Or, how I got really good at throwing away Ziploc bags of used baby wipes without anyone noticing

I always had a vague idea of what Burning Man was for years. It was the place where you go to poop in a smelly oven, not shower for a week, and get those sweet, sweet Instagram pics that show how interesting a person you are!

Then, through some very good friends, I connected with a group of wonderful weirdos and artists who’ve attended Burning Man since Pogs were still a thing. I still had no idea what it was, but their energy was intoxicating and I wanted to feel the energy they radiate for myself. So I sat down and did the research. Nights were spent devouring Reddit and poring over the survival guide. I studied a map someone made of all the camps for hours before going to bed. Every night my excitement at experiencing this wild world of possibility grew.

Before I knew it, it was go time. With 2 boxes full of food, camping supplies, clothes, and more baby wipes than there are babies, I was READY. My mind flew with the seemingly infinite scenarios I could myself in. I was gonna embroil myself in a torrid, whirlwind romance that would put Elizabeth Taylor to shame, howl naked at the moon, hump my way to the top of a musty flesh pyramid, and ascend to my rightful position as a Golden God, steadfastly staring over all my glorious creation! SHIT YES! LET’S DO IT, BABY! HASHTAG BIG DICK ENERGY!

Did any of that actually happen? Well….Hmm. Maybe I aimed a little too high.

I envisioned myself frolicking through a carnival having the time of my life and “finding myself” like I’m in an episode of This Is Us. I’ve never watched This Is Us, but…They find themselves in that show, right? Sure. Let’s just say they do.

In reality? Hoo, boy. When I first touched down in camp after a 12 hour wait(!!!!) in line due to a massive dust storm, I stumbled out of the RV I rode up in, climbed up to the top of a structure in our camp next to a friend, and immediately blew my brains out. I had zero concept of the scale of the place. It’s called Black Rock CITY for a reason. My mind divided by zero as I gazed out on a vast, never-ending sea of fire, moons (Yes, moons. Plural. There’s, like, 4 moons out there.), and undulating neon lights. My brain went “oh man, what have I gotten myself into?” and my mouth went “…the fuck?”. Burning Man crushed my mind into oblivion and kicked it into the pit Gerard Butler kicks that poor messenger from 300 into, never to be seen or heard from again. And that was my first 20 minutes there.

Eager to prove to myself and the world that I can wrestle this city to the ground, pin it, and become Andy MacDonald, First of His Name, Breaker of LED Poi, King of the Sparkle Ponies, I set out on my bike bright and early Monday morning and came upon my first obstacle: the Burning Man Bike Course. The bike course is a seemingly harmless gauntlet of gentle bumps, ramps, and curves. Easy enough. Stalwart, I rode forth and IMMEDIATELY crashed. A small child ran up to me, giggling, and handed me a sticker saying “I Crashed on the Burning Man bike course!” Adorable.

Unfazed, I followed a friend to Skate Camp, a skateboard park assembled in the middle of the desert. “I skateboarded and listened to NOFX in high school! I’m fine! I got this!”, I thought. Seconds later I laid in the dirt after a failed attempt to drop in on a ramp. This is fine. Everything’s fine. Nothing to be alarmed about.

That very same night, I approached my now sworn enemy, the Burning Man Bike Course, once again. Only this time there were roughly 10 billion more people biking around me, and I could barely see the ramps. “This is a REALLY bad idea”, I thought, as I approached the ramp once again. And a bad idea it was. I somehow defied all the laws of physics and completely flipped my bike over its front wheel (I later learned some people call this phenomenon “scorpion tailing”) and landed on my back. A sharp pain shot up my leg, and I laid there dazed thinking I had just broken my leg. A wonderful start to my carnival frolic.

After I gathered myself, I hopped on my bike and by some miracle managed to find my friends and danced my ass off in front of an unfathomably expensive looking party bus called The Mayan Warrior, an otherworldly machination designed to relocate your kidneys with its thunderous sound and melt your face with literal fireballs and lasers. THIS is Burning Man, right?

…Right?

“Sleep” isn’t really a thing out there. Your body more or less just slips into unconsciousness for 20 or so minutes before the hiss of a neon lizard’s fireball or the THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. of a subwoofer yanks you out of your sleep. You repeat this process for about 4 hours until you go “FUCK IT, I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE”, stumble out of your tent (or, in my case, a shipping container because my tent was disgusting after just one day) and attempt to battle your way through the rest of the day.

After almost severely injuring myself 3 times in my first time there, I decided to slow my roll (figuratively, of course. There are no drugs on the playa.). I went on a nice leisurely daytime stroll with some friends. A speedboat called “Miami Advice” drifted by us and I, an admirer of puns, died laughing. People in referee uniforms blew whistles and handed out red and yellow cards with things like “TOO GOOD LOOKING” and “HAVING TOO MUCH FUN” on them. Guys in tutus rolled around in a roller rink in half broken roller skates, crashing into each other and flailing like inflatable tube men who have 30000 followers on Instagram. We even hopped in a ball pit and pelted each other with stuffed giraffes! Surely, this must be what Burning Man is about! I get it now!

Anyone?

Wednesday is what I lovingly refer to as “the beginning of the end”. Despite somehow sleeping a solid 6 hours, I woke up and within an hour was so dehydrated that I couldn’t form coherent thoughts or words. I aimlessly stumbled around camp, not sure what to do with myself, or where I was. People were worried. Genuine inquiries of “Are you okay?” were met with inaudible grunts. The only coherent thought I had was “you TOTALLY drank enough water.” I, of course, did not have NEARLY enough water. Before I knew it, a guardian angel swooped in, shoved a massive jug of ice water and electrolytes in my face, and told me to chug. And chug I did. 30 minutes later, this magical elixir of life energized me and I was again ready to go out and smash Burning Man into the dust.

Then the whiteout happened. Oh god, the whiteout. Long story short, me and a few friends ended up once again in front of The Mayan Warrior, only this time it was DEEEEEEP out in the playa. Things started out swimmingly. I would do my awkward “Christian dad who’s just so darn happy to be here” dance, and once in a while flinch when the fireballs shot above my head. Great times. Then, all of a sudden, I made the horrible decision to look around. Nothing was there. A dust storm kicked up, and suddenly I was jettisoned on Mars like Matt Damon, except that the only engineering knowledge I possess is “Mentos + Diet Coke = volcano”. I kept my game face on and danced, but with the resolution of a man approaching the stairs to the gallows. Finally, I cracked. I turned to my friends and panickedly said “can we go, please?!”. Seeing the terror in my eyes, they acquiesced.

The next 45 minutes or so where a nightmare kaleidoscope journey through a desolate hellscape as I struggled to keep up with the people in front of me. “Follow the yellow lights,” I’d repeat to myself in between deep breaths. Arriving victoriously at camp, I felt ALIVE. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, I plopped down in the kitchen, and chugged a well deserved Red Bull. I’d made it. I felt pretty badass. Though I never wanted to experience that again. Surely, this must be what Burning Man is. I get it now.

Then Saturday happened.

It’s here! The Man Burn! The culmination of a week’s worth of artistic expression arising from a beautiful temporary metropolis! I’m hours away from literally the biggest party on the planet! Time to fuck some shit UP! But first, an errand. It’s Temple time.

I brought some of my dad’s ashes to leave at the Temple. I envisioned the heavens cracking open over my head and ethereal beings whispering some deep, eternal truth directly into my soul before confidently striding off into the night and striking my fortune upon the playa.

Instead, the second I stopped foot in there I almost gagged from crying so hard. The air of grief and loss is palpable and hard to shake. A man walked up and asked if I was ok, to which I grunted in response. He gave me an awkward half hug and wandered off. I walked around looking for a spot to drop Dad off, reading the heart wrenching stories people had written on the beams. I finally found a spot. I sat down, pulled out my Sharpie, and wrote:

I DON’T THINK I WAS A GOOD SON AND NOW HE’S GONE, AND IT TEARS ME APART. THE LAST THING I REMEMBER HIM SAYING WAS “I DON’T THINK I’M GONNA MAKE IT, BUD.” I WISH IT WASN’T.

Shaking, I pulled out the container of his ashes only to find that the lid to the container had fallen off. The ashes were gone. I had the shit kicked out of me all week, but this was the first moment where I genuinely felt like a train full of sledgehammers smashed directly into my face. Frozen, I sat there staring at the container until I broke down and bawled for about 45 minutes. No one came by to comfort me. No whisperings of eternal truths. Just me leaking snot and tears. After gathering myself I did the best I could by scooping some playa dust in the container and leaving it there. I got up and went back to camp, quiet and broken.

The hour was upon us. It was time to burn the Man. “Put your game face on, it’s fucking go time.” I thought. Our camp gathered together, and strode forth to the center to watch the Man burn. And holy shit did it burn. It was a spectacular pyrotechnics display that Michael Bay has wet dreams about. I was surrounded by absolute revelry. I watched my campmates have the time of their lives, their eyes filled with joy. I, on the other hand, felt nothing.

The man burned in front of my eyes while revelers danced and hollered at his destruction, and I stood there feeling a trillion miles away. How could I POSSIBLY feel like this? I was stunned and shaken by this feeling of intense isolation. Surely there must be something wrong with me. Why can’t I enjoy myself? What the fuck is wrong with me?! The weight of these thoughts crushed me. People came up, seeing I was in distress and asking if I was alright, and I wouldn’t answer them because a) I didn’t think I wasn’t worthy of their time and b) I didn’t want to ruin their good time. So I sat there, suffering silently while the Man burned to the ground.

…Is this Burning Man? I hoped it wasn’t.

Friends consoled me on the walk back to camp. “I don’t think I’m worth anyone’s time”, I’d say to them. They assured me that was bullshit, but I didn’t believe them. I couldn’t. At camp, we decided to throw a dance party. Slowly but surely my mood lifted as random people drifted into our camp and chatted with us. I let that voice telling me I’m shit go, and watched everyone’s face light up. A fucking LUNATIC in a Santa onesie (let’s call her Santa Claws) crept up behind a lady and smashed the phone out of her hand before scampering off into the night to go be an awful human being elsewhere. Rightfully horrified, I sat with her for a bit and comforted her. She gave me a beautiful bracelet as a thank you. Just yesterday her and her friends found me online and said hi. I had made a connection. The thing I really wanted to do there.

We capped the night by sitting at the perimeter of the city, watching the sun rise over a giant 70 foot chrome statue of 2 people hugging. It was beautiful. Maybe I had finally found out what Burning Man was.

Only I didn’t.

It isn’t anything more a gathering of people in an intense environment that magnifies anything you feel about yourself times a trillion. It’s a place where you can choose to take a serious look at that magnifying glass, and think long and hard about what you see. It jackhammered my mind open and made me seriously look at the pieces. I have a voice in my head that tells me I’m not good enough, smart enough, or pretty enough. No one else can hear it but me. It’s been there my whole life, but the 24/7 spirit annihilating sensory overload finally shook it lose. Maybe I can finally throw it away.

I survived The World’s Greatest Shitshow feeling lighter and more capable to handle things. That’s pretty cool. Maybe one day I’ll “figure out” Burning Man, but right now I’ll tell you this: it sucks. Last year was better. Don’t go. See you there next year.