Ghost of Addis

If you've been to Burning Man lately, it's hard to ignore the ever-increasing class-based bifurcation. While I have previously noted the unwelcome influx of suburbia and children, the event has broadened and accelerated its devolution to become a world overrun by .1%ers, who pay millions to haul in private compounds schlepped by I-shit-you-not fucking sherpas, with amenities like air-conditioned luxury yurts, swimming pools, sushi chefs, masseurs, pedicurists, supermodels  (the thoroughbreds of sparkle ponies) and worse. The elite at Burning Man now embody the polar opposite of radical self-reliance and self-expression. You half-expect to see them dressed--unironically--like Cleopatra borne by slaves on a litter, or Hemingway in  Green Hills of Africa, complete with pith helmet, elephant gun, and servants addressing them as "Bwana". 

Put another way, when NSA whores like Sergei Brin attend, it's clearly time to blow your mind elsewhere.    

I was there when Paul Addis had enough and Lit The Man Early in 2007, and while I have no plans to  commit suicide by BART anytime soon, I understand, I think, the underlying angst.

More, soon--now that various technical difficulties have been resolved.

Peace.