The Burning Man: Redux
If things had been different than they are right now, I’d be at Burning Man, possibly wearing a fringed afghan and dancing in the desert with, you know, 40,000 people.
Possibly doing experimental drugs.
Oh, c’mon…I just want to make my Mom’s heart race a little faster in case she happens to check in with the blog every now and then. Mom, c’mon. You know I don’t ever do that kind of thing. You know. Although that one time, I mixed M&Ms and Skittles together to see how they would all taste. Texture-wise, it was rather irritating. I foresee no imminent mergers between those two name brands.
In last week’s post, I promised to edit fiction naked with glow sticks in my twinkling-lights gazebo outside on the back deck.
Mission accomplished.
For the last two hours, I have been doing a version of nudity I call “Minnesota Naked.” I’m not an official nudist, but who doesn’t like to hang out in the buff watching Scrubs reruns? The weather this week is perfect: chilly during the day and even colder at nights. Constant refreshing breezes, no humidity, dazzling sunlight during the golden days. At night, a forest of crickets surround me, and even the harsh alley light becomes mood lighting through the mosquito netting of this nylon gazebo.
I can’t quite see my breath, but it’s a little chilly, here, Lars.
So I’m naked head to toe, wearing my favorite green-quilted, flannel shirt/jacket. Unbuttoned. Minnesota Naked.
(Gosh, aren’t blogs fun for sharing all kinds of great information you might never want to know? Mom, quit reading now.)
I broke open the glow sticks that I mysteriously acquired somewhere in my life. I have no memory of how these things ended up in my basement. I don’t strike me as a glow stick type o guy, but I keep running into them on a shelf, always surprising me. Where did they come from? These glow sticks may have moved into the house with me, ten years ago. Honestly, I may have been planning to go to Burning Man for the sole purpose of finally using the damn things and getting them out of my house.
This is how I know my age: I wanted to rock out the gazebo with their goofy light (imagine I’m nakedly making that ‘raise the roof’ motion right now). But before I could do that tonight, I had to get my reading glasses so I could make out the tiny instructions on the back of the packaging. I held the 6 point font up to the nearest lit candle and squinted real hard.
When that wasn’t entirely successful, I moved the package further and closer, wondering if the problem is that I need bifocals.
Yeah, that’s just how the 19-year-olds do it. You know, when they’re raving.
The package explained that you just bend the things and then shake them. (Two enclosed.)
Okay.
Seemed simple enough.
And yet, it was not.
I bent the first one in half and nothing happened. I shook it. (Again, I beg you to remember that I am naked at this point and flapping a dead glow stick over my head while my extra flab wobbles in a chilly Minnesota August night. Green flannel. Please make a mental note of that image. Thank you.)
I shook it, shook it, bent it in two other places. I was sure I was following the instructions just right, and kept bending it directly over my nearby pile of clothes, my arms quivering with effort. I started to wonder what would happen to my pants if the plastic rod burst and spit that green gunk all over. What about my hands - is this stuff toxic? It didn’t dawn on me for a full three minutes that after a full decade on a basement shelf, the stupid thing might just be defective.
I reread the instructions.
There were two glow sticks in the package, so I tried the other one.
On the first crack, it instantly lit up a bright green and I experienced a modicum of long-distance, Burning Man energy. I was happy today, all night and all afternoon editing, writing, rewording. I crafted some new lines, edited some stuff I already like. I emailed people I like. I spent time on the phone with people I loved. Earlier, I made a cucumber sauce for the first time, talked through the simple four-step procedure by my good friend, Ron. An hour ago, I ate a bowl of naked raisin bran and the crickets are chirping their nightly joy.
It’s a good night to be a Minnesotian.
The glow stick looks like a nuclear rod from Homer Simpson’s power plant and I keep watching it to see if it does anything else, but true to its very simple mission, I guess it just glows.
I missed Burning Man, but it’s okay.
Gives me more time to practice with glow sticks before next year.