Summer is here, and that means one thing: Burning Man is right around the corner!! And that means it’s time to fire up some fabulous new costume ideas — I’m not one to sit around milking tired old shtick, ya know? Gotta keep it fresh!

The only bummer with being a creative type is that you have to keep topping your own fabulousness — it’s a constant challenge! Two years ago I freaked people out with a little disco ball tied to the tampon string unfortunately hanging from my twat. Last year, I rocked the playa with the one-two punch of a niqab and a black rubber strap-on (which was memorably sucked for 45 minutes by a pudgy, bearded hippie). So what would my shtick be this year?

 

First, even though it is technically last year’s news, I decided to bring back the Electric Vagina and whip up another few batches of vagina coladas, since it went over so well last year (and since the blender cost over $200, and I might as well get my money’s worth out of it). To freshen it up a bit, I changed the costume from the old ElectroMom-pushing-a-baby-buggy, and made it more of an electrified Carmen Miranda — repurposing the outfit I made for that Jimmy Buffett concert I went to last year.

But I still felt like I needed a new concept. Thankfully, I had a humdinger on deck!

 

Last December, while hiking in the forest near Bolinas, CA with my sister, we started brainstorming possible future Burning Man projects. It was a beautiful, misty day and the trail was dotted with giant amanita muscaria mushrooms — the perfect environment for cultivating subversive new ideas. Sure enough, before long we hit on a winner: we would repurpose our trusty rubber strap-on dicks and turn them into louche champagne fountains, painting them gold and pairing them with fabulous Marie Antoinette costumes. Foreclosed homes? Outsourced jobs?? Fuck the poor —LET THEM EAT COCK! We’d spend the week pissing champagne all over the peasants, as a light-hearted commentary on the excesses of the rich….including certain Burning Man turnkey camps.

We discussed the idea on and off over the next several months, but didn’t get around to actually working out the details until this past May — for once, plenty of time before Burning Man, so we didn’t have an excuse to half-ass anything like I usually do. My sister came out to visit me in Vegas, and we spent three solid days immersed in an intensive Champagne-Pissing-Dick Workshop.

My original idea was just to thread aquarium tubing through our dicks, and have one of those giant plastic water cooler jugs full of champagne perched on a barstool or something behind us, using the force of gravity to stream champagne through the tubing and out the tips of our dicks. But my sister felt the flow would be far too weak — we didn’t want a dribble, we wanted a glorious golden arc, splashing into the cups and faces of all comers!

Finally we had the idea of using pressurized garden sprayers; we could load them up with a couple gallons of the finest champagne each, pump the handle a few times to get it nice and tight, then let loose with a mighty blast that would do the noblest thoroughbred racehorse proud. The flow would be controlled by squeezing the sprayer handle, easily secreted away in our layers of lace petticoats, and the sprayer jugs themselves could be painted to look like bottles of Dom Pérignon. I even printed out a custom label, with snarky 1%-er commentary. Fabulous! 

Now that the storage and delivery mechanisms had been squared away, it was time to figure out the mechanics of the dicks themselves. Not wanting to destroy Ol’ Blackie, I ordered a brand new strap-on for this project — a 10″ squishy PVC marvel into the tip of which I drilled a hole, starting with a small wood drill bit and working my way up to the ginormous 1/4″ masonry bit I’d purchased long ago for the Pussy Power drill I plug into my Electric Vagina. It worked like a charm!

Next, I hollowed out the inside of the strap-on to make as much maneuvering space as possible; to enable actual penetration, this strap-on had a chunk of stiff foam rubber in the tip, plus a weird sort of inner lining of skin, which I pulled out and cut off (with a very satisfying *SNAP* at the end:

Now the dick was hollowed out, primed and ready to go, so I threaded a length of tubing from the old IV bag I used to wear for those fake-pee pranks, attaching a small plastic barb into the end to further restrict the flow/make it shoot out even more powerfully. I threaded the tubing through the shaft of the strap-on and shoved the plastic barb through the hole in the tip of the dick, creating a nice, snug seal. The other end of the tubing was attached to the garden sprayer handle, using plenty of latex plumbers’ tape to ensure a leak-proof connection there, too.

So now that all the mechanical shit was out of the way, it was time to paint the dicks a fabulous shade of shiny, lustrous gold. Little did I know this would prove to be the hardest part of the whole fucking project!!!

At first, it seemed simple: I had a can of gold Design Master Colortool from Michaels — I always keep some around the house, as it’s a great, versatile paint for making pretty much anything instantly fabulous. I used it on my throne a few years ago, and that’s still looking amazing, so I figured it would be just the thing for these dicks.

And indeed, at first it appeared to work perfectly — it coated the dick with a beautiful, even coat of golden fabulousness. But after testing out the dick at our local regional Burn the following week (more on which later), it proved ineffective — the paint wore off in the areas where it was being handled most, resulting in an unsightly, blotchy flesh-and-gold vitiligo-type effect that simply would not do. Adding a second coat of Colortool didn’t help, either — two coats was too thick, and caused the paint to start peeling off like a sunburn, in long strips. What to do?!

At times like these, I turn to my vast, diverse network of Facebook friends; I have tons of craftsy types and artists among my friends and followers, so I posted a plea for help: “WHAT TYPE OF PAINT CAN I USE TO PAINT A PVC DICK?” I got somewhere around 80+ comments on the thread, but unfortunately the answers were all over the place. One guy would swear I needed to use an acrylic-based spray paint; many advised me to use a primer first; then another would insist that nothing sticks to PVC and my only option was to have it powder-coated or to have a gold strap-on custom made.

Having already spent a bit of money on this project, I tried the cheapest route first: primer, plus a can of Krylon Maxx, which is specially formulated to work on plastics. (Colortool, though a far superior shade of gold, is mostly meant for fabrics, foam and floral stuff.) But that proved ineffective, as the paint never fully dried — it stayed tacky even after a week, despite sitting in the baking desert sun for part of that.

Aside from those who had recommended the primer, there were two main camps among the commenters: one group of car guys insisted that what I needed to was get a can of Bulldog Adhesion Promoter; a coat of this would get paint to stick to anything. Any Kragen or AutoZone has it, but it’s pricey — about $25 with tax! This camp also advised lightly scuffing the surface of the dick with a Scotch-Brite first, to facilitate the bonding of the paint even further. So, I creaked open my wallet, shelled out the $25, and followed their advice…bringing my total thus far to I Don’t Even Want to Think About It:

Alas, it was all a colossal waste of time and money — despite following the directions on the cans to the letter, the paint never dried fully, remaining tacky even a week after application…no different from when I’d used the primer. #$@%$!!!

The other main camp of commenters had been equally vehement — what I REALLY needed was Plasti-Dip, this gross sort of rubber coating that is so toxic in its spray form, you can’t even buy it in some states. Fortunately, Nevada doesn’t give a fuck about the environment — but they didn’t carry the gold color at my local Wal Mart or Lowe’s; I’d have to order it online. But before I could decide if I wanted to shell out another $24 (including shipping), I got a private message from a local artist who swore up and down that HE HAD THE ANSWER. (I can’t believe how many responses and how much advice I got on this project, haha. I even had one prop maker offer to fabricate me a new dick entirely, and he would rig it to shoot flames, as well.)

This artist assured me that HE had the answer because he paints vinyl toys, and had the same exact problem I was having: the solution was Liquitex matte spray varnish. After 2-3 coats over top of any spray paint, the dick would be dry to the touch and ready to handle as needed! Come to find out, that shit is also around $25 a can (!!!)…but I happened to have a 50% off coupon for Michaels that day, so I coughed up the $12.50, went home, stripped the old paint off my dick with acetone (for the 3rd or 4th time, arrrgh), and started over. And guess what? This also failed miserably!!! Even after 3 coats of varnish, the dick was sticky and tacky a week later 🙁

My last recourse was PlastiDip. The PlastiDip contingent was so vehement, this one guy even sent me a video he made for me, showing him spraying some flexible PVC pipe with it, proving that it would work. So I shelled out another $24, waited a week for the shipment…and whaddaya know?? It worked! The only problem was, the “vintage gold” shade of PlastiDip turned out to be pretty dull — more like a tarnished bronze, which was

NOT very fabulous at all.

 

So, I had to shell out ANOTHER $17 for this PlastiDip Gold Metalizer top coat — and FINALLY, the dicks looked OK! Let’s see:

 

• Phthalate-free PVC strap-on: $19
• Spray paints/PlastiDip: $38
• Primer/varnish/adhesion promoter/metalizer: $57
• garden sprayer: $20
• Having a fabulous golden dick that pisses champagne: PRICELESS!

And just to top things off, I also stuck a little squeaky toy inside the dick for good measure:

Anyway, once all that was figured out, I went to work on the rest of the costume. Having already spent around $140, not to mention the future cost of champagne, I really tried to keep to a strict budget, using shit I had around the house to decorate a $7 bra and some $22 shoes. Thankfully, I’m everyone’s favorite charity case when it comes to unwanted clothes, costumes and bullshit, so I had plenty of supplies laid in to work with…and I made a pretty cool outfit. (NOTE: everything was sewed and glued onto the costume and the wig, so that I don’t accidentally litter on the playa.)

When it came time for a fabulous wig, instead of buying something online, I repurposed the old platinum-blonde bouffant wig I’d bought at a drag queen shop on Hollywood Blvd. back in 2001 — it was trashed, especially after I wore it a dust storm at Burning Man last year, but with a little TLC, Elmer’s glue and $12 worth of titanium blonde hair extensions from ardawigs.com….it was good to go, and actually about ten times as fabulous as anything available for purchase online!

Altogether I spent about $200 and countless man-hours making this costume…but that’s Burning Man; people spend thousands of dollars on art cars, theme camps and interactive performances up there. $200 ain’t shit, and I’m happy to share it with my fellow Burners. Speaking of which…..if you’ll be at Burning Man 2016, be sure to come by and check out one of our performances! We are billing ourselves as the Koch Brothers’ wet dream: their Royal Highnesses the Cock Sisters!! Pissing on the poor since 1770…bring a cup and enjoy the golden showers. WE ARE THE 1%, BITCHES!! So far we have engagements planned for 4pm Tuesday at Sunset Lounge (9:15/E), 3pm Thursday at Hair of the Dog (somewhere around Rod’s Road/6:00) and possibly even Thursday evening at Spanky’s Wine Bar (location TBD; probably around Esplanade/9). It’s sure to be fabulous!!!!!

Now, as mentioned earlier, I did get the chance to try out the whole shtick at our local regional Burn over Memorial Day weekend. Across the U.S., many local Burning Man communities host their own smaller “regionals;” ours used to be called the Forgotten City, but for whatever reason they changed it to the Event Horizon this year…and it was all right. They hold it in this barren water-retention basin just outside Boulder City, only about 30 minutes from Vegas, and at night the jagged mountains surrounding the basin are starkly framed against the glow of the Strip, creating a pretty cool, otherworldly effect.

Anyway, the regional is a chance for people who either can’t afford to/don’t want to go to the actual Burning Man to experience a taste of BM culture — and it’s also a great way to test out your Burning Man gear, art and performances before taking them up to the real Burn later in the summer; sort of a dry run. Last year I tested out my Electric Vagina Coladas there, and it went over well, plus helped me iron out any kinks I encountered. So this year, I took the opportunity to test out the champagne-pissing dick. How did it go over? Let this video speak for itself!!!!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eFM1tKJGNAE

As you can see in the video, people were lining up to get pissed on. It exceeded my wildest expectations — I thought people would hold out their cups for me to fill, but these motherfuckers were on their knees, begging me to spray a load on their faces and titties!! It was absolutely fucking BONKERS!!!!

So, the world’s wettest “dry run” was a smashing success, and it helped me figure out what tweaks I needed to make to the costume, etc. — namely, that I needed LESS costume! It was so fucking hot at Event Horizon that I’m still suffering heat exhaustion a month later; the costume I wore out there had too much fabric, which is why I crafted the sluttier lace version shown above. But other than that, everything went really well….and I even won an award from the Event Horizon production team! I’m not sure exactly what category I won for (I was out of town, and unfortunately missed the award ceremony at a local bar), but I think it was something like Crowd Favorite or Best Participant, something like that. Yaaaaayyyyy!!!! I love participating, not just being a spectator. For so many years I just went to Burning Man and wore cute outfits — no more! 

 

Anyway, it all went really well and I can’t wait to piss on the hippies at Burning Man later this summer. As a bonus, I also rigged up a nun’s costume with fishnet thigh-highs and a garter belt, with the golden dick attached to a 2-gallon jug of Holy Water…and I’ll probably roll around the playa offering baptisms, as well — maybe on Sunday 🙂

In any event….I’m ready!!

Are YOU???

***UPDATE 7/5/16: I was wrong….the Plasti-Dip did NOT work out after all. After a couple of weeks, the coat of paint began peeling off…so I’m back at square one :-/

In the past, I’ve written about various abandoned places I’ve come upon in the desert, and readers of this blog have stepped up to fill me in on the history of those places — the abandoned brothel, an old silver mine I like to shoot at, and most recently the abandoned Royal Cement plant. Well, now I have a new mystery…and I’m hoping someone out there can help me solve it!

Earlier this year, a photographer friend turned me on to a fantastic new abandoned location. As a full-time art nude model, I’m always on the lookout for interesting new locations at which to shoot nudies — and deserted/abandoned ruins are especially prized, since guys seem to like photographing naked chicks against a busted backdrop of man-made decay. Abandoned ruins within an hour or so of Vegas are especially prized, since there really aren’t that many of them left after the rampant development which took place in Vegas in the 2000s.

This new location fit the bill in every respect: it’s picturesque — a collection of quaint, crumbling stone cabins hidden by a grove of tamarisk trees; it’s easily accessible — right off a NV state highway, with no 4WD needed; and it houses an astonishing collection of busted-up junk everywhere you look — from old cars to rusty oil barrels and a creepy, sun-baked old baby bassinet. Moreover, it’s just under one hour from Vegas — and always seemed to be deserted.

The first time my photographer friend took me there, I flipped out. I mean, this was as close to the perfect photo shoot location as you could get! Kinda like that lame-ass fake ghost town at Nelson….only better, since there were no rules — there weren’t even any “No Trespassing” signs posted! Just an eerily quiet little village of abandoned stone cabins in a grove of shady trees, in a beautiful valley overlooking the Virgin River, with a gorgeous mountain range towering in the distance. I spent a good amount of time just poking around in the various buildings, trying to figure out who had lived there and what kind of place it had been (I love doing stuff like that).

Altogether there are about 8 cabins, and it seems like it may have been some kind of artists’ or hippie commune. One of the cabins was pretty clearly an artist’s studio; the floor is littered with old art supplies, art books and magazines, shattered bits of pottery and sculptures, and a fabulous oil painting/decoupage of Jimmy Carter presides over the whole scene from its perch on one of the shelves. There’s an entire set of “CERAMIC INSULATOR COLLECTOR’S MONTHLY” pamphlets strewn about as well — who knew there were enough people devoted to collecting old ceramic insulators to sustain a monthly gazette devoted to the hobby?!?

The other cabins look to have been workshops and one-bedroom bungalows with tiny bathrooms, and kitchens in two of them. The refrigerator in one of the kitchen buildings is still full of canned foods dating from probably no more than 10 years ago, though the busted-up old stove and deep-freezer look to be much older. All of the cabins’ floors are covered in junk and rat shit, and the pall of Hantavirus hangs over everything in a grim miasma. Like I said – the perfect shooting location! (This was part of the reason I recently got a tetanus booster….climbing around these places naked is a real hazard, let me tell you!)

 

 

The cabins and outbuildings are all arranged in a sort of semi-circle around a little stone-walled courtyard, shaded by tamarisk trees. There’s a junkyard to the north, with all kinds of interesting rusty old bric-a-brac strewn about, and a couple of busted-up cars in the rear (east). Also in the rear is a giant, padlocked big rig trailer, with a bunch of old crap strewn about underneath it, including boxes full of old high school yearbooks from some town in Wyoming, plus the aforementioned supremely creepy faded white baby bassinet creaking in the breeze. You expect Miss Havisham to come around the corner at any minute!

What was this place?!?!

The grounds are very still, and very peaceful….but there’s a creepiness about the place, made ever more sinister by the sound of flapping American flags that hang all along the fence separating the property from the highway. The flapping of the flags sounds at times like approaching human footsteps, and freaked out more than one photographer that I brought down there to shoot.

Why all the flags? Well, adding to the creepy factor is the fact that these cabins are located just a mile or two down the road from the infamous Bundy ranch, where back in 2014 a bunch of irascible good ol’ boys engaged in a standoff against the U.S. Gov’ment — a standoff which soon devolved into a Tea Party circlejerk comprised of rifle-toting, camo-clad lard-asses, a sort of half-assed militia that had mustered to protest the BLM (Bureau of Land Management, the government agency that oversees all of the West’s vast public-use lands)’s insistence on collecting grazing fees from a local rancher.

The rancher at the center of all this was Cliven Bundy, the Mormon patriarch of an area cattle outfit, whose herd roamed freely about the surrounding public lands, foraging in the sagebrush for whatever edible plants they could find, until he rounded them up to sell. In exchange for his cattle being allowed to graze on public land (and ostensibly destroy Mojave tortoise and sage grouse habitat), Bundy was supposed to pay an annual grazing fee to the gov’ment.

But Bundy felt that the gov’ment wasn’t holding up its half of the deal — they did a poor job maintaining the local roads, and apparently he and his family had made improvements to the local desert (building watering holes and cisterns and the like) that he never got any credit for. Maybe for this reason, or maybe for others, he stopped paying his grazing fees about 20 years ago…and thus racked up a great deal of tax debt which the BLM now decided it was time to collect.

Well, Bundy wasn’t paying — he’s one of those old-school independent types, a sovereign citizen who feels that the the federal government has too much power over We The People. So he mustered up a bunch of his allies to join him in a good old fashioned standoff — and before you know it, every anti-gov’ment nutter in the area had come to his aid (including many half-assed whack-job shit-stirrers from Vegas and points beyond). Before you know it, the standoff was international news — TV crews from all the major networks descended on the area, where rifle-toting militiamen in cowboy hats rode horses onto the highway to protest the overreach of the feds. It was a scene straight out of the Amurrican Apocalypse!

I may be overly facetious in my description of Bundy; I do feel that many of his views are nutty and antiquated, but I also feel like he got a bum rap for some of the things he said, which seem to have been taken out of context. From what I’ve heard and read, he was just a peaceful, hardworking Mormon stud with 14 children and 60 grandkids, trying to enjoy his Earthly kingdom in peace out in one of the most beautiful high deserts I’ve ever seen. His followers, however, mostly came off as laughable — a bunch of posturing white guys in cowboy costumes and camo onesies — “Send snacks,” etc. (the 2016 standoff at the Malheur Wildlife Refuge was led by Cliven’s son Ammon Bundy).

Anyway, if you watch some of the footage of the Bundy ranch standoff, in the background you can make out a little gathering of dilapidated stone cabins — my new favorite shooting location. There they sit, huddled in that tamarisk grove, languishing anonymously in the background of untold hours of CNN B-roll…just waiting to be discovered by a meddlesome nude model 😀

The Bundy standoff fizzled to an end in April 2014, when the Feds backed down in the interest of avoiding an armed insurrection by the Sam’s Club Militia…and to my knowledge, the stone cabins have sat there quietly baking in the desert sun ever since. The highway up above them still bears witness to the standoff — there’s a towering, faded sign reading “We The People,” plus the aforementioned multitude of weatherbeaten American flags flapping tatteredly in the breeze, and a sun-blasted quote from Thomas Jefferson presiding creakily over the whole sorry scene. But no one really goes out there anymore — the militia nutters went back to Sam’s Club, Bundy himself is in jail (arrested en route to the Oregon Malheur standoff) and the rest of his family has apparently scattered to the winds; I’ve driven past the Bundy Ranch several times over the last six months, and have never seen any signs of habitation or activity.

And it was precisely because of this deserted vibe that I felt secure in shooting nudies at the cabins. Like I said before, there were no “No Trespassing” signs posted anywhere; the gate leading into the cabin area was padlocked, but the fence ended a couple feet to the right, and it was easy to just go around and disappear into the tamarisk grove, out of sight from the highway. Because of all the trees and the still-standing buildings, there was always plenty of shade to shoot in, no matter what time of day you were there; it really was close to being the perfect location. Even better, the land looked to be for sale — there’s an old, weatherbeaten realtor’s sign posted on the edge of the highway, marketing the acreage as prime land for a semi-rural housing development. For a while, I entertained the idea of buying the part of it where the cabins stood, for use as a private photography retreat; that is, if the seller was willing to subdivide.

But all my fantasies about the place came to an end one afternoon this past April. I had only taken 3 or 4 photographers out to the cabins to shoot since first being tipped off to their existence, and had never had a problem — we always kept a low profile, cleaned up after ourselves, and pretty much left things as we found them. But on this afternoon, my friend Photos By Frank and I had just arrived at the location, and had just hiked around the fence into the tamarisk trees, when we heard an angry voice.

“HEY! GET OUT OF THERE!!”

Like I said, it’s already a spooky, eerie place — so hearing an angry voice shouting out of the stillness came as a real shock. Fortunately, since we had just arrived I was still fully clothed — wearing a cowboy hat, no less — so with no little sense of trepidation I made my way back around the corner to see who was yelling at us.

It was a man who looked to be straight out of a time warp and/or an episode of the Twilight Zone circa 1959 — horn-rimmed black plastic glasses, khakis and polyester button-down shirt…buttoned to the very top. “YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED IN THERE,” he yelled. “GET OUT!”

I tried to play it off: “Sorry! I see that this land is for sale….I was interested in looking at it. Do you know anything about it?”

“I’M NOT A REAL ESTATE AGENT! I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT IT!” he shouted, angrier than ever. “GET OUT! YOU CAN’T BE IN THERE!”

Yikes!

I had no choice but to agree to his demands: “OK, we’re sorry! We’ll leave! We’re sorry!” Because of the twisted history of the area, I was half afraid he’d ride his horse down to WalMart and come back with every AR-15 in stock (actually WalMart had stopped carrying AR-15s about 6 months previously, but I didn’t know that)…and I wasn’t taking any chances.

The irate guy walked back across the highway, got in his truck and left….and for a minute, the photographer I was with actually proposed continuing on with our shoot there! Thoroughly spooked, I nixed the idea, suggesting we continue on to a dry lake bed instead…and I’m glad I insisted on leaving, as shortly after we hit the highway, the Sheriff passed us — probably headed toward the cabins to investigate the Twilight Zone guy’s complaints of meddlesome trespassers. If we’d still been there, we’d have been in a world of trouble!! (Despite all my outdoor nude modeling, I still have a 100% safety record of no arrests or injuries….fingers crossed!)

Anyway, that was pretty much the last time I shot at those cabins. I did go back one other time, with another photographer and another model — this time, we parked across the highway down a little dirt road, where the truck was hidden and no one would know we were there, and hiked into the cabins on foot, under the overpass down by the river. But the sound of the flapping flags and the history of what had happened to me there proved too spooky for this new photographer to stomach, and after snapping a few shots he insisted we leave, and head for Buffington Pockets instead. OK, boss — whatever you say!

That was last April, and I haven’t been back to those cabins since. It’s a real source of frustration for me, since like I said they were a perfect photo location — but what are ya gonna do?! This is the Wild West, and the Sheriff says No Women of Ill Repute Allowed. D’oh!

But now, I’m really curious. What is the history of those cabins? I’ve talked to others who have shot there, and they also experienced a creepy vibe at the spot — like there’s some kind of sinister history there, other than just the Bundy standoff. Did a cult live there? Was someone murdered? Or was it just a peaceful artists’ commune? I may never know!

All I know for sure is, the cabins look to be pretty old — but not 1800s-old; maybe 1950s or ’60s-ish. Most of the old magazines and papers in the buildings date from the 1970s or ’80s, and in one of the cabins I found a distinctly 1990s-2000s stash of drug paraphernalia. One of the busted-up cars down there is a 2000s model, with CDs littered in the backseat…so I know people have been there fairly recently.

Another photographer I know drove by the spot recently, and said the some of the cabins were cordoned off with caution tape, and it looked like someone was digging for relics in the area. Hmmmm!

The crazy thing about all this is, all these tumultuous events went down in a place of astonishing beauty and peace! The road past Bundy’s ranch leads out to Gold Butte, Whitney Pockets and Little Finland — an amazingly beautiful landscape comprised of staggeringly picturesque rock formations and Joshua tree forests, with the northernmost reaches of Lake Mead visible in the background. It’s easy to see how someone could see this as “God’s Country” — and be willing to raise arms over it. Like I said, I can’t completely bash Cliven Bundy; I do feel for him.

After all, Bundy and I do share a few things in common: a love of the desert, a love of personal freedoms…and a checkered history of run-ins with the Man. You could call us compatriots of a sort; one of the faded old American flags that hung on the fence outside the cabins now rests on the dashboard of my truck, a reminder of all that was lost when that creepy fucker ran me off.

And since we do have so much in common…I’m sure Bundy wouldn’t mind me moving in next door — buying the land down by the river, cleaning up those cabins and turning the whole place into a private nude photography retreat. Nakey Acres — on the shores of the Virgin River! Why not?

I mean….freedom is freedom. RIGHT?