The Anostraca & Friends. Photo: Michelle S.

You and I used the same porta potty last week. It was somewhere in the middle of the large bank at 6:00 and Genuflect. Emblazoned on the door was a decorative placard that read “Liquidate Your Assets”.

I adopted the stall during the week, picking up shards of tp and fallen Tecate soldiers here and there.

When I made my morning pee jar disposal run last Thursday, I saw it: a deformed plastic gallon jug sitting atop a steaming pile of poo.

I looked at the MOOP for a few seconds, upset at the gross violation of Leave No Trace — not to mention Civic Responsibility, Radical Self-Reliance, and Communal Effort. I assessed my own willingness to do something about it.

“Well, there’s no sh*t on the handle,” I thought. “I coouuld pull it out...”

I imagined reaching my hand into the abyss. I imagined my arm reaching so deep that my cheek would be aligned to the plane of the seat.

I imagined that, and I just couldn’t do it.

I’ve been disgusted — but never heartbroken — over a defiled restroom on the playa before. Was it the emotional and physical investment (albeit minimal) I made in that particular stall? Or was it simply the egregious disrespect for our community and DPW exhibited by someone throwing an un-drainable piece of garbage in a communal space?

I left the stall feeling even more dejected than when I left the larger sound camps earlier in the week: After seeing all of the pee stains on the playa this year, feeling all of the womp womp heavy bass at night, and even after a couple less-than-stellar interactions with not-quite-burners, this jug was the most disappointing experience of my burn thus far.

I went back to camp and told my partner about how my pedestrian de-MOOPing efforts were ultimately performed in vain.