Getting Weird At Burning Man
Timothy Leary's ashes, Altoid acid, dust dreads and the fear of pooping.
You may have noticed, as one friend did, that the adventures I’ve shared thus far have not involved kids. I assure you, we’ll get there. I’m just trying to make my way through some of our pre-kid adventures to show that I made it out alive only to find a different kind of craziness and chaos on the other side. But first, a very kidless Burning Man …
As if flipping your whole life upside down, relocating, planning a wedding and starting a new job wasn’t enough, in 2015, I suddenly found myself presented with the possibility of Burning Man. I was busy at work trying to prove myself, my work ethic, my strategic rigor and aptitude in my role. But I quickly realized how difficult this would be alongside the likes of Gabriele. The man suffers from severe TOMO, not to be confused with the lesser FOMO, the fear of missing out. No, Gabri is afflicted with the extreme TERROR of missing out. He must do and experience everything and say no to nothing (except for sleep, he’ll take a hard pass on that). So, when his cousin—a blonde viking named Adam that leaves people perplexed when he’s introduced as swarthy Gabri’s relative—called to ask if we wanted to take the place of two Burners that dropped out of his camp, the answer was obviously yes.
I remember hearing about Burning Man in my Berklee College of Music days when it was more about a bunch of hippies coming together for a fire party and the music in the desert. By the time we went though, it was already well on its way to becoming the stomping grounds of undercover tech billionaires and models decked out in outrageous, sparkly nipple-clad getups. It’s amazing how some women can make even nudity look expensive. I’m told mine is more of a hippie homeless-chic aesthetic, nude or clothed.
One of my favorite Burning Man-related memories is this text I got from my mom right before leaving:
I really think this message alone illustrates what motherhood looks like at its finest. Spread your wings little dove but do so safely and with clothes on. Really exemplary momming if you ask me.
I’d heard on multiple occasions prior to departure that Burning Man is known to make or break couples. Having undergone the experiment myself, I understand why. You brave extreme weather, leaving behind the comforts of home. You’re exposed to hot naked bodies everywhere you turn. There are countless ways to get in trouble in that you can, say, visit to the orgy tent if that’s your jam, or indulge in the copious amounts of drugs not so covertly changing hands around the desert. I’m not discounting the fact that there’s amazing art and music and plenty of people enjoy a sober, PG-rated Burning Man experience. But we’re focusing on the more threatening aspects of the whole affair here.
Basically, whether it’s bugging out or breaking down or succumbing to jealousy of some kind, there’s ample opportunity for relationship snafus. The flip side, however, is undergoing an incredible experience together; overcoming physical distress one minute and then floating high in the sky in an ecstatic fit the next. The very nature of the setting is enough to confuse the senses, sweeping you up off of the sandy ground and plopping you back down in upside down world. Finding your way, in a state of euphoria, through a grown up playground that’s constantly shapeshifting, you become more than just a comfort to one another but rather, critical to each other’s survival.
My take can be summed up in a rhyme: if your vices align, you’re probably fine. That was our case. Gabri and I say yes to the same indulgences and both deem others out of our comfort zones. And having both spent years living in Miami, the omnipresence of hot, hard bodies is not new and therefore, wasn’t a threat. We walked away from Burning Man with incredible memories and maybe an even greater bond.
It’s possible the success of our experience can be attributed to the reality that our Burn was a glamorous one. We stayed at Cirque Gitane, one of the more glamorous camps you could find on “the playa,” as evidenced by its having made its way into numerous media mentions as a luxury camp for billionaires and celebrities. We are decidedly neither but it was fun rubbing shoulders with them for the week. Cirque Gitane was a sort of boho desert chic escape from the elements with a nightly New Orleans style voodoo burlesque show and Susan Sarandon as our camp mate (actually by way of Cousin Adam as she was dating one of his friends or something to that effect).
But let me be clear, even in the lap of Burning Man luxury, we were still roughing it. The experience came complete with dust-locked hair, the only way I can describe what happened to my locks when met with extreme heat, crippling cold and regular dust storms. And we can’t dismiss the pulley system shower I braved all of one time. (The single drop of cool water released every minute or so was no match for what was happening on my head.) Our camp had eco-friendly toilets which ceased to function in the early hours of the first day. The extreme weather conditions left me freezing at night and sweating during the day and the sudden dust storms had us lost from one another in an instant on more than one occasion. Sound fun? It’s not for everyone. But it was amazing.
Spending the night in Reno from where we flew out the next day was pretty entertaining. You don’t get much more of a juxtaposition between Italian culture and Reno residents. After a few standoffs with the local clientele and horror at the food on offer, we gathered our things and boarded our tiny plane bound for Black Rock City. Upon arrival, we banged a bong, rolled around in the sand and were carted off to our camp. Everything that happened after is sort of a frenetic blur.
There’s plenty that remains locked away in the confines of my mind. And those closer to the surface feel almost sepia-toned with a metaphorical desert dust filter over them. But here’s some of what I do remember …
Night and day are worlds apart at Burning Man, engaged in a battle for which is truly the most otherworldly. The day is filled with blue sky that sometimes disappears into a dust storm. You ride around on a bike, sometimes an “art car” admiring incredible sculptures that assault the imagination, taking on a highly dramatic quality against the desert backdrop. Some days involve cycling around under the false impression that you have a clue as to where you’re going, stumbling upon various camps and their quirky offerings. Others call for sleep in order to recover from nocturnal affairs.
Night is a lunar landscape filled with twinkling lights and booming with beats. There’s the in between where Mayan Warrior and Robot Heart become your spirit guides through the wee hours way out in the deep of the playa. They play on into morning where skydivers and marathoners force you to take note of the stark contrast between their up-and-at-em spirit and your degenerate, zombie-like state of being. And as you squint through your steampunk goggles out into the vast desert in search of your bike, you really can find just about anything. Like, for instance, a couple of folks just going at it as if they aren’t lying out in broad daylight on the desert floor for all to see (photo evidence above, top, right of center). Time functions altogether differently at Burning Man in that it sort of melts away in keeping with Dali’s depiction of a clock.
As far as my more specific anecdotes …
There was the saga of Gabri’s harem pant poopie scare. Gabri is much like an infant when it comes to bowl movements. He eats and poops with what feels like no time for normal adult digestion in between. He’s more than regular. He’s also rather obsessive compulsive. So, imagine his panic when those aforementioned eco toilets broke down almost immediately. I remember him lying on his side in agony, fearful that if I touched him, I’d somehow trigger a poop response. Romantic. He vowed to hold it in for the entire week so as to avoid a trip to the growing merda mounds. Later that evening (or morning, who knows), we were riding around on our bikes with our pal Susie (Surandon) when Gabri suddenly become visibly panic stricken. He motioned for me to cycle closer and asked me if I smelled anything along the lines of poo. He was convinced he’d shat himself. After nearly dying in a fit of laughter, I attempted what felt like an adult diaper check, trying to be discreet enough that the nearby celebrity didn’t notice. The hurried and awkward poking around in his harem pants lasted for what felt like eons but just as I looked out into the night for answers, I discovered we were positioned right alongside a huge row of porta potties servicing all of the festival’s inhabitants. Gabri hadn’t shat himself. It was an illusion brought on by having suppressed the urge, worsened by the combined sensations of harem pants and hours on a bicycle seat. He decided to brave it and venture into one of those loathsome potties to relieve himself of both the merda and the stress that came with holding it in.
Then there’s the Shabbat hosted by the orchestrators of Cirque Gitane who clearly harbored an appetite for the strange. A voodoo man was the master of ceremonies and the menu centered on oysters and suckling pig. Charcuterie (more pig) was laid out on a faux corpse, carried in by the burlesque brigade. For the uninitiated, there’s an irony here in terms of the distance between kosher and what was on offer. But the fun didn’t stop there. The ashes of Timothy Leary, the alleged grandfather of LSD, had made their way to our camp courtesy of his dear friend Susan (again, Sarandon). He’d left her an “hors d'oeuvresie portion,” as she put it. Burning Man certainly felt like an apropos option for Mr. Leary’s final resting place, ashes to dust and all. And, arguably, LSD is to Black Rock City what pizza is to Italia. We paraded, New Orleans funeral style, through the playa in his honor but first, we were served a festive Shabbat cocktail. Only later, following consumption, were we told the elixir had the man’s f*cking ashes mixed in! Maybe on account of the surroundings, I was less inclined towards outrage and took more of a “when in Rome” stance. Still though, a bold move and strange imposition on our bartender’s part that’s left me wondering if I’ve just been hallucinating in perpetuity ever since.
There’s a few other memories with Susan at the center. This all makes some of her recent confused commentary on the state of the world rather disappointing but i’ve chalked it up to the LSD-infused ashes having gone to her head. But I digress.
One friend recently recounted that upon entry into our camp one night, she found Susan walking me around on a leash. That one goes in the “things I don’t remember” category. Then there was the time she offered me some chocolate. And I, too a fault, never turn down chocolate. I’m not entirely naive and realized it might have been of the magical variety but again, when in Rome! Shortly after the slightly strange chocolate made it’s way into my bloodstream, I became certain our camp’s very talented voodoo man that was, in that moment, singing about stealing souls was quite literally stealing my soul. But as I looked for an escape from the circus tent and soul-stealing, I turned around to find Gabri’s goofy ear-to-ear grin and along with it, some relief. He can always be counted on to pull me out of the depths or back onto greener pastures if I veer off course. In daily life, he causes me a daily ulcer but in a Burning Man sort of situation, I find we really thrive. Which love language is that? Anyone?
All in all, we got pretty weird at Burning Man. It was an entirely otherworldly adventure which, having traveled much of the world, is strange to think it was experienced right here in the U.S. of A. I only have the one Burn under my belt. The years that followed brought a flurry of other adventures we tried to squeeze in before having kids. Then we had kids and now the requisites for time spent away are of a less dusty, more reachable, more restful, less arson-esque (see actual Man Burn below), slightly more sober nature.
I’ve heard on more than one occasion from many a childless friend, “I’d totally bring my kids to Burning Man.” To this I ask, “for the love of God, why”? Ok, it offers a feast for the eyes and imagination. But I remember a friend, dressed up as a genie, losing his tin of Altoids I’d come to learn each had a dose of acid sitting invisibly on top. Not 20 minutes later, I saw a little boy running around with … you guessed it … a tin of Altoids. I took off after him but the dust picked up at that moment and he was gone. And in that same moment, I vowed there were only two children I’d ever take with me back to Burning Man — one being my inner child for whom the experience was a mind expanding delight, and the other was the manchild sitting next to me…Gabriele.
If you haven’t yet, there’s no time like the present!