Stories from Burning Man: Insane Dust Man
by Uncle Wendy
Aside from the art, Burning Man is a unique community filled to the brim with every type of person you can imagine: uptight middle-aged office workers, talented sculptors, funky rollerskaters, elderly retirees, hyper-active fire fanatics, toddlers, children, teenagers, lonely drifters, schoolteachers, business owners, and Sting. On any given day, you might meet two dozen Black Rock City citizens, or you may meet none. Personally, I try to interact with as many people as possible. This year, our camp hosted a morning and evening happy hour at our handbuilt bar: Your Mother Bar.
For our morning “bloody mother bar,” we rolled the bar out to the street so that we could offer random passerbyers some bloody marys, donuts, beer and other breakfast-time cocktails. It seemed that most people who took us up on our offer were already drunk, which was perfect. Drunk people have a way of getting sober people drunk. When you’re standing in the full sun, drinking spicy bloody marys that are setting your sun/wind burned chapped lips a-fire, aint nuthin’ like a cold beer to put out the fire.
One guy was riding his bike with a basket full of blocks of ice. When we yelled “Bloody Marys and Cold Beer!” he pulled over and threw his bike down on the ground, ice tumbling everywhere melting on the soft, dusty desert floor. Someone offered to pick it up so that the ice wouldn’t melt, and he replied, “No! Leave it. I was getting ice for some people to be nice so they better not fucking complain that it’s dirty and melted.” He looked like a grizzled version of Jon Bon Jovi. Kind of handsome in a unshowered beerbelly kind of way. He was an entertaining quick talker. While he was telling a story, he wouldn’t let you sneak in so much as a peep of dialogue before cutting you off with a “No, listen! Listen!” and he’d continue talking. It got to the point where I actually enjoyed the conversational abuse.
Turns out he had been on the playa for three weeks, and his looks and smell confirmed this. Insane Dust Man is the name I gave him. I told him that I’d rather not even know his real name. He was an electrician working with the Bureau of Land Management (or was it DPW?) on the event, setting up the elaborate neon and lights that illuminate The Man and other projects on the playa. He’d taken a bottle of wine (his fourth that day) and a jug of water with him to climb the incredibly steep mountain range that surrounds the playa and met this wonderful couple who’re “living off the grid” in the hills beyond Black Rock City. They make their own energy from wind-powered turbines and live a 100% ecological lifestyle.
After the week was up, he wanted to head to San Francisco to do some electrical work, but he said he feared he was going to be offered a well paying job in Reno and have to stay there. His homebase is in Michigan, but he rented that out so that he could travel the country and take electrical jobs wherever he went. I was jealous of his nomadic freedom and much coveted and lucrative trade. He told lots of near-death experience stories and drunken tales from the road involving women he’d met in casinos.
Someone took a photo of us while we were talking and just before the shudder snapped he aggressively licked the side of my face. Then he suddenly hopped on another woman’s tiny commuter bike and said he wanted to try it out. He was gone for a good 20 minutes, and we all worried that he was either stealing the bike or more likely too drunk to remember his way back. While he was gone, someone moved his melting ice and bike to the side. The funny thing was that when he returned from his adventure with the stolen bike, he accused us of stealing his bike. This is when we decided that he needed to be cut off (socially, if not from drinking). So I kind of just ignored him until he left. This is what three weeks of living on the playa will do to you.
Aside from the art, Burning Man is a unique community filled to the brim with every type of person you can imagine: uptight middle-aged office workers, talented sculptors, funky rollerskaters, elderly retirees, hyper-active fire fanatics, toddlers, children, teenagers, lonely drifters, schoolteachers, business owners, and Sting. On any given day, you might meet two dozen Black Rock City citizens, or you may meet none. Personally, I try to interact with as many people as possible. This year, our camp hosted a morning and evening happy hour at our handbuilt bar: Your Mother Bar.
For our morning “bloody mother bar,” we rolled the bar out to the street so that we could offer random passerbyers some bloody marys, donuts, beer and other breakfast-time cocktails. It seemed that most people who took us up on our offer were already drunk, which was perfect. Drunk people have a way of getting sober people drunk. When you’re standing in the full sun, drinking spicy bloody marys that are setting your sun/wind burned chapped lips a-fire, aint nuthin’ like a cold beer to put out the fire.
One guy was riding his bike with a basket full of blocks of ice. When we yelled “Bloody Marys and Cold Beer!” he pulled over and threw his bike down on the ground, ice tumbling everywhere melting on the soft, dusty desert floor. Someone offered to pick it up so that the ice wouldn’t melt, and he replied, “No! Leave it. I was getting ice for some people to be nice so they better not fucking complain that it’s dirty and melted.” He looked like a grizzled version of Jon Bon Jovi. Kind of handsome in a unshowered beerbelly kind of way. He was an entertaining quick talker. While he was telling a story, he wouldn’t let you sneak in so much as a peep of dialogue before cutting you off with a “No, listen! Listen!” and he’d continue talking. It got to the point where I actually enjoyed the conversational abuse.
Turns out he had been on the playa for three weeks, and his looks and smell confirmed this. Insane Dust Man is the name I gave him. I told him that I’d rather not even know his real name. He was an electrician working with the Bureau of Land Management (or was it DPW?) on the event, setting up the elaborate neon and lights that illuminate The Man and other projects on the playa. He’d taken a bottle of wine (his fourth that day) and a jug of water with him to climb the incredibly steep mountain range that surrounds the playa and met this wonderful couple who’re “living off the grid” in the hills beyond Black Rock City. They make their own energy from wind-powered turbines and live a 100% ecological lifestyle.
After the week was up, he wanted to head to San Francisco to do some electrical work, but he said he feared he was going to be offered a well paying job in Reno and have to stay there. His homebase is in Michigan, but he rented that out so that he could travel the country and take electrical jobs wherever he went. I was jealous of his nomadic freedom and much coveted and lucrative trade. He told lots of near-death experience stories and drunken tales from the road involving women he’d met in casinos.
Someone took a photo of us while we were talking and just before the shudder snapped he aggressively licked the side of my face. Then he suddenly hopped on another woman’s tiny commuter bike and said he wanted to try it out. He was gone for a good 20 minutes, and we all worried that he was either stealing the bike or more likely too drunk to remember his way back. While he was gone, someone moved his melting ice and bike to the side. The funny thing was that when he returned from his adventure with the stolen bike, he accused us of stealing his bike. This is when we decided that he needed to be cut off (socially, if not from drinking). So I kind of just ignored him until he left. This is what three weeks of living on the playa will do to you.
posted by Freewendy @ 1:35 PM
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