The following was told to me today by Augustus St. George, who I understand to be the top private security expert at Black Rock City (if you know, you know), and I thought it was interesting enough to repeat here. – Caveat
It was hot. But it’s not the heat at Burning Man that kills you. It’s the heat and the stupidity.
The Pierre Lafitte Ice Company keeps a stool at the end of the bar for me. They know my cup. If they see it on the bar, and it’s empty, they know what to pour. That cup was made out of the ash and remains of the Temple of Transition. A client made it for me. Clients do the damndest things.
You know what I like about this bar? You know what keeps me coming back? Nobody ever asks if I’m having “good burn.”
A pair of topless aerialists were going at it in the corner like their husband was home from war, and I watched it the way a man does when he’s at the best party in the world and wishes he had someplace to go.
That’s when Krista walked up behind me and whispered in my ear: “Augustus, there’s a man here says he’s looking for you.”
I didn’t turn. Looking in Krista’s eyes means falling in love all over again. I don’t need that. “Tell him I’m at the trash fence.”
“Augustus … he looks desperate.”
“They all look desperate.”
“I don’t think this was a bad trip.”
“You can tell just by looking at him?” I growled.
“Yeah,” she said. “And so can you.”
“Give me one reason I would even consider getting up from this stool,” I said as The Mayor filled up my glass.
“I like to watch you work.”
I took a hard slug of the hard stuff. “Dammit.”
“Send him over.”
She flashed me a smile straight out of a Vegas billboard and walked across the room. A moment later a slender man in leather chaps and red clown wig sat down at the bar next to me. Read more »