Now, I've never been to Burning Man, but if I ever get the chance, I fully plan to not take it. Spending any amount of time in a desert with any amount of people wearing any amount of patchwork sounds like torture on so many levels. Throw in things like “art” and “compassion” and “PLUR” and I'd sooner be water boarded. Hippies taken one at a time can be judged on their individual merits, but an entire desert city of them would just be too much. However, I respect Amanda on many levels, one of which is her non-hippiness and her enthusiasm for this crazy event led me to bury my skepticism and give peace a fucking chance.
Holy crap am I glad I did! I knew right off the bat that this would defy all my prejudgments when I saw people who aren't white walking around. And not just one or two! Also, no dreadlocks. There were some fairy princesses running around, and some freaked out 18 year olds sitting on the ground crying and throwing up as the cops around them paid no mind at all, but I also saw people in baseball caps and little kids in wagons. NPR fans and dudes in low-riders. It seemed pretty much that every man, woman and child in Santa Fe had crammed onto this football field.
(Apparently it also seemed that way to homeland security, what with all the snipers on top of the surrounding buildings. Weird.)
Zozobra is a giant puppet that stands 50 feet tall. He is meant to represent all that is gloomy, depressing and generally a pain in the ass. For weeks before the celebration there are boxes in grocery stores in Santa Fe where you can write your worries and drop them in to be collected and burned with Zozobra. School kids do this in class, too—writing the names of their teachers or siblings to be burned (hopefully) unknowingly. Then, the entire city starts fresh. A brilliant idea. I'd love to see the bothers and annoyances to be burned if they did this in Chicago, all of them written on the back of parking tickets and building permits.
But even though this is an 85 year old Santa Fe tradition, this would never happen Chicago, and here is why: The very first thing to occur (following the awkward singing of the national anthem) is that the mayor of Santa Fe emerges from between Zozobara's gigantic legs. Now, while Mayor Daley rolls out of bed with Evil every morning, the Santa Fe mayor has him one upped by wearing what looks like a sorcerer's robe and saying positive things and not being heckled or haunted by his own evil deeds. The mayor talks about how Zozobra must be punished for stealing happiness from the people of Santa Fe, for making their babies cry, for making them lose their wallets and making their tires go flat. He sends the crowd into a frenzy, 10,000 people screaming “BURN HIM! BURN HIM!” and pumping their fists into the air. It's a sort of terrifying scene, to be honest. I imagine this same scenario being played out under the Mujaheddin only with real people at stake rather than an elaborate puppet. For a minute I feel sick and very gross. Then I remember where I am and what decade it is and that this is all for fun.
Zozobra waves his 40 foot arms in the air, fingers the size of our van flopping in the wind. His jaw unhinges and snaps back shut, groaning and moaning. “MUUURRRAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!” “MUUUURRRAAAAHHHHH!", like the House Bunny remebering names. I start to feel sorry for him. I have a problem with proscribing human emotions to non human things...puppies, stuffed animals, salt shakers. Poor things. They all know what's about to come to them. All Zozobra can do is wait for the inevitable...after 85 years, he knows damn well what's coming, and so does everyone around me.
“BURN HIM! BURN HIM!”
A flame flies across the field and hits him in the kidney, then more flames shoot out of his head. It takes a while. First his jaw keeps moving and his mouth fills up with fire. It burns up behind his green flashing eyes. Bits of his head fall off and balls of flame drop to his feet, staring a new fire there. Finally he's totally engulfed and crashing to the ground. He looks like a burnt out car, but you can still see his eyes glowing through the orange flames.
Lost wallets. Mean teachers. Foreclosures. Citizenship battles. Divorces. Broken toys. Sexual droughts. Pink slips. 401Ks. Broken bones. They don't matter for a while. They burn with the evil Zozobra. A shower of fireworks erupts.
We all look at each other. Seven girls who had no idea what to expect and one who did. We fall into a hug, 2000 miles from home, with no real understanding of how we got here, other than in a van, and no comprehension of why we are so lucky. I couldn't help it, I was getting all “PLUR-y”. Tears stampeded down my cheeks. We were exhausted and dirty and shell shocked by the enormity of our adventure and free to move forward without gloom. Thanks Zozobra.
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