Ticket lottery blues

This week saw the draw for the new Burning Man ticket lottery and, I think it's safe to say, it was not a success. I have heard estimates that say 1/3 of people got the tickets they requested, but I suspect it's lower than that. I know many dozens of people who applied and, at last count, I'm only aware of six who got tickets. Many theme camps and projects are concerned that they will not be able to attend the event. Alongside that is the fact that this new process was supposed to discourage scalpers, but there are already numerous overpriced tickets on various resale websites.

Now, I'm not a ticketing or event management expert, and offered no advice to BMorg on the system prior to its inception, so I don't have the kind of anger and frustration endemic to those who attempted to tell them that this would happen. I can understand why they feel that way though, and I myself have expressed my bitter disappointment at not being among the chosen few. None of this surprises me. What has surprised me is the response of others to that disappointment and anger. We have been told we are whingers, we are self-entitled, we need to grow up. And all this by people I consider to be reasonable adults and, sometimes, by people I consider to be friends.

What I'm wondering is, when exactly did it become such a bad thing to express negative emotions? If we're disappointed, why should we not say so? If we're hurt or distressed, why is it socially unacceptable for us to cry? I've seen two distinct groups of people expressing similar views this week, in this situation and others. One group is the idealists; those who state that the negativity isn't productive, that we should continue to hope, to believe, to have faith. The other group holds true to the classic stiff-upper-lip philosophy, and encourages us to bottle up our feelings and not let anybody see them, for fear of betraying weakness.

What stuns me about both groups is the lack of honesty. Human beings are not automata, capable of being subjected to any amount of emotional abuse without response. Neither are we happy little pixies, cheerful all the time, immune to any feeling other than joy. To claim otherwise is to lie to ourselves and others. We are subject to a whole range of emotions; some positive, some negative, but none 'good' or 'bad'. It bemuses me that people are so determined to shut down any expression of what they consider to be 'bad' feelings. As one of my friends succinctly put it: "People are talking about how they *feel* about the way they have been treated. You are in no position to take that away from them - feelings are personal, the interpretation of action against one is personal". For myself, I can't help wondering why one person's feelings of disappointment, sadness or hurt are perceived as a weakness in their character, or why, if these feelings are indeed a sign of weakness, they are so threatening to the people around them.

On the move

There's been a bit of a break in the blog writing, hasn't there? There are two reasons for this: Burning Man and moving house.Of the two, Burning Man is infinitely more interesting but, simultaneously, infinitely harder to write about. I have this problem every year. It's like trying to explain a purple dinosaur to a colour-blind herpetophobe who's never seen an episode of Barney. As is rapidly becoming traditional, I shall resort to a list of a few 'top bits', in an effort to encapsulate the joy:

• The Carport of Doom. Instead of tents, this year two of my friends and I decked out a huge carport with airbeds (with real pillows!), carpets, a canvas wardrobe and chest of drawers, bedside tables (well, storage boxes) with individual lamps (LED candles) atop! The luxury of being able to, not only stand up, but actually wander around one's abode is not to be sneezed at.
• Wandering through an imminent dust storm looking at art, then being drawn away by calls of "grilled cheese!", and finding ourselves being presented with delicious croque monsieurs and lethally strong vodka cocktails.
• The support and congratulations of my campmates on my first attempts at MCing the cabaret show. I had big shoes to fill, as the person I was standing in for has done this fabulously for years, so I was hugely relieved not to have ruined her pet project.
• Scrawling down some things I needed to let go of onto the walls of the temple, and then watching it burn. I've never attended the temple burn before, as I suspected myself of not having the emotional strength for it. Indeed, it is intense, as thousands sit there in absolute silence and watch their woes, celebrations and dedications to lost loved ones go up in smoke. I cried, of course, but the catharsis and beauty of it is extraordinary. Ooops. I seem to have turned into a hippy..........and I'm back! Sorry about that!
• Discovering my 'power animal' with the aid of a campmate in a traditional shamanic polar bear beanie, with a faux-American accent and a soup pan in lieu of a native drum.
• Standing on the prow of a ship art car in a princess outfit, leaning out into the wind in true figurehead style, then watching the man burn from the deck as my friend yelled touching song lyrics in my ear.
• Lying in a huge, cuddly pile of people on a trampoline, playing leg jenga while trying to explain the 'furry' fetish phenomenon to a campmate who was unwittingly clad in a fuzzy, full-body tiger costume.
• Being able to be there for others in their low moments, and having others be there for me in turn. Sorry, the hippy is back. I can't help it! You realise a lot about yourself and others out that thar desert.
• So many fun days and nights in camp and out and about on the playa. New friendships made and old ones cemented.

Once I came back I had just a week before I moved house. This was not ideal, as it can take longer than that to acclimatise to the real world again even without all the stress of packing and arranging. However, it needed to be done, and so it was. I'm in temporary accommodation now, as there are problems with the lease on the new flat. Fortunately for me, the Chameleon was looking for a lodger, and has kindly installed myself and Molly in her home. I am now, for the first time, living South of the river. I haven't been mugged or stabbed yet, which is excellent progress, and no doubt the practise in avoiding these things will come in handy on my eventual move to Tottenham.

 

On Thursday, with the kind help of my family, my belongings were split between storage and new lodgings in an epic undertaking which only took, oooh, about six hours longer than I expected it to. I also had to go back the following evening for the cat, who had not deigned to be captured the preceding day. This became more of a worry as Friday went on, and she still hadn't been trapped but, at the point when it was looking like I'd have to give up, leave the pub and head to the new home, I got a text instructing me to 'Go go go!', and hopped on a train to fetch her. The journey home, stinking drunk, with cat in basket, was interesting to say the least. I sat and shared a ham and cheese baguette with her, to the evident disgust of the prissy old lady opposite me, and prevented some young lads who were even drunker than me from poking their fingers at her through the bars of the carry case. Luckily the threat of being bitten was enough to scare them off, so I was not forced to resort to the threat of a clip round the ear.

 

The cat is unfortunately proving to be something of an embarrassment in the new home. This morning, as I put on my make up, I was called from my room to look at something, and emerged to find my landlady standing at the bathroom door, gazing in bemusement at the sink, which was inexplicably full of defiant feline. Despite this, I'm settling in well there, and very much enjoy getting to sit down to dinner and a chat with my friend of an evening. I'm also loving my new journey to work, which offers me glorious views of the Thames from the train, along with the sight of an old brick building, into the wall of which are placed lighter coloured bricks spelling out the phrase "Take Courage". It bolsters me nicely for the day ahead!

 

Why I'm so bad at packing

My internal monologue......

Where's my bag? Not that one, the one with the things on it. Wait, was that mine? Yes, it was, or if it wasn't I've stolen it because I just found it under my bed. Ooooh, it has stuff in it! A blinky ring. Wonder if it still works? It does! Maybe I'll try it on. Ow, needs adjusting. Maybe some pliers.......No! Concentrate! Oh look, my utility belt! I thought I lost that! I can fix my fox tail to it. Tail has no fastener. Where were those carabiners? (half an hour later) Ha! There they are! Now I need some scissors or a knife or something to cut a hole for the carabiner to go through. Wait. Do they let you take real fox tails through US customs? Better look that up. (half an hour later) Can't see anything to suggest otherwise. Ok, attach that to belt. Ooo, I should find all those badges and pin them on. Where's my Zooty badge? I need that one. Where did I put it? (half an hour later) Ha! There it is! Right, get that on there......

.......Hey! Where did all the time go? Better get back to packing........god I'm bad at packing.......maybe I should write a blog post telling everyone how bad I am at packing.......

.......Hey! Where did all the time go?

And today I have learned...

.....that drinking the best part of a bottle of champagne is not the way to convince people that you ought to be allowed to wield a jigsaw. After much whining, I was eventually permitted to cut out an apostrophe, and made a sterling job of it, if I do say so myself. Ahem. I might have cut into the table a little bit, but the boys did that too, cutting out the rest of the sign. It's still the best apostrophe ever cut out by a drunk girl called Megan in a warehouse in Manor House tonight.

On Decompression. duvets and disaster

Today is the day of Decompression, the annual London Burning Man party. It's a very exciting affair, full of all the performance, art and elaborate costuming that one would expect from a Burning event. My friend Katie and I decided to get stuck in this year and organise a room. Both of us are incapable of getting through an all-night party without a little snooze in the corner somewhere, so we came up with the idea (well, Katie came up with the idea and I agreed enthusiastically) of a sleep room. A mobile bedroom where people could come for a disco nap. We're setting up a bed, providing people with earplugs and eyemasks and making a note of when they want to be gently woken from their slumbers.

Knowing that I would have to go straight to the venue to help set up after work today, I set my alarm early to allow myself plenty of time to get everything packed up for the event.
You can see it coming can't you?
The crushing inevitability of what happened next?
Yeah, my alarm didn't go off. I woke up with just 30 minutes to pack up everything I needed, get showered, ready and out to work. I made it to work on time - miraculously - with dripping wet hair and no make-up on, then realised I'd forgotten the duvet I was supposed to bring and my ticket. Oh well, not major disasters. I can get away with showing my email confirmation and ID instead of the ticket, and we have other duvets.

Unfortunately, as I wrote this, we were informed that the futon we were borrowing has suddenly become unavailable. We are now, with just 6 hours until kick off, without a bed for our bedroom. This is a problem. We've sent out pleas on the Burning Man mailing lists and on Facebook, and can now only cross our fingers that it'll all be alright on the night!

On beer, burritos and Burning Man baby! (part 3)

When Burning Man finished I made my way to San Francisco. I must now point out that travelling by R.V. is a wonderful experience. We were well underway before I even woke up, and the rest of the journey was spent lounging on the bed with the contents of the fridge within arm's reach. Bliss! Anyway, once I arrived in SF I stayed with a friend. This particular friendship bugs me a lot because I value it really highly, and absolutely adore the girl in question, but only get to see her once or twice a year due to the bloody ocean being in the way. If I could convince her to move to London I'd be a very happy bunny. I'd also be a very drunk bunny with a large bunny beer belly. This year I was introduced to the delicious Death and Taxes beer, and drank more of it than was strictly good for me. Through a straw. Not the best look, but fairly unavoidable when you've just decided to have a man put a stainless steel ring through your bottom lip. This did hamper my ability to eat and drink a little bit but, luckily, I managed before I had it done to get in my First Ever Burrito. Mmmm...that stuff is gooooood.

I broke pretty much all the rules of piercing after-care. I drank, I smoked and (after the first day) kept forgetting to clean it. I also did one thing which isn't on the list of post-piercing no-nos, but bloody well should be. Jello wrestling. I blame the novelty factor. And the beer. But mostly it was the novelty thing. I've never come across jello wrestling before as, as far as I'm aware, it's not something that often happens in the average UK pub. I don't know, maybe I'm just going to the wrong pubs, but I thought 'when am I ever going to get the opportunity to do this again?', and in I went. I got utterly trounced by an adorable, scantily clad little blonde, who got me in a choke hold so tight I thought she was going to kill me. Sporting it was not, but she did help me to hose myself down in the yard afterwards before 'forcing' (subject to exaggeration) me to drink several shots of whisky. Good times!

On beer, burritos and Burning Man baby! (part 2)

I've been putting off writing this post - the main account of my time at Burning Man this year - simply because it's so difficult to explain to anyone who hasn't been. I could write for days and not say anything that made sense. So here is a list of a few of my personal highlights from this year's burn:

- Documenting my trip through Mini-Meg's photo diary. People were starting to get annoyed with it by the end but the photos turned out really nicely..
- The brilliant acts at the Quixote's cabaret. Particularly Miss Pretty Kitty, Trauma Flintstone and the magician who hammered a nail through his nose.
- The stunning steampunk art car that looked like a mobile gothic house. I couldn't believe the effort that had been put in.
- The Flaming Lotus Girls' extraordinary art pieces - fantastical sculptures formed from metal and fire.
- The Nowhere Omnibus. A scheduled routemaster bus service on playa? My fellow Euroburners are nearly as mad as they are wonderful.
- Jaded burners. We took champagne and folding chairs to the Esplanade on burn night and then sat and heckled.
- The way everyone rallied to support us after we were issued a citation for unwittingly serving alcohol to the minor sent in by the police to sting us. Bastards.
- The snake threat level poster:
Green: Low risk of snakes - maintain vigilance
Amber: Moderate snake risk - increase snake awareness
Red: High risk of snakes - Prepare mongoose
Snaaaaaakes: Fucking snakes!
- Beer tasting at Abstininthe
- Jax shoving, mid-flow, the frat boy who thought it was a good idea to piss on our truck even though we were 30 seconds walk from the loos.
- The night-time parachutists who looked like circling meteors.
- Seeing so many of my friends and making some wonderful new ones.
- Emma trying to get me out of my corset. The two phrases which win the 'things you don't want to hear Emma say in this scenario' award are: "Does anyone have a knife?" and "Monty, can you help me".

On beer, burritos and Burning Man baby! (part 1)

Well, I’m back from Burning Man and, bar the jetlag, have returned to the real world. These few weeks after T.T.I.T.D. (That Thing in the Desert) always serve to highlight the sheer dullness of my everyday life. It’s tough to look out of the window at a newsagent, a laundrette and a series of Volkswagens when just last week the view from my ‘home’ was more likely to incorporate the beautiful tented and statued façade of the Ashram Galactica bar, a huge motorised fish and a constant stream of happy people in myriad exotic costumes or complete nudity. Alarm clocks suck when you’ve been woken by the sound of what you think is a propane burner, and emerged from your tent to see a hot air balloon floating, with its basket at head height, down the street outside.

I had a slightly shaky start to my BM experience this year. Having forgotten to print off my early arrivals pass, I had to wait at Will Call while my travelling companion went into the event, picked up a spare copy and sent someone back with it. Being indescribably naive even on my third burn, I cheerfully settled down to wait, forgetting to prepare myself for the ever changeable weather or the potential length of my wait. With immaculate sense of timing, one of the Playa's notorious dust storms sprang up almost as soon as the truck was out of sight. I was now stranded without goggles or dust mask in a flurry of swirling particles of prehistoric fish shit. Luckily another friend passing through Will Call was able to provide me with a hoody to cover my head and, crucially, a couple of cans of lukewarm beer. Feeling a little more cheerful I huddled by the ticket booth and began my tranformation into human sand dune. My mood lifted further when a friendly, chatty guy sat down to keep me company for a while, but was dashed once again when he asked if I'd like to come with him round the back of the rickety little hut and "get busy". The frostily raised eyebrow which greeted this offer was enough to send him scuttling on his way. I waited for over two hours and have rarely been so pleased to see anyone as I was when a friend finally materialised bearing that precious piece of paper. The gate staff kindly took pity on me and allowed us to bypass the queues; letting us in through the side and sending me off to rejoin my beloved campmates...

On lists, laziness and lingering

This time next week I'll be on my way to Reno. Just one day after that I'm heading on to my favourite place in the world...Black Rock City. This will be my third year at Burning Man, and I'm more excited than I can say. I am also, unfortunately, more unprepared than I can say. I came home from the European regional burn, Nowhere, around a month ago, but due to circumstances beyond my control (ok, ok, due to laziness and lack of organisation) my bags are still sitting, full of dirty clothes and dust, in the dining room. Funnily enough, the stuff I need for a week in the Nevada desert is the same stuff I needed for a week in the Spanish desert. All of this is a particularly convoluted way of saying I have a lot of laundry to do. And laundry is just number one on my to-do list; a list which currently comprises 24 tasks of varying length and complexity. Within this list there are three seperate sub-lists, one with a sub-sub-list of its very own. I am the queen of to-do lists. If only I were so good at to-doing.

One thing I have to do is work out my plans for my first night in the US. My flight arrives in San Francisco on Thursday afternoon, but the friend I'm travelling with doesn't arrive until the next day. This leaves me to decide whether to get a hotel room near the airport or to sleep in the arrivals lounge. I have a fairly tight budget for this trip, and the hotels are pretty expensive, but do I really want to spend 24 hours trying to sleep, eat and use the toilet whilst guarding my belongings? Funnily enough I don't, but the $60 saved would buy me quite a lot of beer. It's a tough call. How do you think airport security would feel about me pitching my tent by customs? I could pull out the roll mat and sleeping bag and set up a comfy little camp, with all my bags and gear stowed safely inside. All I'd need is a supply of snacks and a wide-necked bottle and I could stay put for the whole 24 hours.