Well, I'm back from Burning Man…and sick as FUCK!

 

The playa definitely took its toll on me — it was an exceptionally dusty year, and I got a bad case of playa lung, as they call it. Burning Man is held on a giant dry lake bed covered in alkali dust, which becomes more and more churned up as the week goes on. Every gust of wind sends giant clouds of fine white dust into the air, sometimes so huge that they obscure the entire sky and limit visibility to less than 5 feet! These whiteouts can last for hours, and we had a few pretty nasty ones this year. Because I'm so vain, I pooh-poohed a real dust mask in favor of a stylish pink bandanna which did very little to filter out the dust. So, I’m blaming my malaise on playa lung…though dancing non-stop for 13 days in little more than panties and a pink bandanna might have had something to do with it, too.

 

Yes, thirteen days straight!!! I had an early arrival pass, so I could go up before the event actually started to help my friend assemble his art car. As mentioned in my last blog, I thought it would be super cool to go up early, and party with all the other in-crowd cool kids — and I was really excited. What I didn't realize is that it's actually ALL WORK, NO PARTIES!!! Seriously!! 

 

Prep-wise, I was already under a lot of stress from just getting back from my California trip, so I did an exceptionally shitty job packing. I remembered to bring a ton of wacky panties and a bunch of shiny spandex pants and sparkly bras, but somehow neglected to bring real clothes, like shirts. D'oh!! As a result, I ended up being mostly naked all week. Incidentally, here's my packing list. 

 

So anyhoo, I left Vegas Wednesday morning the 22nd, and drove north up the center of Nevada for about 10 hours. Astonishingly, it rained almost the entire way up — monsoonal downpours, no less! My dumb ass didn't cover my truck bed with a tarp, so all my shit got wet, but it was no big deal as the rain dried up after about 6 hours, and my stuff was dry as a bone by the time I rolled onto the Black Rock Desert playa. Because it was so early in the week, I was able to roll right in, pick up my ticket at Will Call (remember, the dumbass USPS

lost it??), and cruise right into camp with very little waiting. Schweet! 

 

Now, this year I was camping with a whole new crew of people — the Black Rock Roller Disco, mostly comprised of a group of hardcore skaters from San Francisco. Usually, I camp out in the "suburbs" of Black Rock City (what they call Burning Man once it's all set up and gridded out into streets) with my family and a few friends, but this year my people bailed, so I took up my friend C's offer to camp with the Roller Disco. I didn’t know any of them, but quickly came to discover that they are A.W.E.S.O.M.E! 

 

First off, everyone's always saying how Burning Man is nothing but a bunch of crazy white people — which is actually pretty much true, for the most part. But not at the Roller Disco – that camp is like Sesame Street!! All races, all ages, all types. Most of them know each other from this Sunday afternoon skating party they do in Golden Gate Park — I'm telling you, these people are HARDCORE skaters. Every one of them had some story to tell about being hit by a car, bus, motorcycle or Sherman tank…but they all keep on skatin’ anyway! This one guy named Jesus (so named because he looks just like our Lord and Savior) even had these off-road inline skates with ginormous wheels that allowed him to skate around ON THE PLAYA! Crazy!

 

The core contingent of the group was the Long Riders, a group of mostly black guys who wear extravagantly fashioned outfits with long fur coats at night. As they say, "Anyone can BE a Long Rider…but it's not FOR everyone!" Either way, the Long Riders don’t fuck around, and were in fact used as security during the annual Critical Tits bike parade (more on which later). Hey, someone needs to keep an eye on those fucking hippies!

 

Aside from the Long Riders, the camp also included a VERY diverse group of extremely fun people. I LOVED camping with them, and the Burning Man brass love them, too — I think they won Best Theme Camp of the Year or something, and they're a perennial favorite on the playa, usually scoring premium real estate right up front and center in the middle of all the action. This year, they were at 7:30 and the Esplanade — which basically means right in the middle of downtown Black Rock City. I was afraid it would be really loud camping up there in the middle of all the action (as mentioned, I usually camp back in the burbs), but I set up my camper in the back corner of our area, surrounded by RVs, and it was very chill! The white noise of the RV generators blocked out all the madness and dubstep, and I was able to sleep really well!

 

Anyhoo, I can see why the Roller Disco wins all those awards — they work their ASSES off setting that shit up! They basically assemble an ENTIRE roller rink in the middle of the desert every year, and then clean it all up to the last drop, even sifting the dust through screens to make sure they get every last bit of glitter. Amazing! As a new camp member, I felt I had to prove myself not to be just a useless Sparkle Pony (what they call cute chicks at Burning Man who spend all day getting dressed and don't do anything to help out). So I busted my ass helping them set stuff up, including sorting through bag after bag of mis-matched rollerskates and inline skates, pairing them up like a giant game of Memory. They get all their skates from old roller rinks and whatnot, so some of them are very vintage – my faves were this pair of white leather roller-sneakers with “AC/DC Rulez” and “SCORPS” written on them in marker. I can only imagine the magically mulleted prince of suburbia who wore those back in the day!

 

I busted my ass even more helping my friend out with his art car, the Soul Train. Remember, this was the reason I came up early — to help assemble this beast. I had seen it in passing before, but never really noticed it until now — IT IS AMAZING! The guy who built it, my friend C., is a mechanical GENIUS. A puppeteer by trade, who builds his own life-sized puppets, he somehow figured out how to make a locomotive out of an old Dodge truck chassis, rigging it up so that even the nose of the train twitches back and forth like the cartoon train on the actual Soul Train TV show. Then he added a caboose, so that up to 20 or 30 people can ride along and dance! It was INCREDIBLE, and an incredible amount of effort to put it together.

 

All this early-arrival-working shit made me realize HOW MUCH WORK people put into this party — for FREE! People are up there a MONTH in advance, building shit, so that when the masses arrive they can party and enjoy it for a mere six days. It's amazing — and exhausting! I have always come up on the regular opening day in the past, so when I get there everything's all set up and ready to go, like, "Wheeee!" Now, I know the truth….and I'll never look at Burning

Man the same way again. It makes me tired even thinking about it!

 

Anyhoo, after busting my ass for 2 days straight, the party finally started Friday night, when the Roller Disco officially opened for a pre-event staff party. After that, it was ON! For the next ten days or so, I basically partied NON STOP. No fuckin' wonder I'm sick!! I spent Saturday night cruising around in a friend's art car looking at all the crazy art installations, including this amazing piece crafted by earnest German art students from 250,000 zip ties!! LOL!!! Leave it to the earnest Germans to make something like that. It was amazing!

 

The only bummer was that the police presence was VERY heavy this year — sheriffs' deputies and BLM officers cruised the playa CONSTANTLY, on the lookout for illegal activity. Of course, the fucking farce is that 9 out of 10 people up there (myself included) were BAKED OUT OF 

THEIR BRAINS!!!!! It was like the Keystone Kops — what was the fuckin' point??? I'll tell you what the point was — one afternoon, I was cruising along on my bike, topless as always (I spent most of the week clad only in a sort of loincloth) and this one sheriff's truck flagged me over. They had a huge roll of gold Sheriffs' star-shaped stickers, and they gave me two stickers to wear as pasties!! They even punched out the center of the stars so my dugs could poke through, LOL! MOREOVER, the one deputy APPLIED the stickers himself! So… thaaaaaat's why there was so much 5-0 up there!!

 

Aside from being manhandled by the man, I also spent many an hour cruising around the playa on various friends' art cars. Some friends from Portland had built a giant, 2-story-tall chair on wheels, with propane poufers on top that shot flames into the sky. Then there were these guys I met at my very first Burning Man — I was high as a kite, wandering around the desert, and ran into these guys from Ojai, CA on their car called the Emergence. We kept in touch over the years, and I met up with them again this year for some good times. 

 

But the best time I had was with my friend Bam Bam, on his glow-in-the-dark fur-covered 2-story golf cart. We rode around a few times together, since he was camped right down the street at the Party Naked Tiki Bar camp. One afternoon I was hanging out at the Tiki Bar, which is basically a bunch of nudists who encourage chicks (and guys, but mostly chicks) to get naked by offering to get them "lei'd" (har har). If you take off your clothes, they give you a commemorative tiki plaque on a flower lei. Now, as mentioned I was basically naked all week, but for whatever reason I was wearing a bikini top this afternoon, with a sort of sequin-spangled apron hiding my junk. Not like you can't see my tits and twat on 100 websites any day of the week — these people wanted me to GET NAKED then and there! One kind of creepy old guy in a trucker hat and aviators kept telling me how "dark pubic hair is the ultimate turn on," and “lemme see your bush!!” That kind of thing.

 

Meanwhile, my campmate Don and I were having a debate as to who sang that old '60s song "Red Rubber Ball" (due to the dust storms, the sun looked like a red ball in the late afternoon, and I started singing that song). We asked everyone we came across, but people kept guessing dumb shit like Bobby Vee. I figured with all the old fuckers hanging out at Party Naked, SOMEone would know – but Bobby Vee came up again, and I knew it wasn't Bobby Vee. Finally, someone told me to ask Bam Bam, since he was/is the drummer for the Strawberry Alarm Clock (who knew?!!) and would surely know the answer. Well, we went out and found Bam Bam, and started the debate again. Someone said Bobby Vee again, which started them off on a tangent about Bobby Vee: "Say, did you know Bobby Vee still performs? Yeah, Bobby Vee does shows with his sons now! Bobby Vee and Sons!" Finally I'd had ENOUGH!!! "Listen, guys," I butted in — "I don't know anything about BOBBY Vee…..but I know his brother, HARRY Vee!!!!!" I lifted my spangled apron and flashed my bush — too bad that creepy old fucker in the trucker hat wasn't there to see it!!!! For that extreme witticism, I earned a Party Naked Tiki Lei — without having to get fully nude!!! Hahahahahaha — I love using my wit to game the system!! Oh, and P.S. — Bam Bam came thru; "Red Rubber Ball" is by the Cyrkle. 

 

Now, astonishingly, all of this happened under the influence of nothing more than good old-fashioned alky-hol. I didn't break out my good stuff til Monday night! The Soul Train was finally ready to go out on its maiden voyage, so I put on a badass disco outfit, complete with afro wig, spandex pants and fiberoptic glowing flowers, and ate some mushrooms. But no sooner had I choked them down then who should appear but my ex-boyfriend, a tattoo artist from Portland, OR whom I hadn't seen in over 2 years!!! I went and hung out with him and his campmates for awhile, but I wasn't myself (obvsly) and I felt bad for acting weird, so I departed early and headed out on the Soul Train for one of the most AMAZING JOURNEYS of my LIFE!

 

I didn't realize this, but when C. fires up the Soul Train, it's a HUGE EVENT. First of all, he's perched way up atop the locomotive in the driver's seat in a feathered pimp hat and a fur coat, and then he turns on the billion-watt sound system and cranks up the Soul Train theme song: "ALL ABOARD!! THE SOOOOOOOOUL TRAIN!" Then the ass-shaking, booty-grooving beat starts — "Get on- get on- get on, get on board!" and then the train starts moving, twitching its nose and generally causing a HUGE FUCKING STIR! Even in the middle of Burning Man, that fucking train attracts attention like nothing else — I guess because hearing music with WORDS is so unusual out there amidst all the dubstep and whatnot. Peoples' faces just light up and they break out into HUGE smiles when they see it — it's truly magical (not to be corny…maybe it was the mushrooms). Sure enough, folks came running from all directions to get on board the caboose, and I spent the next few hours cruising around the playa boogieing to the amazing music on C's playlist with this awesome, UBER-nerdy Jewish record-store-type guy from L.A. who kept going ON and ON about how "amazing" “that cat" (meaning my friend C.) is and how he LOVES the Soul Train. Fabulous!!  

But the MOST fabulous part was when C. stopped the Train out on the playa for a dance party. We all tumbled out and were dancing like frenzied mad people in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night, when all of a sudden the music shut off, and C. leaped atop the locomotive, high above the crowd, and began UBER-DRAMATICALLY lip-syncing an acapella version of the lyrics to Rhythm Controll's "Our House." Basically, it sounds like a preacher giving a fire-and-brimstone sermon about OUR HOUSE (meaning house music)… and between the 1,000,000-watt sound system and C's white silk singlet, wildly-gesticulating, dark chocolate musculature and super-intense eyeballs boring holes in the drug-addled brains of all in attendance………IT WAS ELECTRIFYING! I guess I can't really describe it…you had to be there. It was INTENSE!

 

 

After riding the Soul Train and dancing for around 17 hours, my campmate T. and I met up with another friend of mine, Tanayaa, and we wandered around dancing for another 17 hours or so. We hit up the Opulent Temple, which is basically just a big outdoor nightclub where e-tards to spin poi and dance their asses off  — BO-ring! A super amazing art car called the Disco Fish was parked nearby, so I climbed aboard that and made friends with the crew, who let me up on the roof with the DJ. I was having a great conversation with one of the guys about his work for an NGO in South Sudan, when all of a sudden there was a huge drug bust at Opulent Temple!!

 

Out of nowhere, about 5 or 6 Sheriff's trucks came RACING up from all points on the playa, lights flashing madly (despite all the other neon and flashy shit up there, police lights somehow stand out in a soberingly bright way) and officers came RUNNING out into the crowd — I mean, sprinting! I guess some poor sap had been set up in a sting (there were a LOT of undercover cops there dressed like "hippies," LOL), and now the po-po were out in full 

force to grind the fucker into the ground. But the BEST part was that they had a poor German Shepherd drug-sniffing dog with them!!!! Now I ask you — what is ONE POOR GERMAN SHEPHERD to do in a crowd of 5,000 high people, all of whom have Ecstasy, Molly, acid, shrooms, weed and Dog knows what else crammed into every fucking orifice on their bodies?!? It reminded me of the part in "Up in Smoke" where the German Shepherd dies flat on its back because Cheech & Chong's van is made entirely of marijuana — it was just too much drugs for the poor dog to handle!!! Talk about animal abuse — does PETA know about this????!!!!

 

Anyway, all that excitement put me out of commission for at least 10 hours, so the next day I took ‘er easy, heading to one of my favorite chill spots on the playa – Center Camp, a huge sort of circus tent in the center of everything that’s like a communal gathering spot for sleepy hippies and assorted other weirdos. I picked up a copy of the BRC Weekly (Burning Man has its own alt-weekly, haha, as well as a daily paper), in which I had written an article about the Perverts of the Playa (read it here). I sat there with this South African guy, who shared his coffee with me (no wonder I got sick; everyone up there’s always offering you a sip of this or that from their personal germ-encrusted mug, and it feels rude to decline) and watched these two chicks reading my article. Fortunately, they were laughing and reading parts aloud, so I guess they enjoyed my unabashed haterism!

After that I cruised over to this camp that was having a Miracle Fruit tasting. Miracle Fruit is some berry that grows in the Amazon and deadens your sense of sour, so that you can eat lemons and stuff and it tastes like candy – I’d read about it years before, and had been curious to try it. Well, like everything else at that goddamn hippiefest, I’m sad to report that it was over-hyped: they passed out little pellets of concentrated Fruit, then passed around lemons and Sriracha and vinegar and shit, which sort of tasted sweet…I guess. What really ruined it for me was, before they passed out the Fruit, we were all sort of dancing in the baking heat, and this one Asian chick was eating room-temperature clam chowder out of a can, offering spoonsful to passers-by. GROSSSSSSS! After that shocking visual, nothing would have tasted good.

 

To make matters worse, no sooner had I left the party when some random half-asser rolled up and asked if I’d like to be body painted. Now, I’m camping in the middle of a fuckin’ dry lake bed for 13 days with no shower and no running water – do I really want to be covered in colored grease?? Not so much!! But again, it seemed rude to refuse, so I reluctantly followed him back to his camp, meekly insisting that he only do my boobs. Well, of course he went buck wild and covered me from chin to navel in greasy-ass oil crayon (not even real body paint!!!), and his damn signature covered half my abdomen! WORSE, he added a bunch of acrylic body gems that were sure to fall off and litter the desert within 10 minutes. I couldn’t WAIT to get back to my camp and scrub that shit off, but wouldn’t you know it, first I had to get high with his campmate, who tried to molest me and ended up rolling over my sunglasses with his chair and breaking them!!! ARRRGH! I wrapped some electrical tape around them and got the fuck out of there, straight back to my trailer where I used about 100 baby wipes to get clean.

Fortunately, there wasn’t much time to grouse about it because one of my campmates had invited me to a Little Black Dress Party at Spanky’s Wine Bar. My campmate had brought a big bass drum, like in a marching band, and in fact had joined up with the Burning Band (a full-on marching band up there) and they were going to play at the party. I looooove drums, so I whipped together a black dress out of a scarf and headed over, making sure to bring my maraca with me. You may recall that I bought a single maraca at a thrift store in Utah a couple months back…well, I put that little fucker to GOOD use last week!! I shook that sonovabitch so much for around 4 days straight that I got a blister! I was able to join the marching band as they marched out of Spanky’s Wine Bar and down the Esplanade, playing all manner of old-time marching-band music , all the way to Center Camp!

 

The best part was when we passed the Lamplighters. Black Rock City has all these wooden lampposts lining the streets, and at dusk they hang oil lamps up there to sort of help you find your way around. The Lamplighters are this group of drama-club-types who wear all-white robes and plod around very seriously in formation, lighting the lamps in a ritualistic way. Well, here came our raucous marching band into their midst, trumpets blaring and tubas groaning, effectively putting the kibosh to their self-important posturing. HA!!!!! (I told you, I’m a hater!)

 

Aaaaanyhoo, after all THAT I really had a bad case of maraca finger, so I pretty much laid low until the following night, when the Soul Train went out again for another desert dancing odyssey. Again, we stopped way out on the deep playa, and our colorful cast of weirdos came tumbling out as Fatboy Slim’s “Rockafeller Skank” came blaring over the sound system. We broke it DOWN! It was every kookier than the actual video for “Rockafeller Skank,” I tell ya – between me in my golden spandex, and my friend Guy in his yellow polyester disco suit, C. in his white silken singlet, the Long Riders in their furs, and this AMAZING mustachioed Rockwell look-alike named Red E. Licious (so called because he loooves red, preferably sequined red)….it was a really freaky scene!!!

 

Then, out of the mists of the night, my sister showed up! She had just driven in from San Fran, fresh off a flight from Israel, of all places, so for the rest of the week it got even more intense! It’s all a blur…I remember running around in the rain, under a full moon, wearing little more than a fur jacket and my “READY FOR ANYTHING” panties, with a bellyful of shrooms… Jeez, no WONDER I’m sick!

Friday morning I woke up REALLY sick, so I decided to lay low and rest up for the big Saturday night jamboree, when they burn the actual Man. I took vitamin C and ate chicken soup and gargled with oregano oil that I’d gotten from that nutty workout kook who rides his bike atop those shipping containers at the side of the freeway across from Palace Station…and I REALLY should have stayed in bed, but how could I when it was the day of the Critical Tits parade?! Instead, I suited up in my bandanna and panties and joined the parade, which was something like 5000 women riding their bikes in solidarity while dirty old men took photos.

 

The parade ended way out in the deep playa, where the Soul Train blasted feel-good party jams, and these redneck Burners served margaritas off a chainsaw – they somehow mounted a blender to a chainsaw motor, so that when they cranked the ‘saw, it blended the delicious ‘ritas. AMAZING! I drank about 50 margaritas and danced my ass off AGAIN, even busting out my maraca and exacerbating my blister some more. I couldn’t help it – I had the spirit in me!!!

 

 

About halfway through the party, a HUUUUGE whiteout dust storm blew in, which made everything even cooler! Imagine dancing half-naked with 1000 other people in the middle of a white cloud with only 15 feet visibility…it was like partying at the apocalypse! After about 15 hours, my sis and I rode our bikes back to camp through the worst whiteout ever! At times you could only see 5 feet ahead. In those kinds of conditions, you’re supposed to hunker down and wait it out…but I was so sick and so tired that I just wanted to go to bed….so somehow we made it back.

 

So after that I rested up for the big Burn night, which of course was as anticlimactic as ever. They burned the Man, everyone danced and screamed and got drunk and high, and then glowing embers blew all over the crowd of flammable high-ass dumb fucks, who welcomed the flaming debris like it was manna from heaven. MEH! I felt like the meme of that unimpressed gymnast… it was kinda boring!!! I must have depleted my serotonin levels too much, because my shrooms didn’t do much for me the 3^rd time I ate them (even though I was careful to wait a day or two in between doses)…so after that I gave up. I tried to run around one last night having fun, but I was just too tired, and I guess frankly over it.

 

Over it or no, we still had all our clean-up to do – and as mentioned, the Black Rock Roller Disco doesn’t fuck around with MOOP (what they call litter at Burning Man – it stands for Matter Out Of Place). So I spent all day Sunday in the broiling heat bent over picking up feathers and sequins and beer cans and whatnot, while my nose ran constantly and I burned up my nostrils blowing it with baby wipes. WORSE, my damn-ass period started that day!! The good people of the Disco Fish car had given me a little disco ball on a keychain, which I’d intended to attach to my tampon string and keep on a-partyin’….but I was too sick to even feel up to it L Instead, I cleaned myself up as best as possible and put on my ceremonial robes, and cruised out with the rest of my campmates to watch the Sunday night Temple burn

 

If you’ve never been to Burning Man, they have two major burns: Saturday night is the Man, which is a big Vegas-style frat party…and then Sunday night, they burn this huge, elaborate wooden temple they construct every year. Throughout the week, people go in and write messages and post photos of lost loved ones on the temple walls, so when it burns, it’s a pretty somber affair. Well, apparently not everyone in the crowd got the memo, as there was some hooting and hollering going on that was NOT cool, maaaan. All those peaceable hippies in the crowd got real riled up, and almost came to blows over “appropriate” temple-burn conduct…which I secretly found hilarious. First they were pissed because some guy down front had his New Zealand flag hoisted up, blocking the view from those in the back. Next it was some people who “had” to stand up (and block the view) because they had “back issues.” The bickering was HIGH-LARIOUS!

But best of all was when the temple burning was underway, and the sniffle-filled silence (people always weep at that burn) was interrupted by some jackass blaring “Free Bird.” OMG! You’d think someone had pranced out in a Hitler tutu and taken a shit on the Dalai Lama!!! SACRIGLEGE!!!!!! The crowd, which just seconds before had been quietly ruminating and weeping about their dead dogs and whatnot, became incensed and began to scream “SHUT THAT OFF!!!!!!” That’s the problem with radical self-expression – not everyone LIKES your brand of expression! But, come to find out, the offenders were members of the Burning Man inner circle – DPW workers paying tribute to a recently fallen comrade who inexplicably loved the song “Free Bird…” so they were quickly forgiven by the slavishly devoted cultmembers – I mean masses. Whew!

After the burn, I spent a few hours wandering the desert with Jesus (my campmate…I didn’t eat THAT many shrooms!) before hitting the hay so that I could get up and do it allll over again. I was super-sick again on Monday, hacking up all kinds of nastiness in my trailer and doubtless grossing out all my campmates, but I got up and helped disassemble the Soul Train for its long voyage south, back to Vegas. I spent all day on that, then finally crawled into bed at 9:30pm (!!!!) and PASSED THE FUCK OUT! Burning Man destroyed me!!!

 

The following morning I got up, packed up my own camp, and headed back to Vegas around 10am. I was about 2 hours into the drive, in Fallon, NV, when I decided to drive home topless, and see if I could make it back to Vegas without getting a ticket. After all, as they say… “Burning Man isn’t just a week long…it’s a lifestyle, maaaaaan! Live it all year long!” I decided to put that to the test, and drove home shirtless.

You don’t really pass through too many towns on the way from Fallon to Vegas, but each time I did I freaked out. A sheriff followed me through Schurz, so I pussed out and put on my bikini top until he was distracted by a speeder. Then I put on my top to get gas in Hawthorne…and then one more time, when I got a flat tire outside Tonopah. I briefly considered changing my tire topless, but I kinda wanted to do it myself, to see if I could do it (it was just a trailer tire, not a truck one)…and I figured if I was topless, someone would stop. So, even though I was wearing a bikini top and pink short-shorts…no one stopped to help me, and I was able to do it myself. Yay!!

 

After that, I remained bare-chested all the way to my front door, at which time I suited up again, so as not to freak out my neighbors. But the following evening, my kooky roommate invited me to go running with him. About halfway into our 3-mile run, we got hot as fuck (it’s been really 

humid here lately), so he took off his shirt and ran shirtless. This really irked me – my tits were sweaty too, and I would have liked to take MY top off!! So, I did! Even though we were running down N. Las Vegas Blvd., I pulled my sports bra down and ran the rest of the way topless. And NO ONE really noticed!!! I even went through the “bad” part of East Charleston, and ran past several derelicts, with no problems.  I think my chest is THAT FLAT, people! Or, it could have been the fact that my roommate was with me – he’s a bodybuilder (with long, blond hair and bigger tits than mine, incidentally)…so maybe people were afraid and/or confused by us. Either way, we made it home A-OK!

 

 

So, now I’m suffering the after-effects of my 13 days of hedonism. Cleanup was a bitch, lemme tell ya – I’m STILL hacking up playa phlegm, despite going for a shvitz at my gym’s steam room and using my Neti Pot a bajillion times. The worst was dumping out my greywater – Burning Man is a Leave No Trace event, so you’re not even allowed to spit out your toothpaste water onto the playa. Instead, you save up all your greywater and dump it at home. Well, I had a 5-gallon jug full of dust, sweat, toothpaste and wine dregs…an unspeakably foul brew that I probably should have saved for some future nefarious purpose, but I dumped it down my drain. And, that was that. Good riddance, Burning Man, maaaaaan….until next year! 

 

 

*a note on photos: if interested, here’s a link to my Facebook album of BM 2012 pics. Of course, they are G-rated, as Facebook won’t allow anything racier…but to be honest, people, I hate to shatter your dreams but I did not spend the week fucking random hippies and spreading my twat in the name of art on top of a giant flaming octopus. To me, Burning Man is one of the LEAST SEXY places on Earth – nothing but drunk, high goofballs coated in a fine sheen of sweat, playa dust and bacon grease. BLECCCH! I’ve never had sex up there, and I doubt I ever will!!!

 

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