Burn, baby, burn

With the weird Labor Day deadlines, I’m writing this message to you from the past.

I’ve got that zingy feeling of excitement in the pit of my stomach. It’s Friday morning, and in a couple hours, I’m going to make my pilgrimage to Black Rock City, the town where Burning Man is mayor.

I’ve been covering the event since 1995. A few years, I’ve gone out weeks early and helped build things. Those, to my mind, have been the best years. There have been some similarities every time I’ve attended, though: It’s the funnest party of the year; I run into friends whom I only see at Burning Man; I see art that drops my jaw; I over imbibe the Bud Light.

There have also been some not-so-good similarities, as well: the event has increased in population every year, which makes it harder to see and get to where things are happening; some aspects of the event have been toned down—there are fewer automatic weapons and bombs, for example—it’s a lot safer for people who couldn’t handle the “survivalist” facets of Burning Man; the people I think of as “Burning Man”-type people have been diluted. It’s a heck of a lot more expensive and restrictive than it was when the people were numbered in thousands instead of tens of thousands.

I guess you could say I’m a skeptical sort of fan. But still, and let me say this clearly, in terms of wild and unpredictable art, there is nothing in northern Nevada that compares. Period.

At any rate, I’m going to write the cover story. I’ll write most of it on the playa, as I have so many times in the past. I’d like to laud its attributes and pat myself on the back, but I really don’t know what it’s going to be about. So, assuming I survive the drive out there and back, I’ll see you next week, and I’ll have a story for you. [See “About a Man”.] Enjoy Labor Day.