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Burning Man is the countercultural artfest held the week before Labor Day every summer on the floor of the Black Rock desert, about 120 miles north of Reno, NV. Launched in 1986 at San Francisco’s Baker Beach, the event and culminates in the burning of a wooden sculpture—which the SFPD banned four years later. Burning Man then moved to its present Black Rock desert location near the town of Gerlach, NV. Now, roughly 25,000 people attend from all over the world. Advance tickets for Burning Man are $225. If you just show up, it’s $300. Outside of portable toilets, not much is provided. You are expected to bring plenty of water, food, your own shelter (either camping equipment or an RV) and whatever else you think you might need for a week in the desert. Attendees are strongly urged to go as participants, i.e. to be part of a musical, dance, theater or art presentation. Showing up as simply a passive bystander is frowned upon. For one reason or another, this is the fourth consecutive year that Daily Planet correspondent Paul Kilduff has managed not to attend after first going in 1998.  

I didn’t make it to Burning Man this year for a variety of reasons. 

First off, my handmade papier mache mask of a mythical tribal warlord didn’t dry in time; it’s still dripping all over the garage floor, but should be ready for Halloween. 

Then the tattoo of a serpent entwined in barbed wire that I was having put on my lower back got only partially done when the tattoo parlor suffered a power outage mid-way through the process. It’s still half-finished and, besides, I couldn’t decide on the right piercing to go with it. 

The documentary film crew from Copenhagen that was going to follow me and my “team” around canceled at the last minute in order to cover the aftermath of the MTV video music awards. 

A few weeks ago I found out all the really good RVs—the one’s with satellite dishes, master bathrooms, king-size beds, convection ovens and pull-out sun canopies—were rented. In addition, the rooms at the nearby motel/bar/casino/café/laundry mat/carwash/gas station were booked.  

The art car I was going to take—a 1976 CHP Dodge Diplomat now painted day-glow orange and painstakingly covered bumper-to-bumper with aluminum beer cans, bottle caps and other symbols of reckless commercialism—got towed. Equipped with a full bar where the dash used to be and recently turned into a convertible, I was going to hitch it to the RV and drive it around Burning Man as a floating bar barge. I don’t know about the Dodge, but I’m still set for Albertson’s tequila and Hamm’s Lite. 

All seven members of my rock band, “Musical Bicycle,” were recently laid off and are too busy applying to various massage therapy schools. In another setback, the gas-powered electric generator our band normally uses for outdoor gigs was stolen and we didn’t feel we were ready to perform “unplugged.” 

I stripped a gear on my unicycle and the motorized barstool I was going to take instead landed in the shop. Thankfully, my gas-powered Margarita blender was not on the fritz so I lent it to a group of troubled teens who planned on tunneling into the event. 

An internship I thought I had lined up with one of the event’s alternative newspapers, “Piss Clear”—a not so subtle reference to the importance of drinking plenty of water at the event held on the desert floor—fell through. Apparently, they were looking for someone with a vegan background and found out about my passion for heirloom pork chops.  

My Burning Man outfit was another problem—usually I wear what’s left of my locks in a bun, complemented by a floral print sun dress and stilettos along with plenty of purple face paint, but that’s so 80s. 

Lastly, I didn’t get approved for a Burning Man MasterCard—something I needed dearly in order to slam roughly a grand or so in charges for travel, water, food, booze and admission. I was looking forward to using the Burning Man provided Porta-Potties though—one of the few amenities provided with your entrance fee. 

Not going this year didn’t mean I missed out on any of the action. Thanks to the Burning Man festival’s webcam, all the unrehearsed, unbridled enthusiasm that permeates the event is just a mouse click away. 

And click I did. Between watching naked people cavorting in the desert and the hijinks of the Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon, there really wasn’t any reason to leave the house on the last weekend of summer.