Happy New Year

Back! The playa was as it always is: there. The Man watched us for a week, arms rigid along his sides in anticipation of something. Maybe the fire, yeah, but maybe an Event we can't imagine. Anyway, we faced the rain, ate the dust, danced the beats, slouched useless, and had a great time. You know how it is. And if you don't, you should go. The Man burns in 362 days.

Playa dust. Hate it. Love it. Can't get rid of it.

I haven't made up my mind if he's a benevolent giant or if he's harboring some unspoken grudge against the thousands of burners in the unts-unts madness. Maybe he's thinking, When I walk, I will stomp you. Or, When I climb down I will give you a great big hug, and you will respect your fellow Man. And not stick them fucking baby wipes in the porta-pottys.