Burning Man Concentration Camp

It was a typical small town Friday night.  In my normal fashion, I was going to stay in the room I rented with my dog, read, play some video games, and otherwise be the anti-social cat I was used to being.  Then I remembered that there was this event going on, the flyer looked cool and two chicks I knew had said they were going.  After letting the dog out, I shambled to the bus stop.  I was early so stopped in to grab a pack of smokes, and while paying for the smokes the bus drove by.  Shit.  I sprinted to the next stop and caught the bus. Arriving at the venue, neon colored lights, blinked, sputtered and threw patterns all over the parking lot.  A huge rumbling bass and fuzzy modem sounds came from inside.  I paid the door, and went in.  There were people, dressed like something out of Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, dancing awkwardly to cacophony of aural atrocities.  A DJ reminiscent of a dreadlocked Jabba the Hut manned the stage.  He was to blame for this full on act of retardation.  I tried to dance, but felt like I was emulating the motions of having a seizure.  How can people tolerate this?

This was my first exposure to the burning man syndrome that so consumes people.  I ran in to a guy I knew that night and ended up playing keys in his band.  The drummer of said group was obsessed with BM.  He was a burner.

I myself have no desire to go camp in the desert with 500,000 other people.  Smaller sized adventures are more of my thing.  What strikes me odd, and incredibly laughable is the metamorphosis these people go through and the personas they embody after having that going to said event.

There are a few attention whoring chicks on my facebook that are these people.  The other night I was trolling through some newly uploaded photo and I saw a comment with some absurd name.  Which prompted me to click the profile.  Alas, another BM victim.  I went to that victims friends list and what did I find?  A list of about 1000 people with retarded made up names.

Now I’ve done my share of illicit psychedelics and I do cherish me a boundary dissolving experience, however, after I fried balls for a week, I didn’t come out of and say, “my name is Rainhoof Jackylflower”.  Sure I had some out there thoughts and was tripped out pretty hard, but I was who I was, and am who I am.  Apparently though, a week in the desert doing high amounts of cokestacy and whatever else you can get your hands on turns a person into some one way minded patchouli pirate with a name that could have come from Frank Zappa, though way more lame.

Examples:

  • Harmonyeris
  • Huta Huta Snow
  • Starmonik Rosepetal
  • Kanyon Walker
  • Little Galactic
  • Conundrummer
  • Luna Breeze
  • Sunkist Love
  • Peachy Poi Walsh
  • Stephinity Meta
  • Sunflower Child
  • Teresita Nomadica
  • Bassignani
  • Violet Aura

They used to test nukes in the Nevada desert, perhaps it’s time to do that again.

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One thought on “Burning Man Concentration Camp

  1. Pingback: Prison: a Practice in Preoccupation | Rojo

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