Time for tastelessness
OK, it’s getting close to Show Time. Pomp and circumstances beyond our control on the playa of Blinking Dreams. Murphy’s Law of the Art Car—chances are very, very good that the one you’re riding around in drinking absinthe and snorting magic toad crystals will eject you at a place enormously far from where you wanna be. Meaning you then get to enjoy one of those classic B Man 3 a.m. strolls, where you and your nicely goosebumped bod wander home via an ass-saving network of strategically placed trash can fires.
However, one area where Burners have been seriously slack in recent years is night time lighting. Whole neighborhoods with RVs and tents and domes all lookin’ good during the day, but for some silly reason they are ridiculously dark at night. This has been the case for a while, and I’m wondering why Burnoids aren’t loading up on all the completely affordable solar powered strands of doodads now available and then going absolutely DIPWIRE decorating their digs. This is supposed to be Blinky Town, peeps! I mean, when I can find my place in the tangle of camps and trailers because I’m the only ding dong in the ’hood with flashing lights, something ain’t right. An important opportunity for serious fun in Black Rock City is being horribly forgotten.
Camps need to be LTFU (Lit Up). Indeed, the camps need to be at least as lit as the campers themselves. And whether your WOL (weapons of luminescence) are glow sticks, solar-powered blinkys, or EL wire, remember the B Man decorating rule of thumb—if one is good, two is better. And 47 should be just about right. Neighborhoods in BRC aren’t meant to be dark, folks. Bring back blazing, blinking, over-the-top tastelessness now!
You know you’ve had a bad week when you Google the word “douchebag” and your pic pops up. What up, Ryan Lochte?
Ryan Lochte’s tale reminds me of the last great “pissing on a gas station” story, which was way back in ’65, when the Rolling Stones were driving home after a gig, and Mick, Brian and Bill all had to take a leak. So they pull into a gas station, ask for the key, but the attendant is an asshole who doesn’t like scruffy rockers (called ’em “shaggy haired monsters”). Fine, say the Stones, who promptly relieve themselves on the side wall, causing a horrific uproar of outrage.
The Stones played it right. They owned it, said yeah, we pissed on a gas station. So what? We piss anywhere, man (actual Jagger quote). With hindsight, it’s now quite obvious—Lochte shoulda rolled in the same way.