4:58 p.m. - 2003-09-29
BMan '03: Tuesday, All 5,000 Words of It.

TUESDAY.

I woke on Tuesday to kindly overcast skies, and--with my tent wonderfully temperate--took my time selecting a black chemise and capris, boots, and motorcycle goggles. In what was to be an ittermittent theme, I eschewed a full costume, having no idea what I really wanted to wear.

On the way back from the bathrooms, I was beckoned over by our neighbors to the South. I protested on the grounds that I had not yet eaten, but was unsuccessful in my defense and was gently heckled from afar, throughout the making of a whole-wheat chicken-paste sandwich. My neighbor Rob--shaved bald, sun-tanned, shortish, exuberant with dark eyes--ate part of it in exchange for an ice-cold Coke and a molasses cookie. I didn't want the cookie, actually, but he really, really wanted me to have it. The Coke and the cookie were a set.

Rob introduced me to a handful of people lounging under his netting shade structure--Paris, Bill, Philip, and David (of Thrill Kill Kult, or so he said) and we all exchanged hometowns, which is always the second order of business, after which one is firmly grounded and ready to begin being bosom pals. Rob, a Bay Area citizen, argued that the Bay Bridge was a greater structural marvel than the Golden Gate bridge, and without pause--as if to make some convoluted point--offered me a toke on an elaborate pipe. I refused, but mentioned my great love of watching others enjoy soft drugs (and this I did).

We sat back and watched the morning's absurd traffic go by.

Rob informed me that my camp was lucky to have accidentally set up shop across the street from Pinky's--"the best bar on the Playa."

I followed his gaze to theopen-air tavern being constructed across the street. Fluorescent pink faux-fur was being painstakingly wrapped around the entirety of the enormous structure, including the columns that held up the open roof, the raised dance floor (which was virtually indistinguishable from the bar itself and rather, overlapped), and a crow's nest. The whole joint was twice as large as an average real-world bar.

I set to worrying about whether I would be able to sleep when the bar opened for business--although I have never experienced difficulty sleeping at Burning Man (at night, anyway). I tend to push myself unto exhaustion in the desert...but a good hard look at Pinky's suggested a formidable nemesis.

About an hour into the languid morning salon, Rob decided to go on his daily pilgrimage for ice at Center Camp, and entreated me to come along. Courtesy of Rob, I was already being more neighborly than I had been beyond my own camp in the last two trips to Black Rock, and I liked where this was going; this unaccustomed feeling of casual and thorough Sudden Acquaintance. So I re-stocked my mini-backpack with snacks, water and noisemakers, hopped on my bike and uncharacteristically rode off with a stranger.

Rob knew everyone, so we barely made it across the street on the first leg of our trip.

We stopped first at Pinky's, where about two dozen people dressed-in and accessorized-with neon pink were hammering and fur-covering everything that wasn't moving. Weaving through their efforts was Pinky, a busy-busy tanned tall man in his late 40's, who--as proprietor--ignored the pink dress code in favor of a short red sarong and sunglasses.

"Heyyy! Pinky. Someone I want you to meet," said Rob, tracking him doggedly through piles of building materials.

Pinky turned and registered us both, then headed for me. At the sight of my proffered hand, he said "Don't give me that," and bear-hugged me before I could escape.

Luckily, it was early in the day, and Pink was not terribly sweaty.

"Nice to meet you," I said, as though richly acquainted with Pinky legend.

"We're going to get ice!" said Rob. "Must dash."

We got back on our bikes and rode for another half a block before stopping at another bar; this with a tiki-pagoda, a great sound-system, a large crowd and a volleyball net. I was introduced to more people, including a blonde girl in a white a-shirt, firefighter pants, hat and suspenders, and a guy riding by on a green jet-ski with wheels on. My camera found its way out of the bag.

Rob went around shaking hands and clapping people on the back, and then back onto bikes we went, Rob yelling genially at acquainted passersby all the way.

He has a signature yell, not unlike the call of some great obnoxious bird. The sound resembles the disco standard "OO-wa, OO-wa"--but said only said once, more loudly, in the same pitch. "Oo-OO!" It's useful for finding one's friends in a crowd, or getting an acquaintance's attention.

Rob used it a lot.

He collected me and we rode out across the Esplinade towards the Man.

It was a fine day--the sort that makes you think so continuously while you're living it, the sort that tests one's zen abilities not at all.

We talked as we rode, all the way, about our relationships, childhood religions, our parents, and things we've learned about all three. He told me about his baby son, born of a relationship scarcely older than the child and already waning. He said his girlfriend might show up in Black Rock, and might not. That they were on the outs, but what of the baby? ...There was a lot to talk about. We parked our bikes and stood astride them for a good half hour, just tossing ideas back and forth--delaying the actual errand to stand around at the center of Black Rock and tell each other things we'd never normally talk to strangers about. It seemed the most reasonable thing in the world.

"You're deep," he said suddenly, sqinching his eyes in the sun.

"What?"

"You're a serious girl. You have a lot to say."

...I had never been accused of such a thing in all my life. I was startled. Flattered.

I reminded myself he was probably stoned.

It was nice anyway.

My exuberance is often confused for shallowness, and I have too much fun being myself to squelch it--and am too well apprised of someone's character by watching them pre-judge me to strain at disabusing them.

I've never claimed to be mature.

We rode to Center Camp then, so Rob could buy ice and I could keep a date with the roommate Viv, who was camped at parts unknown.

I was early for my meeting, so I hugged Rob and took off. I found Greeter Orientation Camp (which I pondered apprehensively due to a strong temptation) a yoga playground, the Bookmobile, and the Hair of the Dog Lounge, which boasted a 4-foot plush rottweiler out front and a bar with a stuffed Barney crucified over bottles of booze.

Next to Barney, bartenders had written in thick haphazard marker:

======================

We need

limes
MIXERS
Coke

Do Not
We ^ Need Guitar Picks

======================

Hee.

A man in a pink leopard-print shirt invited me to the Grand Opening the next day.

At 4pm, I returned to Camp Arctica to meet my roommate, who came riding towards me at a cheerful speed in a white shift and headscarf with green converse all-stars, looking breezy and comfortable for one who was unaccustomed to
A) the desert climate B) wearing white or green.

Viv seemed a combination of stressed and pleased, with plaits in her hair, grit in her eye, and the frustrations of her camp's elaborate set-up (and clashing personalities) still on her mind. Not for the first time, I had a creeping sense of gratefulness that her friends--my vague acquaintances--had lacked for car-space and things had turned out the way they had, with fate (and Temek) taking an unexpected turn.

Viv's group are also Ardent Campers, who unpack and camp along the way, believe in elaborately cooked camp meals, and washing camp dishes...whereas I believe that camping is the perfect excuse to eat jerky straight out of the package, and that dishes are of the devil.

Viv was accompanied by campmate Evan, who obligingly took our Camp Arctica reunion-picture in front of an enormous papier mache hand jutting from the ground. We bent over in front of the hand, to enhance a certain comparison to being spanked.

...Well, mostly I bent over. Before I could stop him, Evan also snapped a close-up of Viv's breasts. Her dress was modest, creating extra humor value.

We reclaimed our cameras and rode north up the wee hours of the clock, which neither of us had as yet explored. We found the fire-breathing Draka the Dragon party-train, a few amusingly named camps...ah yes, "Lost Penguin's Crafts & Tats" was my favorite name. Crafts and Body-Painting. I didn't want either crafts, or body-painting, but the sign (featuring a very solemn penguin) brought me a strange mirth.

Since I was familiar with the mighty Draka and many of the theme camps were as yet incomplete, the only truly transcendent sight was a white double-decker bus--a single decker vehicle that had been augmented with an ornate white wooden-filigree observation deck, exterior staircase and stainless steel slide (from the upper level to streetside). It looked like a river boat and I therefore quite badly wanted to go riding on it, but alas, the party barge was docked. I settled for a picture, and we rode off across the Esplinade. As it happened, our camps were within a few blocks of each other.

Viv's camp consisted of a number of individual tents bordered by three silvery tarp-wrapped domes, the largest of them probably 20 feet high inside with an adjacent miniature kitchen, remarkably well-kept and complete; untensils hanging on a pegboard, stainless steel sink and countertop. I envied the ritziness of these common areas, though not the expense, the work that went into it or the reported division of labor.

Viv offered me a cool drink and I gratefully accepted a miraculous concoction of cherry and mango. Campmates Mike, Joe and Jared milled about with their respective juices in hand, and we all lounged together in peaceable monosyllabic grunts. I normally only see this particular trio when out clubbing, so it was a strangely unboisterous dynamic, especially with Joe, a boisterous Louisiana émigré who's normally quite perfect for a conversation. He seemed particularly subdued by the day and without a cocktail in hand. I felt distinctly under-flirted with.

Joe is one such who got me cut off at a bar 3 years ago when I was dancing on a divan and then thought it would be funny to put one leg on one side of his head, and then one leg on the other side.

I actually hadn't been drinking, it just seemed funny at the time.

After a time, Viv & I grudgingly sought out the unpredictable bathrooms and then non-grudgingly found my camp; whose simpler, breeze-friendly dome attracted her admiration. I introduced her to Tem and Skot and got her a Sprite, and the four of us parked in the dome, talking for a little while.

....A day of visiting, cool drinks, hot temperatures, a Cajun and a chance riverboat sighting--it's the closest I've ever been to visiting the South.

The sun fell behind the mountains at around seven, to customary roar of cheers across several square miles of camp. It's as though several thousand of the people who happen to be paying attention to the sunset are saying, "Good show, old Sol. Well Played."

After Viv left, and dinner had been eaten (sausages for the guys, lazy peanut butter action for me) Neighbour-Rob ambled over and treated the menfolk to intoxicants, after which the dome smelled pleasantly like a supermarket produce section. Temek became more cheerful and talkative, whereas Skot seemed downright silly. It was a lot of fun to be around.

I thought of taking advantage of Temek's mood to ask if meeting me had been a decent experience; if he still liked me knowing me as other people do, but I couldn't get over the unbearable shittiness of the question. I instead succumbed to the ambient giddiness and had a few shots of brandy, which was when it seemed like a good idea to install my new bike light, a task which required 3 people, 2 different screwdrivers, a flashlight and 15 minutes of cursing. The idea of doing so during daylight hours and abject sobriety must have seemed so utterly dull.

The 3 of us rode out on our bicycles, seeking Camp Cthulu, which did not materialize despite following several leads. Suddenly Tem was missing from my right flank, if not literally.

"He's gone back to camp," said Skot. "I don't think he's feeling well."

"Really?"

"Yeah.

"He's fast."

"He is."

Skot and I rode Northeast to the edge of civilization--10 o' clock & Vision--and found that the cinema had been properly raised and that they were showing Orgasmo, which was only a third over. Hurrah! We sat down in folding chairs thoughtfully provided for the patrons. It was great. I hadn't seen the movie in years, and the crowd was in fine form, yelling "Stuntcock!" every time Orbison yelled for one, and cheering Orgasmo and Choda Boy through all the fight scenes.

"Are you still high?" I whispered to Skot.

"Ohhhh, yeah."

"Hee."

A giant, cloaked black-bearded moviegoer with voluminous hair--hereafter known as "Hagrid"--offered Skot and I swigs of Myer's Rum from a large bottle, which I accepted in a delightfully tacky plastic pineapple shotglass I got on a bottle of Cabana Boy rum for Burning Man 2001. I am afraid to drink from strange bottles after reading an article about contracting meningitis from strange spittle. Luckily, the ridiculous plastic pineapple just makes me look like I have a sense of humor. Ha-HA!

....I cannot be stopped.

Orgasmo finished and a festive clip show began--scenes from movie musicals. First was Diana Ross wearing a straight(!) hairstyle, looking particularly young and un-alcoholic and singing "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" with a man I didn't recognize. Next was "The Cellblock Tango" and "They Both Reached for the Gun", my favorite numbers from "Chicago". Then came a long-delayed top-speed flight to the nearest bathrooms, featuring a drunken-bicycling navigation system bordering on sonar, it was so very unnaturally swift and straight.

I asked a complete stranger to watch my bicycle, reasoning (rather soundly, I think) that a person of average honesty (and lack thereof) will opt for the former when subjected to a sincere, direct entreaty, regardless of original impulses.

Whether or not I'm full of crap, the bike was there--being kindly guarded--when I stepped out, and that's more than I could say for the posters of the sad "please return my borrowed? bike" signs already seen on Center Camp bulletin boards...

When I returned to the scene of the crime, Skot was gone and something awful was playing (coincidence?) so I rode to a crowded, brightly-coloured rave at 10' o clock and Esplinade--formerly the site of Illuminaughty--where I danced in the flashing lights on top of a small round platform, then tried my flags again on solid ground. The music was loud and decent, and there was an enormous white comfort dome in which you could see the shadows of dancers outside (and on which they could see themselves, causing a happy spiral of perpetuation).

I felt less than perfectly free and loose and inspired, however, and returned to my neighborhood only 30 minutes later, where I was hailed in the dark by two new neighbours sitting in Rob's parlor--Felicia, a cheerful, charismatic brunette, and Meg, a blowsily pretty blonde. They invited me to sit for a few, and I did, chatting. ...Very pleasant but I was so tired that I was surprised I was still speaking English, rather than something I'd made up on the spot.

I toddled back to my tent and slept for 9 hours in my clothes.

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