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...)
"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...