The Beekeepers

The Beekeepers realized rapidly that they were daunted by the large, complex honeycombed hive of dust-covered canvas encampments, in this particular full-sized colony of over sixty thousand. Sixty five thousand, four hundred and twenty one of these social insects to be exact, all cross-pollinating twenty four seven, to the likes of Billy Idol in the house. Thump, thump, thump, “hey little sister what have you done?” Ambient keyboard swell, thump, thump, thump, and repeat to coda: Day and night humming raucously into the following sunrise.

Not that we had intended to manage busy bees or to produce conventional honey: We had come masquerading as great European twentieth century explorers, presumably along the crisp white linen lines of Dr. Livingstone. But it was not to be, as the first comment on the coordinated attire from a bumbling, dirty looking Italian-ish thirty something extra from Mad Max was, “buon giorno seniors, where are zee bees?” That stung. And so for the duration of the burn my wingmen and I were the keepers of bees. Fantasy names and titles were apparently the norm at the infamous Burning Man as we realized fairly quickly upon making introductions to fellow burners. “Hi I’m Chris,” with a broad smile and hand extended was reciprocated with, “hi I’m Violet Shooting Star.”

the-big-hash

The workers were super friendly, all sixty-some thousand of them, the costumes were amusingly rich and varied and the art structures and thunderdome-esque mutant vehicles were entirely impressive. For a trio of old WASPs wearing all-white safari suits and pith helmets we seemed to get way more attention than we thought deserved. Why would these fabulous-looking, young, post-apocalyptic honeys swarm the Beekeepers? Not because we looked like the Bee-Gees we guessed, but because of our advanced planning and well-organized, coordinated formation. Any drone can sport a yellow jacket, mohawk, kilt, face-paint, doc martens, safety pins, faux fur and other haberdashery, but three pristine white figures contrasted with anarchy gets the nectar. The challenge next year is to create as much buzz.

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On the Road to Burning Man

The Residence Inn, in colorful South Reno, seemed like the perfect staging post for the long-awaited reunion of the three amigos. The low-key comfort of generic beige and mauve-hued décor in a functional two-bedroom suite offered the opportunity for a casual catch up on what’s been happening in our lives over the past decade. There are times for me when the Residence Inn is simply ideal for a stopover or a longer break: the breakfast is simply no nonsense but allows you to make your own pancakes if you are feeling adventurous or the desire to be more directly involved in your own breakfast.

We had come in from an eclectic mishmash of points east: Nashville Tennessee, Washington DC, and Durango, Colorado, to meet up and head out to the highly-touted Burning Man Festival in the searing Nevada desert, a couple hundred miles to the north east. To endure the arid affair for a week, Chris left his new home by the Animas River in the craggy mountainous area south west of Denver while Jay traveled from his magnificent contemporary home on Tennessee’s winding Cumberland River. Leaving my home in a leafy Greater Washington DC suburb, I pondered the lure of natural waterways and why many of my friends and family felt the need to have them in their backyard. Certainly I love to swim as often as possible—it feels good and is easy exercise, but I don’t think my friends go for a dip in their adjacent aqua, though I’ll have to ask them. They certainly have boats and other leisurely means of aquatic conveyance, which looks like a lot of fun. I guess I never really got into sailing: I did take a few lessons on Hogganfield Loch in Glasgow, Scotland when I was a teenager, but all I remember is my wet clingy anorak, numb cold hands and a yearning for a hot sausage roll from the café afterwards—and then there was that George Clooney movie.

Anyways, It will be good to catch up with the River Monsters over the next week as we head into the hot ‘n hazy desert for the barren blowout with our dazzlingly decorated bicycles and coordinated festival fashion, though I have no idea why I’m doing this, other than as a celebratory scenic backdrop to my ongoing quarter-century friendship with these guys.

Reno Hotel