Latest Ticket Information

Greetings from Ticket Land!

The $225 tickets are sold out! All pre-sale tickets now cost $250.

Tickets are available for purchase through Walk In Outlets or Online. Go here for Outlet locations or to buy tickets: http://tickets.burningman.com

The deadline to have your tickets mailed to you is fast approaching! All orders placed online after July 31st, 2004 are going to be held at Will Call. This means that you will not have the option to have your tickets mailed to you before Burning Man and you will have to pick it up upon arriving at Black Rock City.

In 2003 the Will Call lines at the Box Office were quite long and at times the wait was up to one hour to collect your tickets. We apologize for the long waits, we know it sucks but there is only so much that can be done on the playa.

Please help us to help you avoid long Will Call lines by planning ahead and buying your ticket *now* so that you have the option of having it mailed and in your hand when you arrive at Black Rock City.

Tickets at the Gate will cost at least $300 and will increase in price over the course of the event, most gate tickets will cost $350. Plan ahead – if you think you might go – get your ticket now – it won’t be hard to find someone who will be happy to use it in the event that you can’t go.

Questions about online orders:
Online Ordering Questions

Ticket FAQ:
Ticket FAQ

See y’all on the playa!!
The Ticket Team [para_end]

Pack It Out – Reflections on BRC ’04


by Chris Dunphy

Welcome home, they said
as I drove through the gate.

And I felt it, and said it too –
to others as they arrived.

But this place isn’t anyone’s home.
It is a barren wasteland of a desert.

Filled for a week with 30,000 neo-hippies,
carting around their Costco-sized provisions
like prizes from a hunt.

No – there is no home here.

This feeling of home we brought with us,
or created here together on this blank playa canvas.

We did not find it here waiting. We made it. It is ours.

They tell us as we enter to be on the lookout
for “Materials Out of Place,” and to pack this MOOP out when we find it.

But is there anything more out of place in the desolate Black Rock Desert
than a feeling of love, community, and home?

Let’s not forget to carry this particular MOOP
away with us when we leave.

Green Monkey


by Shannon Kennedy

Driving down the two-lane gravel road headed towards Black Rock City, I can see from my rearview mirror the last drops of civilization wither in the blistering sun. It would be a week before I would see another gas station, restaurant, or grocery store.

I cannot say for certain why I am here. I am privy to the emotional and physical challenges and yet I arrive reckless, my tank drained to the point of reserve. I have never been attracted to the austerity of the desert, preferring the soothing gesture of the ocean’s sway; and it’s been quite some time since I’ve craved laughter, instead of recoiling into restless isolation. Truth be told, I’m not sure I signed up with the intention of achieving. I wonder instead if, exposed to such harshness, I would simply perish, dejectedly dissolve into the barrenness of this region.

Silently I greet the outbreak of eccentric apparitions that now surround me. It is clear that I am not the norm here. Feeling lost and dejected, I walk in silence, alone with my thoughts and thousands of miles from home. It is the first time I remember feeling like a social outcast. I visualize my indifference flashing with the intensity of an emergency vehicles rooftop mounted strobe light, warning onlookers of my obvious nonconformity. Did Kerry feel this way, I wonder? In his writings he described himself as an ogre – trapped in a world ruled by insecurity, living with the never-ending fear that someone would discover the bruises buried deep inside.

Hard work and creative minds transform self-pitched tents and you-hauled trailers into hedonistic theme camps brimming with gaiety. If I don’t hurry, I won’t get my tent pitched before night fall, I think. I have never pitched a tent before, nor have I gone a day without indoor plumbing or a blow dryer. Sandwiched between thousands of happy campers, I am the only one not smiling.

On day two, with my flask full of water and my skin slathered in sunscreen, I jump on my bike and head to the farthest point of the playa. Wind-pitched sand stings my skin and my mind races on. Faster and faster I pedal, envisioning what would happen if I never came back. Would the clean up crew simply donate my belongings, return the rented SUV and notify my family?

Lofty pillars, balancing two lanterns each, line the pathway that leads to David Best’s Temple of Honor. A massive fortress constructed of calm swelling domes, spears and cones, resting on a square wood casing, forming an image similar to that of the Taj Mahal. Intricate black and white mystical illustrations illuminated the temple, accentuating its grandeur and holiness.

Inside the temple, I slowly survey the array of commemorations loved ones left behind. Beside a portrait of Buddha dangles a green monkey tagged with a red heart. A shabby stuffed toy that, like the Velveteen Rabbit, looks as though he was loved real. Above it a sticker reads, “Believe in the Power of Monkeys.” The sight of this spawns memories of my son’s childhood and I smiled, recalling how our pet bird used to eat an exotic prepackaged food that was labeled “Monkey Chow.” For whatever reason, these two words together always made us laugh. Over and over again, Kerry and I would compete for the best rendition of “Monkey Chow.” I have since turned this into a game for Kerry’s young son Jackson, and it too makes him roar with laughter. It begins with a bulging-eyed stare as I slowly declare, “I AM SO HUNGRY,” pausing to watch his wide-eyed reaction, “I’M GONNA GET ME SOME,” and in my deepest roar, “MMMONKEY CHHHOW!!!!!” And then I eat his belly. This belly eating business is quite ticklish and when you’re two years old, the sillier the better.

It is the first time since my son’s death that a reminiscence of him brings me a smile.

“Live and Burn” was one of Kerry’s mottos. Experiencing Burning Man was one of his desires. The Temple of Honor would give me a place to grieve, a place to pray, and a place to honor my son. And so, below the green monkey tagged with the red heart, I create my memorial to Kerry. First, I hang a t-shirt my sister Colleen had given me. A white Fruit-of-the-Loom t-shirt covered in poor-quality computer-generated photos of my son, his face morphed by improper alignment. A rainbow stretches across the back panel along with a line from “Over The Rainbow”: “Some day I’ll wish upon a star and wake up where the clouds are far behind me.” Tacky as it might be, I love that shirt. I love the fact that my sister, Kerry’s aunt, cared enough to create a tribute of admiration. My eyes pierce with tears as I add a letter I wrote about my beautiful son, and attach to it a photo of Kerry holding his son, Jackson. This becomes my place in the Temple of Honor.

Crouched beside me, a woman sets up a shrine for her son Chris. Our sons were the same age. We exchange chronicles of a turbulent era, recognizing the interchangeable pain and vulnerability of our sons’ lives. Her son’s drug-abused lifestyle and overdose bandaging his depression and my son’s suicide completed by an overdose. An overdose of over-the-counter sleeping pills. Three packages, ninety pills, crushed, mixed with his iced tea and swallowed. No one seemed to question the motives of a distraught young man as he entered the 24-hour CVS local pharmacy. No one wondered why he might want to purchase three packages of sleeping pills, his palms sweating as he handed cashier number 7 two twenty-dollar bills and said, “Keep the change.”

Each day I would spend hours in the Temple of Honor. I would sit in meditation and write in my journal and cry. Reflecting on the twenty-three years I had with my son and pleading for an ongoing connection. It is heavy, it is hard, it is healing. It is everything I needed.

The first person to read my letter about Kerry is a man wearing only a baseball catcher’s face mask, chest guard, shin guard, jock strap, cup and cleats. And despite his well-guarded, protective gear, he is vulnerable enough to shed a tear.

A man wearing a hat that says “future” reads my tarot cards and tells me that there is a male guide beside me. Always near.

On my last night at Burning Man I rest, kneeling in the desert sand and watch the temple burn. In the crush of the crowd I go unnoticed, eclipsed by the throngs of joviality. I scan the faces of the pack, knowing I am a stranger to them all. Above me, the bright full moon glows. Its massive full body dangles in front of me, just outside my reach. So close that I can see with great detail the scattering of mares that define the face of the man trapped inside. It was a full moon the night you chose to end your life, I thought, wondering if its power had somehow driven him over the edge.

The intensity of the blaze unbolts my pores and my body glistens, reflecting the fury of the flame. Entranced by the towering smoke tunnels that spew from its core, their twisted dance leading upwards towards the black sky, my mind plays images of the last time I saw my son alive. His beautiful, symmetrically-balanced face highlighted by the intensity of his crisp blue eyes, the cheek-raising smile, and the tone of his blush. “Ma, don’t get upset,” he teased. “I’m a 23-year-old guy – I don’t always get you.” The backwards jerk of his head and neck timed perfectly with the roll of his belly-deep laughter. I was certain he was laughing at me.

My eyes widen, overfilled with tears that spill rhythmically one by one onto my cheeks, slowly rippling down the crevasses of my face to a pool at the end of my chin and jumping into the barrenness of my chest. I do not wipe my tears away. I am not ashamed to cry. I wear my pain proudly.

As much as I try to remember the way he lived, I am haunted by the sickening discovery of his sparsely clad body stretched across the living room sofa. Cold gray skin covers his stiff, unresponsive shell. His mouth slightly gaped, his eyes pointing upward, frozen in sorrow. I came too late. I did not know, did not understand his pain. And so, he traveled on without me.

I would spend the next year of my life desperately trying to understand, collecting everything I could find relating to his suicide and suicide in general. The autopsy found no food inside his stomach, only traces of dark brown liquid, which I determined to be the iced tea he so frequently drank despite my warnings that the sugar base would eventually rot his teeth. The police report said it was seventy-two degrees the day he died. The medical examiner’s office listed him as one of 72 suicides in the state of Connecticut that year. Suicide is the third largest cause of death in men ages 15 to 25. Men tend to be more successful than women at completing their suicides. Most send an unheard cry for help prior to taking their life.

Still, I do not understand.

David Best walks the line of spectators that surround the blaze. I watch as he stops every so often to shake someone’s hand. As his image mirrors mine, I can see through his sleep-deprived, blood-shot eyes that he understands my pain. I thank him for all his hard work, and tell him how meaningful the Temple of Honor is to me. I tell him about my beautiful son and how the pain of love engulfs me.

“It’s not your fault,” David replies. “Come with me. See the real beauty of Burning Man.” His hands reach out to me. “Beyond the smile lies the pain. It’s why I built the Temple, for the pain beyond belief.” David continues to shake hands, wave to the crowd, and answer a reporter’s questions. And through it all, he never lets go of my hand. “Look beyond their smiles. Deep inside each soul lies the truth. Honor the truth.”

My knees, weak with emotion, crumble; the intensity of his message pulls me to the ground. “We all sign up for this journey,” David explains. “It’s no different than you deciding to come to Burning Man. You may not know why, but your journey is your own doing. It is deliberate.”

Shortly after Kerry’s passing, I discovered the phrase “Live Deliberately” scribbled inside one of his journals. It was a passage that touched me deeply. It became even more profound when my husband engraved it in our wedding bands, the exchange celebrated just three months after Kerry’s passing. Was I so lost in the endless stream of superficial wedding details that I failed to recognize my son’s desperate cry for help, I wonder.

I stay until the final ember takes its last breath. The crowd is now gone, the stars above cloaked in a canopy of ash, unable to direct me home. From a distance I can hear the faint melody of Neil Young’s signature song “Harvest.” It was the first album I ever bought. I was 14 years old and had earned the money to buy the album by completing a sewing task my overpowering Aunt had given me. She was surrounded by sons and, like Cinderella’s evil stepmother, enjoyed torturing girls that were not, in her opinion, good enough to call her own. Somehow these childhood memories seem bigger, closer – like the glory of the harvest moon that dangles before me. Just outside my grasp.

Slowly, I drift towards the echo of my childhood. Neil’s voice grows richer, deeper with each mindful step. In the expanse of emptiness, a limply woven thatched hut stands alone. Massive speakers, directed at the horizon, border the exterior walls. Inside, a sound system rests in one corner; a hammock stretches across the center. Eagerly I climb into it and sway to the sound of Neil’s cry. There, cradled in hope, I rest till morning comes. And though I am by myself, I now know I am not alone. My son rests peacefully beside me, rootless in the gentle desert breeze.

Burn It


by Fresh

I’ve come to Burning Man to shave my head. The night they burn The Man will be exactly one year to the day since my husband and I separated. I need to mark this anniversary in the true spirit of Burning Man. I need to burn it up. To take this dream of our family, and set fire to it and watch it burn until the ashes blow away. Then I will come freshly shorn into my new life, reborn. Well, that’s the metaphor at least. It relates to the Wicker Man of pagan practice that I have to guess burning The Man is based on -the image of setting fire to the dried stalks of last years crop and returning the ashes to the soil to fertilize next years growth. It’s this image that is driving me, a suburban soccer mom of 42 with an admittedly fringe theatrical past, to take the pretty radical step of shaving my head. No wimp about radical steps, I’ve also come to Burning Man for the first time with a man I’ve had all of three dates with and will now spend six days in a van on an alkali salt flat that makes Death Valley look lush. “Let it burn, baby.”

In the world of Black Rock City we are bad Bedouins, my new paramour and I. Our pathetic camp with its ramshackle shade structure is the laughingstock of Serious and Faith, the intersecting streets that make up our block. The saving grace is that we are there in his Toyota van so shelter is just a sliding door away. As it turns out all we need at Burning Man is a bed. Or a futon, in this case. We’re “The Lovers” of the Tarot and we most definitely are Major Arcana. I am enjoying my second sexual adolescence in a way that only a newly single person can. “All of the know how and none of the inhibitions.” Which I realize could be a motto for the whole Burning Man event. The occasional pause in our sex marathon is filled with surreal forays into Black Rock City, the playa and the vast desert beyond – “The Wholly Other.” As it turns out, Burning Man is the perfect place to go when you’re in the pink cloud of new romance. It’s all about love and everybody wants to get some of that juju on them. It’s also the perfect honeymoon destination. As a friend of mine said to me there, while slurping whipped cream, fudge and sprinkles off of his wife’s breasts at the “Nipple Dip” stand, “Me and the Mrs. wouldn’t think of vacationing anywhere else.”

Before I left for the journey I started working on my shrine. It was to be a mini-version of the artist David Best’s Temple of Honor (burned on the Sunday after the Saturday night burning of The Man) made up of the postcards we sent out as announcements when our daughter was born. We had them printed in bulk in a batch of 500 and since we’d originally sent out about 75 I figured the 400 or so that I had left should do me. Unfortunately, I had only decided to go to Burning Man ten days before the event and I was completely stymied by the control freak’s trifecta challenge of packing every supply you could possibly need in the desert, finding sexy and creative costumes and creating an art piece of some significance to burn. Finally I had to say, “Fuck it,” to something and it was my ridiculously ambitious shrine. Instead I took the postcards and figured I’d just let the spirit move me.

Burning Man is a place where everyone is long lost family, friend and loved one. One night we venture out only to be met by a dust storm on the playa. We find the nearest camp and drop our bikes in the growing pile at the front of the oasis and enter. Walking down a narrow hallway draped in glowing nylon we push our way past the heavy curtains into a large dome room where everyone greets us with shouts of, “Happy Birthday,” “Surprise,” and “We’re so glad you’re here.” They hug us and we are merged into a large circle surrounding an accordion player who leads us in several rounds of Irish drinking songs and a mock wedding which involves toe sucking as a part of the rites. Being at Burning Man is almost a challenge to how intimate you can be with strangers. It’s an experiment in going deep fast with people you’ve never met before. I decide to take up this gauntlet by writing the most intimate memories I can of my marriage on the back of the postcards and asking people in the Center Café Saturday afternoon if they would take one and burn it that night. Some say “no,” but most agree and the profundity of the discussion that ensues is at the level of conversation I would have with my oldest friend. I am swept up in the fantasy of what it would be like if the real world could be like this and abruptly, everyday starts to feel like it really is my birthday.

On the night of the burn, the energy follows the fire. There’s literally a buzz as the playa starts to fill with people. Snap, crackle, pop. I’m dancing on the party bus of the camp we have ingratiated ourselves with and a Native American shaman asks if I want a cleansing before the burn. Oh, yes I do. That is exactly what the doctor ordered for this gay soon-to-be divorcee. I’m gunning for the spiritual enema of a lifetime and miraculously, I get it. The memories feel drug induced even though I was as sober as a nun. Through the haze of memory comes the image of him fanning a smudge stick with a turkey feather and telling me to stamp my feet and tell Mother Earth how grateful I am. I lift up my arms and cry my gratitude to the sky. With this, my kundalini opens like a dam burst and I’m a live conduit of energy from earth to heaven. At the same time they raise the neon outlined arms of The Man to indicate the bonfire is about to commence and a cry goes up in the crowd. The metaphorical burn that I had envisioned is fulfilling my wildest imaginings. I am a house afire.

Then they burn The Man. Eight stories of wood, canvas, and sheetrock goes up in a blaze perfectly engineered for spectacle. Some of the most spectacular being the 100 foot high smoke devils that are formed by the convection of the intense heat. They break off from the pyre and tornado their way out across the desert. A chorus line of the gods. Though many feel compelled, I’m not into pressing closer and jumping the fire. I’m spent and now I need the dreamtime. I’ve got information to receive from on high and this should be one interesting round of shut eye for me tonight. We do a little dance, make a little love and call it a night.

My sleep takes me on a battering journey. I have the visage of a chemo patient. My hair is unevenly shorn leaving me looking like a concentration camp victim. I have a cold sore on my lip and my skin looks all mottled. This is what I remember upon waking on Sunday morning. And I’m still going to do it. I’m still going to shave my head today. I start talking about it as soon as my companion is awake. “I’m scared”, I tell him. “What are you scared of?” he asks. “That you won’t find me attractive.” “Well, yeah!” he snorts and I crack up. “Which will give me all the information I need, won’t it?” I reply. “It sure will,” he says and gently kisses my hairline.

We head off for our morning coffee and chai at The Center Café and run into a girlfriend of ours who we have been seeking for the last five days. It’s a fantastic reunion and we all know that we will be together for the Temple Burn tonight and that they will both shave my head. I’m super-focused on getting it done. I don’t even want to talk. Just shave. Thank God someone is taking pictures. I’m so numb to the process and focused on the outcome I have to rely on photographs to help me to create in retrospect an emotional arc that matches the intensely ritualistic quality of the act. Everyone gets in on the action, taking turns with the clippers and leaving me to shave the front half with a disposable razor (referred to in head shaving parlance as “Bic-ing it down”) until a dust storm comes and I can no longer see myself in the mirror. The women take shelter in the van while my lover heads off to a party and like a feature spread from some goddess magazine we finish the job.

I no longer fulfill anyone’s image of what I should look like. When my hair grows out it will be grey or silver or salt and pepper, I’m not sure. I’ve not seen my true color for fifteen years and I look forward to finding out. All I see when I look in the mirror is the me that I’ve always known, only more fully seated in my experience. My hair color will make me look older but not old. There’s an elegance to inhabiting myself in this new way. As confident as I feel, I’m still hooked-in enough to be astounded when my husband doesn’t see this change. I’m coming to terms with the understanding that he probably never will and once again I understand what a gift there is for me in this ending. The answer to a question I’ve only just seen burned within me, “Who am I living my life for?”

I kept my hair. I gathered it all in a baggie (so that it wouldn’t fall into the hands of my enemies.) I’m a big proponent of “leave no trace” but of course I couldn’t catch it all. I love the thought of my hair being swept to the shoreline of the winter lake that will come with the rains, and embedding in the mud of the playa with the rest of the MOOP (Matter Out Of Place) that sneaks past the diligence of this year’s clean up crew. Feathery relics of a life I left behind, frozen in the shoreline of a dried up lake in the Black Rock desert.

I’m still trying to figure out what to do with this handful of hair.

Maybe I’ll burn it.

Cephalopods


by Cowgirl

I think I should give you all some back story before going into this.

1998:

Long ago in a city of not-so-brotherly love I closed myself up inside a few bad relationships. During the final relationship there, I could not express myself without fear of alienating this person and his family or coming off as an over-educated snob. I couldn’t converse with people and likewise they thought my intelligence intimidating. I don’t say this to be uppity. This was actually a true quote told to me.

So I bottled it up. Upon going to this guy’s relatives’ house for Easter I sat quietly in a crumbling row ‘house’… literally crumbling. In a dangerous neighborhood where public transportation rarely went. The only thing of worth: a big screen TV with cable.

As the Discovery Channel eventually occupied people’s attention, one man I remember from a previous family wedding. I remember him because his little daughter had deep bruises all over her upper arms. In the shape of fingers.

As the TV talked about cephalopods… I headed up to the bathroom. I heard this man say slightly angrily, ‘cephalopod, what’s a cephalopod?’

Unable to control myself I said, ‘It’s a squid,’ as I marched up the stairs. I know that was bad form. I spoke up… but I felt triumphant. I just couldn’t hold anything in any longer.

Upon returning downstairs, the man grabbed my wrist and said, ‘Here, hold out your hand,’ and tried to ash his lit cigarette into my palm. I flicked my wrist out of his grasp and said, ‘I’m sorry but I’m allergic to people who ash in my hand …’

Flash forward to Burning Man 2003:

The night of the burn. The Man has burned. My boyfriend (a different and fabulous man) and I are dancing to the Extra Action Marching Band when I turn around and see a beautiful golf cart with a flowing squid on top. People are dancing after it.

I shout, ‘Oh look! It’s a cephalopod!’

A woman hears me and, smiling, turns and shouts back, ‘Yes, yes! It is a cephalopod!’ And I dance after it.

I felt like all those horrible years of holding back were now gone forever.

Knob


by Kristin White Slye

Burning Man is a continual week-long process of letting go. There are so many things to get snagged on – the heat, the dust, the wind, the cold, the naked guy if you’re modest, the clothed people if you’re the naked guy, and on and on. Getting snagged and never untangling yourself can be the bandit that steals from you the true experience of Burning Man.

The immediate beauty of Burning Man does not lie in the art or the people or the landscape. The immediate beauty of Burning Man, for each individual, lies in that magical and beautiful moment when you let go of whatever has snagged you and then become present to the apparent and abundant beauty that is the art, the people, and the landscape. It is in this split second of letting go that we set ourselves free.

Outside of Burning Man, we have many options to manipulate, control and rule over our mini-universes. We tweak the volume control, air-conditioning dial, snooze button, or broil knob all to be comfortable. However, if we stopped tweaking the knobs, just for one second, something magical might happen. Leave the heater alone… in a little while you’re cold. However, listen quietly and realize “YOU’RE FEELING SOMETHING!!!” We go about our lives trying to eradicate any possible discomfort and we end up feeling nothing at all.

At Burning Man, this abrupt inability to control one’s environment can come as a shock. Some are never quite able to revive themselves. They return home and think “Well that was interesting, but way too _________.” (Fill in the blank – but it’s usually something no one can control, like dirty or noisy).

On the playa, you pretty much have access to only one knob and there are two settings: ON or OFF. You choose.

Choose OFF and you’re snagged. Complaint mode. No fun. No freedom. No play. Just general irritation and a gravity-like urge to hide in your tent.

Choose ON and you choose to let go – to be free. You untangle yourself from whatever it is that’s out of your control. You realize that the dust storm, or the strange guy, or the blazing sun is actually your golden ticket. They’re your access to feeling something, to experience something, to be set totally free and be completely present to the beauty surrounding you.

Me. I choose ON…. and on and on and on.

Burning Man Supports Local Community Service Organizations

Black Rock City, LLC Donates Funds & Technology to the Northern Nevada Community

January 29, 2004 Reno, Nevada. – Black Rock City LLC, the organization that hosts the annual Burning Man event, has donated more than $32,750 in proceeds from ice sales at the 2003 event to community service organizations in Northern Nevada. “We are pleased to say that this year we are donating more funds than in prior years—and to more organizations,” said Marian Goodell, Director of Business & Communications.

“Donating proceeds from ice sales to local organizations is in line with Burning Man’s principles of fostering community and supporting the arts without turning to corporate sponsorship” said Larry Harvey, Founder and Executive Director of Burning Man. “Ice sales allow participants to sustain themselves in the desert for the week long event without burdening the local roads with trips into town. Moreover, local community service and artistic organizations benefit from the proceeds.”

This year Black Rock City, LLC is making donations to Friends of the Black Rock, Reno Crisis Center, Nevada Museum of Art, Nevada Outdoor School, Gerlach Medical Clinic, Gerlach High School, Greater Gerlach Improvement District (GGID), Gerlach Volunteer Fire Department, Gerlach Senior Citizens, Empire 4-H Club, Pershing County Chamber of Commerce, Pershing County School System and Lovelock Lion’s Club. Additionally, Black Rock City, LLC will be providing unlimited wireless Internet access for Gerlach residents in the near future.

For thirteen years, the Black Rock Desert outside of Reno, Nevada, has been home to the increasingly popular and influential Burning Man event. The annual art event, which began on a beach in San Francisco in 1986, has grown to attract more than 30,000 participants annually, from every state of the Union and twenty-two countries worldwide. Based on corporate accounting and participant survey data, the organization estimates that it contributes $10 million annually to Washoe County, including real estate taxes, vehicle and equipment rental, and the money that its participants spend on groceries, supplies and lodging on the way to and from the event. The organization also contributed over $600,000 in 2003 to the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) for land use of the area where the event is held.

For more information please contact:
Ray Allen, Executive Project Manager
Black Rock City, LLC
(415) 865-3800, ext. 137

ray(at)burningman(dot)com [para_end]