September 8, 1998

The Denny's off Interstate 80 in Reno, Nevada, was packed.

Outside, the parking lot was full of muddy four-wheel-drives. Inside, the carpet was crusted with playa dirt and a busboy waged a losing battle with his vacuum cleaner. A red-faced waiter tore up and down behind the counter, at his wits' end delivering Grand Slam and Moons Over My Hammy breakfasts to the hipsters returning to the Bay Area after the hedonistic Burning Man festival in the Black Rock desert.

Old timers called this the biggest and the best Burning Man yet. Nearly 15,000 people were on hand for the finale, 72 of the most bizarre hours of their lives. A small city was configured in the desert sand, with its own police force (called Black Rock Rangers), fire department, infirmary, sanitation department, and radio station.

Arriving later than most on Saturday afternoon, I pitched my tent in the midst of a sandstorm. Then it rained, and within an hour the city had turned to mud.

During the sandstorm, tents were uprooted, shade shelters destroyed, and people injured. The operators of a 30-foot sailboard on wheels, carrying 15 people, ignored the request of the Black Rock Rangers to drop the sail.

During a gust, the board took off across the playa, reaching speeds of about 30 mph before veering into the giant opera stage and injuring five riders.

Peppe [Ed: Pepe Ozan], an Argentinean who had spent the last year writing, planning, and directing the new-age opera, was so angry that he took a blowtorch to the sailboard. Rumor has it that Peppe's opera, a Burning Man institution, will not receive a grant next year.

There was a dilemma in our camp that night, because there were only nine E's (ecstasy tablets) among 12 people (I didn't want any). They sat in a circle and discussed the options. Eventually, it was decided to dilute the tablets in water and divide them evenly. A few revelers also decided to "candy flip" by taking acid with the E, while others opted for a nice cup of mushroom tea instead.

Wide-eyed and very affectionate, our group made its way out onto the playa. The plan was to go to the opera, but with a dozen high people, progress was slow.

Not being acclimated to the desert gave me a terrible headache, and every beat of the terrible music -- I usually like electronica, but the random mix was a bit much -- blaring from the various camps pounded me deeper into misery. I returned to the camp, took a couple of Tylenol PM, and slept soundly.

Sunday, I wandered around Black Rock City. It was positively the friendliest place I have ever been. Some people handed out free ice cream, while others were inviting strangers in for a cocktail or to smoke a pipe.

A boy of around 25 threw a fit, screaming at a nearby crowd, before collapsing on the ground. In seconds, a Black Rock Ranger was there to talk the kid out of his bad trip. To my left, two girls were chastising a guy for staring at their breasts. "I am just admiring your beauty," he said defensively. There are ways to look at somebody without making them uncomfortable, they argued.

"I am a person, not a sex object," one girl declared.

Outside the city in the middle of the desert, various installations had been set up. In one spot, an old manual typewriter stood on a table with a chair; in another, there was a telephone box where you could have a conversation with somebody back at camp.

As I made my way back to the camp for the evening, a fashion show was underway: Marvin the Martian was fighting for space with two eucalyptus trees as a large, motorized cocktail bar passed by. The boys wore dinner jackets, the girls evening gowns, all of them sipping piña coladas to the sound of "The Girl from Ipanema."

As we waited for the Man to burn, the atmosphere was electric. Drummers were everywhere, sirens blared. A neon horse galloped past, then a motorized sofa cruised by. The Nebulous Entity, a 20-foot sculpture, moved slowly by, playing ambient dub.

Then a man on fire jumped up on the stage and ran backward and forward, eventually lighting the 40-foot Burning Man. The crowd went wild. Naked and painted, a number of people ran around the Man, screaming and banging drums. One couple had sex at the base of the stage. The playa started to fill with black smoke; once the Man was burnt, everything else seemed to catch flame.

Following the inferno, I went to see the Tesla Coil, a 38-foot structure with a thick metal coil at the top that spit artificial bolts of lightning. The bolts reached 15 feet in length and hit various objects that people placed near the coil.

On to cocktails at Bianca's Smut Shack, which was filled with sofas for the occasion. Most people were chilling out, but a crowd gathered in the back. The objects of their attention were two women about 20, who had stripped to the waist and were making out. Flanking the women were two men, each massaging one woman's legs. Up front, a naked looky-loo masturbated as he gazed at the scene.

I had had enough. I walked back across the playa, feeling a little ill and tired, my eyes streaming, my head pounding, my feet sore. Thick, black smoke filled my lungs, and I was sick of the random mix of trance/dub/rave, sick of people going out of their way to be weird.

Then, in the middle of the playa, three camels looked majestically out across the playa, seemingly unaffected by the party. I envied their serenity.

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