For 10 years I resisted the temptation to go out to Black Rock City and revel in the inspired insanity of Burning Man. My decision was based on a collective dislike of grime, people who say "playa" instead of "beach," and stinky Goddess-worshipping hippies, along with a general distaste for camping (spending a year living in a tent on a ridge, wiping your 6-year-old ass with leaves, will do that to you). My idea of braving the elements is making it from sound check to last call without spilling my beer(s). Besides, according to such avatars of culture as the Bay Guardian, Burning Man is so over.
But like obsessive-compulsives working their scabs, my friends wore me down. Suddenly, I found myself digging through thrift-store bargain bins, looking for something to match my fluorescent yellow parachute pants and wondering whether a leather Flying Ace cap goes well with leave-nothing-to-the-imagination silver pants. By the time I ran into some other "newbies," I'd gotten excited about ... well, whatever it was exactly that was out there.
In the Bay Area, it's hard not to have some knowledge -- or a strong opinion about -- Burning Man, even if you haven't been. But when we arrived on Thursday evening, I had to throw out my expectations. The whole place seemed genial and orderly, with all the camps in rows and the campers waving as we drove by. It was more like Jellystone Park than Anarchy in the U.S.A.
When we found the site for our theme camp, Trampaloid, other friends who'd shown up first were just erecting the moonscape backdrop. Soon, attendees wandered over to don wings and space helmets and have their photos snapped while airborne. After they were finished, some gave us gifts -- candy rings, slightly bruised fruit, and, my favorite, a creepy "smile extender" -- to thank us. Imagine for a second this kind of barter occurring in the everyday world. Now keep imagining.
All around us, people were bringing their dreams to fruition: a giant crawl-in vagina, a mud-wrestling pit, a 30-foot-high wire ride in which people glided face first into a mattress on a wall. (This year's theme was "The Seven Ages of Man," and we were stationed at the appropriately named Infant Street.) We wandered around, taking it all in, from the Costco Soulmate Trading Outlet to the roller disco site to the whipped-cream- and-chocolate-sauce helpings one couple poured into the mouths of passers-by.
But after a day and a half, I began yearning for anarchy, not gentle frivolity. And then, as the full moon rose and the crowd assembled for the yearly burn, I got what I wanted. The landscape became an apocalyptic free-for-all, as the sandstorms clogged our eyes, noses, and throats and flames burst out of every nook and cranny. Men with firecracker launcher hats walked on flaming stilts, cars covered in yellow fur lurched across the sand, and the scent of gasoline filled our nostrils. We donned our Middle America garb and bad Southern accents and went in search of "the Burning Ham," a fictitious barbecue where we pretended Kenny Rogers would play. Some got the joke and others didn't, but that wasn't the point: This was Halloween on a mammoth level, a place to reinvent and perform to your heart's content.
Naturally, there were downsides. Any remotely cynical person couldn't help but notice the SUVs that pulled up to the burn on Saturday night, or the sleazy men who seemed to drift around the "group grope" camps with their eyes peeled for wayward girls, or the hippies praying to the Goddess of Womanhood and Destruction. Sometime around day three, perhaps as I woke to the feel of techno pounding across the desert floor, I wasn't sure I'd make it through to the end. Since my suggested theme -- "Wash Dan Camp" -- had gone unheeded, I was beginning to feel like a club sandwich made of dust, sunblock, sweat, and gunk. Every pore screamed out either "Wash me!" or "Don't smell me!" But just when I would be ready to cash in my chips, my campmates would drag me over to the giant Scrabble board, or fill plastic bags with rock salt, sugar, and milk to make fresh ice cream, or gather on the trampoline for dinner, and I'd see the world anew again.
Then the week was over. Backed by the strains of the Rev. Robert Wilkins singing "That's No Way to Get Along," we packed up our saris, Twister board, parachute, and trampoline and headed toward home. I thought the experience was finished, but then it took a new twist -- like a roller coaster that takes off for one last dip after arriving at the usual destination.
Not far outside the campground, we stopped for junk food in the minuscule town of Empire. Adhering to the spirit of the week, I let two strangers get in the checkout line ahead of me. When they'd finished making their purchases, the woman turned to me, smiled, and said, "Thanks a lot. See you at home." I was confused -- I was sure I didn't know her -- and told my friend Tim about it. He explained that people refer to Burning Man as "home," and that she was saying, "See you next year." A week ago I would've scoffed at such silliness, but now I felt immensely happy, like I was a part of a community I didn't even know existed. For the whole five days I'd felt very close to the terrific group of friends I'd gone with, but I'd been missing something larger. I was skeptical and shy and uncertain around so many strangers, but in that moment of kinship at the convenience store those feelings melted away. We continued driving, and with each thoroughly dusty car I spied on the highway I got a lump in my throat. I felt incredibly stupid because of it, but I didn't care. I belonged, we belonged, and reality couldn't snatch that away from us. The freaks had come out at night -- and during the day -- and for that week we ruled the world.
Now I'm back, and the workaday world looks incredibly dull. I keep expecting some person dressed like an Arabian prince from the moon to come careening around the corner on a bike covered in grass. Everyone looks the same now, even when the clothes are different colors. Drab, drab, drab. In cafes, on street corners, at clubs, I find myself looking extra closely at people, trying to see a different person deep inside -- because I feel different now, and I bet they could be someone else, too. I feel like my body is filled with new fluids, like I'm walking around with some kind of gestating muck instead of organs and blood and water. OK, I know I'm sounding crazy, but here's the thing: This new feeling is a good feeling. I'm not going to burst and destroy someone's new carpet; I'm just going to find a way to let a little of this newness out, a bit at a time, until this world looks ever so slightly more like the one I just left. Kinder. Weirder. Shinier. Who's with me?
Honky-tonk woman In non-country circles Loretta Lynn is best known as the inspiration for the '80s biopic Coal Miner's Daughter. But to country fans, Lynn is remembered as a groundbreaking honky-tonk honey who scored more than 70 chart hits -- both solo and with occasional partner Conway Twitty. Strangely enough in this time of altcountry boom, when graying cowboys like Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash can sell out a stadium in a flash, female artists like Lynn get short shrift. According to local promoter Ian Brennan, Lynn was "just as much a rebel as Merle, if not more so. Merle was a big redneck -- he sort of tries to dismiss "Okie From Muskogee' now -- but she was out there singing about the Pill to her Bible Belt audience." Brennan is referring to Lynn's 1974 song "The Pill," which carried the same kind of straight-shooting lyrics as her other classic tunes.
Luckily, fans and neophytes can now glean Lynn's prodigious talent firsthand. The singer performs in S.F. for the first time in nearly a decade on Thursday, Sept. 13, at Bimbo's. The show is a benefit for "A Home Away From Homelessness," a local organization that provides support for homeless and formerly homeless children. Tickets are $50; call 474-0365.