BURNING THE MAN LAST WEEK

                LAST WEEK'S BURN

   It's hard to say "no" when your son asked you to go camping. Even if it's in the dusty Nevada desert.

    Ten days ago Ian and I drove to Burning Man '25 in the family camper. We enjoyed a week of fun, excitement, and occasional dust storms. Ward Shelley, my Gainesville neighbor, joined us. 

Ward and I learning to "trust in the dust".

    

   This was my fifth "Burn" and again, I was amazed at how well 75,000 people could get along in this endless expanse where nothing lives.

      There are no spectators at this grand celebration of creativity. Everyone is expected to contribute some sort of art, to assist artists, or, to volunteer for the many tasks that make everything happen.

 

Bad artists at rest

      My son, Ian, brought fifteen of his friends and the bunch of us set up a "Bad Portrait Studio". People passing could sit to have themselves drawn badly by incredibly untalented artists.

Bad artists working in our desert studio.  Here I am playing the hawker.

  

 

The unexpected, that's what you encounter at Burning Man. 

It could be a bad portrait or, the "Chicken Ranch". It was a tribute to the Rubber Chicken Nation.

  Inside I saw the real story of how these supposed novelties are created. 

 

along with a loud, moving, diorama of rubber chicken procreation.  

    You "egg-xited" (so said the sign) by jumping through a large curtained hole in the wall that mimicked, umm, the place where eggs (and poop) come out of our fowl friends. 

     Egged on my son I jumped through and landed in large net of fake, squeaking chickens. Crawling out in front of a crowd made them squawk even more.  It was delightful and and oh, so burning man!

    Afterwards I chatted with an older guy who explained how he and his friends in his small Alaskan town had spent a year created Chicken Ranch. Yes, they have a thing for what looks like a dead, plucked bird that squawks when you squeeze it.

 

     Again, our posse took the easy route. We had no rubber chickens, just paper markers, and no talent whatsoever. We drew dozens and dozens of awful portraits for our fans.

 

A mini-art car's occupants stopped for a group portrait.

 

   I've been an occasional bad portrait artist since 1980. People love them.

 

 Our artist, Rachel (smiling) is especially good at drawing bad water (the pink line)

    

 

 

When we ran out of chairs we drew them in the dust.

  

We gave this artist a hard time for being too good.

 

   

 

 

 

I also worked as a bartender at the festival's media center.

   The Grove Guy served hot coffee and icy drinks to media folks from all over the world. 

Chatting with dozens of writers, photographers, and drone pilots was a such fun!

 With Yomi Ayenyi, London-based photographer and film producer

 

     

Tough road for an old biker

 

   At night we would roam the huge expanse called "The Playa" taking in the illuminated sculptures, the "art cars", and the alfresco night clubs with their dazzling array of lights and ear-splitting boom-boom music.

Ward pausing for some big lights and boom-boom.

Golden Gate bridge built on top ao an RV

There were over 200 art cars (we call them "mutant vehicles").

     

 This hi-tech puppet could really dance!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Many of the burners danced 'til dawn but not me. I was always tucked away by midnight, preparing to draw badly and tend bar another day.  

    And in the end, true to its name, a man standing 90-feet tall was incinerated in a blaze of fireworks and flame.

               _________________

 

 

In a few days I'll share the story of Eli Rogers. He chose to spend the week incarcerated on The Playa. 

 

                         _______