Given how much ink this website has spilled over Burning Man-related brouhahas, it seems only proper (if that word can ever be associated with us after last week) that we should write about the main event itself.
Full disclosure: this my ninth year attending the festival. I have drank the kool-aid, wiped my mouth, and asked for seconds. I am fucking evangelical about this shit. This is not going to be unbiased reporting.
Whenever people ask me what Burning Man is like, I answer: "It's like the world ended, and only 50,000 freaky, creative, compassionate people survived, and they built a city where you can basically do whatever you want." I've been all over the planet, and I can assure you, there's no place like this on earth. It couldn't exist. Nothing about it is sustainable. Except the feeling it leaves in you.
If you're like me, the "average" day there sometimes goes like this: you wake up a little after sunrise. You put on whatever the hell you please. You hitch rides on pirate-ship art-cars. You lounge in hammocks that have been suspended 20 feet high, while lunatics with hooks on their boots practicing "batmanning." You ride the naked slip n' slide at the Duck Pond. You go playa-surfing, riding around on a wheeled surfboard with a motorcycle engine attached to it. You give frozen Otter Pops to strangers who look hot. You make out with hot strangers. You watch flames erupt from the tentacles of a mobile steampunk octopus. You bike past guys in full matador-wear, swinging red capes at you and yelling "Ole!" You dance under the towering lasers of the sound camps, stretching across the sky like horizontal heat lightning. You find yourself nestled amidst the petals of a 40-foot tall rose, watching the sun rise over a life-sized Trojan horse. You feel like you've barely made a dent in the wall of fun and wonder before you.
And yet, people still ask why I keep going after so many years...