance clubs are out at 10:00. Michele was told that our camp was located in the "Gaybrohood," perhaps for that reason.
Up near the Merge Point of the exit roads, I noticed a bright light and what looked to be a structure and a camp alongside the road, in the middle of otherwise empty playa. I came up behind it and stood by my bike. There were quite a few people sitting and tables and drinking.
As I was pushing myself forward on the bike to get a better look, all of a sudden I heard a loud crack and at once the seat of my bike gave way underneath me.
I got off my bike and looked around with my headlamp. From the pieces on the playa it was obvious that the bolt on the seat had broken. It occurred to me that there was probably no hope of fixing it, and that I would most likely be stuck riding around a seatless bike for the rest of the night.
But I decided that defeatism was not the order of the night. I picked up all the broken pieces, and upon examining them, thought there might be an outside chance that the remaining fragment of bolt was long enough to be usable.
While I was attempting to do this, a guy came around from the back of the camp and approached me in the darkness.
"Need help?" he asked.
I explained that the seat had broken, but that I was attempting to fix it.
"Probably won't work," I said, "but you have to give it the old college try."
He watched me patiently as I attempted to put the bolt through the clamp, to hold the seat onto the post. But it turned out to be in vain.
"I think I might be able to fix it," he then said.
He introduced himself as Bustin' Dustin (his playa name). He was in his Thirties, with curly blonde hair and a look of great placidity. I followed him around to the camp, where a couple dozen bikes were parked.
It turned out that the camp was Department of Public Works, the vaunted and hallowed crew of hard-core Burners who arrive many weeks before the start of Burning Man, to lay out the streets from scratch and build the city, and who then also stay weeks afterwards until no trace of the city is left.
Bustin' Dustin was a fourteen-year Burner, and had been part of the DPW for the years.
He wasted no time in addressing the broken seat. It happened that there was a Yellow Bike, one of the free take-it-if-its-there public bikes at Burning Man, parked in the bike lot by the camp. He took a seat from one of them and put it onto my bike. It didn't fit, so it sat really low for me.
"Better than a post sticking up my ass all night," I told him.
He told me that when I returned the bike to Playa Bicycle Repair, just to tell them that the seat was from the Yellow Bike Project.
I thanked him profusely for his help. Before leaving, I lingered for a while asking him questions about the Department of Public Works. A grizzled bearded hippie in a wheel chair, also a DPW veteran, came out and joined our conversation.
The station where we were (it was not the DPW camp per se), was set up to collect donated foodstuffs and sundries from participants as they left Black Rock City. Okki and Ash were going to give them our extra beer, for example. Among the things I asked them were what were the most and least useful items they received for donation during the Exodus.
Toothpaste and tampons turned out to be a highly appreciated donations. On the other hand, when I asked about what made them roll their eyes, Bustin' Dustin pointed to the enormous palette size stack of canned drinks next to him.
I looked at the stack. They were all Rockstar energy drinks, and other similar beverages.
The bearded man in the wheel chair interjected with disgust, "How many energy drinks do they think they need out here?"
I got a big kick out of that. By the end of the talk, I had all but received a subtle invitation from them, to join the DPW.
At that point, it occurred to me that I had finally hit the moment of Burning Man awareness, that I had spent the whole week trying to achieve. I knew what direction I had to go in, for the next time I was here.
Hat to tip to Coop for the link to this awesome time-lapse video of this year's Burn of the Man (Saturday night). You can see the ring of art cars around the Man on the playa. You see also see how ferocious the winds were. Fortunately we were upwind during the Burn, near the 7:30 direction. The ferocity of the winds made me think that the flames had created an updraft effect that was pulling wind into the localized low pressure zone from the fire. After we had our fill dancing there, and walked back to the Esplanade, we had to navigate the massive dust that being flung right at us. One of my favorite quotes of the week when was Gustav, one of the Swdes, while walking beside me with a psychotic Nordic stoner grin on his face exclaimed "Bring on the Storm!" in the demonic tone of a Bezerker heading out of the battle.
Friday, September 13, 2013
The Person Who Welcomed Me to Portland
The reason I know this is because my friend Adam, a Portland native, once told me this many years ago. If there is one person who has done more to introduce me to this town, and its culture and history it is surely he.
From him I learned early on such basic how to pronounce "Couch" and "Glisan" correctly, as well the background on the historical figures after whom thse streets are named. I learned that the old-timers not only still call I-84 the Banfield highway, or just the Banfield for short., but they even call I-5 the Baldock for similar reasons.
From him I learned about the hidden less-than-glamorous, less-than-romantic aspects of Portland history---the real Portland. I got to hear about the Portland before the onslaught of the hipsters. Actually I even got to see some of that.
When visiting in the early Nineties, and while walking around downtown, I marveled out how "undiscovered" Portland seemed, as a unique urban environment among American cities. The main reason was that the downtown had never "died," as so many urban cores had, throughout the country, throughout the late 1960s and up through the 1980s. The reasons for that are complex, and reflect many local peculiarities, above and beyond the famous ones such as the Urban Growth Boundary that so many cite (somewhat erroneously) as the source of this uniqueness.
Adam and I became friends during my last two semesters at Willamette, while working on the campus newspaper together. Then for years after I left Oregon, while living in Austin, I used to come up here once or twice a year to visit and steep in Portland culture (American Express had those wonderful free flight vouchers for student members back in the day). I learned far more about Portland during the years after Willamette than during.
For my friend, the erstwhile Belmont streetcar line actually has a personal connection. His great-grandfather Ben-Hur Lampman was a well-known newspaper editor for the Oregonian for many years, and also once the poet laureate of Oregon. Among his books about Portland history is one about the Belmont streetcar line. I stumbled across some of his books when I was perusing the shelves at the Heritage Room at the Lewis and Clark library this summer. His daughter-in-law, my friend's grandmother, became a noted author of children's books, including this classic.
So meeting my friend when I did, at the tail end of my Oregon college experience, was like stumbling into Oregon royalty of a sorts. At least, that's how I thought of it.
Adam's mother, who is from the Lampman line, was probably the second-most important person in terms of making me feel welcome in this place, during her life. She treated me almost as a member of the family, like her own sons. She was always touting up the rich history of this place in a way that made me feel like I could belong here in more than a passing way. Their homes in West Linn and Lake Oswego, where I was fortunate enough to be invited several times, felt like opulent palaces of the quiet but colorful bounty that this state affords those who can find a way to savor it.
Yesterday Adam's brother posted this wonderful video that a teenager in Portland made about his hometown in 1971. It's got some awesome classic old footage. I don't recognize any of the places in it, other than the Rose garden. I wasn't here back then. But I'm lucky enough to know folks who were.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Intrigue at the Belmont Eco-Wash
Today I watched a man unload my laundry from a machine. It was in a laundromat on Belmont in SE Portland. I went there in the afternoon, after work. Red and I had a late lunch at Dick's Kitchen. We both liked the burgers there. We split a side of fries.
Then Red went off to her workout, and I went off to finally wash my clothes from Burning Man.
I'd been lazy the whole week in Reno, and hadn't wanted to use the small machines way down on the first floor of the hotel. Besides some of the clothes were rather dusty.
I planed to run them through several cycles. On the way to the laundromat I ducked into Zupan's to buy some vinegar, which is regarded as being especially helpful in getting rid of playa dust out of one's clothes. For a moment there I thought I could only buy exotic Italian vinegar, but they had good old Heinz pickle vinegar on the bottom shelf for a dollar sixty a bottle.
At the Belmont Eco-wash, I loaded my clothes, probably ten pounds in all, into one of the huge sixty pound washers, that had instructions in English and Spanish. I swiped my credit card for the wash---six dollars and seventy five cents, and used half a box of Tide from the vending machine, as well as a few scoops of vinegar.
I left one item of clothes out in the car---the Kuhl black jeans that I had worn in the evening during the later part of the week. They simply had too much oth dust in them to bring them into an establishment yet.
Having such a small load for a sixty pound machine meant the clothes really got spun around. Most people load them up until they have a big stuffed tube of clothes. Mine were small in the drum, and got sloshed good and well. After the cycle was over, I immediately started them again, and put in a little more of the soap, and some more vinegar.
When I got up to do this, I relinquished my seat by the door. I had been sitting there reading a copy of Faust someone had left there, switching between the original German and the translation.
Immediately after standing up, a brown-skinned man, either Japanese or Mexican, sat in my seat. It seemed a bit odd, how quickly he took it. But I suppose he expected why not---I wouldn't need it. He couldn't have known I was going to run the clothes a third time in the same machine.
I milled around the laundromat for a few minutes, and when I meandered back to that area, the brown-skinned man was no longer in that seat, so I sat back down and began reading.
I glanced at the clock periodically until I knew it time was the wash to be over. Then I washed them a third time the same way, using vinegar but hardly any soap.
By this time I'd been absorbed in reading Goethe for a while. When the load was over, and the drum was winding down from the spin, and I was about to stand up, the brown-skinned man reappeared with one of those baskets on wheels. He went down the row of machines until he got to mine, right near where I was sitting. He looked at it until it stopped.
Then he opened the door and began pulling out my clothes and putting them into the basket. He held up my gray Columbia converter slacks and looked at them with puzzlement, then dropped them into the basket. Then my lime green Patagonia Houdini. Then my black shirt. Then my orange shirt. One by one he looked at each item, getting more puzzled, but still persisting in pulling each one out. Finally he got to the very end, and realizing that he recognized none of the items, he hurriedly took them out of the basket and put them back into the machine.
At this point, he looked at the neighboring machine. He opened the door and began pulling out the clothes. The first thing he pulled out was a lime green shirt about the same color as my Houdini, as well as a black shirt.
All this time I was only a few feet away. I decided just to let things play out, and see where it went. When he was finally gone, I got up and went over to my machine to unload it.
As I did, I saw him across the laundromat by the driers, loading one of them with his clothes. I could see the black shirt and the lime green shirt in there. For a moment I thought of waiting until he was gone, and then going over there and putting my clothes in a drier right next to his, and putting in just enough change so it would run until just before the end of his own machine. Then I thought that would be a bit too sadistic.
Then Red went off to her workout, and I went off to finally wash my clothes from Burning Man.
I'd been lazy the whole week in Reno, and hadn't wanted to use the small machines way down on the first floor of the hotel. Besides some of the clothes were rather dusty.
I planed to run them through several cycles. On the way to the laundromat I ducked into Zupan's to buy some vinegar, which is regarded as being especially helpful in getting rid of playa dust out of one's clothes. For a moment there I thought I could only buy exotic Italian vinegar, but they had good old Heinz pickle vinegar on the bottom shelf for a dollar sixty a bottle.
At the Belmont Eco-wash, I loaded my clothes, probably ten pounds in all, into one of the huge sixty pound washers, that had instructions in English and Spanish. I swiped my credit card for the wash---six dollars and seventy five cents, and used half a box of Tide from the vending machine, as well as a few scoops of vinegar.
I left one item of clothes out in the car---the Kuhl black jeans that I had worn in the evening during the later part of the week. They simply had too much oth dust in them to bring them into an establishment yet.
Having such a small load for a sixty pound machine meant the clothes really got spun around. Most people load them up until they have a big stuffed tube of clothes. Mine were small in the drum, and got sloshed good and well. After the cycle was over, I immediately started them again, and put in a little more of the soap, and some more vinegar.
When I got up to do this, I relinquished my seat by the door. I had been sitting there reading a copy of Faust someone had left there, switching between the original German and the translation.
Immediately after standing up, a brown-skinned man, either Japanese or Mexican, sat in my seat. It seemed a bit odd, how quickly he took it. But I suppose he expected why not---I wouldn't need it. He couldn't have known I was going to run the clothes a third time in the same machine.
I milled around the laundromat for a few minutes, and when I meandered back to that area, the brown-skinned man was no longer in that seat, so I sat back down and began reading.
I glanced at the clock periodically until I knew it time was the wash to be over. Then I washed them a third time the same way, using vinegar but hardly any soap.
By this time I'd been absorbed in reading Goethe for a while. When the load was over, and the drum was winding down from the spin, and I was about to stand up, the brown-skinned man reappeared with one of those baskets on wheels. He went down the row of machines until he got to mine, right near where I was sitting. He looked at it until it stopped.
Then he opened the door and began pulling out my clothes and putting them into the basket. He held up my gray Columbia converter slacks and looked at them with puzzlement, then dropped them into the basket. Then my lime green Patagonia Houdini. Then my black shirt. Then my orange shirt. One by one he looked at each item, getting more puzzled, but still persisting in pulling each one out. Finally he got to the very end, and realizing that he recognized none of the items, he hurriedly took them out of the basket and put them back into the machine.
At this point, he looked at the neighboring machine. He opened the door and began pulling out the clothes. The first thing he pulled out was a lime green shirt about the same color as my Houdini, as well as a black shirt.
All this time I was only a few feet away. I decided just to let things play out, and see where it went. When he was finally gone, I got up and went over to my machine to unload it.
As I did, I saw him across the laundromat by the driers, loading one of them with his clothes. I could see the black shirt and the lime green shirt in there. For a moment I thought of waiting until he was gone, and then going over there and putting my clothes in a drier right next to his, and putting in just enough change so it would run until just before the end of his own machine. Then I thought that would be a bit too sadistic.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Burning Man This Year: The Great Exodus Begins
After having our last-of-the wee coffee at Central Camp, we went straight back to camp. We thought maybe our campmates would be back there already, but they weren't.
There was nothing to do in the meantime. We figured they would be OK. They were the most experienced of our group, after all.
The Exodus of cars and RVs was still backed up well to our intersection at 7:45 and K. To try to leave at that point would be getting in a very long slow line. Okki and Ash decided to get a few hours sleep, and to check again at 3 a.m.
Sean and Michele went to bed as well, since they were staying, despite the threat of thunderstorms on Monday afternoon.
I was in somewhat of a bind, of my own making. I'd booked my return bus for the 6 a.m. departure. I'd forgotten Monday was a legal holiday. I could have easily booked the noon bus. That meant I'd had to pack up my tent. I had nowhere to sleep, and I didn't trust the cheap alarm clock I'd bought anyway. I decided the best thing to do would be to stay up all night.
Also I still had to drop my bicycle off at the Playa Bicycle Repair camp before morning,. I decided to go for one last cruise, out into the dark.
There was nothing to do in the meantime. We figured they would be OK. They were the most experienced of our group, after all.
The Exodus of cars and RVs was still backed up well to our intersection at 7:45 and K. To try to leave at that point would be getting in a very long slow line. Okki and Ash decided to get a few hours sleep, and to check again at 3 a.m.
Sean and Michele went to bed as well, since they were staying, despite the threat of thunderstorms on Monday afternoon.
I was in somewhat of a bind, of my own making. I'd booked my return bus for the 6 a.m. departure. I'd forgotten Monday was a legal holiday. I could have easily booked the noon bus. That meant I'd had to pack up my tent. I had nowhere to sleep, and I didn't trust the cheap alarm clock I'd bought anyway. I decided the best thing to do would be to stay up all night.
Also I still had to drop my bicycle off at the Playa Bicycle Repair camp before morning,. I decided to go for one last cruise, out into the dark.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Burning Man This Year: A Visit to Rampart
On the last night of Burning Man, I helped Okki and Ash pack up their hexayurt, and then after dark, I let them finish packing the minivan on their own, and I tended to packing up my own tent, and getting my bags all ready, to take them to the bus stop.
While I was putting out my possessions, in order of light to heavy, for better packing, I heard one of my camp mates in his tent, where he'd been sleeping after the cocktail party we had gone to. He sounded as if he were gasping for breath. He was calling out "Help!" in a harsh voice.
I knew immediately something was not right. In a haste, I looked the zipper on his tent, and couldn't find it. I realized perhaps it was best to call in some aid. I went out of the monkey hut, in which his tent was located, and called out to Sean and Michele, who were cleaning up from dinner. They weren't going to leave until Tuesday.
I told them what happened. Sean came over and crept under the monkey tent and unzipped the tent. He went inside of it and started asking our camp mate what was wrong. Later Michele went in, and also did the same. They had known each other for a long time.
He was wild. He was breathing very fast and heavy, and was having paranoid hallucinations Sean and Michele took turns with him, and he seemed better at times, but then it would come back.
Michele explained to me that our camp mate, who drank heavily but who did not take drugs, had imbibed some kind of "space cake," on a whim.
"Not a good idea," she said. "You never know what's in it, or what kind of dose it was."
Our camp mate did not settle down. After an hour, Sean decided it was time to call the Rangers. By that time Kevin had come back. He had been out on the playa enjoying himself. He hadn't come in until late Friday night, and had gotten hastled badly by the BLM on the way in, so he was soaking up as much Burning Man as he could in the few days he was there.
He had come back at just the right time. We sent him off again on his bike to go to the Ranger headquarters. I gave Kevin directions because I knew where it was, at about 5:45 on the Esplanade, to the right of Center Camp. Kevin would know how to get there.
About forty-five minutes later a pickup truck rolled up to our intersetion in the dark. A couple men got out wearing brimmed hats and LED lights. We directed them to the monkey hut and the tent within it. One of them went inside and talked to our camp mate. Then one of them explained the situation to me, saying it was not uncommon, and that it could have been something as simple as a hashish cake.
He said that they were going to call Rampart, the Burning Man medical service, which they did on a walkie talkie. A short time later an ambulance pulled up, with a logo of a hospital in Washoe County. A couple female medicals attendants got out and headed over to the monkey hut.
They were going to take him out. When he realized what was happening he freaked.
"NO POLICE! NO POLICE!" he cried out.
But it wasn't the police. It was just the Burning Man Rangers, and the Rampart Medical Center, Both of these groups of people are part of Black Rock City, not the default world. So there was going to be no police report, and no insurance trail, and no cost, of course either.
We knew Kevin would stay with him down there. About an hour later, after Okki and Ash had finished packing up, we went down to Center Camp and then out onto the Esplanade to Rampart, which is marked in the darkness by a big red cross. The building is one of the few public structures at Burning Man that has normal doors. It is like small office on a construction site
It was open and the lights were on. Sean and Michele went inside, but they said they had no patient with the name of our friend. We checked at Ranger HQ, which was right next door, and they said couldn't say yes or no, because of privacy. We could, however, leave a message.
We were sort of creeped out by this. We decided to get some coffee at Center Camp (the coffeeshop was in its last hours of continuous operation). We drank it sitting in an alcove, the give of us (Okki, Ash, Sean, Michele, and me---Stefan had gone back to Reno on a cessna flight, and the Swedes in the RV had already left).
While I was putting out my possessions, in order of light to heavy, for better packing, I heard one of my camp mates in his tent, where he'd been sleeping after the cocktail party we had gone to. He sounded as if he were gasping for breath. He was calling out "Help!" in a harsh voice.
I knew immediately something was not right. In a haste, I looked the zipper on his tent, and couldn't find it. I realized perhaps it was best to call in some aid. I went out of the monkey hut, in which his tent was located, and called out to Sean and Michele, who were cleaning up from dinner. They weren't going to leave until Tuesday.
I told them what happened. Sean came over and crept under the monkey tent and unzipped the tent. He went inside of it and started asking our camp mate what was wrong. Later Michele went in, and also did the same. They had known each other for a long time.
He was wild. He was breathing very fast and heavy, and was having paranoid hallucinations Sean and Michele took turns with him, and he seemed better at times, but then it would come back.
Michele explained to me that our camp mate, who drank heavily but who did not take drugs, had imbibed some kind of "space cake," on a whim.
"Not a good idea," she said. "You never know what's in it, or what kind of dose it was."
Our camp mate did not settle down. After an hour, Sean decided it was time to call the Rangers. By that time Kevin had come back. He had been out on the playa enjoying himself. He hadn't come in until late Friday night, and had gotten hastled badly by the BLM on the way in, so he was soaking up as much Burning Man as he could in the few days he was there.
He had come back at just the right time. We sent him off again on his bike to go to the Ranger headquarters. I gave Kevin directions because I knew where it was, at about 5:45 on the Esplanade, to the right of Center Camp. Kevin would know how to get there.
About forty-five minutes later a pickup truck rolled up to our intersetion in the dark. A couple men got out wearing brimmed hats and LED lights. We directed them to the monkey hut and the tent within it. One of them went inside and talked to our camp mate. Then one of them explained the situation to me, saying it was not uncommon, and that it could have been something as simple as a hashish cake.
He said that they were going to call Rampart, the Burning Man medical service, which they did on a walkie talkie. A short time later an ambulance pulled up, with a logo of a hospital in Washoe County. A couple female medicals attendants got out and headed over to the monkey hut.
They were going to take him out. When he realized what was happening he freaked.
"NO POLICE! NO POLICE!" he cried out.
But it wasn't the police. It was just the Burning Man Rangers, and the Rampart Medical Center, Both of these groups of people are part of Black Rock City, not the default world. So there was going to be no police report, and no insurance trail, and no cost, of course either.
We knew Kevin would stay with him down there. About an hour later, after Okki and Ash had finished packing up, we went down to Center Camp and then out onto the Esplanade to Rampart, which is marked in the darkness by a big red cross. The building is one of the few public structures at Burning Man that has normal doors. It is like small office on a construction site
It was open and the lights were on. Sean and Michele went inside, but they said they had no patient with the name of our friend. We checked at Ranger HQ, which was right next door, and they said couldn't say yes or no, because of privacy. We could, however, leave a message.
We were sort of creeped out by this. We decided to get some coffee at Center Camp (the coffeeshop was in its last hours of continuous operation). We drank it sitting in an alcove, the give of us (Okki, Ash, Sean, Michele, and me---Stefan had gone back to Reno on a cessna flight, and the Swedes in the RV had already left).
Burning Man This Year: How the Man Was Won
As I mentioned, live music performances don't work very well at Burning Man, in my experience. Recorded music works better because it puts the focus on the dance floor instead of the stage. I think that's built into the definition of a rave.
On the other hand, when it comes to live theater performances, Burning Man feels like the great resurgence of theater, after a century of slow decline in the United States and the rest of the western world, mainly because of the effect of "persistent media" (movies, television, videos) that have filled the human pyschological need for the dramaturgical.
At Burning Man, it's turned upside down. Live theater works very well. If anything, there is too little of it.
By far the best show I saw was the annual skit performed by Ashram Galactica, who run the Grand Hotel (where the auction off nightly stays in their luxury canvas sand-floor tents that are decorated like luxury rooms in various parts of the world). Before the auction they perform their skit, which changes from year to year.
This year's performance was a time-travel spoof, set in the year 2073, and pretending to "look back" at the Burning Man of 2013. It turns out in their future history that 2013 was the last year that an actual Man was burned on the playa.
The skit follows what happened: a group of neatly yessed well-meaning folk hear about the burning of the Man, and they decide that it unfairly targets "the Man," who himself makes a humorous appearance in a three-piece suit and a white beard, proclaiming that he just wants gratitude. That's why he does all the things he does---wars, etc.
The well-dressed insurgents stage an armed invasion of the playa and massacre the Burners (Black Rock City is a gun-free zone), taking over the Man, which "has stood until this day" (i.e. 2073) unburned on the playa.
At this point a time-travel Burner-Hippie comes on stage and asks the people of 2073 if they are all "retarded." He then excoriates them for misunderstanding the entire point of burning the Man.
He tells them that the Man on the playa does not, in fact, represent "The Man."
"It doesn't represent anything at all."
"It represents whatever you want it to represent."
At this point the well-clad people of 2073 strip off their shirts, revealing themselves prepped as half-clad Burners underneath.
It was very professional. The cast was very talented and had rehearsed to the level of a Broadway show.
The performance was accomplished through recorded vocals with good lip-synching and dancing. So in a way, it is the same thing as the music. But it ensured a consistency of performance from night-to-night throughout the five-night run (until Friday night---on the weekend, all the night actions shifts to the playa).
On the other hand, when it comes to live theater performances, Burning Man feels like the great resurgence of theater, after a century of slow decline in the United States and the rest of the western world, mainly because of the effect of "persistent media" (movies, television, videos) that have filled the human pyschological need for the dramaturgical.
At Burning Man, it's turned upside down. Live theater works very well. If anything, there is too little of it.
By far the best show I saw was the annual skit performed by Ashram Galactica, who run the Grand Hotel (where the auction off nightly stays in their luxury canvas sand-floor tents that are decorated like luxury rooms in various parts of the world). Before the auction they perform their skit, which changes from year to year.
This year's performance was a time-travel spoof, set in the year 2073, and pretending to "look back" at the Burning Man of 2013. It turns out in their future history that 2013 was the last year that an actual Man was burned on the playa.
The skit follows what happened: a group of neatly yessed well-meaning folk hear about the burning of the Man, and they decide that it unfairly targets "the Man," who himself makes a humorous appearance in a three-piece suit and a white beard, proclaiming that he just wants gratitude. That's why he does all the things he does---wars, etc.
The well-dressed insurgents stage an armed invasion of the playa and massacre the Burners (Black Rock City is a gun-free zone), taking over the Man, which "has stood until this day" (i.e. 2073) unburned on the playa.
At this point a time-travel Burner-Hippie comes on stage and asks the people of 2073 if they are all "retarded." He then excoriates them for misunderstanding the entire point of burning the Man.
 |
| Ashram Galactica, photo from their web site. |
He tells them that the Man on the playa does not, in fact, represent "The Man."
"It doesn't represent anything at all."
"It represents whatever you want it to represent."
At this point the well-clad people of 2073 strip off their shirts, revealing themselves prepped as half-clad Burners underneath.
It was very professional. The cast was very talented and had rehearsed to the level of a Broadway show.
The performance was accomplished through recorded vocals with good lip-synching and dancing. So in a way, it is the same thing as the music. But it ensured a consistency of performance from night-to-night throughout the five-night run (until Friday night---on the weekend, all the night actions shifts to the playa).
Monday, September 9, 2013
Burning Man This Year: How to Twerk Like a Rockstar
In the last couple days it's occurred to me that the verb "to twerk," as it's being used in connection to the Miley Cyrus stuff on television, is different from the way it was used at Burning Man.
The default world version of "twerk" implies not only a certain type of bouncy dancing, but one that is highly sexualized to the point of vulgarity.
As I've mentioned, the human relations at Burning Man take on a somewhat more different form, all in the all, at least on the surface. Like I said, despite the nudity and overt sexuality, it ironically feels more innocent.
To be sure, some of the club camps can get very wild and adult. But out on the playa, at a club on the Esplanade, or on an art car, the dancing usually does not look like the vulgar "humping" you see lately at music awards shows. You might see that on stage at a club, or with certain go-go dancers but that's a different matter (for another post). The dancers on the dance floor usually just, well, dance. Yes, there's some sexualized stuff, but mostly it feels like a slightly more grown up version of the kind of dancing we did at sock hops in 1982.
In my mind, twerking is the style of dance that most young women will fall into naturally, when hearing a techno beat at Burning Man, and elsewhere. It's a wonderful natural motion of the torso and hips that almost every woman with a normal body shape can achieve, almost instantly. It involves circular motions, and counter-jiggling of certain portions of the body relative to another. To be sure, as viewed by a man, it can come across as highly sexual. But it's not vulgar, even topless. Instead it looks like some kind of grown-up girlish innocent joy, the pure release of the body energy of youth.
All in all, the rave at Burning Man comes across something"twerking" circa 1969, complete with faux geodesic structures:
Take more of their clothes off, and give them a strong bass beat, and you probably almost there.
It seems empirically true this type of ultra-vibuous dancing does not come as naturally for men as it does for women (e.g. see the guy in that video wearing the suit). Especially in the West, we men are more up in our heads, and sometimes male dancing betrays an overbalance to the mental over the physical experience. We have to learn to let go feel bass line vibrating in our torsos, and how to loosen up to it.
But it's not hard to do, really. Partly involves just imitating what women do with their hips, but in a more subtle masculine way, at least at first. Role models are the key. When it doubt, think of Elvis. He pretty much did it right 100% of the time.
The default world version of "twerk" implies not only a certain type of bouncy dancing, but one that is highly sexualized to the point of vulgarity.
As I've mentioned, the human relations at Burning Man take on a somewhat more different form, all in the all, at least on the surface. Like I said, despite the nudity and overt sexuality, it ironically feels more innocent.
To be sure, some of the club camps can get very wild and adult. But out on the playa, at a club on the Esplanade, or on an art car, the dancing usually does not look like the vulgar "humping" you see lately at music awards shows. You might see that on stage at a club, or with certain go-go dancers but that's a different matter (for another post). The dancers on the dance floor usually just, well, dance. Yes, there's some sexualized stuff, but mostly it feels like a slightly more grown up version of the kind of dancing we did at sock hops in 1982.
In my mind, twerking is the style of dance that most young women will fall into naturally, when hearing a techno beat at Burning Man, and elsewhere. It's a wonderful natural motion of the torso and hips that almost every woman with a normal body shape can achieve, almost instantly. It involves circular motions, and counter-jiggling of certain portions of the body relative to another. To be sure, as viewed by a man, it can come across as highly sexual. But it's not vulgar, even topless. Instead it looks like some kind of grown-up girlish innocent joy, the pure release of the body energy of youth.
All in all, the rave at Burning Man comes across something"twerking" circa 1969, complete with faux geodesic structures:
Take more of their clothes off, and give them a strong bass beat, and you probably almost there.
It seems empirically true this type of ultra-vibuous dancing does not come as naturally for men as it does for women (e.g. see the guy in that video wearing the suit). Especially in the West, we men are more up in our heads, and sometimes male dancing betrays an overbalance to the mental over the physical experience. We have to learn to let go feel bass line vibrating in our torsos, and how to loosen up to it.
But it's not hard to do, really. Partly involves just imitating what women do with their hips, but in a more subtle masculine way, at least at first. Role models are the key. When it doubt, think of Elvis. He pretty much did it right 100% of the time.
Burning Man This Year: The Eighties Never Ended
From recent posts, you might get the idea that I think music at Burning Man is all about techno. Actually that's no so. Techno is a huge part, is the dominant genre is the big clubs and the art cars, but there is plenty of other (recorded) music, especially in the smaller clubs, art cars, and during the daytime hours.
What do you hear? Pop music, specifically oldies. Much of it is from the late 1970s and early 1980s, songs I recognized from my junior high and high school years. Especially one hears songs with a good bass line and a danceable beat, not surprisingly.
The artist one hears most at Burning Man is Michael Jackson, by a mile. "Billie Jean" is quite popular, for example. The second most popular artist, by my experience, is Hall and Oates. Yes, you heard me. Burning Man is a big Hall and Oates dance party, among other things.
At one time this would have made me barf---Hall and Oates? But I've long since realized the deep error of my ways about Hall and Oates Burning Man has helped me understand that they were genuises[see note]. The strong bass line and danceability of their songs is impeccable, from the perspective of 2013.
The best oldies dance party of the week that we attended was certainly the annual Apres Ski party, hosted by a Canadian camp using the Apres Ski name. Last year it was one of the highlights in my memory, from early in the week. We went there wearing white (since later we would go to the blacklit-lit rave called the White Party at Opulent Temple). The small courtyard of their camp was buttressed on one end by their large bus. From the top a fan billowed fake snow and a cool breeze in which one could dance. Snow bunnies wore full body suits. We limboed underneath ski polls.
This year the Apres Ski party was just as fun. The bus, and the fake snow, was the same. They also used the same soundtrack of 70s and 80s hits. I recognized a song from the year before, that I had spent the entire year trying to figure out the name of. This year I listened to enough of the lyrics to find out later that the song was "Every 1's a Winner" by Hot Chocolate from 1978.
A couple songs later, I had another flashback when a remix of M's "Pop Music" came into the shuffle.
So what don't you hear at Burning Man? Hard to say, but I went through the entire week without once hearing almost anything from the last fifteen years of pop musical history, except in remixes and dubs by a DJ. You never hear the straight versions of recent releases. At least I didn't. I guess that's part of the "default world."
Special bonus note: Here is the video that turned me into a Hall and Oates fan.
What do you hear? Pop music, specifically oldies. Much of it is from the late 1970s and early 1980s, songs I recognized from my junior high and high school years. Especially one hears songs with a good bass line and a danceable beat, not surprisingly.
The artist one hears most at Burning Man is Michael Jackson, by a mile. "Billie Jean" is quite popular, for example. The second most popular artist, by my experience, is Hall and Oates. Yes, you heard me. Burning Man is a big Hall and Oates dance party, among other things.
At one time this would have made me barf---Hall and Oates? But I've long since realized the deep error of my ways about Hall and Oates Burning Man has helped me understand that they were genuises[see note]. The strong bass line and danceability of their songs is impeccable, from the perspective of 2013.
The best oldies dance party of the week that we attended was certainly the annual Apres Ski party, hosted by a Canadian camp using the Apres Ski name. Last year it was one of the highlights in my memory, from early in the week. We went there wearing white (since later we would go to the blacklit-lit rave called the White Party at Opulent Temple). The small courtyard of their camp was buttressed on one end by their large bus. From the top a fan billowed fake snow and a cool breeze in which one could dance. Snow bunnies wore full body suits. We limboed underneath ski polls.
This year the Apres Ski party was just as fun. The bus, and the fake snow, was the same. They also used the same soundtrack of 70s and 80s hits. I recognized a song from the year before, that I had spent the entire year trying to figure out the name of. This year I listened to enough of the lyrics to find out later that the song was "Every 1's a Winner" by Hot Chocolate from 1978.
A couple songs later, I had another flashback when a remix of M's "Pop Music" came into the shuffle.
So what don't you hear at Burning Man? Hard to say, but I went through the entire week without once hearing almost anything from the last fifteen years of pop musical history, except in remixes and dubs by a DJ. You never hear the straight versions of recent releases. At least I didn't. I guess that's part of the "default world."
Special bonus note: Here is the video that turned me into a Hall and Oates fan.
Leveling Up in the Skies Over Reno
The plane climbed quickly in the clear sky and within a few minutes I was looking out the window at the wing of the 737 down towards the toy-like model city of Reno and the foothills of the Sierra around it.
Lately, since resuming flying, I'd converted from my old practice of window seats to aisle seats, but on this flight, having booked it only the evening before, I'd been forced to check in later than usual online, and thus had been relegated to the back of boarding queue this morning.
I didn't mind much. It was a short flight, just over an hour to Portland. The skies were clear. A good day for just staring out the window at the landscape and guessing the names of the towns and rivers from my geographical memory. .
The week of decompression in Reno had passed very quickly. The hotel---the Airport Plaza Best Western, just a block from the terminal---was about everything I needed it to be, although I could tell it was not among the most organized of the Best Western flag (all of them independently owned). I made great use of the on-site restaurant, dining out only twice, I could easily have ordered all my meals through room service but enjoyed the break of going down to the first floor and interacting with the waitress for a few minutes for an omelette or a steak.
As is my custom in Reno, I walked from my lodging all the way into downtown, which is quite underwhelming, of course. Reno is a poor ghost of what one encounters in Las Vegas. On the other hand, I can actually imagine living in Reno. This time for my walk, I caught a cab back from the front of the Cal-Neva. Every visit to Reno, which seems to happen often, brings a new iteration of my life experience somehow.
Thursday night I got to have dinner with my college friend Randy, for whom I housessat last February in nearby Gardnerville. Yesterday I took a cab over to see my great-uncle, the B-17 gunner in World War. We watched the Forty-Niners game together in his house, and he shared some more old stories, and observations about Reno. I told him I was thinking about doing some business in Nevada, and he was quite helpful, being that he was a court reporter for many decades and has extensive local contacts.
This morning it was all I could do to schlep out of the big bed in my room and finally back up my things in the two huge bags I had brought to Burning Man. The bags, and most of their contents, were almost as dusty as when I arrived at the hotel. I had eked out my remaining clean clothes to avoid doing any laundry at the hotel. I just never got around to it.
Finally last night I decided it was time to go back to Oregon. So I went online and bought a one-way ticket on Southwest. To me, this capped off a week of great luxury---the idea of just buying an airline ticket spontaneously and going, whenever I please. In the old days, this was something I did only outside the U.S., because for domestic flights this was a sure fire way to pay much more than one had to, for a ticket. But the difference in this case was only a hundred bucks, to buy one on the spot. Thus I purposely left it until the last minute.
A week in Burning Man, followed by a week in a ice hotel ordering room service and working on my laptop, lingering as long as I please, followed by a spontaneous plane flight home---now I am finally officially a member of the jetset.
Lately, since resuming flying, I'd converted from my old practice of window seats to aisle seats, but on this flight, having booked it only the evening before, I'd been forced to check in later than usual online, and thus had been relegated to the back of boarding queue this morning.
I didn't mind much. It was a short flight, just over an hour to Portland. The skies were clear. A good day for just staring out the window at the landscape and guessing the names of the towns and rivers from my geographical memory. .
The week of decompression in Reno had passed very quickly. The hotel---the Airport Plaza Best Western, just a block from the terminal---was about everything I needed it to be, although I could tell it was not among the most organized of the Best Western flag (all of them independently owned). I made great use of the on-site restaurant, dining out only twice, I could easily have ordered all my meals through room service but enjoyed the break of going down to the first floor and interacting with the waitress for a few minutes for an omelette or a steak.
As is my custom in Reno, I walked from my lodging all the way into downtown, which is quite underwhelming, of course. Reno is a poor ghost of what one encounters in Las Vegas. On the other hand, I can actually imagine living in Reno. This time for my walk, I caught a cab back from the front of the Cal-Neva. Every visit to Reno, which seems to happen often, brings a new iteration of my life experience somehow.
Thursday night I got to have dinner with my college friend Randy, for whom I housessat last February in nearby Gardnerville. Yesterday I took a cab over to see my great-uncle, the B-17 gunner in World War. We watched the Forty-Niners game together in his house, and he shared some more old stories, and observations about Reno. I told him I was thinking about doing some business in Nevada, and he was quite helpful, being that he was a court reporter for many decades and has extensive local contacts.
This morning it was all I could do to schlep out of the big bed in my room and finally back up my things in the two huge bags I had brought to Burning Man. The bags, and most of their contents, were almost as dusty as when I arrived at the hotel. I had eked out my remaining clean clothes to avoid doing any laundry at the hotel. I just never got around to it.
Finally last night I decided it was time to go back to Oregon. So I went online and bought a one-way ticket on Southwest. To me, this capped off a week of great luxury---the idea of just buying an airline ticket spontaneously and going, whenever I please. In the old days, this was something I did only outside the U.S., because for domestic flights this was a sure fire way to pay much more than one had to, for a ticket. But the difference in this case was only a hundred bucks, to buy one on the spot. Thus I purposely left it until the last minute.
A week in Burning Man, followed by a week in a ice hotel ordering room service and working on my laptop, lingering as long as I please, followed by a spontaneous plane flight home---now I am finally officially a member of the jetset.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Burning Man This Year: The Best Place to Dance on the Playa
The clubs were great, but by far the best place to dance was in or around the art cars.
Art cars the mutant vehicles that are licensed to roam the playa, including the steets of Black Rock City. They come in all sizes and types. Some are modified golf carts that hold but a few people. Others are giant double decker buses with platforms on which folks dance under canopies. Still others are self-contained modern sound systems on wheels, with a luxury look and platforms for go-go dancers.
Last year we got to ride on the double decker bus kind, on the deep playa one night, at the invitation of its owner. It was quite fun. The same thing happened to us this year. Some folks from a camp up on 2:30 and Airstrip dropped by our camp a couple times (how they found us, who knows) and hung out in monkey huts. They told us about their art car---it looked like a big banana split. Sure enough Thursday evening we were heading out to the playa and we stopped at 8:00 and the Esplanade. After dancing a bit at club there, we saw the banana split art car and got ourselves invited on it, past the bitchy driver who served as the de facto bouncer (douchy art cars that violated the radical inclusive principle of Burning Man were the subject of talk in the local BRC press this year).
The ride on the banana split bus turned out to be somewhat of a disaster. Tbey had a rather crude sound system, which at one point failed as their generator died (with all the lights too). Dancing on the swaying platform was impossible in the normal sense. It felt like the whole wooden superstructure would collapse over the side at any moment. It became a matter of holding onto the railing and just jiving and bouncing to the sea-like motion of the platform.
That would have been OK, but I was near the generator and got gassed on carbon monoxide. That was the roughest experience of the week, all in all, especially since that's the night I wound up staying up until 4 am to see Paul Oakenfeld at White Ocean, and to shepherd Okki and Stefan safely home along the backstreets of the K-ring in the not-so-wee hours of the morning.
But fortunately you don't have to ride an art car to get the experience of it. In fact, it's best not to ride it at all. Instead what you do is simply ride around on your bike looking for an art car with a good sound system that is parked on the playa having an impromptu rave. It's easy to find them in the darkness. You just follow the music. When you get there you park your bike and just start dancing with the people who are already dancing. Or you do whatever you want. There are no rules.
Of all the big-sound art cars, the one people talked about most in our camp was one called Robot Heart. It was the car that people followed into the playa for the all-night rave that went past sunrise. It was, we thought, the one we danced in front of, during the burning of the Man, when all the art cars gather in a carnival like ring around the man, making a giant super-rave. Michele said it was, but Kevin, who has been to more burns, says no, based on the decor. Maybe I'll find out next year.
Art cars the mutant vehicles that are licensed to roam the playa, including the steets of Black Rock City. They come in all sizes and types. Some are modified golf carts that hold but a few people. Others are giant double decker buses with platforms on which folks dance under canopies. Still others are self-contained modern sound systems on wheels, with a luxury look and platforms for go-go dancers.
Last year we got to ride on the double decker bus kind, on the deep playa one night, at the invitation of its owner. It was quite fun. The same thing happened to us this year. Some folks from a camp up on 2:30 and Airstrip dropped by our camp a couple times (how they found us, who knows) and hung out in monkey huts. They told us about their art car---it looked like a big banana split. Sure enough Thursday evening we were heading out to the playa and we stopped at 8:00 and the Esplanade. After dancing a bit at club there, we saw the banana split art car and got ourselves invited on it, past the bitchy driver who served as the de facto bouncer (douchy art cars that violated the radical inclusive principle of Burning Man were the subject of talk in the local BRC press this year).
The ride on the banana split bus turned out to be somewhat of a disaster. Tbey had a rather crude sound system, which at one point failed as their generator died (with all the lights too). Dancing on the swaying platform was impossible in the normal sense. It felt like the whole wooden superstructure would collapse over the side at any moment. It became a matter of holding onto the railing and just jiving and bouncing to the sea-like motion of the platform.
That would have been OK, but I was near the generator and got gassed on carbon monoxide. That was the roughest experience of the week, all in all, especially since that's the night I wound up staying up until 4 am to see Paul Oakenfeld at White Ocean, and to shepherd Okki and Stefan safely home along the backstreets of the K-ring in the not-so-wee hours of the morning.
But fortunately you don't have to ride an art car to get the experience of it. In fact, it's best not to ride it at all. Instead what you do is simply ride around on your bike looking for an art car with a good sound system that is parked on the playa having an impromptu rave. It's easy to find them in the darkness. You just follow the music. When you get there you park your bike and just start dancing with the people who are already dancing. Or you do whatever you want. There are no rules.
Of all the big-sound art cars, the one people talked about most in our camp was one called Robot Heart. It was the car that people followed into the playa for the all-night rave that went past sunrise. It was, we thought, the one we danced in front of, during the burning of the Man, when all the art cars gather in a carnival like ring around the man, making a giant super-rave. Michele said it was, but Kevin, who has been to more burns, says no, based on the decor. Maybe I'll find out next year.
Burning Man This Year: The Vibe of the Rave
Of all the activities available at Burning Man, the one I certainly indulged in the most this year was dancing. Wow---was that ever fun!
One thing to know about Burning Man, and how music works there. To be blunt, live performance music really doesn't work well. Even the guy playing guitar and narrating his life backstory, on the little stage at Center Camp at ten in the morning, doesn't feel quite right.
The music there is all about techno, and the performers are DJs, using laptops. If you go there, you would agree with me.
I thought about this phenomenon, and why it is so. Somehow a live performance, even when the audience is active on the dance floor, always keep the focus on the performer. The music is idiosyncratic in the way that humans produce it, with real voices and instruments in real time. Usually this is what I like to experience.
But on the playa, keeping the focus on the musician this way is somehow contrary to the vibe. The focus of the "performance" is the dance floors and the dancers. The DJ is not the artist. The dancers are. By coming to any performance at a club or art car on the playa is to volunteer to be part of a dance company, as long as you are there. You are the one creating the vibe. The DJ is there to help you. A good one knows how to keep the beat going, speeding it and slowing it down, without invoking awkward interruptions in the flow of the vibe. Some of them are very good.
The "temporary dance company" aspect is why at such an event (i.e., what may be called a "rave"), one usually needs to wear some form of colored LED type of light. The bouncing of the light is what is perceived in the peripheral vision of others on the dance floor, and by the DJ. This is how we all experience the communal vibe of the dance that is going on.
You need not make yourself too ostentatious in using lights. A simple glow stick around the neck is sufficient. This is what most of the experienced hard-core ravers do.
Some places we danced:
1. (Tue-Sat afternoon) District -- at 9:00 and G (see my previous map). For a couple years running, this massive courtyard has been the most dynamic daytime club. It keeps rocking until sundown, and then folks go off the places at 2:00 and 10:00 that face the open playa. I was there only once this year, with Okki and Ash. As usual, we filtered our way down near the center stage and mingled with others. It's an incredible feeling.
2. (Thu-Sat night) White Ocean --- one of the two massive dance clubs set up on the 10:00 road facing the playa. It was the place where the bigtime DJs were to perform. Most right now are from Europe. Germany is the epicenter of electronic music, especially the trance genre. The camp was all abuzz about seeing a DJ named Paul Oakenfeld, who was to perform Thursday night. at 3 a.m (actually early Friday morning, but Burning Man uses a different day of the week calendar). His performance was the only time I went inside White Ocean, at the end of a very long night, the toughest of my week there. But I figured it was worth it to experience it. I learned I don't really prefer that kind of crowded huge-sound venue, since it puts the focus back on the DJ, about whom I have little interest.
3. (Wed night) The club on the 2:00 road, about G-ring. The DJ booth was the cockpit of a crashed 747 called "Ocean Airlines." The DJ was up in the crashed cockpit, wearing a pilot hat, and flanked by serveral go-go stewardness (only visible from waist up in this case). It was a small club and we were able to really get the vibe going up.
One thing to know about Burning Man, and how music works there. To be blunt, live performance music really doesn't work well. Even the guy playing guitar and narrating his life backstory, on the little stage at Center Camp at ten in the morning, doesn't feel quite right.
The music there is all about techno, and the performers are DJs, using laptops. If you go there, you would agree with me.
I thought about this phenomenon, and why it is so. Somehow a live performance, even when the audience is active on the dance floor, always keep the focus on the performer. The music is idiosyncratic in the way that humans produce it, with real voices and instruments in real time. Usually this is what I like to experience.
But on the playa, keeping the focus on the musician this way is somehow contrary to the vibe. The focus of the "performance" is the dance floors and the dancers. The DJ is not the artist. The dancers are. By coming to any performance at a club or art car on the playa is to volunteer to be part of a dance company, as long as you are there. You are the one creating the vibe. The DJ is there to help you. A good one knows how to keep the beat going, speeding it and slowing it down, without invoking awkward interruptions in the flow of the vibe. Some of them are very good.
The "temporary dance company" aspect is why at such an event (i.e., what may be called a "rave"), one usually needs to wear some form of colored LED type of light. The bouncing of the light is what is perceived in the peripheral vision of others on the dance floor, and by the DJ. This is how we all experience the communal vibe of the dance that is going on.
You need not make yourself too ostentatious in using lights. A simple glow stick around the neck is sufficient. This is what most of the experienced hard-core ravers do.
Some places we danced:
1. (Tue-Sat afternoon) District -- at 9:00 and G (see my previous map). For a couple years running, this massive courtyard has been the most dynamic daytime club. It keeps rocking until sundown, and then folks go off the places at 2:00 and 10:00 that face the open playa. I was there only once this year, with Okki and Ash. As usual, we filtered our way down near the center stage and mingled with others. It's an incredible feeling.
2. (Thu-Sat night) White Ocean --- one of the two massive dance clubs set up on the 10:00 road facing the playa. It was the place where the bigtime DJs were to perform. Most right now are from Europe. Germany is the epicenter of electronic music, especially the trance genre. The camp was all abuzz about seeing a DJ named Paul Oakenfeld, who was to perform Thursday night. at 3 a.m (actually early Friday morning, but Burning Man uses a different day of the week calendar). His performance was the only time I went inside White Ocean, at the end of a very long night, the toughest of my week there. But I figured it was worth it to experience it. I learned I don't really prefer that kind of crowded huge-sound venue, since it puts the focus back on the DJ, about whom I have little interest.
3. (Wed night) The club on the 2:00 road, about G-ring. The DJ booth was the cockpit of a crashed 747 called "Ocean Airlines." The DJ was up in the crashed cockpit, wearing a pilot hat, and flanked by serveral go-go stewardness (only visible from waist up in this case). It was a small club and we were able to really get the vibe going up.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Burning Man This Year: Camp Roll Call
listed with playa name, and nationality/residence. number indicates years at Burning Man (1=virgin)
1. Okki "Okkistyle" (Sweden/Boulder) -- 3
1. Okki "Okkistyle" (Sweden/Boulder) -- 3
The spiritual leader of our group, a force of nature.2. Ash "Phoenix" (England/Boulder) -- 1
The Virgin of the Year, I called him. He and Okki used his minivan to drive to Nevada from Boulder. Under Okki's tutelage he came outfitted with just about everything he needed both for survival and fun. Nevertheless he had the typical kind of sharp realization on Day 2 "OH MY GOD WE ARE ALL IN THE MIDDLE OF A FREAKING DESERT."
Ash was stunning at his ability to open and meet people. He completely embraced this part of Burning Man like no one else. He spent long moments in lengthly interviews with people we met. He also had a habit of breaking off by himself without notice at night, and then showing up at camp at 6 a.m.3. Stefan (Sweden/Zurich) -- 2
The tall melancholic Swede who flies halfway around the world to be here. He avoided substance overuse this year and had a much better time. He and Okki knew each other back in Aspen. I love him like a brother.4. Sean (Ireland/Aspen) --3+
One of my best friends on the playa. We have lots of mutual interests. At night on the playa, the two of us often find ourselves in the leadership position, making the decisions. Basically that means running things by Okki to see what sounds best, and then marshaling the group afterwards.5. Michele (England/Aspen) -- 3+
Sean's wife. The sole female in our group this year. She kept things practical and served as the wise counselor on playa rules for the virgins.6. Kevin (England/Aspen) -- 6?
The 51-year-old seasoned party veteran of our camp. He can outdance many twenty-one year-olds. Like Okki, he is a force of nature, but in a quieter way.7. Neil (Wales/Aspen) -- 6?
Kevin's on-and-off friend who impressed Ash at how efficient his set-up was---a monkey hut, with a tent inside, and a tarp connecting to his car, which was completely shrouded in a cover. He almost never went out with the group but used the schedule to do his own thing, stumbling into camp, often drunk, at all hours of the day and night to change clothes and take a nap.8. Christer (Sweden/Goteborg) - 1
The first of the "four Swedes" from Goteborg (all virgins) who were friends of Stefan, and who came up from the Bay Area in an RV. He was the tallest one, and the leader of the group. His English sounded almost American. Towards the end of the week he took to wearing a mankini around camp in the afternoon.9. Roger (Sweden/Goteborg) - 1
The second of the four Swedes. He also spoke English very well.10. Olaf (Sweden/San Francisco) -- 1
Gustaf's brother. An old-style heavy metal rocker hellraiser type who lives in the Bay Area, works in I.T., and speaks English very slowly.11. Gustaf (Sweden/Goteborg) -- 1
Olaf's brother. Speaks English even more slowly.12. Yours Truly "The Sheik" (U.S.A./Portland) --2
Fireman Dan of the Tualatin Valley couldn't make this year, so I turned out to be the Oregon contingent of our group. I tried to be as helpful as he was, but there was no match for his level of friendliness.
Burning Man This Year: Trend #2
Among other things, Burning Man, while it is going on, is the most interesting art museum in the world. It took until the end of the week last year for me to realize this, so this year I made sure to get out the art map early in the week, and make several tours of the playa, both alone and with others, to see as many of the installations as possible. This is especially dramatic at night, out on the Deep Playa (the area beyond the Man in the 12:00 direction). You follow the lights in the distance at night, and come upon some surprise out in the middle of the desert.
This year the most dramatic piece by far was inarguably the giant 40-foot statue of a naked woman reaching up towards the heavens as if in some kind of joy of self-expression. I heard the (male) sculptor being interviewed on Burning Man radio and he said as much, about the purpose of his piece. The point being that there was too much "Man" at Burning Man and not enough "Woman."
The tall woman sculpture was not made of wood, but metal, it should be noted. That meant it wasn't burned at the end of the week, as most wood pieces are.
Not only was this sculpture larger in scale than any other on the playa outside the Man, but it seemed to be to perfectly in harmony with one of the overall trends this year, one that my campmates and I discussed. All of us agreed with it, in some form or another: the release of some kind of Feminine energy.
The most easily recognizable aspect of this was an increase in the sluttiness quotient of both the female participants (that's the official Burning Man word for us) and of the presentation of the dance clubs.
Among the participants, there was a noted uptick in toplessness, especially by the younger women. Moreover, unlike last year, I actually saw multiple instances of bottomlessness as well among women. This was actually quite shocking at first, especially upon seeing a woman dance this way erotically right in the Central Camp as I was drinking my morning coffee. I also saw multiple acts involving attractive young women that I choose not to describe here on this blog, suffice it to say that it was not something one sees in public every day.
On the club scene---both in the camps and the art cars---there was definite trend towards the use of more go-go dancers. Moreover, there were multiple creative uses of shadow-screen go-go dancers, notably at Slutgarden (the most dynamic small dance club on the Esplanade this year), and at the towering plaza of White Ocean (the biggest dance club this year, on the edge of the city, where many of the notable DJs played).
All this might seem like lewdness gone off the charts. Certainly it is that. But if you've been Burning Man, you'll understand what I mean when I say that there is more to the story than simple debauchery. In fact, it almost implies the opposite. Let me explain:
1. Burning Man is a safe space where people can express themselves at their "true selves," in a manner that they are not able to, in the "default world." It is not for nothing that one says "Welcome Home" to each other, as one arrives there.
2. The dominant ideology in the default world right now is one of hardcore radical feminism, which asserts among other things that (1) women are fragile beings susceptible to the violence and agression of men and must be protected (by the government) (2) women are sexual beings with sexual desire that needs to be expressed and satisfied in a deep and thorough way (3) women are the same as men in the work world, and are jut as responsible and capable in all professions that have been historically dominated by men.
All of this above, and the rest, is a huge load of ideological bullshit that women have to put up with. Among other things, it is well designed to strip the Femininity out of women, demanding that they be hypermasculinized in both the workplace and in the bedroom, all the while asserting that the arm of the Big State needs to make sure that these precious snowflakes are sheltered from the Big Bad Patriarchy.
As such many women feel like they are supposed to be sexual, but the expression of this in Feminist terms is somehow supposed to be that of the Man-despising Bitch. Men are necessary for the tools between their legs, but otherwise that are brutish oafs whose desires are disgusting and which need to be held in check in the manner of a little boy as much as possible.
What's a nice girl supposed to do? She goes to Burning Man. She puts on a slutty Venusian surface, because that's part of her nature, and it's the style lately, but underneath it over and over, I felt an overwhelming Feminine Innocence that I only glimpse in the default world.
Innocence---it happens when the topless 21-year-old walks up to you and gives you a hug and kiss spontaneously, as if you are a playground, and the girls are going on kissing spree. It's as beautiful as anything you will experience on the planet.
Innocence of expression, the curious beautiful desire young women to love is exactly what is denied by the default world Feminist ideology. For gawdssake, don't love!! is the cry of screaming harridans that dominate our culture discourse.
But like every other facet of the Death Machine, it is all coming unglued and falling apart. There is a massive revolt underway that is bringing down the entire thing. We are witnessing a beautiful moment of History.
And it's being lead by the young quasi-maidens of Burning Man, going on bestowing kisses like some kind of brigade of angels.
A hard-core feminist friend of mine from high school used to take perverse joy in asserting that any expression of love, kindness, sexual interest from a woman always came with some kind of string attached or agenda, e.g. money. Although she didn't put it exactly like that, it implied to me that woman showed genuine love to a man. It was all for show.
Now I realize that she was just talking about herself, and that she was a damaged prisoner of the Death Machine. But the strength of the True Feminine is stronger than that. It cannot be denied or destroyed in human nature for very long. It will reassert itself. It will destroy the constraints imposed upon it. That's the true True Girl Power. It's the one that comes with extra vowels, free of charge.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Burning Man This Year: Trend #1
1.This year was bigger and wilder
Black Rock City was able to get a permit from the BLM for an additional ten thousand people this year. For this reason, and perhaps some kind of cultural point of inflection, the event was packed this year. Last year we had camped at 7:05 and Iris without problem, after trying for the G ring. This year I got in early and found 7:00 and Holy to be already almost full. I could see the I-ring filling up quickly that evening. That night when I set up temporary camp in my small tent, it was on the J-ring street, which barely filled up at all last year until mid week. By morning my tent was surrounded by other camps, and there were people on the K-ring street as well. Eventually even the L-ring street filled up in the 6-10 o'clock sector of the city. Amazing So many folks.
By Monday afternoon I had still not found Okki and Ash. I kept cruising the streets in the 7:00 area looking for the Swedish flags that Okki said he was going to set up, as well as the hexayurt that he was going to construct (his first attempt).
By I found no sign of them, nor of any notice on the signpost at 7:00 and Holy, as is the customary thing to do, to contact people coming in.
With growing frustration, I went down to Center Camp with my laptop, hoping to contact one of the members of my camp my email. Eventually I would find them, I knew, but I disliked the clusterfuck we had fallen into, of trying to find each other.
At Center Camp I bought a mocha (sweet coffee is one of the few things you can actually buy at Black Rock City). Then it took me twenty minutes of trying to get a connection to the Internet to finally get through. Gmail was painfully slow, but I was able to send a message to my camp mates still arriving informing them of my temporary location at 7:05 and John Frum, which is the name of this year's J-ring street. John Frum is the central mythological figure of the Cargo Cult, which was the theme of this year's Burn.
At this point I was feeling quite down about everything. I was beginning to regret having come to Burning Man and just wished to be elsewhere.
Fortunately back at my camp I made friends with a camp of folks from California next door., One of the Californians saw me arranging my gear while wearing my captain's hat. She called out, "O, Captain, my Captain," to me. Then she debated about the movie source for that quote. As she did I walked over to say hello, taking a seat under their crude but effective PVC and tarp covering in front of their tents. That evening they bar-b-cued steaks and we sat around talking about our excitement for this year's Burn.
That evening we walked out on to the playa, all the way to the Man, which wasn't finished yet, so we couldn't go in. On the way we stopped at the infernal Skeeball machine set-up. It was a row of alleys with real digital scoreboards, spouting flames. Whenever someone got a ball in the middle, it shot a huge ball of flame above the set-up. Very clever. There was also a game where you stood on platforms against an opponent and used motion sensing gloves to send fire balls along the playa floor.
The playa seemed full of colorful art carts, and the Esplanade was alive with lights and music. All of us were veteran Burners, and we all agreed that on Monday night the playa seemed as lively as on the night of the Burn last year. It boded for a very lively event ahead.
On the way back we based a small camp on 7:30 where one was to spin a wheel to receive either a lap dance, a massage, or be spanked in chains. When we rode up, a gay guy with his pants all the way down was being held in Charlotte's Web, a spider web device. He was getting spanked mercilessly by two young women, and with spank he screamed in pain.
My California hostess spun the wheel and it landed on the spanking. So she put her hands in the leather clasps int he set-up known as "Charlotte's Web." The dungeon master gave her a spanking for a while, but it was not satisfying to her. So I volunteered to give her a few whacks as well.
We got back to our camps around midnight. As I preparing for bed in my tent, and about to take out my contact lenses, I heard my name being called. I came out of my tent and called out back. It turned out to be Okki and Sean, on their bicycles. They were both trashed drunk, and were heading out for another round. I was quite relieved to find them, and we gave each other big hugs. They wanted me to go out with them. I told them I was too tired, and was turning in for the night. They told me they were at 7:45 and Kowtow, further out on the clock, and further on the ring structure than last year.
Yes, it was a big turnout this year.
Black Rock City was able to get a permit from the BLM for an additional ten thousand people this year. For this reason, and perhaps some kind of cultural point of inflection, the event was packed this year. Last year we had camped at 7:05 and Iris without problem, after trying for the G ring. This year I got in early and found 7:00 and Holy to be already almost full. I could see the I-ring filling up quickly that evening. That night when I set up temporary camp in my small tent, it was on the J-ring street, which barely filled up at all last year until mid week. By morning my tent was surrounded by other camps, and there were people on the K-ring street as well. Eventually even the L-ring street filled up in the 6-10 o'clock sector of the city. Amazing So many folks.
By Monday afternoon I had still not found Okki and Ash. I kept cruising the streets in the 7:00 area looking for the Swedish flags that Okki said he was going to set up, as well as the hexayurt that he was going to construct (his first attempt).
By I found no sign of them, nor of any notice on the signpost at 7:00 and Holy, as is the customary thing to do, to contact people coming in.
With growing frustration, I went down to Center Camp with my laptop, hoping to contact one of the members of my camp my email. Eventually I would find them, I knew, but I disliked the clusterfuck we had fallen into, of trying to find each other.
At Center Camp I bought a mocha (sweet coffee is one of the few things you can actually buy at Black Rock City). Then it took me twenty minutes of trying to get a connection to the Internet to finally get through. Gmail was painfully slow, but I was able to send a message to my camp mates still arriving informing them of my temporary location at 7:05 and John Frum, which is the name of this year's J-ring street. John Frum is the central mythological figure of the Cargo Cult, which was the theme of this year's Burn.
At this point I was feeling quite down about everything. I was beginning to regret having come to Burning Man and just wished to be elsewhere.
Fortunately back at my camp I made friends with a camp of folks from California next door., One of the Californians saw me arranging my gear while wearing my captain's hat. She called out, "O, Captain, my Captain," to me. Then she debated about the movie source for that quote. As she did I walked over to say hello, taking a seat under their crude but effective PVC and tarp covering in front of their tents. That evening they bar-b-cued steaks and we sat around talking about our excitement for this year's Burn.
That evening we walked out on to the playa, all the way to the Man, which wasn't finished yet, so we couldn't go in. On the way we stopped at the infernal Skeeball machine set-up. It was a row of alleys with real digital scoreboards, spouting flames. Whenever someone got a ball in the middle, it shot a huge ball of flame above the set-up. Very clever. There was also a game where you stood on platforms against an opponent and used motion sensing gloves to send fire balls along the playa floor.
The playa seemed full of colorful art carts, and the Esplanade was alive with lights and music. All of us were veteran Burners, and we all agreed that on Monday night the playa seemed as lively as on the night of the Burn last year. It boded for a very lively event ahead.
On the way back we based a small camp on 7:30 where one was to spin a wheel to receive either a lap dance, a massage, or be spanked in chains. When we rode up, a gay guy with his pants all the way down was being held in Charlotte's Web, a spider web device. He was getting spanked mercilessly by two young women, and with spank he screamed in pain.
My California hostess spun the wheel and it landed on the spanking. So she put her hands in the leather clasps int he set-up known as "Charlotte's Web." The dungeon master gave her a spanking for a while, but it was not satisfying to her. So I volunteered to give her a few whacks as well.
We got back to our camps around midnight. As I preparing for bed in my tent, and about to take out my contact lenses, I heard my name being called. I came out of my tent and called out back. It turned out to be Okki and Sean, on their bicycles. They were both trashed drunk, and were heading out for another round. I was quite relieved to find them, and we gave each other big hugs. They wanted me to go out with them. I told them I was too tired, and was turning in for the night. They told me they were at 7:45 and Kowtow, further out on the clock, and further on the ring structure than last year.
Yes, it was a big turnout this year.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Oh, and that War Thing in Syria: A Message from the Sheik
Well, that sure made a lot of progress while I was in the desert.
Any of you out there who expect me to believe that President Assad, comfortable in his fiefdom with everything he could possibly want, in the midst a war that he was kicking ass in, would do the one thing that would bring foreign intervention into his country for no gain or reason at all (except for being a mwoo-ha-ha evil Arab dictator), must think that I am really stupid.
Guys, all signs point to the conlcusion that this was a staged attack by the CIA-backed and Mossad-backed Al-Qaida forces. Our Al-Qaida forces. Just let that sink in. The cognitive dissidence of all this is just off the charts, but that may be the point. If you wanna keep being a CNNMSNBCFoxNPR zombie, then go right ahead. But I'm just going to laugh my ass off at you. Grow up and face the truth, for the sake of whatever you worship, or don't. Join the cool kids. Put on the sunglasses.
Personally I thank the Lord every day for Barack Obama. What a great president he is. I'm so glad he got elected and re-elected. He turns out to be the perfect guy to help rip the mask off the whole Death Machine. Our Wizard of Oz moment may not be so far off, after all. Those of you who have mentally prepared for this transition ahead are going to be much better off than those who don't, if just on a psychological level if nothing else.
But hey, he deserves another little war, just for old times sake? He's a Nobel Peace Prize winner, after all. You wanna all join hands and rain tons of depleted uranium shells down on Syria that will unfold in tens or hundreds of thousands of malformed babies over the next generation? Heck, we did it before and suffered no consequence from it? It can't be bad if it turned out OK for us, right?
I'm sorry, though. I don't want that. At some point I can't be ironic anymore. You make me want to puke, those of you still kissing that guys scrawny little behind.
(signed) The Sheik
P.S. the rest of you are cordially invited to camp with us at next year's Burn, if you want. We are going to set up as the Psychedelic Kasbah and even have an art car. Just contact me in the usual way.
Any of you out there who expect me to believe that President Assad, comfortable in his fiefdom with everything he could possibly want, in the midst a war that he was kicking ass in, would do the one thing that would bring foreign intervention into his country for no gain or reason at all (except for being a mwoo-ha-ha evil Arab dictator), must think that I am really stupid.
Guys, all signs point to the conlcusion that this was a staged attack by the CIA-backed and Mossad-backed Al-Qaida forces. Our Al-Qaida forces. Just let that sink in. The cognitive dissidence of all this is just off the charts, but that may be the point. If you wanna keep being a CNNMSNBCFoxNPR zombie, then go right ahead. But I'm just going to laugh my ass off at you. Grow up and face the truth, for the sake of whatever you worship, or don't. Join the cool kids. Put on the sunglasses.
Personally I thank the Lord every day for Barack Obama. What a great president he is. I'm so glad he got elected and re-elected. He turns out to be the perfect guy to help rip the mask off the whole Death Machine. Our Wizard of Oz moment may not be so far off, after all. Those of you who have mentally prepared for this transition ahead are going to be much better off than those who don't, if just on a psychological level if nothing else.
But hey, he deserves another little war, just for old times sake? He's a Nobel Peace Prize winner, after all. You wanna all join hands and rain tons of depleted uranium shells down on Syria that will unfold in tens or hundreds of thousands of malformed babies over the next generation? Heck, we did it before and suffered no consequence from it? It can't be bad if it turned out OK for us, right?
I'm sorry, though. I don't want that. At some point I can't be ironic anymore. You make me want to puke, those of you still kissing that guys scrawny little behind.
(signed) The Sheik
P.S. the rest of you are cordially invited to camp with us at next year's Burn, if you want. We are going to set up as the Psychedelic Kasbah and even have an art car. Just contact me in the usual way.
Burning Man This Year: Things Done Right
1. Flying into Reno and using the Burner Express Bus to Black Rock City
This utterly rocked---going both directions. The Burner Express Bus completely delivered on its promise to allow passengers to bypass the entire lines in both directions. Coming in, I almost arrived too soon, if that is possible. My bags and I were plopped down on the playa floor on Sunday even before the gates officially opened at 6 pm. I had plenty of daylight to sit around in daylight and watch the city fill up on Sunday evening. But it sure was nice---with Will Call right in Gerlach, and our tickets checked on the bus at the entrance. But the most dramatic moment was leaving. We all whopped as we sped across the dark playa past the line of headlights that snaked five miles long just to get to the county road.
2. Packing fairly lightly
Done mostly right. I didn't think through the exact supplies I would need during the supposed one-hour stop at the Save Mart in Reno on the way in. For example, I spent forty-five mintues without a cart, barging through the store, trying to grab water (!). I was in a bind---I knew almost certainly that my friends would arrive with an abundance of water, but on the other hand, it was my obligation to make sure I had my own, just in case, at least to last a couple of days until I could find another source. The water turned out to be the heaviest thing in my bags as I tried to carry and drag them the few blocks from the Burner Express drop off point to the corner of 7:00 and Holy, where I spent Sunday evening waiting for Okki and Ash to arrive.
3. Going with the Captain theme initially
Even though the captain's hat I bought in the costume store in Portland the day before my flight was a standard prop, one that I saw not infrequently on the playa, worn by both sexes, I doubt that any of them got as much mileage and fun out of it as I did, especially in regard to being treated as "captain." Young men especially enjoyed treating me as a wise elder. And it allowed me to slip into the mode of group navigator on the playa both during our day and night excursions by bicycle. The was especially true after I wrapped a double strain of yellow LED wire around the hat, allowing me to become the easy beacon of the group to follow at night.
4. Pimping out my bicycle in multiple colors of LED wire
This is such an easy thing to do, and really makes you feel part of the gaiety of the event like nothing else except your costume itself. Just with three LED colors, on two of the frame posts and across the handlebars, I was able to make a bike more colorful that 90% of the other ones on the playa. At night you almost feel like your own art car, and of course it makes it much easier to locate your bike in the dark in the sea of other bikes outside a popular club on the esplanade.
5. Renting my bike from Playa Bicycle Repair
This fit very well with my light-and-seamless theme this year, although it meant I didn't have a bike for the first night I was there, until the PBR camp opened on Monday. The cost wasn't cheap---I paid fifty bucks more because I rented at the last minute online, but I got there early enough to pick out a decent bike that served me well the entire run. It suffered only one malfunction the entire week, at that was very late on Sunday night, during my last cruise before I dropped it off. Even then, it was a broken seat belt---the bike still functioned. Moreover, it was fixed (somewhat) on the spot by a member of the gallant Public Works Department (14-burn veteran Bustin' Dustin at the PBR drop off point), using a seat from the Yellow Bicycle Project. It kept me going the rest of that night, until I finally left it outside the PBR camp at about 4 a.m. on Sunday morning, two hours before my bus was set to leave.
This utterly rocked---going both directions. The Burner Express Bus completely delivered on its promise to allow passengers to bypass the entire lines in both directions. Coming in, I almost arrived too soon, if that is possible. My bags and I were plopped down on the playa floor on Sunday even before the gates officially opened at 6 pm. I had plenty of daylight to sit around in daylight and watch the city fill up on Sunday evening. But it sure was nice---with Will Call right in Gerlach, and our tickets checked on the bus at the entrance. But the most dramatic moment was leaving. We all whopped as we sped across the dark playa past the line of headlights that snaked five miles long just to get to the county road.
2. Packing fairly lightly
Done mostly right. I didn't think through the exact supplies I would need during the supposed one-hour stop at the Save Mart in Reno on the way in. For example, I spent forty-five mintues without a cart, barging through the store, trying to grab water (!). I was in a bind---I knew almost certainly that my friends would arrive with an abundance of water, but on the other hand, it was my obligation to make sure I had my own, just in case, at least to last a couple of days until I could find another source. The water turned out to be the heaviest thing in my bags as I tried to carry and drag them the few blocks from the Burner Express drop off point to the corner of 7:00 and Holy, where I spent Sunday evening waiting for Okki and Ash to arrive.
3. Going with the Captain theme initially
Even though the captain's hat I bought in the costume store in Portland the day before my flight was a standard prop, one that I saw not infrequently on the playa, worn by both sexes, I doubt that any of them got as much mileage and fun out of it as I did, especially in regard to being treated as "captain." Young men especially enjoyed treating me as a wise elder. And it allowed me to slip into the mode of group navigator on the playa both during our day and night excursions by bicycle. The was especially true after I wrapped a double strain of yellow LED wire around the hat, allowing me to become the easy beacon of the group to follow at night.
4. Pimping out my bicycle in multiple colors of LED wire
This is such an easy thing to do, and really makes you feel part of the gaiety of the event like nothing else except your costume itself. Just with three LED colors, on two of the frame posts and across the handlebars, I was able to make a bike more colorful that 90% of the other ones on the playa. At night you almost feel like your own art car, and of course it makes it much easier to locate your bike in the dark in the sea of other bikes outside a popular club on the esplanade.
5. Renting my bike from Playa Bicycle Repair
This fit very well with my light-and-seamless theme this year, although it meant I didn't have a bike for the first night I was there, until the PBR camp opened on Monday. The cost wasn't cheap---I paid fifty bucks more because I rented at the last minute online, but I got there early enough to pick out a decent bike that served me well the entire run. It suffered only one malfunction the entire week, at that was very late on Sunday night, during my last cruise before I dropped it off. Even then, it was a broken seat belt---the bike still functioned. Moreover, it was fixed (somewhat) on the spot by a member of the gallant Public Works Department (14-burn veteran Bustin' Dustin at the PBR drop off point), using a seat from the Yellow Bicycle Project. It kept me going the rest of that night, until I finally left it outside the PBR camp at about 4 a.m. on Sunday morning, two hours before my bus was set to leave.
The Big Decompress in Reno
Well it's over, and I'm back. We burned the Man. We burned the Temple (although I didn't see it get set on fire this year---long story). We biked. We drank. We [censored]. We saw incredible art. We made lots of friends. Weddanced a lot. We even twerked (a word I didn't even know until this year's Burn. I came back to find everyone using it in reference to something Miley Cyrus did on television).
Sean and Michele are at Lake Powell by now, possibly with Kevin and Neil. Stefan is back in Zurich. The Four Swedes and their RV are back in the Bay Area. Okki (aka "Okkistyle") and Ash (aka "Ashram" aka "Phoenix") are back in Boulder. Ash is probably groggy in his cubicle at his job working for the large cosmodemonic computing company on the Diagonal.
For the past twenty-four hours I've been holed up in my air conditioned room in the Best Western next to the Reno Airport, sprawled out on my king size bed like a rockstar. I just took the best bath of my life.
Rockstar---that's one of Okki's favorite words to use. Do you feel like a rockstar? he likes to ask me, from time to time, when we are out having fun, whether in Boulder or Black Rock City.
I think it started last month when we in his mobile home trailer, about to head out on our bikes to that Czech wedding (Boulder is one of the few places where you can live like Burning Man all year round in some ways).
"How do you feel?" he asked me, looking for a boost of vicarious enthusiasm.
"Raucous," I replied, using a word that had been on my lips lately.
"You feel rockstar?" he said back to me, in his thick accent.
Yes, Okki, I do. I do feel rockstar.
But out on the playa they don't call me the Sheik for nothing. But that's another long story.
Sean and Michele are at Lake Powell by now, possibly with Kevin and Neil. Stefan is back in Zurich. The Four Swedes and their RV are back in the Bay Area. Okki (aka "Okkistyle") and Ash (aka "Ashram" aka "Phoenix") are back in Boulder. Ash is probably groggy in his cubicle at his job working for the large cosmodemonic computing company on the Diagonal.
For the past twenty-four hours I've been holed up in my air conditioned room in the Best Western next to the Reno Airport, sprawled out on my king size bed like a rockstar. I just took the best bath of my life.
Rockstar---that's one of Okki's favorite words to use. Do you feel like a rockstar? he likes to ask me, from time to time, when we are out having fun, whether in Boulder or Black Rock City.
I think it started last month when we in his mobile home trailer, about to head out on our bikes to that Czech wedding (Boulder is one of the few places where you can live like Burning Man all year round in some ways).
"How do you feel?" he asked me, looking for a boost of vicarious enthusiasm.
"Raucous," I replied, using a word that had been on my lips lately.
"You feel rockstar?" he said back to me, in his thick accent.
Yes, Okki, I do. I do feel rockstar.
But out on the playa they don't call me the Sheik for nothing. But that's another long story.
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