I am done with Burning Man and am now typing this blog in beautiful, civilized Sacramento, California. Over the next few days I will be blogging about my zany experiences at Burning Man, but first I would like to discuss something a little more real.
Along this trip I have had the pleasure of meeting a wide variety of interesting individuals. One bright young woman I encountered in Las Vegas has kept in touch over the past few weeks, and I'm sad to say she has met with many unfortunate circumstances.
Desiree is in her early thirties, but she keeps finding herself in and out of the hospital with serious medical problems. Due to financial issues, she was forced to stay with her friend and her friend's boyfriend while recovering from a serious injury. The boyfriend was a drunk, and an abusive drunk at that. He threw Desiree out on the street, and now she is stuck with a limited budget and no home.
Desiree is currently living in cheap motels, but she needs a reliable place to stay. A lot of the available apartments in Las Vegas are inhospitable. I have some knowledge of the Las Vegas area, but most of my experience falls in the inhospitable domain.
I am hoping that somebody reading this blog will be able to help Desiree in some way. Do you know anyone looking for a roommate in Las Vegas? Are you familiar with an inexpensive housing option in Vegas that isn't dirty or dangerous? Do you have any knowledge or advice that might be helpful for Desiree in her time of need?
If so, please email me at Logan@projectmeaning.com and I will pass on the information to Desiree.
Thanks for any help you can provide.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Heaven is a Place on Earth
Jim Toreson gets excited when he speaks of his vision for the future of Lincoln Estates, of his plans for a burgeoning community in the middle of the Nevada desert.
Cielo. That's what he plans on calling it. The beautiful town of Cielo. A word that refers to the sky and the Heavens. And for Toreson, a man who has owned 1000 acres in the area since the early 90s, Cielo would be a slice of Heaven.
For the seventy people (or sixty, depending on whom you ask) that live in the nearby town of Rachel, that slice of Heaven already exists.
"It's like living out of a hallmark card," resident Robert Nelson beams.
The people of Rachel are a diverse yet tight knit community. Coming from all over America, each resident has found the town's otherworldly charms and picturesque views too hard to pass up.
Most of the townspeople I speak to decided to move to Rachel after initially just passing through. They would stop in the town for a day or two, find themselves coming back again and again, and eventually realize they liked it so much they needed to call it home.
Despite its small population, Rachel is a destination for tourists from all over the world. Being the closest town to the mysterious Area 51, the town has built a name and a reputation for UFO sightings, military aircraft testing, and an alien counterculture. The Little Aleinn, the town's lone bar/gift shop/motel, is famous worldwide.
There's just one problem.
The town of Rachel and the dream of Cielo can't coexist.
In order to build Lincoln Estates from 1000 empty lots into a suburban town, Toreson needs an infrastructure that the town of Rachel can't provide. He needs a strip mall. He needs a hospital. He needs a police force.
The citizens of Rachel don't want a strip mall. They don't feel the need for a hospital. They shudder at the thought that their town would need a police force.
But with a brand new prison in town, they would certainly need a police force.
You see, in order to get the necessary infrastructure in place, Toreson needs a draw. He's found that draw in the form of the private prison business. A suburban dream scape is a tough sell when you're located right next to a town known for UFO culture. But a prison creates jobs. And jobs create residents. Residents create business.
If you build it, they will come.
The town of Rachel worries about the "they" in that sentence. They have chosen to live in a secluded area, and they take pride in not having to lock their doors at night. A prison will most certainly change that.
So instead of investigating matters of paranormal activity in Rachel, I find myself in a courthouse in Pioche, Nevada, where half the town has driven two hours to protest Toreson's bid to build a private prison five miles from Rachel. They come with a petition signed by all but five of the town's residents.
After a long presentation from an (depending on whom you ask) impartial third party candidate, Toreson begins a slideshow presentation on the impacts a prison would have on Lincoln county. When he glosses over tourism as a benefit of the prison, the room erupts in dismay.
After the presentation is over, resident after resident approaches the board to give an impassioned plea for the welfare of their town.
Prisoners are visited by convicts. How will we ever feel safe again?
I lived in Chino when they put in a prison; one escape changed the fabric of that town forever.
What will happen to our night sky?
What will happen to the environment?
Rachel won't be a tourist town; it will be a prison town.
Not in my backyard.
It is clear that many of these people do not care for Mr. Toreson. They see him as a selfish, arrogant man driven only by monetary gain. They loathe the idea that their way of life could be so dramatically altered by a man who doesn't even live in Nevada.
It is also clear that Toreson does not think highly of many of the townspeople. He sees them as shortsighted, uneducated, and hostile. He hates the idea that his investment could be squandered by a group of people that can't understand that with his business located right next to the prison, he has more to lose than anyone.
People hear the word prison and they panic.
I'm only doing what's best for the county.
Rachel doesn't resemble a small town, it resembles an inner city.
How could they not want a police force?
How could they not want progress?
Not with my business.
The board of commissioners decides to postpone a decision until another meeting is held to address the issues of the townspeople.
This appeases the protesters. They will do everything in their legal right to keep a prison out of their town. It can't happen if they don't let it happen.
Toreson is happy too. Logic is on his side, he reasons. The board has to approve his plan for economic development. Progress is inevitable.
Looking for an outside perspective, I go to Barry Mills, PhD. A newcomer to Rachel, and a man born in a foreign land, Barry has the ability to provide a slightly more detached perspective.
"The two groups could never coincide peacefully. You would have a large population living in suburban houses on a hill overlooking a small population residing primarily in rvs and trailer homes. The newcomers would not only metaphorically, but quite literally be looking down on the townspeople."
And so the battle rages on. One man's search for Heaven has become an entire town's Hell.
____________________________________________________________________
Another meeting has been set for next month. I have kept contact information with both sides and will make sure to keep you updated on the situation. In the meantime, if you wish to offer support, Jim Toreson and the owners of the Little Aleinn both keep websites with contact pages.
www.littlealeinn.com
www.lincolnestates.com
On a separate note, I will be at Burning Man for the next eight days and, as such, will likely have no cell phone or internet access. Consequently, I will be unable to blog for the next week. Fear not, for I promise that when I return to civilization I will have many tales of hedonism, debauchery, and acts of ironic stupidity. If you feel the need to pass the time until then, I highly recommend clicking on the link at the upper right hand of this blog and checking out my book.
Sorry, but I had to make one last stab at commercialism in case the hippies brainwash me.
Cielo. That's what he plans on calling it. The beautiful town of Cielo. A word that refers to the sky and the Heavens. And for Toreson, a man who has owned 1000 acres in the area since the early 90s, Cielo would be a slice of Heaven.
For the seventy people (or sixty, depending on whom you ask) that live in the nearby town of Rachel, that slice of Heaven already exists.
"It's like living out of a hallmark card," resident Robert Nelson beams.
The people of Rachel are a diverse yet tight knit community. Coming from all over America, each resident has found the town's otherworldly charms and picturesque views too hard to pass up.
Most of the townspeople I speak to decided to move to Rachel after initially just passing through. They would stop in the town for a day or two, find themselves coming back again and again, and eventually realize they liked it so much they needed to call it home.
Despite its small population, Rachel is a destination for tourists from all over the world. Being the closest town to the mysterious Area 51, the town has built a name and a reputation for UFO sightings, military aircraft testing, and an alien counterculture. The Little Aleinn, the town's lone bar/gift shop/motel, is famous worldwide.
There's just one problem.
The town of Rachel and the dream of Cielo can't coexist.
In order to build Lincoln Estates from 1000 empty lots into a suburban town, Toreson needs an infrastructure that the town of Rachel can't provide. He needs a strip mall. He needs a hospital. He needs a police force.
The citizens of Rachel don't want a strip mall. They don't feel the need for a hospital. They shudder at the thought that their town would need a police force.
But with a brand new prison in town, they would certainly need a police force.
You see, in order to get the necessary infrastructure in place, Toreson needs a draw. He's found that draw in the form of the private prison business. A suburban dream scape is a tough sell when you're located right next to a town known for UFO culture. But a prison creates jobs. And jobs create residents. Residents create business.
If you build it, they will come.
The town of Rachel worries about the "they" in that sentence. They have chosen to live in a secluded area, and they take pride in not having to lock their doors at night. A prison will most certainly change that.
So instead of investigating matters of paranormal activity in Rachel, I find myself in a courthouse in Pioche, Nevada, where half the town has driven two hours to protest Toreson's bid to build a private prison five miles from Rachel. They come with a petition signed by all but five of the town's residents.
After a long presentation from an (depending on whom you ask) impartial third party candidate, Toreson begins a slideshow presentation on the impacts a prison would have on Lincoln county. When he glosses over tourism as a benefit of the prison, the room erupts in dismay.
After the presentation is over, resident after resident approaches the board to give an impassioned plea for the welfare of their town.
Prisoners are visited by convicts. How will we ever feel safe again?
I lived in Chino when they put in a prison; one escape changed the fabric of that town forever.
What will happen to our night sky?
What will happen to the environment?
Rachel won't be a tourist town; it will be a prison town.
Not in my backyard.
It is clear that many of these people do not care for Mr. Toreson. They see him as a selfish, arrogant man driven only by monetary gain. They loathe the idea that their way of life could be so dramatically altered by a man who doesn't even live in Nevada.
It is also clear that Toreson does not think highly of many of the townspeople. He sees them as shortsighted, uneducated, and hostile. He hates the idea that his investment could be squandered by a group of people that can't understand that with his business located right next to the prison, he has more to lose than anyone.
People hear the word prison and they panic.
I'm only doing what's best for the county.
Rachel doesn't resemble a small town, it resembles an inner city.
How could they not want a police force?
How could they not want progress?
Not with my business.
The board of commissioners decides to postpone a decision until another meeting is held to address the issues of the townspeople.
This appeases the protesters. They will do everything in their legal right to keep a prison out of their town. It can't happen if they don't let it happen.
Toreson is happy too. Logic is on his side, he reasons. The board has to approve his plan for economic development. Progress is inevitable.
Looking for an outside perspective, I go to Barry Mills, PhD. A newcomer to Rachel, and a man born in a foreign land, Barry has the ability to provide a slightly more detached perspective.
"The two groups could never coincide peacefully. You would have a large population living in suburban houses on a hill overlooking a small population residing primarily in rvs and trailer homes. The newcomers would not only metaphorically, but quite literally be looking down on the townspeople."
And so the battle rages on. One man's search for Heaven has become an entire town's Hell.
____________________________________________________________________
Another meeting has been set for next month. I have kept contact information with both sides and will make sure to keep you updated on the situation. In the meantime, if you wish to offer support, Jim Toreson and the owners of the Little Aleinn both keep websites with contact pages.
www.littlealeinn.com
www.lincolnestates.com
On a separate note, I will be at Burning Man for the next eight days and, as such, will likely have no cell phone or internet access. Consequently, I will be unable to blog for the next week. Fear not, for I promise that when I return to civilization I will have many tales of hedonism, debauchery, and acts of ironic stupidity. If you feel the need to pass the time until then, I highly recommend clicking on the link at the upper right hand of this blog and checking out my book.
Sorry, but I had to make one last stab at commercialism in case the hippies brainwash me.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
An Angry Raccoon
I wake up in a different Walmart parking lot, but am once again greeted by a man heading to Burning Man.
This man's name is David. He is fairly tall, with gray hair and a bright orange shirt. He is an ordained minister, a beekeeper, and a philosopher. He spends much of his time working on energy sources and various other technological undertakings.
David is currently walking to the nearby Radio Shack to purchase a rectifier for the wind generator he is using at Burning Man. I am unsure what a rectifier is, but I immediately think of the movie Deliverance.
I am not emotionally mature.
David, on the other hand, has spent a lot of time considering his emotions.
"When you think about it, 'Wake the fuck up' is a pretty great message."
"Regardless, I don't want someone writing it in big letters on the hood of my van while I'm sleeping. That made me pretty mad."
"Anger is an emotion that always come from a lack of control. Anytime you are angry, it's because you feel that control has been taken away from you."
David explains that he does his best to live from the inside out. He says that you can't control external circumstances, so the best way to deal with the world around you is to live within yourself.
"Really, you can only control two things: Your perception, and how you react to that perception. Once I started living from within, I found I was happy, and things just keep getting better."
David assures me that about ninety percent of Burning Man attendees are the good kind of crazy, which makes me feel better about the event. Two minutes later, during a conversation about dead animals with the Radio Shack manager, he casually mentions the raccoon skull he keeps in a jar in lye water.
This is less reassuring.
Still, David seems like a nice, interesting guy. Plus, it turns out he is pretty handy with a tool. In addition to his wind generator, he has brought with him a small electric car (think Power Wheels for adults). And, it turns out, he used to build BattleBots.
Battlebots.
Maybe Burning Man won't be so bad after all.
This man's name is David. He is fairly tall, with gray hair and a bright orange shirt. He is an ordained minister, a beekeeper, and a philosopher. He spends much of his time working on energy sources and various other technological undertakings.
David is currently walking to the nearby Radio Shack to purchase a rectifier for the wind generator he is using at Burning Man. I am unsure what a rectifier is, but I immediately think of the movie Deliverance.
I am not emotionally mature.
David, on the other hand, has spent a lot of time considering his emotions.
"When you think about it, 'Wake the fuck up' is a pretty great message."
"Regardless, I don't want someone writing it in big letters on the hood of my van while I'm sleeping. That made me pretty mad."
"Anger is an emotion that always come from a lack of control. Anytime you are angry, it's because you feel that control has been taken away from you."
David explains that he does his best to live from the inside out. He says that you can't control external circumstances, so the best way to deal with the world around you is to live within yourself.
"Really, you can only control two things: Your perception, and how you react to that perception. Once I started living from within, I found I was happy, and things just keep getting better."
David assures me that about ninety percent of Burning Man attendees are the good kind of crazy, which makes me feel better about the event. Two minutes later, during a conversation about dead animals with the Radio Shack manager, he casually mentions the raccoon skull he keeps in a jar in lye water.
This is less reassuring.
Still, David seems like a nice, interesting guy. Plus, it turns out he is pretty handy with a tool. In addition to his wind generator, he has brought with him a small electric car (think Power Wheels for adults). And, it turns out, he used to build BattleBots.
Battlebots.
Maybe Burning Man won't be so bad after all.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Sign My Van
In the wake of hippies writing unwelcome messages on my van, I thought it would be fitting today to celebrate some of my favorite signatures on the van. So without further ado, I bring you the first installment of "Sharpie Wisdom:"
You can never have too much Irish luck, especially when it comes via attractive women from Ireland.
Despite going through chemotherapy, Sharon has more life in her than I could ever hope to have.
I put this on here not just because it makes sense, but because a gigantic cop wrote it.
Ron, in dealing with the impending death of his father, wrote something particularly wise.
Still my favorite signature. My nine-year-old cousin, one of the first to sign my van, started to write his name, then abruptly stopped.
"Naw, I'm going to write it in cursive."
He proceeded to cross out his first attempt.
That's it for now, but these are just some of my favorites. I have dozens of signatures on the van and anticipate hundreds more in the future. So keep a look out for more "Sharpie Wisdom" in the coming weeks.
As always,
You can never have too much Irish luck, especially when it comes via attractive women from Ireland.
Despite going through chemotherapy, Sharon has more life in her than I could ever hope to have.
I put this on here not just because it makes sense, but because a gigantic cop wrote it.
Ron, in dealing with the impending death of his father, wrote something particularly wise.
Still my favorite signature. My nine-year-old cousin, one of the first to sign my van, started to write his name, then abruptly stopped.
"Naw, I'm going to write it in cursive."
He proceeded to cross out his first attempt.
That's it for now, but these are just some of my favorites. I have dozens of signatures on the van and anticipate hundreds more in the future. So keep a look out for more "Sharpie Wisdom" in the coming weeks.
As always,
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Hippies Don't Take Punches Well
My current "facebook" status reads as follows:
"Logan is hoping to overcome his fear of hippies by attending Burning Man next week.”
I hate it when “facebook” makes me write in third person.
While patiently waiting to attend this year's Burning Man, I have set up camp at a Walmart in Reno, Nevada, the big city closest to the event. Part of me is worried about attending Burning Man. The truth is, more often than not, hippies really annoy me.
Everyone has people they don't naturally click with. That doesn't mean that you can't learn to like and appreciate these people, just that it might take a little more work due to a natural aversion. I am no different.
Perhaps I don't like hippies because, though we share many of the same ideals, they have a tendency of taking these ideals too far with no appreciation for reality, thus giving said ideals a bad name. Then again, maybe it's just the smell.
This anti-hippie attitude is one of the main reasons I feel the need to attend Burning Man. I've found that generally the best way to gain an appreciation for a group of people is to immerse yourself in that culture and learn from them. Maybe I'm naive, but I still feel that most people have good intentions and that in the end, to know someone better is to like someone better.
This theory is being tested heavily already, and Burning Man hasn't even started. I awake this morning in a Walmart parking lot with an overwhelming urge to pee. Opening my van doors, I step onto the asphalt in a daze.
"Good morning! Did you sleep alright?"
I ignore the call, assuming it is being addressed to someone else. I soon realize that the two men stepping out of a red car fifty yards away are speaking to me.
"Oh, hey," I say skeptically. "How are you doing?"
"You heading to Burning Man?" one man asks. He is small, with a limp handshake. The cheese in his beard distracts me.
"Yeah, I'm heading to Burning Man." Am I that transparent?
"Us too."
The man pauses. For a second I see fear in his eyes. Why? Have I been anything but warm? There is something off about the man. He can hold a reasonable conversation, but there is an empty shiftiness in his eyes. If body language did not exist, he would not seem odd, but given the circumstances, he comes across as sincerely creepy.
His friend is actually quite nice. He is also small, with long hair and a cheese-free mustache.
"Yeah, we checked out your website," he offers. "It looks very cool."
"Thanks," I say, looking for a way to exit. "Well, I've got to go to Starbucks and write a blog, so..."
"Yeah, we're pretty busy," says Creepy Guy. "I'm sure you are too."
I head into Walmart, make use of the restroom, then head back to my van. Feeling bad about judging the man I now refer to as Creepy Guy, I decide to offer an olive branch.
"Hey, you guys wanna sign my van?"
"Oh, we've already taken care of that," Creepy guy says in an ominous tone.
Uh-oh.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I glance down at a new signature that displays two stoner nicknames, the date and "Burning Man." A little creepy that it was done without my permission in a Walmart parking lot while I was sleeping inside? Sure. But at least it is small and tactful.
I head to the nearest gas station and start to fill up. Finding the experience I just had amusingly eerie, I phone my best friend and recall the story. As I do, I cross the front of the van.
"I'm just glad they didn't write anything..."
"Son of a ..."
Across the hood of my van, in giant letters from the same marker:
I am furious. The worst part is not that they graffitied my van, but that they did it knowing I was sleeping inside at the time. Against my friend's wishes, I walk back towards the Walmart to confront the disrespectful hippies. Seeing their car empty, I head into the store.
They are easy to find.
"Did you write 'Wake the F up' on the hood of my van?"
"Huh? No."
"You didn't? So it just happened to show up the same night as you wrote on it in the same marker?"
"We didn't write that. You saw the small one right?"
"Yeah. In the same marker. If you didn't write it, then who wrote it?"
"The other guy. Remember how I told you the other guy was there? We gave him the marker."
I do not remember him talking about the other guy.
"That is not cool with me."
It occurs to me that I am angry and that I tower over the men. They are clearly scared, but I do not care. I am standing to the side of their shopping cart and a couple feet away.
"I am not comfortable with this," Creepy Guy says. "This is not okay."
"I am not okay with what was written on my van."
"I have things to do."
"I'm not stopping you. I just think you should know that your actions have consequences."
"How much clearer do I have to be that I don't want him here?" Creepy Guy asks his friend in a whiny tone that makes me rue the fact that I am not a violent man.
I glare at them.
"I don't know," his friend responds. "I think I'd be mad too."
"I have things to do," Creepy Guy insists, his eyes once again betraying his confidence.
It is clear that he is beyond offering an apology.
I am beyond wanting one, so I walk away, shaking my head.
When I get to Starbucks to write my blog, I check my email. The first message I read comes from a friend, responding to my “facebook” status.
"Don't trust hippies. They'll make you think they're cute and cuddly, and just when you let your guard down, they'll inject you with their poison. It's true, hippies are poisonous. More so than spiders."
Burning Man looks less and less promising every day. But I feel I must give it a chance. Besides, based on my limited research, "Ministry of Alchemy" will be there, roaming the desert with his fellow hippies.
I don't wish him ill, but it would be nice to get an apology...and maybe some white-out.
"Logan is hoping to overcome his fear of hippies by attending Burning Man next week.”
I hate it when “facebook” makes me write in third person.
While patiently waiting to attend this year's Burning Man, I have set up camp at a Walmart in Reno, Nevada, the big city closest to the event. Part of me is worried about attending Burning Man. The truth is, more often than not, hippies really annoy me.
Everyone has people they don't naturally click with. That doesn't mean that you can't learn to like and appreciate these people, just that it might take a little more work due to a natural aversion. I am no different.
Perhaps I don't like hippies because, though we share many of the same ideals, they have a tendency of taking these ideals too far with no appreciation for reality, thus giving said ideals a bad name. Then again, maybe it's just the smell.
This anti-hippie attitude is one of the main reasons I feel the need to attend Burning Man. I've found that generally the best way to gain an appreciation for a group of people is to immerse yourself in that culture and learn from them. Maybe I'm naive, but I still feel that most people have good intentions and that in the end, to know someone better is to like someone better.
This theory is being tested heavily already, and Burning Man hasn't even started. I awake this morning in a Walmart parking lot with an overwhelming urge to pee. Opening my van doors, I step onto the asphalt in a daze.
"Good morning! Did you sleep alright?"
I ignore the call, assuming it is being addressed to someone else. I soon realize that the two men stepping out of a red car fifty yards away are speaking to me.
"Oh, hey," I say skeptically. "How are you doing?"
"You heading to Burning Man?" one man asks. He is small, with a limp handshake. The cheese in his beard distracts me.
"Yeah, I'm heading to Burning Man." Am I that transparent?
"Us too."
The man pauses. For a second I see fear in his eyes. Why? Have I been anything but warm? There is something off about the man. He can hold a reasonable conversation, but there is an empty shiftiness in his eyes. If body language did not exist, he would not seem odd, but given the circumstances, he comes across as sincerely creepy.
His friend is actually quite nice. He is also small, with long hair and a cheese-free mustache.
"Yeah, we checked out your website," he offers. "It looks very cool."
"Thanks," I say, looking for a way to exit. "Well, I've got to go to Starbucks and write a blog, so..."
"Yeah, we're pretty busy," says Creepy Guy. "I'm sure you are too."
I head into Walmart, make use of the restroom, then head back to my van. Feeling bad about judging the man I now refer to as Creepy Guy, I decide to offer an olive branch.
"Hey, you guys wanna sign my van?"
"Oh, we've already taken care of that," Creepy guy says in an ominous tone.
Uh-oh.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I glance down at a new signature that displays two stoner nicknames, the date and "Burning Man." A little creepy that it was done without my permission in a Walmart parking lot while I was sleeping inside? Sure. But at least it is small and tactful.
I head to the nearest gas station and start to fill up. Finding the experience I just had amusingly eerie, I phone my best friend and recall the story. As I do, I cross the front of the van.
"I'm just glad they didn't write anything..."
"Son of a ..."
Across the hood of my van, in giant letters from the same marker:
I am furious. The worst part is not that they graffitied my van, but that they did it knowing I was sleeping inside at the time. Against my friend's wishes, I walk back towards the Walmart to confront the disrespectful hippies. Seeing their car empty, I head into the store.
They are easy to find.
"Did you write 'Wake the F up' on the hood of my van?"
"Huh? No."
"You didn't? So it just happened to show up the same night as you wrote on it in the same marker?"
"We didn't write that. You saw the small one right?"
"Yeah. In the same marker. If you didn't write it, then who wrote it?"
"The other guy. Remember how I told you the other guy was there? We gave him the marker."
I do not remember him talking about the other guy.
"That is not cool with me."
It occurs to me that I am angry and that I tower over the men. They are clearly scared, but I do not care. I am standing to the side of their shopping cart and a couple feet away.
"I am not comfortable with this," Creepy Guy says. "This is not okay."
"I am not okay with what was written on my van."
"I have things to do."
"I'm not stopping you. I just think you should know that your actions have consequences."
"How much clearer do I have to be that I don't want him here?" Creepy Guy asks his friend in a whiny tone that makes me rue the fact that I am not a violent man.
I glare at them.
"I don't know," his friend responds. "I think I'd be mad too."
"I have things to do," Creepy Guy insists, his eyes once again betraying his confidence.
It is clear that he is beyond offering an apology.
I am beyond wanting one, so I walk away, shaking my head.
When I get to Starbucks to write my blog, I check my email. The first message I read comes from a friend, responding to my “facebook” status.
"Don't trust hippies. They'll make you think they're cute and cuddly, and just when you let your guard down, they'll inject you with their poison. It's true, hippies are poisonous. More so than spiders."
Burning Man looks less and less promising every day. But I feel I must give it a chance. Besides, based on my limited research, "Ministry of Alchemy" will be there, roaming the desert with his fellow hippies.
I don't wish him ill, but it would be nice to get an apology...and maybe some white-out.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
An Alien Encounter
Barry Mills has a PhD, but when I meet him he is washing dishes for seven dollars an hour.
Barry is...what's the word...different.
He stands out, even in a town noted for UFO enthusiasts. It could be his posh British accent. Or his unusually diverse vocabulary. Or his long lanky frame.
More than likely, it is because he has braided his beard so that several long straight patches of hair dangle from his chin.
"When I came here from Britain, I was an illegal alien. Now, you'll notice," he remarks as he flips his mop to the side and gestures to his Little Alienn shirt, apron, and trademark beard, "I've become a different type of alien altogether."
Rachel is hosting a "midnight marathon" where hundreds of people gather to run twenty-six miles in the darkness of the Nevada desert. In anticipation of the increased business, the staff of the Little Alienn are hustling around the kitchen in preparation.
Pat, the owner, is busy showing newcomer Barry how to flip the eggs in a skillet. Since she and her daughter were so nice as to comp me a room for two nights, I feel it only fair to offer my services. Barry asks how good I am at washing dishes.
"I'm reasonably competent."
"Great. Now you can practice on these and become brilliant at it."
I ask Barry why he finds himself in the small town of Rachel.
"I actually came here at night the first time. I drove past the town and set up camp further up the road. The next morning when I woke up, I swung the back doors of my van open, looked down upon Rachel, and said to myself, This...This is where I must live."
Barry is very entertaining to talk to. It is clear that Barry enjoys discussing everything from homelessness to the intricacies of French vocabulary, but before we are ever able to get too deep into a discussion, he makes sure to turn his focus back to the work at hand.
Looking at the pile of dishes I have stacked on the drying table, he grabs a bowl and turns it upside down.
"What might be more immediately apparent to the non-collegiate mind," he offers, "is that the bowls will dry much faster this way."
"That's the nicest way anyone has ever called me educated but stupid."
"Well, if you understood, I guess you couldn't be that stupid."
Before I leave Rachel, I ask Barry what he has found throughout his travels.
"I've found that eighty-five percent of the human race is selfish, loathsome and despicable; that they'll do anything to help themselves. But that the other fifteen percent are the exact opposite; absolutely wonderful and selfless. There is no middle ground."
"What else have you learned about life?"
"Never underestimate the importance of raspberries and custard."
This is what he writes on my van when his shift slows down. As he is doing so, I remark how much I respect his willingness to do work for scratch in the name of adventure. This leads to a discussion about his wife, who works as a lawyer.
"She's fifteen years younger than me, so she hasn't come around to the idea that spending her life behind a desk might not be the best use of her time."
He tells me that he and his wife get to spend about fifteen weeks a year together, but that hopefully that will increase in the future.
"She's come around a little to my style of living... mainly because she loves me. I should go, I think I just heard Pat take an order."
He rushes back into the bar. Before I head out, I give him my business card and thank him for his help.
"I should add one more thing," he notes. "If you ever come across one of the fifteen percent, hold on to that person."
"Oh, and check out BarryMillsPhD.com."
It turns out Barry and I aren't so different after all.
Barry is...what's the word...different.
He stands out, even in a town noted for UFO enthusiasts. It could be his posh British accent. Or his unusually diverse vocabulary. Or his long lanky frame.
More than likely, it is because he has braided his beard so that several long straight patches of hair dangle from his chin.
"When I came here from Britain, I was an illegal alien. Now, you'll notice," he remarks as he flips his mop to the side and gestures to his Little Alienn shirt, apron, and trademark beard, "I've become a different type of alien altogether."
Rachel is hosting a "midnight marathon" where hundreds of people gather to run twenty-six miles in the darkness of the Nevada desert. In anticipation of the increased business, the staff of the Little Alienn are hustling around the kitchen in preparation.
Pat, the owner, is busy showing newcomer Barry how to flip the eggs in a skillet. Since she and her daughter were so nice as to comp me a room for two nights, I feel it only fair to offer my services. Barry asks how good I am at washing dishes.
"I'm reasonably competent."
"Great. Now you can practice on these and become brilliant at it."
I ask Barry why he finds himself in the small town of Rachel.
"I actually came here at night the first time. I drove past the town and set up camp further up the road. The next morning when I woke up, I swung the back doors of my van open, looked down upon Rachel, and said to myself, This...This is where I must live."
Barry is very entertaining to talk to. It is clear that Barry enjoys discussing everything from homelessness to the intricacies of French vocabulary, but before we are ever able to get too deep into a discussion, he makes sure to turn his focus back to the work at hand.
Looking at the pile of dishes I have stacked on the drying table, he grabs a bowl and turns it upside down.
"What might be more immediately apparent to the non-collegiate mind," he offers, "is that the bowls will dry much faster this way."
"That's the nicest way anyone has ever called me educated but stupid."
"Well, if you understood, I guess you couldn't be that stupid."
Before I leave Rachel, I ask Barry what he has found throughout his travels.
"I've found that eighty-five percent of the human race is selfish, loathsome and despicable; that they'll do anything to help themselves. But that the other fifteen percent are the exact opposite; absolutely wonderful and selfless. There is no middle ground."
"What else have you learned about life?"
"Never underestimate the importance of raspberries and custard."
This is what he writes on my van when his shift slows down. As he is doing so, I remark how much I respect his willingness to do work for scratch in the name of adventure. This leads to a discussion about his wife, who works as a lawyer.
"She's fifteen years younger than me, so she hasn't come around to the idea that spending her life behind a desk might not be the best use of her time."
He tells me that he and his wife get to spend about fifteen weeks a year together, but that hopefully that will increase in the future.
"She's come around a little to my style of living... mainly because she loves me. I should go, I think I just heard Pat take an order."
He rushes back into the bar. Before I head out, I give him my business card and thank him for his help.
"I should add one more thing," he notes. "If you ever come across one of the fifteen percent, hold on to that person."
"Oh, and check out BarryMillsPhD.com."
It turns out Barry and I aren't so different after all.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Tourist Traps
Rachel, being the nearest town to the mysterious Area 51, has made sure to capitalize on its location. The Little Aleinn is otherworldy, and intentionally so. Tourists come from all over the planet (and arguably beyond) to visit the motel/gift shop/bar and revel in their own unique alien encounter.
Despite being located in the middle of the Nevada Desert, Rachel does a commendable job of bringing back repeat customers. At the bar I meet a couple from Connecticut that make a point to visit Rachel whenever possible.
Walter and Lizzie are not your average tourists. Walter is tall (maybe 6'4), wears camouflage pants, and looks suspiciously like Benicio Del Toro. Lizzie is short (maybe 5'4), wears denim shorts and sunglasses, and bears no resemblance to anyone in the cast of Snatch. Walter is an electrician and Lizzie a bus driver, and they both frequent their local yacht club, which they assure me does not possess the affectations one immediately associates with your typical yacht club.
I will never run into Walter and Lizzie at Disneyland. Their opinion of a good time is driving through the desert, searching for the type of thrill you can't get in Anaheim. Walter's most recent passion is hunting down crashed jets. There are plenty of locations in the area where high tech experimental aircrafts have met their demise. Walter, a man filled with more information on jets than one could possibly imagine, has seen some amazing views by pursuing crash sites.
This sounds like a potentially interesting venture, so when the couple offers to bring me along for their latest trip, I jump at the opportunity. Our first destination is the closed tungsten mine that Rachel was founded upon. Walter has heard about a site where a plane has crashed nearby the mine, so we head down the dirt road that circles the area.
The mine is surrounded by barbed wire and no trespassing signs and, given my fundamental lack of knowledge on tungsten, I decide not to press my luck by exploring further. I turn my attention to scanning the sides of the road for shiny metallic objects.
"Sometimes they are hard to see. You could easily drive right by the crash if you're not looking," Walter warns. "Scavengers tend to pick the sites clean to sell the jet parts on ebay."
Unfortunately, the only shiny object we see is the remains of a tent, not a jet. As we head past the mine and closer to the main road (if you can call it that) I turn my attention to the thinnest cow I have ever seen. The thing is so lean it looks like it works out, but judging by the overwhelming amount of insects circling it, that might not be a good trait in a bovine.
Before I can contemplate the intricacies of heifer health, I am startled by a loud popping noise and a sudden jolt of the car. The desert is not a great place to blow a tire.
"Whoohoo! Yes! That's what I'm talking about!"
Walter throws his hands up in the air, laughs aloud, and exuberantly hops out of the car.
Maybe I should quit jumping into the cars of strangers.
Lizzie looks similarly concerned.
"Did we just blow a tire?" she asks under her breath.
Walter laughs again.
"No. That was it. A sonic boom."
I look up to see a jet in the distance. It turns out many of the jets in the area are capable of breaking the sound barrier, resulting in loud thunder-like eruptions of sound.
“That was nothing. When they get real close the sonic booms can blow you away.”
I am very excited about the sonic boom, not only because it is a new experience, but also because it explains Walter’s reaction and I am no longer worried about the car’s trunk space.
Our next destination is the front gate of Area 51. To get there, we pass what I’m told is the world’s most photographed and possibly most famous mailbox. It is owned by a nearby rancher and is noted as the spot of numerous UFO sightings. To many, it is a symbol of wonder and excitement, a gateway to another existence.
To me, it is a mailbox.
After eight miles of Joshua trees, we come upon the entrance to Area 51 (incidentally the site of top secret military activity). At the entrance is a privately contracted security vehicle and a sign warning against photography. The sign looks like this:
We wait by the entrance for a couple minutes, then turn around. I later relish this decision when I read the consequences of passing the sign.
+ Your vehicle is impounded.
+ You are taken to the nearest jail (a two hour drive ) and fined several hundred dollars.
+ Security is lawfully authorized to shoot.
Instead, we decide to head to beautiful Coyote Summit, hike to the top, and watch the Red-Flag jets fly by. This experience includes picturesque views, state of the art jets, and very little chance of getting shot.
Now that’s what I call a good idea.
Despite being located in the middle of the Nevada Desert, Rachel does a commendable job of bringing back repeat customers. At the bar I meet a couple from Connecticut that make a point to visit Rachel whenever possible.
Walter and Lizzie are not your average tourists. Walter is tall (maybe 6'4), wears camouflage pants, and looks suspiciously like Benicio Del Toro. Lizzie is short (maybe 5'4), wears denim shorts and sunglasses, and bears no resemblance to anyone in the cast of Snatch. Walter is an electrician and Lizzie a bus driver, and they both frequent their local yacht club, which they assure me does not possess the affectations one immediately associates with your typical yacht club.
I will never run into Walter and Lizzie at Disneyland. Their opinion of a good time is driving through the desert, searching for the type of thrill you can't get in Anaheim. Walter's most recent passion is hunting down crashed jets. There are plenty of locations in the area where high tech experimental aircrafts have met their demise. Walter, a man filled with more information on jets than one could possibly imagine, has seen some amazing views by pursuing crash sites.
This sounds like a potentially interesting venture, so when the couple offers to bring me along for their latest trip, I jump at the opportunity. Our first destination is the closed tungsten mine that Rachel was founded upon. Walter has heard about a site where a plane has crashed nearby the mine, so we head down the dirt road that circles the area.
The mine is surrounded by barbed wire and no trespassing signs and, given my fundamental lack of knowledge on tungsten, I decide not to press my luck by exploring further. I turn my attention to scanning the sides of the road for shiny metallic objects.
"Sometimes they are hard to see. You could easily drive right by the crash if you're not looking," Walter warns. "Scavengers tend to pick the sites clean to sell the jet parts on ebay."
Unfortunately, the only shiny object we see is the remains of a tent, not a jet. As we head past the mine and closer to the main road (if you can call it that) I turn my attention to the thinnest cow I have ever seen. The thing is so lean it looks like it works out, but judging by the overwhelming amount of insects circling it, that might not be a good trait in a bovine.
Before I can contemplate the intricacies of heifer health, I am startled by a loud popping noise and a sudden jolt of the car. The desert is not a great place to blow a tire.
"Whoohoo! Yes! That's what I'm talking about!"
Walter throws his hands up in the air, laughs aloud, and exuberantly hops out of the car.
Maybe I should quit jumping into the cars of strangers.
Lizzie looks similarly concerned.
"Did we just blow a tire?" she asks under her breath.
Walter laughs again.
"No. That was it. A sonic boom."
I look up to see a jet in the distance. It turns out many of the jets in the area are capable of breaking the sound barrier, resulting in loud thunder-like eruptions of sound.
“That was nothing. When they get real close the sonic booms can blow you away.”
I am very excited about the sonic boom, not only because it is a new experience, but also because it explains Walter’s reaction and I am no longer worried about the car’s trunk space.
Our next destination is the front gate of Area 51. To get there, we pass what I’m told is the world’s most photographed and possibly most famous mailbox. It is owned by a nearby rancher and is noted as the spot of numerous UFO sightings. To many, it is a symbol of wonder and excitement, a gateway to another existence.
To me, it is a mailbox.
After eight miles of Joshua trees, we come upon the entrance to Area 51 (incidentally the site of top secret military activity). At the entrance is a privately contracted security vehicle and a sign warning against photography. The sign looks like this:
We wait by the entrance for a couple minutes, then turn around. I later relish this decision when I read the consequences of passing the sign.
+ Your vehicle is impounded.
+ You are taken to the nearest jail (a two hour drive ) and fined several hundred dollars.
+ Security is lawfully authorized to shoot.
Instead, we decide to head to beautiful Coyote Summit, hike to the top, and watch the Red-Flag jets fly by. This experience includes picturesque views, state of the art jets, and very little chance of getting shot.
Now that’s what I call a good idea.
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