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Day nine. (95sep03)

"People are still sleeping - please keep this in mind"
-- Bullhorn guy, noon
Well, I was. There are some women outside the tent, wandering around looking for their own, which apparently rolled off in yesterday's dust storm. Scott informs me that earlier, people were cheering the sunrise.
"That last song goes out to all the morons who went out on the playa right after the thunderstorm..."
-- Black Rock Radio
The magazines are all gone from central camp. Another box for the crowd. We loiter by the Burning Man during a rehearsal of the events to take place tonight. Bullhorn Guy rides the playa on a board, being pulled by a truck. He makes an announcement as he passes.
"This is not fun. Do not ride on a board behind a truck."
A small group of people gather around a strange go-kart which suddenly starts screaming. It's the glowing thing from the night before... a jet car! The driver buzzes camp a few times. His ground crew is trying to get flames to shoot out of the exhaust, with no luck.
"Please stop the truck."
-- Bullhorn Guy
A rain storm washes over the desert, and turns into a hail storm for a brief time. Scott walks around barefoot in the rain, and gets a half-inch layer of playa stuck to his feet. To remove his new platform shoes, he starts running and sliding across the playa. Hey! Fun! I join him. It's a free shower, as well. Some other people start up a naked slip-n-slide. The playa smells like a wet dog, but dries in thirty minutes.
"Pack up and leave tonight - there is nothing more to see here."
-- Bullhorn Guy
There are a few magazines left at central camp, poor soggy little things. Scott and I return briefly for dinner. We're 90's desert men, and it's time to sit on the ole' lawn chairs and Talk Feelings. Scott's happy we came, but probably won't attend next year. I feel a little more enthusiastic about Burning Man, but am disappointed that I didn't make any ... connections. Not like "networking," something deeper. Friends? Mebbe. Well, we can't say we didn't try.

Scott spots another rain storm in the distance. I'm trying to get the stupid-ass stove lit, I'm going through matches like crazy...I'm down to the last match, grumbling and stressing out (this is probably the most tense Scott and I got the whole trip). This is FOOD, man. You don't joke around with food. Part of the survival pyramid. The match lights the stove. The hot dogs are cooked. We survive. Sure, I could have just held the dogs in back of the jet car or asked someone for a flamethrower, but I think part of the fun of Burning Man is surviving it on your own terms, with your own tasty snax.

"Do not use Tiki Camp as a lubricant."
-- Bullhorn guy
The time for the burn approaches; a crowd gathers at the main camp. A naked woman (painted red) chases a naked man (painted blue) through the crowd. A surf band, the Mermen, plays as the sun sets.

Fashion for the burn ranges from total nudity to full tuxedos, with mylar, plastic, turbans, sequins, paint, muslin, tattoos, vinyl, fur, and goggles inbetween. Scott looks resplendent in his smoking jacket (get it?). A charismatic tribal-fashion man leads the crowd toward the wooden man, chanting into a portable bullhorn. He is not Bullhorn Guy, he is Crowd Leader Guy. The crowd follows and responds to his chants.

"Burning man!"
"Burning burning man!"
Scott and I remain unmoved, clingling desperately to Midwest/East coast cynicism, until about the eighth verse; suddenly the magic of Burning Man washes over us.
After awhile, the leader is far enough away that other people in the crowd start creating their own chants. I run with it, and take the lead for awhile.
"Ooo EEE ooo ahh!"
"My nah WEE ohh!"
Scott and I try to riff a shouted "Old McDonald," but are met with silence and assorted chuckles. Thus humbled, we let someone else take the lead.

The chants break up as the crowd begins circling around Burning Man, who looks much bigger in twilight. There's a 100-foot radius of safety between us and the man, called "No-Man's Land."

As we settle in at the North side of the man, various groups proceed past us, making a circuit just within the throng of people. Naked people. Drummers. A strange quadricycle-type vehicle called "The Veg-O-Matic" with whirring blades. The drummers circulate again. And again, real slow and dramatic-like. As they're passing by for the fourth time, a woman directly in front of us yells out: "maybe the drummers could go around one MORE time!" Scott and I look at each other with eager, wide eyes. "Sarcasm! This is us!" We quickly assimilate and exchange introductions. Tina turns out to be from the NYC Playground camp - it's sledgehammer woman! Accompanying her are Brent, Julie, and Sooz. As we're talking, the jet car circles the man several times, quite a bit faster than the drummers, thank you.

The arms of the man rise. The fireworks begin, shooting from the base of Burning Man. One flaming ball arcs right above our heads, and starts to fall. Scott, speaking as a scientist, attempts to reassure us.
"Don't worry, it will burst before it even gets close... any second now...ummmm...AIEEEEEEE!!!! RUN!"
People begin scattering, and the fireball lands in the middle of the chaos, exploding. Sooz receives minor surface leg damage, nothing serious. Everyone else seems okay.

Two fire dancers approach the man and light him. The crowd cheers. I was hoping to hear the smoke alarm strapped to his chest, but the noise of the crowd drowns out even side comments to Scott and our NYC pals. The fire is intense. A few people wrench on the guy wires; the man falls, aflame. The crowd lets out a roar and everyone runs toward our fallen, flaming hero. Two guys bring a five-foot mask of Elvis to throw in the fire. Of course. The king's always nosing in on everything.

Some people bodysurf the crowd, others jump over the fire. There's a large, penetrating light off to one side of the revelry, emanating from a news crew looking for that ultimate closing shot.
This is the part of the article where most journalists wax philosophical, bringing all disparate elements together to form a synergy of feeling, being, understanding, wanting. Exposition. Introspection. I myself felt lik"NEXT SCENE!"

We head over to the scaffolding; some guy on top is drinking alcohol and breathing fire. The top of the structure affords an excellent view of a 30-foot earthen chimney ("Fire Lingam") igniting and burning.

Crux compacts into Brent, Julie, and Tina; we end up in a large crowd of people who are watching Sharkbait (loud drumming guys) and following their orders to "find a piece of metal...and fuck it up." A few moments earlier, the drummers had thrown large quantities of drumsticks to the crowd. I dive underneath a small scaffold to retreive what I believe is a metal stick, and start banging it into the frame.
"It's rubber! It's not making any sound! I am unable to fuck it up!"
Moving around one side of Sharkbait, we encounter Seemen, a performance art group reminiscent of Survival Research Laboratories back when they just wanted to destroy things. There are some wooden cut-outs of various evil figures: the Unabomber, John Doe #2, the Pope, some kind of weird space cowboy alien thing, a cop, a big ole' business fat cat with cliched cigar and dollar signs above his head, and that most feared of modern-day icons, a candy cane. We're waiting for the show to start; there's a guy working a forge and turning some crank-type apparatus. We wildly cheer him on.
More waiting. Our pre-show banter has a section of the audience howling. Odd, that.
Tina: "Did you notice that none of the nude people had erections?"
Scott: "I'm a firm believer in erections."
Ten minutes later, crazy men start to run around with things strapped to their backs (Klaxon/bullhorn combo, flame throwers). A woman taunts the crowd and plays with her pneumatic ronco dildo-o-matic. A mutant front-loader spits fire from a metal dinosaur head. Another guy starts shooting the cut-outs with a turbo potato gun. The woman begins pseudo-copulating with a large stuffed leopard. Her strap-on appendage turns it quickly into just stuffing. Inspired by her new friend, she screams a sobering statement:
"There's something about having a dick that makes me want to fuck things!"
Raucous laughter emanates from the audience.
"Burn the bitch!"
Scott: "No, we love her! Burn the audience!"
The front loader wheedles up to the audience, spitting smoke and flame everywhere. The crowd politely leans as far as it can away from the heat without breaking into a panicky run.

The woman begins an autoerotic stroke dance with her strap-on pal.

"Uh, uh, uh...uhhhhh! uhhh!"
Jeff: "Hey...that gives me an idea!"
The front loader ambles up next to a prop tent. The woman eggs it on.
"CAMPER! Get off our land!"
The front loader destroys the tent, ripping it from its moorings. The potato gun hasn't been doing much to the cut-outs; fed up, one guy takes the flamethrower to them all. Only the corporate fat cat and the candy cane do not burn.
"That fat cat guy probably represents Microsoft."
"Mebbe Bill Gates."
Not hearing the audience's request, the show ends, leaving Mr. Gates unsinged.
"Let's burn him ourselves!"
While we're all talking about it, Tina rushes the stage, grabs a two-by-four and jams it into Bill's forehead.
The rest of us join her to throw it into one of the remaining fires. We start to take pictures, we need a group shot. A member of the crowd approaches Scott.
"I'll take your picture."
"Ummm, okay!"
We gather over a bright excised headlight, next to a fire. The guy snaps the shot; it's the last on the roll.
"My pleasure! You guys were entertaining!"
I start throwing X's on the fire. Brent and an old man watch.
"You're burning your magazine!"
"It feels good!"
The old man speaks.
"There must be a long story behind that."
"About five years too long."
There's only one cut-out icon left now, and it never really fit in the first place.
We spirit the seven-foot singed wooden candy cane off into the night.
We bounce back to the scaffolding to get a proper car. Scott, PUI (Passenger Under Influence), somehow directs us back to our camp for cookies and water. Then off to Crux's camp for additional clothing, and to drop off the candy cane. Slowly driving across the black expanse of the playa toward the rave camps, we idle alongside several random walking people, offering sustenance.
"Yeah, thanks!"
"Rave-type, portside! Swing around!"
"Wanna cookie?"
"Oh, glory! Thank you."
"Did he just say 'glory'?"
"That's what I heard. 'Oh, glory'."
Scott and I tried our damnedest to distribute the rest of the cookies at the rave, but most people were suspicious - perhaps they were dosed! Perhaps they weren't dosed! We're there for a total of three minutes.
Counter to any notion of "flowing drugs" described by various campers at Burning Man, we've encountered a severe lack of same. We must look like narcs. To my mind, it becomes comical in nature just to ask random people for drugs; I've given up on the wayward thought of actually implementing them ("I mean, everyone else does them ... what am I, chicken? BOWK BOWK BOWK! I'm not getting any younger, my mind is jelly anyway...what would FEYNMAN do in this situation?"). I address the crowd as we're leaving.
Two wavy teens approach. Methinks they have drugs, but inside their little tum-tums. They want to leave the rave.
"Are you going back to camp?"
"Do you have drugs?"
"No, but we need a ride back."
"We're not going that way, and there's no room...sorry."
"Man, we're dangerous."
It's short drive over to a group of RV's sporting a trampoline with a parachute blowing over it; you can bounce accompanied by techno music. There are several thousand injuries in the United States every year from people looking at trampolines, let alone jumping on them. Big deal. Bouncey bouncey! Everyone takes a turn; it's fun but surprisingly exhausting. The parachute is a nice touch; at the apogee of your flight, you get all lost in the orange fabric. Maybe that's what drugs are like.
We head back to the scaffolding for one last look at the Whole Experience. Scattered fires and people everywhere. I want to sleep up here. I want to live up here. Did Scott and I just talk about NOT coming here next year? Impossible. We head back to base camp, happy as clams. The last thing I hear as I'm nodding off to sleep is a plaintive growl from a concerned Burning Man resident.
"I want moose and squirrel! Give me moose and squirrel, and no one gets hurt!"

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