A Tangent

Or so it will seem, at first.

It was late August, 2007, and The Killer Green Tomato was taking shape for the first time.  I sold my original ticket to Burning Man because I could not afford to go, to an achingly beautiful woman who  served only to remind me of what I'd be missing.  Then, a college pal with ties to someone setting up the Mermen camp came up with another ticket, and, horribly conflicted, I turned him down.

But other friends conspired, solving the cash issue, and there I was on the Playa 2 a.m. Sunday morning, watching flashes in the sky, the telltale signs not of lightning--but of massive bursts of flame.  It was sign, I'd learn soon, that this Burn would top everything prior except for, say, Krakatoa, in terms of pyrotechnics. (More on that, later, in a bit that we will call "Crack Propane.")

Jens was swigging grappa from a half-gallon Absolut bottle.  He plunked it down, a bit of the 185 proof sloshing out the top.  He twisted some wires together, and the Killer Green Tomato lit up for the first time.  Jens then turned the bolt he'd fashioned into a key.  It fired up immediately, of course.

The KGT was a truly dangerous Department of Mutant Vehicles-approved art car, which Jens built in his mechanical-graveyard-robbing, Frankenstein way. A Yamaha engine powered the single drive wheel, at the back of a triangular frame of welded t-posts.  Dune buggy balloon tires were mounted on the front, on a suspended steering rig topped with motorcycle handlebars in the center.  The wooden passenger platform was covered in thick carpets, velvet throw pillows, and a dome of shadecloth.  The entire thing was festooned with LEDs, and drew approving grins and whoops all evening long--

But it was 11 in the morning now, several days later, maybe Thursday. The odd nighttime beauty of the KGT silhouetted against multiple propane explosions was not on our minds.

Velocity was.

Jens was driving, screwing the throttle hard, towing me on my bike. At 11 a.m., heat from the cloudless sun already shot shimmering waves through the air, like spilled gasoline.  We were at least a mile away from the edge of the Playa, headed As Fast As Possible toward the Black Rock Mountains, which refused to get any closer.

It’s unclear how long the BLM Ranger had been following us in his black-glassed heavily sprung Explorer as we tore ass across the desert, me holding the right handlebar (and critical rear brake, as the front brake applied alone will dump you but hard, carving new and bloody emphasis into the term “faceplant") with one hand, and a water-ski rope in the other, whipsawing back and forth in a 10-meter arc, watching for the occasional yet dangerous swaths of soft dust hiding in the hardpan, which will dump you even harder.  

At the first short blast of the Ranger’s siren I leaned hard to the right until centripetal force pulled me even, and tossed the rope onto the platform behind Jens, who hadn't heard and didn't slow down.  Not satisfied, the Ranger hit the siren again, really laying it on, and Jens stopped, defeated, the dust overtaking us.   On the dry white desert floor interrupted by sudden black mountains, it looked like we’d been pulled over on the brightside of the moon.

The Ranger got out of the truck, lights still flashing, engine idling, eyes unreadable behind dark aviator shades.  He put on his hat, either out of protocol, or because he knew, like anyone who’s spent even a single day at Burning Man, that you simply don’t fuck with the sun in the Black Rock Desert, even for a minute. 

I tried playing dumb.  “He can’t tow me?” The Ranger shook his head, not obviously unfriendly.  “At ten miles an hour he can,” and walked to the front of the KGT.  Jens wore a full-length leather shooting jacket, shorts and sandals, and hadn’t shaved in several days. He resembled nothing so much as the quintessential child molester lurking just outside the playground.

I knew that under the Rules, we faced at minimum expulsion from the event, a heavy fine and loss of the KGT, and that’s if he didn’t find the marijuana and grappa on-board, barely concealed under very dusty velvet pillows.  BLM are feds, and to them, marijuana is always a crime; simple possession can net you a year. 

Given all of that, his first question caught us somewhat off-guard.

“You boys ever see the movie Thunderheart, with Val Kilmer?”  

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Next post (within 24 hours):  I bring the tangent home, with links--and photos of the KGT.

Off to the Occupy camp now--