Burning Man Stories: Wednesday night at French Quarter 2012

The French Quarter was our local hub of awesomeness.  Just two camps down, across a narrow street, it called to us like a siren.  As we were setting up our humble shade structures, French Quarterites were working on the second story of their long apartment block, made of solid wood and metal, and painted up like a hussy.  It looks like a piece of old New Orleans has been magically transported to the playa.  The gifts offered at this haven are many and varied.  On my first day on playa, while setting up camp, the word was going around that they were starting to make coffee, and wanting someone to provide feedback on the strength of their brew.  I was happy to oblige, and soon they came out with some coffee that was strong but not too strong: just right for the playa.   I was going to go back and continue setting up, but they prevailed upon me to hang out and enjoy my drink in their lounge space, to be known as the Cafe Fin Du Monde.  It was rather posh, with wrought iron furniture, comfortable seats with cushions, and a few decorative touches to complete the look of a cafe.  I would end up visiting almost every morning for coffee and drawing caricatures of several barristas and patrons to give as gifts.

Other enterprises at the French Quarter included a bakery, a bathhouse, a botanica, a bar, and upstairs was the bordello, from whose balcony, lovely befrilled ladies would wave their kerchiefs and dance seductively.  And that's just the main structure of the camp.  Around the back, there's also a farmer's market, a brewery, a wine cellar, an elegant cocktail lounge, and a hotel.

The French Quarter Bakery was just that: a bakery, with ovens and all the equipment you'd need to make pastries.  When I lined up for fresh hot cookies, I could see the dedicated volunteers working away back there in the heat of the day.  They also came outside every few hours with trays and distributed the goodies to the cafe and anyone else lingering outside the main complex.  Once it was potato latkes, which they called "latke beignets", because everything served at the French Quarter had to be called a beignet, but I heard they were passing out the latkes around the back, at a different cafe, where they were just calling them latkes.

The gifts at Burning Man are freely given, but not totally gratis.  The generosity of fellow burners is not to be used as a convenience like a drive-thru window, but rather, act as enticements to draw you into and make you part of their community.  At the French Quarter, there was a sign to this effect, saying once you receive your treat or service, don't just take it and run off to the next thing, but stay, mingle, give back what gifts and talents you have to share, even just your presence.  The French Quarter was great at incorporating everyone's gifts and enthusiasm into this New Orleans theme.  The Burning Band, a large marching band including a flaming tuba, plays Dixieland music several times during the week, drawing massive dancing crowds that clogged the streets and slowed traffic to a trickle. 

From left: Phil "Nostrildamus", Gerald "Gerflash", Dave "free radical", Mike. Photo courtesy of Michael Fleischmann.

This particular Wednesday night, my three kinsmen and I were planning on singing our prepared Barbershop Quartet set on an art car that looks like an old cabin complete with outhouse.  Gerald, my dad is part of an international organization of barber-shoppers and rallied us to learn and rehearse a few songs.  He naturally sings the lead part in our quartet.  I sing bass, while my brother Phil, here for his second year, sings baritone, and my uncle Mike, a new burner, sings tenor.  As things often happen at Burning Man, the art car did not show up, so instead we decided to sing as we waited in the line for a bowl of Gumbo.  Our first attempt was a bit rusty and largely ignored.  When we got inside the diner, the acoustics were better, and we sang all three songs again, (Let Me Call You Sweetheart, My Wild Irish Rose, and Sweet Adeline) this time receiving hearty applause from the diners, crew and those in line.  Then we were served steaming bowls of gumbo, and each of us got a shot glass of "Crocodile Tears".  Usually I don't drink, but when I do, I wait for my body to tell me it's time, and this time I went for it.  The name of the drink had not prepared me for the extremely salty taste and powerful kick.  Flushed, I sat down with my folks and tucked in to the gumbo.  Nothing like a fresh-cooked meal when you are camping, and this was indeed heaven.  It was fiery hot, with some kind of peppery sausage in there, and made me sweat and take off my warm beanie, but it felt great after being in the cold night air.  What a satisfying meal that was! 

We came back a few nights later, but were too late in line, and missed the gumbo.  Due to our persistence in hanging around, Phil and I did receive a portion of "pot-scrapin's" a thick hard layer of partially-charred food from the bottom of the pot, that could be scraped off with a spoon.  Parts of it were edible.  While not as good as a bowl of gumbo, it was something. 

Sketchbook page 2: shrine

Sketchbook page: shrine with personages

Sketchbook page 1: entities

From around 2006-7 or so.

Sketchbook Page: Little entities

Burning Man Stories: Sunday Breakfast BBQ on the open playa

2009

Saturday night was an all-nighter for me that year.  I partied and danced at clubs all night.  I knew I had a heavy day of work to face the next day: the camp tear-down, including the packing up of my dome, always a bitter symbol of the end of my burn.  So I was going to make the most of Burn night, ending up at the 10:00 corner of the Esplanade, where the Root Society, a large sound camp, provided beats and jams until the dawn began to break.

Dancing to techno.

Root Society's main dome

A large art-car in the shape of an old reel-to-reel tape player was parked outside, as I wandered to my bike and began to pedal home in the cold morning breeze.  That breeze blew right in my face as I pedaled up the Esplanade towards camp.  I was fatigued from the nights' dancing, and pedalling into a strong, chilly headwind effectively arrested my progress.

Reel-to-reel tape player car

Breaking dawn in BG

Deciding on a detour, I pulled off the road towards the open playa, towards a small circle of benches and fire pits just sitting out in the open.  Some of the fires were repurposed ovens which were tipped up and filled with burning logs.  Others were metal mushrooms with piles of burning logs on top.  People sat nearby on raggity couches, thick wooden logs, and camp chairs.  I pulled up and sat on a log near a mushroom fire, the warmth and comfort feeling tremendous in the bright cold early morning.  Nearby, a tall metal sculpture rose up, with a small platform for someone to stand on about six feet up.  People were mellow, chatting quietly and just enjoying the fire. 

One couple started walking around nearby, both wearing long thick fur robes and red striped pants underneath, with some lines of paint on their faces.  The man kept pulling items out of the bed of a truck parked nearby; this was apparently their little camp setup.  Moving sluggishly, as clearly he'd tied one on the night before, he arranged what looked like vents in a square around the fire on top of the mushroom.  This created a level platform on which he placed a large pan.  He did this with a few of the fires, and was soon scraping congealed fat off a wok.  A young woman was standing on the platform of the sculpture and when the robed gentleman jokingly offered her a knife full of the solid white grease, she scooped up a fingerful and stuck it right in her mouth.  That got an amused reaction from the man. 

Soon, the pans on the fires were hot, and the guy pulled out a large package of bacon.  That went into the wok and made a tantalizing sizzle.  He opened two cans of spam and shook their contents into a pan.  Another wok he cracked a dozen eggs into, and a hunk of steak began to sear in another pan.  His girlfriend helped turn the various meats as he used an ornate buck knife to slice up the spam.  Then a whole bottle of honey was poured over the spam, which bubbled up and smelled glorious.  He sprinkled some herbs and spices on the eggs, which became a huge omelet.  I believe there were other meat dishes cooking too, but I don't recall them all.

Throughout all this activity, the small crowd merely watched, just a bit incredulously.  I was assuming this couple was preparing breakfast for a group of their friends that would be arriving shortly.  I barely dared to hope that I would get to taste some of the delicacies cooking before me.  The robed gentleman set down a bag of hot dog buns, pulled one out and stuffed some bacon in it.  He took a bite, before turning to the crowd, mumbling something to the effect of, "Well, are you guys gonna have some?"  Surprised expressions of "Really?", "Serious?", were heard, and then he said, logically, "Yeah!  I can't finish all o' this." 

I didn't need any clearer invitation and jumped up to grab a bun and tucked some bacon into it.  Hot meat right off the pan was amazingly good right at that moment.  The honey-glazed spam ended up being the highlight of the breakfast.  Who could resist the combination of fat, sugar and salt?

The smell of bacon wafts far across the open playa, and soon enough, a little buzzing art scooter pulled up, made up as a mushroom, four people crowded onto the attached standing platform.  The hipster driver shouted out as he pulled near "Your camp sucks!"  This was not belligerence, but said endearingly, with a smile, and was received in that spirit.  The new arrivals debarked and made their way to the feast, greeted by our host.

I had eaten enough, though I didn't try everything.  Warmed and refreshed, I hopped back on my bike and made my way up towards center camp for some coffee.

Collages

Been on a collaging kick lately. 

The Fellowship of the 'Stache.

Energy Beam Collage

Holiday Collage
Made from the scraps of the Energy Beam Collage above.

Dancing Wood Spirits

These little creatures appeared to me in a vision during a particularly deep mushroom trip. They were moving and dancing in and around a large mutated or disfigured tree.  Many sketches and studies emerged from that vision.  Here are some, converted to small watercolor paintings (4" x 6").

Rebuttals to Common Prohibitionist Arguments 2

"Legalizing cannabis will send the wrong message to children, that smoking weed is ok."



My answer to that is we do not enact laws to send messages to children.  We enact laws to protect people from other people.  This is clear by the fact that our laws do not read like instructions to a child.  They are, first of all, written in legalese which no child would understand, let alone have the patience for.  There are no laws against running with scissors, or staying up past one's bed time, or refusing to eat one's vegetables.  To make laws governing adults based on the desired behavior of children means that no adult would be allowed to drive a car, own a weapon of any kind, drink alcohol, or have sex.

Social conservatives are willing to invoke "Think of the children!" in this one case, to restrict or punish others' behavior, but not to actually protect children from harms such as those caused by prohibition.

Instead of using a law that jails tens of thousands of harmless people to try to send a message to your child, why not just sit down and talk to your child?  Barring that, there are emails, faxes, texts, phone calls, postal service, and telegrams that you can use to send a message to your child.  Let's face it, most kids aren't that interested in the subject of law, so such an indirect message as that is unlikely to penetrate.  Just talk to them, or better yet, be quiet and listen to them.  Maybe they have an important message that you need to hear.