I met Rockstar at Burning Man, an eight-day art festival in northwestern Nevada's Black Rock Desert. Some describe Burning Man as a utopia. Others call it heaven. Even though it only exists for one week out of the year, many call it home. I was invited to the festival by five young men—Jesse, Maverick, Griff, Coyote, and Gidget (more on his name later)—all aspiring corporate types in their mid 20s. They were "looking for something not found in the corporate world," Maverick told me.
Based on their experiences, the corporate world lacks luxury RVs, suitcases full of drugs, and the time and space to "explore some sexual boundaries," Maverick had explained in an e-mail to The Stranger. He wanted to invite a writer to join them, someone who could document their journey of self-discovery.
I know people who go to Burning Man every year, but I've never felt compelled to attend because I think Nevada is an arid shit hole and because I suck at art. But I am The Stranger's Worst Enemy, so my editors gleefully volunteered me to fill the open slot in the RV.
"You might as well beat them to the punch and rape yourself," said my mother when I mentioned my travel plans.