Why I’ll never go to Burning Man
August 26, 2013
It’s that time again. Burning Man. The annual art-fuck-spiritual-crazy fest in the desert that began in San Francisco in 1986 and moved to the desert in 1990. Starts today.
I have friends who met at Burning Man and ended up marrying. Friends who love it as the one time each year they can get their freak on with no judgment. But it’s never appealed to me. Not even in my callow, risk-taking semi- youth.
A big one. Burning Man weather can be violent and unpredictable. Besides being just plain desert-hot as in 90 degrees, partiers have had to content with dust storms, high winds, freezing temperatures, rain–you name it. I like my temperature with a thermostat. One that I control.
The word strikes terror into my heart. Oh I know, some of you love it. To me, camping is like being homeless for a week. I like my house to be dirt-free, my climate to be controlled and my shower to be hot, private and just off my bedroom. Portapotty? Uncivilized. Body odor is not my favorite scent. I need a blow dryer. I like to be squeaky-clean. Camp + Clean don’t go together.
Dirt and Dust
I do not enjoy digging dirt out of every bodily crevice, including my nose. I wear contact lenses. Enough said.
You Might Die
That’s what it says on the back of tickets and of course, you might die anywhere. But I don’t want to die at Burning Man. Drugs, suicide, accidents. Hot springs so hot you need medical attention. In 2001 some idiot ran right into the burn and died of his injuries. There was at least one murder. Need I go on? By the way, drinking water to combat dehydration isn’t enough. Salt, eletrolytes are necessary. At least one woman died of cerebral edema –too much water, too few electrolytes. Be careful! This headline could read “People are crazy” and it’s true.
So no Burning Man for me this year.
Of course, any or all of this might become appealing one day in the right circumstance. Costumes, craziness, fun–all that sounds pretty damn good with the right companions in crime. Although not sure there’s a camp for 80-year-olds. Oh, hell, there probably is.
In any case.
Never is a really long time.
And you never know.