It was one of those San Francisco drizzle dusks where you couldn’t tell where the fog ended and the rainclouds started. Dressed in a black trench coat, I met an old colleague outside the warm glow of a Brasserie sign. It was time to confide a dark secret. “You’ll never believe this, “I whispered. “I’m happy. Madly happy.” “What!” she exclaimed and pulled me into the wet shadows, nervously looking
“I’ll never go to Burning Man,” I always said. “It’s full of hairy armpit hippies having orgies in the dust while hallucinating.” I loathed the people in San Francisco that called themselves “burners.” You know the type-those wide eyed patchouli wearers that made arcane references to “the playa” and found random “burner friendly” events throughout the year where they could wear tutus, wave glo sticks, and relive their “playa”