There’s no place I’d rather be,” a man who goes by the name Rockstar told me. “I’ve written three novels there—in my head. There’s no better place on earth.”
I met Rockstar at Burning Man, an eight-day art festival in northwestern Nevada’s Black Rock Desert. Some describe Burning Man as a utopia. Others call it heaven. Even though it only exists for one week out of the year, many call it home. I was invited to the festival by five young men—Jesse, Maverick, Griff, Coyote, and Gidget (more on his name later)—all aspiring corporate types in their mid 20s. They were “looking for something not found in the corporate world,” Maverick told me.
Based on their experiences, the corporate world lacks luxury RVs, suitcases full of drugs, and the time and space to “explore some sexual boundaries,” Maverick had explained in an e-mail to The Stranger. He wanted to invite a writer to join them, someone who could document their journey of self-discovery.
I know people who go to Burning Man every year, but I’ve never felt compelled to attend because I think Nevada is an arid shit hole and because I suck at art. But I am The Stranger’s Worst EnemyTM, so my editors gleefully volunteered me to fill the open slot in the RV.
“You might as well beat them to the punch and rape yourself,” said my mother when I mentioned my travel plans.
She had a point. I had never met these men before, and my instinct told me that taunting strange men with my good looks in the desert for five days straight was risky business.
“What sort of sexual boundaries do you plan to explore?” I asked during our first meeting. It was late July, one month before Burning Man. We met at the Hideout for drinks and a planning session.
“Do they involve physically violating me?”
“No,” Maverick answered. “I meant like making out with other guys.”
Provided there were gay men at Burning Man—or other straight guys exploring their sexual boundaries—Maverick wouldn’t have a hard time scoring some man-on-man action. He possesses a Hollywood smile and habits such as executing 10 pushups before a date, showering regularly, visiting the dentist, etc. His popularity seemed guaranteed.
Coyote and Griff, fraternity brothers in college, wouldn’t do too badly either. Griff has a good sense of humor. Coyote has a pretty face—he could front a boy band if he knew how to dress himself. Jesse is Maverick’s boss and the only one in a committed relationship; his girlfriend was not pleased about the trip, and Jesse wasn’t entirely pleased with me tagging along to document it. And then there was Gidget, who billed himself as a professional flirt.
They seemed like nice enough guys, but for my peace of mind, good first impressions weren’t good enough. I demanded references.
“I will need your mothers’ contact information,” I informed the men. You can discern a lot about a man based on what his mother has to say about him, and I planned to ask the women for guidance on how to handle their sons via a very short questionnaire: “True or False: My son is a rapist.” Some took weeks to answer. (“Maverick’s never raped anyone in front of me,” his mother offered.) Others never responded. Their indecisiveness was unnerving. I would be packing pepper spray.
•••
Two weeks before our scheduled departure, Jesse, the one with the girlfriend, bailed out. The boys had already put down a deposit on the most opulent RV they could find and now they were faced with finding a replacement passenger on a tight timeline.
Dragon Pilot found us online. He is a 60-year-old retired military captain and Vietnam veteran. Dragon Pilot is fond of LSD, camouflaged thong underwear, and telling war stories. He was the only member of our group who wasn’t a Burning Man virgin.
Burning Man had already been going strong for three days when we rolled in to Black Rock City on Thursday morning after a 14-hour drive from Seattle in our 36-foot, A-Class luxury RV. Sharing a luxury RV with five men is less luxurious than advertised. Half-consumed energy drinks littered every surface. Privacy was nonexistent.
You won’t find Black Rock City on a map. It is not a traditional city, but a temporary community built on a 400-square-mile silt alkaline lakebed known as “the playa.” The alkalinity of the playa creates a harsh environment devoid of plant and animal life. Speed freaks use its smooth surface to break land speed records. Space freaks launch rockets here. And, once a year, art freaks converge.
Even though Black Rock City measures a modest two miles in diameter, by Labor Day weekend it becomes the largest metropolis in the surrounding Pershing County. The population swells to 30,000-plus—people who fly, carpool, hitchhike, and bike to the desert to experience its inclusive communities and to generate art. One week later, the Burning Man—a 50-foot-tall idol standing in the center of the playa with arms raised and legs braced—is ceremoniously burned, and within days the city disappears.
Black Rock City radiates in concentric circles from the Burning Man. Roads emanate like spokes, each labeled after the hands on a clock: 2:00, 2:30, 3:00. These roads bisect ever-larger circular roads. We were late to the party, so we had to squeeze our behemoth RV into the outskirts of the playa, at 4:20 and Hope, far away from the main strip of theme camps holding court on the Esplanade.
The theme camps are designed to attract crowds. Not only must these sometimes-enormous camps be trucked into the desert, erected, and then removed within a week, they must withstand the erratic desert climate, including heavy dust storms, thunder storms, freezing temperatures, and oppressive heat. Camps are constructed from every conceivable material—PVC, parachutes, bamboo, underwear.
Hospitality is a source of pride at Burning Man, and thus every camp is well stocked with alcohol. Stop at a camp to ask for directions, or to compliment a fellow burner’s costume, and within minutes you will have a (lukewarm) drink in your hand and five conversations to finish. Drinks at the theme camps, and whatever else they choose to offer you, are free. Burning Man is based on a system of bartering and gift exchange. Money doesn’t buy anything except for coffee or ice at Center Camp, and perhaps drugs. So to show appreciation for a good host or new friend, burners pass out gifts such as polished rocks, stickers, necklaces, apples, drugs, and sexual favors.
For some, the experience is easy to get hooked on. Take Zebra Stallion. He has been burning strong for five years. I helped him change a flat tire Thursday afternoon shortly after we arrived, and he thanked me with a miniature bottle of Bailey’s and an elaborate blessing:
“Burning Man, I offer myself to Thee,” he chanted, “to build with me and to do with me as Thou wilt. Relieve me of the bondage of self, that I may better do Thy will. Take away my difficulties, that victory over them may bear witness to those I would help of Thy power, Thy love and Thy way of life. May I do Thy will always. Amen.”
“That’s impressive,” I said. “Did you make that up?”
“No, it’s an [Alcoholics Anonymous] prayer,” he told me, “but I think it’s pretty fitting for Burning Man, so I just changed ‘God’ to ‘Burning Man.'”
•••
For the first 24 hours, I could have mistaken Black Rock City for utopia. There is no cell-phone reception, no televisions, no urban noise besides the chatter of neighbors. Everywhere you walk there are elaborate costumes, crazy artwork, and art cars. Despite the absence of trashcans there is virtually no litter. The community motto is “leave no trace,” and people take that seriously.
Burning Man by night is visually breathtaking. The desert glitters with Christmas lights, flaming sculptures, fire-eaters, tiki torches, glow sticks, candles, and tricked-out bikes. From afar, it looks like the Las Vegas strip. Walking through it is like being inside a pinball machine. There are massive sculptures and temples to visit, and all over the playa DJs reign. Their sounds blend together to create a constant musical throb that lasts until dawn. Many people sleep during the day to avoid the heat, but at night the city is swarming with 30,000 bodies, most dressed like sleazy Tron extras. Alcohol and other mind-altering substances flow freely.
The suitcase full of drugs my group had planned to take was the first of their dreams to die. Between my five companions, they had only brought enough weed for two or three joints. Drug quests became the first priority of every evening. Women were second on the list. They schemed.
“There must be women around here somewhere,” frat boy Griff said, “or more specifically, women who might sleep with us.”
While they were hot for women, their enthusiasm for me had waned. Though they had invited me on this OWETM adventure, my troupe of lusty boys were getting cold feet about me writing about their adventures in the desert.
“We’re already writing a rebuttal to your story on us,” I was informed Friday morning after breakfast. The story seemed pretty clear: They were on a quest for drugs and loving. I didn’t see much to refute. Regardless, I was ditched.
•••
During the day, the theme camps host events. Some events are simple and sweet, like S’mores and More (“We have the fluffiest marshmallows on the playa!”), some are new-agey, like Vinyasa Flow yoga in the YinYang Lounge, and some events focus on the exhibitionist freak factor, like the Great Canadian Beaver Eating Contest #6 (“Cum with your towel, paper towels, baby wipes, and fetish gear… Beaver fucking disqualifies.”). If you’re incapable of embracing the costumes, the idealized community, and the freaky AA prayers of Black Rock City, you will stick out as a tourist. This is a bad thing.
Our group had no theme. Back in Seattle we had talked about a homey ’50s-themed RV, complete with an Astroturf lawn, white picket fence, lawn ornaments, and a grill. Those plans had been abandoned. No one’s elaborately planned costumes materialized. Gidget brought a white cowboy hat, black cape, American flag, and a T-shirt that advertised “Free Sex.” Maverick packed a pair of women’s black pleather pants and a matching vest, green nail polish, and eyeliner. Griff brought along an old Boy Scouts uniform. Coyote dressed as himself. Dragon Pilot packed a military bomber jacket, sunglasses, and thongs! thongs! thongs! I bopped around in my pajamas.
We also had shitty gifts. Dragon Pilot brought Mardi Gras beads and glow sticks. I brought a small bottle of Britney Spears’s new scent, In Control Curious, because I figured that after a week of not bathing, my 30,000 new friends would appreciate a change of stink. And if applied directly to the face, it would double as pepper spray.
We were clearly tourists.
Repeat burners are very passionate about Burning Man. Many see it as their only creative outlet, a salve for the monotony of their day jobs. People spend months perfecting their costumes. Women bike around in everything from ball gowns to bikinis to fishnet body suits. Men swagger in everything from stilts and Utilikilts to Mad Max–inspired leatherwear to little more than sunscreen. Almost anything goes, and so for people searching for something tangible to make them feel different and special, Burning Man is a perfect match.
Burners also endow themselves and their friends with distinctive “playa names.” The tradition started years ago to distinguish Black Rock City’s army of volunteers, all of whom must communicate via walkie-talkie. Coyote, Maverick, Griff, Dragon Pilot—these were self-ascribed monikers. For the most part, they were fitting. Dragon Pilot adopted his name from his days piloting helicopters in Vietnam. Coyote subsists on a diet of TV dinners and other scavenged items.
Gidget, however, re-fused to choose a playa name. He left that task to me. Gidget is an East Coast boy, born and raised. He can trace his family “back to the boat”—his forefathers sailed to Jamestown in 1607. They spent subsequent centuries civilizing the East Coast and stinking of money. Gidget spent his youth dining on Senator Ted Kennedy’s riverboat on the Potomac (“Ted’s a good guy”), and his college years partying with Al Gore’s son.
A year and a half ago he abandoned his roots and headed to Seattle to start a rock band.
“To tell the truth,” he said, “I expected girls to be a little more impressed with my rock-band idea.”
The rock-band scheme wasn’t getting him laid. Neither was his impressive lineage. So I named him after the 1959 hit teen flick Gidget, starring Sandra Dee. Gidget is about a 16-year-old California beach bunny and her romantic beach adventures during the hot, hot summer of 1959. I hoped his playa name would help Gidget find his very own teen dream. It did.
Her name was Zoe, and she was 14 years old. She came to Burning Man with her parents, and was staying in the camp next to ours. Gidget and Zoe’s relationship was entirely platonic.
•••
When the sun set Thursday night, it was time to mount our bikes and ride. Most people travel to Burning Man with a bike or art car at their disposal. The playa is huge, and in order to take in the sights, it’s much more efficient to travel by bike or art car than to walk.
Gidget had acquired a bike to use for the weekend from the fleet of bright-orange commuter bikes available for those without bikes.
Within an hour of us leaving our campsite, tragedy struck outside the dome of the Space Virgins Light Continuum. Gidget and I had popped in to grab a quick drink. We rested our bikes against the side of the dome, far away from the bike and foot traffic.
Fifteen minutes later, when we returned from a quick game of Galactic Strip-or-Dare Jenga, our bikes were gone. My bike was on loan from a friend; I was crushed.
“Maybe they’re still around,” Gidget said hopefully.
I wasn’t optimistic. It was dark and would be very difficult to distinguish my bike from the thousands zipping past. What I needed was a Christmas miracle.
“Hey look,” Gidget exclaimed, “there’s my bike!”
Gidget’s piece-of-shit loaner bike was lying 20 feet away. My friend’s bike, though, had been swallowed by the motherfucking utopia.
As pleasant as utopia sounds, it’s an unrealistic goal in a place populated with 30,000 people. Just like any other city, individuals complain about their neighbors. People steal shit. Fights break out. The anonymity of huge crowds and the desert darkness invite bad behavior. And each year Burning Man grows bigger.
Gidget and I walked around for several hours hunting for my bike, or any commuter bike for me to borrow, but no luck. First thing Friday morning, I set out to acquire new wheels. Instead, I got sidetracked. Turns out it’s incredibly easy to sit quietly someplace public and zone out on the scrotums of naked men walking by.
Which is how I met Spirit Quest. He noticed my staring and sat down to chat about his scrotum and ex-wife.
“You see, God created testicles to be mismatched so they wouldn’t stick together and sweat,” he said. “It’s an evolutionary cooling system, or air-conditioning device.”
As to why his wife left him: “I was kind of a slob, but I’ve cleaned up a bit.”
Eventually, I said goodbye to Spirit Quest, wished him luck with his ex-wife, and finally found a commuter bike in a rack outside Center Camp.
But the frame was too small and there was no seat. Each time I sat down, I was firmly violated by my seat tube.
Burning Man has a “no means no” policy when it comes to physical contact on the playa. It’s a good safety rule considering that men have traditionally made up the majority of the population. Because of this, there are workshops taught at Burning Man exploring issues like verbal consent and physical boundaries, and signs in every port-a-john reading, “No means no. Silence means no.” Thus, women can feel comfortable sashaying around, breasts bouncing in unrestrained glory, and not worry about becoming prey for lustful men’s advances. But try arguing that point with a bike seat.
“No means no,” I told my new bike.
“I’m going to fuck you,” my new bike replied.
The boys, meanwhile, had spent their Friday morning at a mimosas-and-cuddles party. I met them back at the RV in the early afternoon. They were very disheartened.
“There were women,” said Griff, “but none of them would cuddle. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you suck at life,” I said.
Scoring no punani, the next item on their afternoon agenda was drugs. They had read about a camp holding a mushroom tea party, and so we rode over to check it out. On the way, I was stopped by a man offering to photograph my vagina—at no charge.
“For free?!” I exclaimed.
“I will take pictures of your vagina all day long,” he promised. “Free of charge.”
I extracted myself from my seat tube and followed him into his tent. I missed the mushroom tea party, but my vagina became a star.
When I returned to the RV, Maverick had singed off his eyebrows trying to light a joint over the RV’s gas range, and Gidget and his 14-year-old friend were bonding over how rad Pirates of the Caribbean 2 was.
Everyone was hallucinating on mushrooms.
“Oh, and Dragon Pilot took some LSD and wandered off,” Maverick added.
Griff and Coyote were nowhere to be found and didn’t return until early the next morning. They had wandered into an absinthe bar and proceeded to get fucked up on mushrooms and homemade absinthe. Several hours into their binge, a 45-year-old woman took an aggressive shine to Coyote. Her name was Playa Pixie and she had come to Burning Man to find herself spiritually. She was also a bigwig in the bathtub industry, Coyote recalled. That night Playa Pixie made Coyote her spirit animal.
“She had a pretty face,” Coyote said, “but her breasts had suffered from age and erosion. They were all flat.”
Drugs and chicks: mission accomplished. Suck that, corporate world.
•••
Saturday morning I went on a mission to find my friend Keith, who attends Burning Man every year. With 30,000 bodies to sift through, we had failed to run into each other.
I was seeking out a camp called the Pink Pussy Cats. They were a large group up from L.A., which was where Keith was from, and, according to Maverick, their camp was “where the party’s at.”
I rode over to check it out.
There were lines of trailers and opulent pink costumes. Everyone seemed young and fresh, even after a week’s worth of partying in the desert and bathing with baby wipes. I approached a group of women and asked them if they knew my friend.
“Nice muumuu,” one of them snidely commented, eyeing my PJs.
She was wearing pink hot pants and a pink brocade bustier with silver sperm-like paisleys swimming across the chest and torso.
“It’s not a muumuu,” I said. “Muumuus aren’t black. It’s a voluminous nightgown.”
All the pussy cats stared at me.
“I don’t know your friend,” the same woman said with dismissal.
Her breasts were made from overstuffed cushions from a really slutty couch, but I wear a nightgown and people point and cackle. I shot In Control Curious at the pussy cats and left.
•••
It was sunset on Saturday night, almost time for the Man to Burn. Everyone else was back at camp, so I rode to the burning alone. It was mesmerizing. It’s always deeply satisfying to watch destruction. Naked fire dancers paraded around the base of the burning man, more naked people waltzed on stilts, and everything was illuminated by the fire of the Burning Man. Soon I was chatting with a superhero named Sarcastic Man.
“Nice costume,” Sarcastic Man said by way of introduction. “What are you supposed to be, besides alone?”
Despite how adamant people were about being open and welcoming, there was a definite rank and order to Black Rock City that revolved around the ornateness of costumes and the theme camps. In three days, I had met two elaborately costumed Playa Pixies and three equally ornate Playa Princesses.
“Hi, I’m Playa Princess!”
“What a coincidence!”
“Are you also a Playa Princess?!”
“Close. Playa Pol Pot,” I said.
You can dress up ridiculously, fuck in public, and make art at home, I told Sarcastic Man. Why spend thousands of dollars to do it in a desert? Was it the suitcase full of drugs and the promise of an appreciative audience?
“But it’s like an altered reality even without drugs,” Sarcastic Man explained. “I feel like I’m dreaming. It’s inspiring and very refreshing. That’s why I keep coming back.”
Most of the people were nice, he offered, but he came for the visual stimulation—the costumes and art projects—and less for conversation.
“In my theme camp, none of us are friends,” he replied. “We’re friendly, but mostly we get together to plan for Burning Man. That’s our connection.”
And what about the disdain for “tourists”? How does that fit into the vision for an artistic and community-oriented utopia?
“Half the people that have been here for years will bitch about tourists, but they’re all welcome here. We all kind of hope that they’ll catch the bug and be inspired to create something beautiful.”
I liked what Sarcastic Man had to say, but I still had my doubts.
Aside from not being that into costume parties, I was sick of meeting new people who looked interesting but turned out to be drugged out, dull, or less complex than the scrotums they were proudly displaying.
My companions disagreed with me. Burning Man was exactly what they came for. It was an excuse to rent a luxury RV, dress crazy, do drugs, and find women. All in all, they found it to be a positive experience, and one they wouldn’t mind repeating.
“My goal,” vowed Maverick, “is to join the Pink Pussy Cats camp some day.”
Maverick had fallen in love with their nubile bodies and bags of ecstasy. His smiles and pushups fit right in.
“The women are gorgeous,” he gushed.
And, yes, there were men who were willing to make out with him.
But to truly fit in at Burning Man, you must aim for the G-spot of freakdom—a G-spot stroked by psychedelic wigs, nipples, and cheekfuls of ecstasy. If you buy into the shallow and the physical, you can easily find a slice of heaven in Black Rock City. This easy success feeds Burning Man’s popularity, and each year it grows as more corporate types migrate to the desert to strip off their suits, don garish costumes, and dance their way to utopia. 
