With great exhaustion and fatigueyness I write for you all, for the intrepid tye-dyed informer shall always report on the weird, the whacky, and the righteous. It was once again the weekend of the San Francisco decompression and it was intensive and exuberant. But the prep for this one was not unlike trying to make it to the man. Sort of.
I had tried like hell for at least a month if not more to try to get my 75 year old father to go to the man. Yet the fact of no showers, as I wasn’t going to bring one this year, was too much for him. Not the nakedness, which has stumped a few of the folks I know I can tell you, not the dust, which was intense and horizontal at times, not even the drug use and content per capita within the created and removed city in the sands that rises like Lazarus, or a mans phallus in the morning. It was all about whether he could hose off or not. So the fact that less then three hundred miles away was a little warm and semi-itchy slice of the burning man vibe was getting that ever present gleam back in his eye. But his back was hurt and then, when it felt better, he decided to mow the front lawn, the back lawn, and wash all the windows in his house. So then that took care of the good feelings and the bad ones came back home and decided to play a flamenco kind of pain tune on his back. So he was out, to the ridicule of his son of course, and I was again flying semi-solo. I had called my friend, who had moved with his man from the depths of Hollyweird to the rolling hills of Frisco, and had asked if I could crash on his floor for the night. After telling him about the festivities that were going to be there, he was slightly interested, but distracted. So I wasn’t sure if he was going to go with me or not.
