SEATTLE, Washington – "Burning Man, huh?" one of my oldest friends muses. "I didn't take you for the type."
(Well, I never thought he'd roadie for Yanni or Avril, but you don't see me taking umbrage or casting aspersions or what have you...)
"The type?"
"You know ... hippie."
Oh, Paul. Burning Man is steam punk, retro swank, hair-band glam: any damn thing 55,000 anarchists could envision, in fact. Some folks drink herbal tea all week; others shoot horse before brekkie, don't they?
Roarax Rounge – my camp – was heavy on actors and programmers and media luvvies, with a smattering of big-science brains roaming around in hotpants and dirty Girl Scout uniforms. But the best aspect? Little shop talk, aside from fake-fur maintenance tips.
All the usual constructs sift into the Nevada dust. Then the unexpected blooms in the night heat.
And that, mon ami, is the whole point...
So what about the merkin, MS Truth in Advertising?
ReplyDeleteVisual storytelling, mio amico. Look for the lady with the whip over her shoulder ... she wandered into camp nude from the waist down. "I need an article of clothing to be knighted!" she and her friend declared.
ReplyDeleteSo Ali, ever-indulgent and game Ali, fetched some tape, fake fur and fluorescent, um, dongles to make a merkin. Not the most traditional of merkins, mind, but very impressive nonetheless.