probably not the story you wanted to hear

Just like last year, I'm putting off writing in my blog because I keep trying to weave some magical story about Burning Man, and, well, I just don't think it's going to happen. My experience, once again, surpassed all expectation (I really try my best to have none) and left me speechless, utterly dumbfounded at the fantastical wonderland human imagination creates every year out there on that flat piece of desert in the middle of nowhere. There are too many stories to be told, too many interactions to recount, too many memories to keep precious.

Oddly enough, the one thing that did strike me with unusual force this year was my observations of the toilet cleaners. Every year they are there, working silently behind the scenes at odd hours to keep our Johnny-on-the-Spots clean and supplied with adequate toilet paper and seat covers. On the door of each toilet, someone from the Burning Man Department of Public Works has placed a gentle reminder (often in Haiku form), urging burners to think before mindlessly tossing our tampons, matches, baby wipes and other non-approved waste into the potty.

"If you drop a glowstick in the toilet, someone has to go in and fish it out with their hands. Do you want that job? We didn't think so."

In the wee hours of a particularly cold night, I stand outside the potty waiting for Mary to come out. A large truck is parked alongside the long row of blue plastic toilet-houses. The moonlit silhouette of a long, thick accordian tube stretches from the truck and disappears into one of the toilets. A man inside illuminates the inside of the outhouse with his headlamp and quickly works the hose as the contents of the toilet are sucked out and deposited into the truck's waste tank. My stomach turns. I watch him come out. He's wearing a Scream mask to hide his face and cocks his head to one side in silent acknowledgement of me as he exits. "Thank you so much," I mutter under my breath.

These guys have possibly one of the worst jobs on earth. Most of them are ex-cons, and graveyard shift toilet cleaner at a festival in the middle of the Nevada desert was the only gig they could get to begin the long road to rehabilitation and acceptance back into mainstream society. I almost want to cry. What a terrible, terrible thing to have to do. Without mindless morons making their lives even more miserable by carelessly dropping candy necklaces and cigarette butts in the toilet, I imagine it's a bit like purgatory. With them, I figure it must be hell.

Hey you, there's my PSA. Please respect the toilet man. If it doesn't come out of your body, don't put it in the potty.