Burning Man

The Burning Man Wedding of Bone and Bonetta… Not

/ Curt Mekemson / 4 Comments

Best Donkey Eeyore, Bone in his kilt, and Bonetta with her tiara of roses at their Victorian home on the Upper Applegate River in Oregon.

“I’d recommend that you not go to Burning Man,” Dr. V. of the Medford Medical Clinic had urged. Since I was facing acute kidney failure, we had complied… reluctantly.

The tickets had cost $700.

More importantly, Bone and Bonetta were getting married. Ever since Bonetta rescued Bone from a bone-eating alligator in a Florida swamp last fall, the two have been inseparable companions.

Burning Man was the perfect place for their wedding. Several members of the International Society of the Bone would be present including Tom Lovering. (Tom and I had ‘discovered’ Bone hiding out in the Sierra Nevada Mountains in 1977 and launched him on his worldwide travels.)

The retired Judge Don of the Horse-Bone Tribe was prepared to officiate. Punkin Beth, owner of B&L Bike Shop in Davis, offered to make Bonetta’s wedding dress. Bone would wear his finest kilt, made for him by Ann Baughman of Kansas. Eeyore the donkey was to serve as Best Man. Peggy and I were taking care of the Champaign and cake. It promised to be quite the wedding.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. Bone and Bonetta were depending on us to take them to Burning Man. The nuptials would have to be postponed to a future date.

Peggy put our tickets on the Medford Craig’s list and offered them for $600. Within ten minutes Miss Blossom called wanting the tickets. She had just returned from a Hemp Festival and had more or less accepted she would miss Burning Man. Our tickets showing up on Craig’s list at a bargain rate was a message from the forest spirits… she was meant to go in our place.

By Friday morning we were glad she did. I woke up with a blood pressure of 206/112. “You need to come in immediately,” the Medford Medical Clinic directed.

Dr. M met with me. Dr. V had taken me off of my old blood pressure medicine because of its impact on my kidneys. Dr. M put me on a new one. “You will need to monitor its impact,” he warned.

We live in a world of designer based drugs where the negative side effects often outweigh the positive benefits. It’s in the fine print.

Drug companies don’t want us to read the “Oh, by the way, this drug may kill you.” It’s couched between glowing recommendations on their TV ads. Without government regulations and the fear of lawsuits, it wouldn’t be there at all. Billions are spent working to convince us that brand name drugs costing big bucks will make us happy, healthy and sexy. “Ask your doctor,” the ads recommend.

Drug reps then pummel physicians with goodies to ensure sure they make the right recommendations. Sadly, many doctors succumb to the wining and dining. But not Dr. M.

“I saw Dr. M run a drug rep out of his office,” one of the nurses confided in me. “Why should I prescribe your expensive brand name drug to my patients, when the much less expensive generic drug works equally as well,” the good doctor had said

The man deserves a medal.

I had more on my mind than high blood pressure, however. My urinary system was shutting down. This had happened to me once before when I came off of the 360-mile backpack trek from Lake Tahoe to Mt. Whitney I did to celebrate my 60th birthday. It was scary.

Dr. M pulled up the ultra-sounds the technician had done of my bladder on Monday. A look of irritation crossed his face. “This should have been caught.”  You’ve probably heard the statement ‘full of piss and vinegar.’ Well I was full of the former.

“It may be the cause of both your kidney problem and high blood pressure,” the doctor noted and then drew me a diagram. Sung to the tune of the old bone song, “The kidneys are connected to the bladder, the bladder is connected to the prostate, and they’re all connected to the…” well, you get the picture. Apparently the logjam ran all the way to my kidneys.

Doctors have a solution. I won’t go into the details other than to say it involves a long rubber tube and I am convinced spymasters could use it to get whatever confessions they need. “Not only did I do it sir, but here are the names, addresses and phone numbers of every one who helped me.”

Let’s say I had a draining experience and leave it at that.

“Wow, that’s impressive,” the nurse said as I filled my second liter container and started working on the third. I had more pee in reserve than he had ever seen.

“Wow, that’s impressive,” Dr. M confirmed when he came in. He wanted me to ask the urologist if I had set some kind record.

“I prefer to impress people in other ways,” I primly told both of them. I am sure by the time I left everyone in the clinic knew about my performance. So much for patient confidentiality.

So the saga continues. I have at least resolved the issue of acute kidney failure. They are back to normal. I will keep you posted… not so much because I want to write about my health, but more so because I want to use my experience as a platform to editorialize on our medical care delivery system. In case you haven’t noted, it needs help.

Next I want to turn to the second big event my health forced me to miss: the 50th Reunion of my high school class and the world of teenage angst.

A (not so) Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Burning Man

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“I want you to drink and pee, drink and pee, and drink and pee,” Doctor V prescribed. It was a unique prescription. I pictured myself happily downing Oregon beer. Then he specified water.

My wife Peggy and I were on our way to Burning Man. I wasn’t feeling well and decided to drop by the Medford Medical Clinic before jumping off into the remote Nevada desert. My lower abdomen had developed the personality of a watermelon.

The Doctor ordered all the tests. I was to give blood, donate urine and expose my innards to x-rays. I dutifully ran around to be poked, prodded and pinched while Peggy waited patiently. (Don’t you just love alliteration?)

Anyway, before I knew it, I was back in Dr. V’s office sitting on a hard chair and memorizing a wall chart on intestines. I was approaching anal when the doctor appeared and pulled up my results. “Looks good, looks good, looks good,” he murmured as visions of Burning Man danced in my head.

That was just before he uttered “Uh-oh.” These are two of the worst words in a doctor’s vocabulary. They should be banned. My blood pressure shot up, sphincter clamped down and big toe developed gout.

Turns out my kidneys had joined a union and gone on strike. They were refusing to process the toxins out of my system. My body was becoming a hazardous waste site reportable to the EPA. “Drink and pee,” the Doc ordered. I was to come back on Monday.

The clock was ticking. I would miss the first and second day of Burning Man.

The Rogue Valley Medical Center was on my agenda Monday. My kidneys and bladder were to be scanned by an ultra-sound machine, a sonar-type device similar to what my brother-in-law Jim Hockett uses for finding fish and the Navy used for finding U-boats in WWII.

But first I had to prove myself worthy. A series of small cubicles lined the hallway leading into the hospital proper. I was to report to one. Before the magical machine scanned one centimeter of my body, I had to show I could pay. Hospitals, drug companies, lawyers, health insurers, doctors, nurses, therapists, technicians, clinicians, secretaries, janitors, business managers and at least a hundred other health care affiliates were depending on me. I was at the bottom of a very large and hungry food chain. “FEED ME,” they yelled in unison.

I boldly moved forward and whipped out my Oregon Driver’s license, Medicare Card, AARP Card, and United Health Care Insurance Parts B and D cards. I was a card-carrying member of the Baby Boomer Generation. Plus I had excellent credit. I was prime, well-aged beef. The gatekeeper smiled and gave her stamp of approval. “You are good for a year,” she told me.

The young technician in charge of ultra-sounds led me through a labyrinth of hallways to her inner sanctum, laid me out on the sacrificial table and begin lathering me with warm oil. I liked it. But I didn’t like what the scans showed, a vast ocean of pee and a small growth on the side of my bladder. She returned to it again and again. “I like to take lots of pictures,” she told me. Her diligence made me late.

“You missed your appointment,” the scowling receptionist at the Medford Clinic told me shortly afterwards. “You will have to reschedule.” I had apparently committed a grievous sin. But I was not properly repentant. I scowled back.

“Your office made the appointments,” I pointed out. “The hospital made me late and the technician told me she was in contact with Doctor V. I am leaving town tomorrow.”

The room temperature dropped several degrees. “I’ll check with the Doctor,” she said. Each word was coated with ice.

She came back all smiles. “You are going to Burning Man,” she exclaimed. I was no longer just a crotchety old guy whining about his afflictions. I was a crotchety old guy going to Burning Man. I was ‘cool.’ “The Doctor says he needs you to take another blood test. He will call you later with the results.”

It was his nurse who called.

“You have Acute Kidney Failure. The Doctor recommends that you skip Burning Man.” I was to be handed off to a specialist.

I didn’t have a clue what Acute Kidney Failure meant but it definitely didn’t sound like something I wanted to be caught with in the Black Rock Desert of Northern Nevada. We cancelled our adventure.

Next up: Dr. M. draws a picture. The kidneys are connected to the bladder and the bladder’s connected to the prostate and the prostate’s connected to the well, um… you get the idea.

It’s Not Kansas Anymore, Toto… It’s Burning Man

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Of the dozens of candidates for the Wizard I found among my photos, I opted for the Green Man.

What if Dorothy landed at Burning Man instead of Oz? Would she have known the difference?

No doubt she would have found a wizard and the odds are high she would have discovered a number of good and bad witches. There’s even a chance she would have stumbled upon a scantily clad, very, very bad witch wearing black leather and carrying a whip. (I think I have a photo.)

This woman, I decided, would make a great witch.

As for rusting tin men, cowardly lions, and uncoordinated scarecrows, they’ve probably all visited Black Rock City. Think of tens of thousands of people dressed up in costumes.

I can even imagine Larry Harvey, the founder of Burning Man, hiding behind a large psychedelic screen and yelling at Dorothy in a booming voice, “Gift me the witches broom and I’ll gift you a trip to Kansas.

And for some reason, I'm not sure why, I selected this young woman for Dorothy. Maybe it's a sense of innocence.

Gifting is big at Burning Man. So is radical self-reliance. Dorothy and her bosom buddies would have been on their own in searching for the broom without a corporate sponsor to be found. Nor would she have been able to buy food, water or even a new axe for the Tin Man. Consumerism is a no-no.

And how would Dorothy get home? “Follow the yellow brick road, sweetie, and tap your ruby slippers together,” was sound advice for Oz but what about Burning Man?

She’d be better off looking up the Midwest Burners. They are bound to have at least one Fairy Godmother who would happily gift Dorothy and her scruffy dog a ride home to Kansas… after the Man has burned. (BTW… Dogs aren’t allowed at Burning Man. Dorothy might have been sent packing as soon as she arrived.)

It’s serious countdown time here on the Applegate River in Oregon. Burning Man is four days away. The Emails are flying back and forth between the Horse-Bone Tribe.

The Horny Princess is planning on coming in on Tuesday and leaving on Saturday ‘depending on the dust.’ This is absolutely her last Burning Man she announces for the third year in a row.

“Don’t worry about the dust,” Sailor Boy responds. “There’s plenty to go around.”

Luna is picking out her hat; Pumpkin (our second year Burner) is bubbling; Scout is just glad he doesn’t have to cook. So are we. I heard from a spy in the Bigger Sacramento Book Club that Scotty was modeling his latest outrageous Burning Man get-up at the book club meeting.

Details, details, details… like where are we camping, who’s bringing what food, when are folks arriving and what walkie-talkie channel will we be using.

But that’s easy stuff. We are, after all, Burning Man Veterans. Thirty minutes of chit-chat and everything is settled.

My thanks to all the folks who have followed my Burning Man Blogs this year. And special thanks to WordPress for featuring the blogs prominently. This is my last one before the event but I will be back immediately afterwards with photos and stories from 2011. This year shows promise of being one of the best ever.

Sailor Boy toasts Burning man and shows off his colorful outfit.

My Eyes, Ears, Nose and Mouth Are Clogged with Dust and 5000 People Don’t Have a Clue Where Camp Is… Surviving Burning Man

/ Curt Mekemson / 2 Comments

Radical Self-Reliance is the primary catch phrase at Burning Man. This is my "Bring on the dust storm" outfit. A painter's mask works better but when your Burning Man name is Outlaw...

Surprise! The Black Rock Desert is a desert. Temperatures climb to over 100 degrees in the day and massive dust storms create zero visibility. It is all part of the experience of Burning Man. Veteran Burners call it ‘fun.’ They whine when it doesn’t happen.

After six years I still have doubts. But I guarantee it will be more ‘fun’ if you are adequately prepared

Last year I failed to take my advice. It was a beautiful evening for Burning Man. Temperatures were moderate, the sky was clear and a beautiful sunset bathed the surrounding mountains. A major event was scheduled on the far side of the Playa. The umpteen thousand square foot MEGATROPOLIS was to be burned

I joined fellow members of the Horse-Bone Tribe and a long line of Burners as we trekked across the Playa to the site. There were great fireworks, an impressive fire and all of the other hoopla that goes along with a Burning Man event.

My wife Peggy, our friend Beth and I had just started back when the massive dust storm hit. Everything disappeared.

“Which way do we go?” Peggy asked.

Unfortunately, I had left my goggles, my dust mask and my sense of direction back at camp. I didn’t have a clue. All we had going for us were 5000 other people caught in the same storm.

Someone in a large mutant vehicle filled with madly gyrating dancers yelled, “Center Camp is that way!” and we started trudging in the suggested direction, all of us, lemmings marching to the outer edge. What followed was weird, a Hieronymus Bosch scene scripted by Edgar Allen Poe and directed by Salvador Dali.

Sixty mile an hour winds battered us with dust. Visibility climbed from zero to a hundred feet and back to zero. Other Burners and mutant vehicles became ghostly reminders that we weren’t alone. The three of us held on to each other; being lost together was better than being lost alone.

Time slowed down, almost seeming to stop. At one point a cyclist zipped past going in the opposite direction. “Center Camp is that way,” he said, pointing in the direction we had come from. I was prepared to believe him. Up was down, north was south and east was west.

A thick coating of dust covered my glasses and trickled into my eyes. It clogged my nose, coated my mouth and stuffed my ears. Our clothes and skin became a muted Playa Gray. A full day of hiking and biking collaborated with my 67 years and began to sap my energy. Walking became work. I was not having ‘fun.’

Then, for a brief second, the wind shifted. I caught a glimpse of Black Rock City’s most prominent landmark, the Man. He was exactly the opposite of where I expected him to be and we were further from camp than when we started. But I was ecstatic.  Now I could orient myself and get us back to our camp.

Eventually we made it home, two hours after we left the burn. A box of baby wipes, several sneezes, eyewash, ear swabs and a cold beer repaired most of the damage. Exhausted, I fell in to a restless sleep. Giant dust devils pursued me through the night.

Under any circumstances, our trek through the dust storm would have been challenging. I could have done without dust in my eyes, nose and mouth, however. I now carry my goggles and dust mask whenever I leave camp. Lesson learned.

Radical self-reliance is the primary catch phrase of Burning Man. You are expected to take care of yourself. That means we bring our own food, our own water, our own shelter and all of the necessities required to survive for a week in a harsh desert environment.

Niceties matter as well. You can choose to shower by running along naked behind the water truck or you can choose to clean up in a more private manner.

Burning Man provides an excellent list of what to bring. Newbies and veterans alike will benefit from visiting. I return to it each year.

http://www.burningman.com/preparation/event_survival/radical_self_reliance.html

Being seen at night is one of the most important survival tools at Burning Man. We invited our grandkids to decorate us for this blog with glow sticks. Mom, they decided, needed spiky hair.

Here's how Tasha looked when she and the kids finished. Note how easy she is to see in the dark.

Our grandkids somehow thought I would look good as a chained man with cat whiskers.

While it's impossible to persuade six and three year olds to hold still for night time photos, I liked the sense of movement that Peggy caught.

Quirky Burning Man

/ Curt Mekemson / 4 Comments

This strange 20-foot tall Alice in Wonderland type rabbit is a great introduction to the quirkiness of Burning Man. Photo by Tom Lovering

Burning Man is wonderfully quirky. Want proof? Walk 50 yards down any road.

I love it. Where else can you get a cold brew from a beer tap drilled in to the side of a coffin or discover an army of Barbie Dolls in their birthday suits.

Walking down one of Black Rock City's many roads, I came upon an army of Barbie Dolls in their birthday suits. Who knows what they were up to...

People wear quirky clothes, drive quirky vehicles and create quirky art. Check out the expressions on the fish below and on the Pitch Fork Man. Or what about the Cat Car? Or how about, uh, twin cats???

Murals are common at Burning Man. I love the expression on the striped fish and how the octopus is hitching a ride on the whale.

Pitch Fork Man is the very definition of quirky.

The Cat Car has always been one of my favorite mutant vehicles.

Here kitty kitty.

Naturally, Bone fits right into the environment. Grown men riding around on stick horsies also qualify. We are, after all the Horse-Bone Tribe.

Burning Man is a Bone kind of event. He is definitely quirky. Here, he plays unicorn on a horse's nose.

Grown men playing cowboys on toy horses also qualify as strange.

Here are a few more of my favorite examples of Burning Man quirkiness.

A tree made completely of bones.

The Suave Sphinx.

Desert mirage... a bar with its own outhouse being pulled by a tractor through the remote playa . We climbed on board and took advantage. Photo by Tom Lovering.

Man crashing bike into empty boxes. The boxes were set up specifically for that purpose.

Couch Car.

See through goat with shadow. Note garbage in stomach.

One Tribe focuses on capturing images of Burning Man and then putting them together in photo collages. I thought this collage did an excellent job of capturing the quirkiness of Burning Man.

And of course there is nothing quirky about me. I am the one on the left.