Feature photo by Nikola Plejic / Above, photo of Femi Kuti and dancers by flykr

Growing up in Nigeria, I remember how parents deemed the Afrika Shrine off-limits. Shrouded in mystery, with rumors of being a hedonistic drug haven during the eighties, there was an air of mystique that hung around a 20 mile radius of the club.

It wasn’t until years later, when I watched a shirtless Femi Kuti drenched in sweat manically playing a saxophone with the legendary beaded Kuti dancers gyrating at a dizzying pace, that I began to get a sense of what his father, Fela, must have been like during his heyday.

Uncanny physical resemblance aside, Femi seemed to have been channeling his father’s spirit on stage.

Who Fela Was

Arguably the Elvis Presley of Africa in terms of fame, Fela Kuti’s invention of Afrobeat – a fusion of rhythmic jazz beats overlain with Yoruba music – in the early sixties transported raw West African traditional sounds to a global landscape.

Born Fela Ransome Kuti to a feminist and a Reverend, Fela left to study at the Trinity College of Music in London at the age of 19. It was during his years at Trinity when he formed his first band, Koola Lobitos. Years later, he would establish a nightclub in Ikeja, Lagos called “Afro-Spot” as his base for playing his new wave of music he called “Afrobeat.” In 1971, Afro-Spot became the Afrika Shrine, where he performed regularly. He would later form a new band called Egypt 80.

Lagos, Nigeria photo by zouzouwizman

After a short stint in the US, Fela returned to Nigeria with a new, fervent energy. His lyrics became politically charged – a reflection of the ruling powers within Nigeria he deemed oppressive. He formed the Kalakuta Republic, which he declared an independent colony from Nigeria. He changed his name to Fela Anikulapo Kuti which means “he who carries death in his pouch.”

By 1978, he had married 27 women, mostly his backup dancers and singers, as a protest against frequent raids on his Kalakuta Republic compound by the government ,which wasn’t too keen on his musical content. He would later rotate the number of wives he kept – keeping 12 at a time.

Fela died of complications resulting from HIV/AIDS in 1997.

Revered as “Baba,” which means “Father” in Yoruba, his ardent supporters see him as an oracle and pay homage to his shrine before important journeys or meetings.

Femi Kuti photo by tom.beetz

The Kuti Legacy

Many of Fela’s children have followed in his musical footsteps. The most popular isFemi Kuti, whose striking resemblance to his father and raw, unadulterated energy behind the saxophone is reminiscent of classic Fela with a modern edge. Seun Kuti, also a saxophonist and vocalist, and Fela’s youngest son, now leads his father’s former band, Egypt 80.

Yeni Kuti, Femi’s older sister, fondly known as YK Power, actively scouts out some of the most talented hip swaying backup dancers for Femi’s performances.

A Visit to the Shrine

As compound aides showed us around and took us backstage, they kept marveling at pictures they’d probably seen a couple hundred times, paying homage to every photograph of “Baba” we passed. Their reverence was undeniable.

We ran into Yeni Kuti at the compound. A quick phone call was made to Femi to see if he could meet with us for an interview. Unfortunately, a mild case of malaria kept him in bed through our visit to the shrine.

I got the sense that once you walked in through the doors of the compound, you were instantly treated like family and the Kutis were open and readily accessible to you.

The Shrine Today

An internationally acclaimed artist in his own right, Femi puts on free performances every Tuesday and Thursday night. Rehearsals start at 9 PM; dancers are followed by a full show, which ends between 12 AM and 1 AM.

Every Friday night the Shrine puts on a free disco night called Gobe Night; an estimated 10,000 people pass through its doors on Gobe Nights.

Admission to performances at the shrine is free of charge except on Sundays when a 500 Naira* cover charge is required.
*500 Naira – $4.25

Seun Kuti & Egypt 80 performing in San Francisco. Photo by CultrVultr

Resources:

Read Fela Kuti’s full biography with links to related articles.

Visit the Afrika Shrine online.

View clips of Fela Kuti and Femi Kuti performances on YouTube.

View 2008 European tour dates for both Femi and Seun Kuti.

Want to get your groove on? check out these CDs:

[Fela CD] The Best Best of Fela Kuti

[Seun CD] Seun Kuti & Egypt 80

[Femi Kuti live at the shrine] Femi Kuti – Live at the Shrine [Deluxe Edition DVD + Live CD]

Photo by mahalie stackpole.

Feature photo by psd.

Not so long ago, sushi was hard to find outside of Japan. In recent years, however, raw fish on rice has gone global in a big way. From Melbourne to Memphis and from Brussels to Beijing, no matter where you travel these days, you’ll never be far from a California Roll.

Somewhere along the way, sushi became the world’s sexiest food. Strangely enough, there’s something about sushi that makes sexy singles around the world want to take off their clothes.

How did sushi get so sexy? Here are some ideas.

Sushi Is Exotic

A sushi bar has a seductive perfume of exotic class that a steakhouse or Italian restaurant just can’t match.

Nothing is more romantic than foreign travel, but jetting off to distant lands is way too forward – and expensive – for a first or second date. Going out for sushi lets you and your date indulge in exotic pleasure without leaving the county.

Sushi is Erotic

A slab of raw tuna slides over the tongue. Salmon eggs pop in the mouth, releasing salty juices. A jolt of wasabi blows sinus passages clean.

Eating sushi is a sensual experience, a combination of visual anticipation, delicate presentation and sheer physical pleasure.

Photo by Jake of 8bitjoystick.com.

Sushi Is Expensive

By taking your date out for sushi, you prove that you’re rich enough to drop a wad of cash on tiny pieces of raw fish. You also send the message that you think your date is special enough to deserve an expensive meal.

Sushi Is Dangerous

OK, sushi isn’t really that dangerous. But eating raw seafood does feel a little bit risky. By downing a spicy tuna roll without blinking, you show that you’re willing to walk on the wild side.

Sushi Is Light

Ever try to have sex after three helpings of fettucini alfredo? Probably didn’t go so well, right?

A few pieces of sushi and some green tea ice cream won’t weigh you down. Sticking to a light meal will make you and your date feel frisky and athletic, primed for bedroom aerobics.

Sushi Is Sophisticated

No matter where in the world you travel, eating sushi marks you as a member of the global elite. Sushi is a luxury food, just like Starbucks is a luxury coffee or Mercedes is a luxury car. A sushi date shows that you’ve got money, but it also shows that you’ve got sophisticated taste.

Photo by Stefan Martins.

Sushi Is Salty

Soy sauce and traditional appetizers like edamame and miso soup are loaded with salt. As any bartender knows, salty food makes people want to drink beer. As any college student knows, drinking beer makes people lose their inhibitions and want to have sex.

Add in the fact that sushi is a light meal, and you and your date will get drunk – and horny – even quicker.

Sushi Is Sexy

No doubt about it, sushi is the sexiest food on the planet.

Photo by wili_hybrid

What’s better than a great steak? A great steak that chases you. Pamplona’s famous encierro, or “running of the bulls”, provides a rite of passage, a badge of bravery to those pilgrims willing to make the trek to northeastern Spain.

Popularized in the English-speaking world by Ernest Hemingway, the festival of San Fermin—the backdrop of the encierro—starts each year on July 6.

When/Where to Go

The bulls run daily from July 7 to 14, at 8:00am. During the weekend, you’ll find the most runners on the course, so plan accordingly. More runners = a more dangerous run.

Wherever you happen to arrive, head to the heart of Pamplona—the old town. Follow the people dressed in white. If you’re lost, ask, “Donde esta Casco Antiguo?” (Loosely, “Where is Old Town?”)

Where to Stay

Pamplona is one of the most welcoming cities you’ll find. You can eat, drink, and sleep almost anywhere you’d like.

If you didn’t book a hotel room or apartment a year in advance, forget about it; you’re on your own. If you decide to try one of the parks, bring something warm: the nights can get cold.

Need a place to store your stuff? Head to Plaza San Francisco. You can store your gear in an official, secure area.

A great option if you have a little extra cash is to rent a car and drive to Pamplona. You get a movable shelter, protection for you and your stuff, and the ability to explore the gorgeous Spanish countryside. If you can, check out highway N-240. It’s the scenic route, and it’s worth it.

Photo by www.viajar24h.com

What to Wear

The standard dress for the entire festival is white pants, white t-shirt, and a red scarf. You can bring them with you or buy them there. Of course, days spent with wine, beer, and calimocho (made from equal parts red wine and Coca-Cola), will ensure you leave looking like Jackson Pollock’s undershirt and smelling about as bad.

Before the Run

Plan to arrive the afternoon before the morning you intend to run. You’ll want to spend some time walking the actual 800+ meter course. This will give you a chance to scope out the area that you’d like to start from and plan possible escape routes.

Before 7:30am on the day of your run, you MUST be in Plaza Consistorial. You know you’re the right place if you’re smashed next to thousands of strangers listening to the p.a. system read off some guidelines in various languages.

Don’t worry. You won’t have to wait long before the barricades are removed and you’re released onto the course.

Photo by www.viajar24h.com

During the Run

Before they release the bulls, you have complete freedom to move about the course. Technically, you can start your run from just outside of the corral (where the bulls are running from) or just outside the bull ring (where they are running to). Keep in mind, though, that those points reflect either an extreme form of bravery that borders on lunacy or pathetic cowardice.

A rocket lets you know the door to the corral is open. The next rocket lets you know that more than 6,000 pounds of angry bulls are headed toward you. Big, ugly, and fast, they cannot be outrun, so timing is everything. When you see a wave of people heading toward you, it’s time to run. Hard.

Your goal should be the bullring, as a very special event awaits the lucky few who make it in before or immediately after the bulls. Thousands of ticketholders cheer from the stands as several cows are released—one at a time—into the ring, charging.

Grabbing a horn will draw cheers from the crowd. Getting hit will draw laughs.

Photo by www.viajar24h.com

Downtime

During most of the day, say between 10:00am and 7:00pm, most of the town is recovering from a hangover. If you brought a car, you’ve got plenty of time to explore northern Spain.

You can head to the beautiful coastal town of San Sebastian (1+ hour drive) or visit the Guggenheim in Bilbao (2 hour drive). No car? There’s plenty to explore in and around the town. The tourist office in Plaza San Francisco provides free itineraries for the day’s events.

Community Connection:

If you run with the bulls in Pamplona, we sure hope you blog about the experience on Matador. If you’re headed to Spain, be sure to get in touch with some Matador members like Teresa, a journalist from Madrid, or El Lobo , who leads cultural walking tours in southern Spain.

If the running of the bulls isn’t enough of a party for you, check out Matador’s round-up of the best festivals in Spain.

Feature photo by Marxchivist. Photo above by Reini68.

In December 2007, Tanya Andrea Stadelmann and I decided that we had to do something dramatic to break out of our loneliness and despair. During the two previous years, our lives had reached a complete dead end, littered with heartache, ill health and crap jobs.

Over mint juleps in sweltering Melbourne Christmas heat, we hatched a wildly ambitious escape plan– we’d start a musical act, tour the USA and make a film. We called ourselves The Jilted Brides.

We faced a few hurdles: We didn’t have an album, Tanya hadn’t sung for 15 years, we had no contacts in America, owned no video equipment and had hardly any money. But what we had going for us was a kind of Withnail and I fantastic desperation, a vivid imagination fueled by despondency, joblessness, and intoxicants.

Over the next four months, a series of minor miracles occurred. We recorded an album in six weeks, using the shed in back of my share house. On the strength of that album and Tanya’s images, we applied to be artists in residence at spectacular locations all around the USA, thinking nothing would come of it.

But almost every residency we applied for wanted us – institutions in Montana, Washington, Pennsylvania, Georgia and New York. Without having played a single gig, we e-mailed music festivals and venues in Canada and New York, asking to be put on the bill. They put us on the bill.

By May 13th, we were flying to Canada to play our first festival in Vancouver. We carried our bulging suitcases and an Indian harmonium, The Jilted Brides’ exotic signature instrument.

Since then, we have been pursuing our quest to find freedom and happiness by traveling around North America, having many incredible low budget adventures.

We have Wwoofed (Willing Workers on Organic Farms) in Canada, plowing up dirt in exchange for food and board; we have couch surfed in every US city we have visited. For transport, we have relied heavily on Craigslist rideshares, getting lifts for hundreds of miles on improbable routes– with the harmonium stuffed in the trunk.

I do believe that there must be some old rock and rollers up there in heaven who want us to have a good time, who are helping us overcome seemingly impossible odds to realize our dreams. Through sheer chance, I have been given free entry to sell-out shows by major artists, I’ve found myself late at night in the kitchen of rock stars, all great stuff for our DIY documentary.

When Tanya has needed extra hands to help her shoot our film clips, willing helpers, sometimes with great cameras, have just appeared.

And perhaps most incredibly of all, just these last two weeks in New York we found a backing band (via Craigslist once again), rehearsed with them for only a few hours, then played to a wildly enthusiastic audience in the East Village.

So where to now? We have just finished a promo for our road movie/ musical documentary. We have more gigs lined up in New York in November. Our financial situation is as dire as ever. But we are having the time of our lives.

For video from the road: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-nvauc6t_QQ

For more info: www.myspace.com/thejiltedbrides. www.thejiltedbrides.blogspot.com

Photo by Thomas Hawk

I lived in Vegas for four years and went out to dive bars far more nights than I didn’t. There’s one on every corner, often three or four. From the suburbs to the University to Downtown, dive bars are plentiful in Vegas, so a top nine is truly an exclusive list.

It’s against the dive bar spirit to be too discriminating, so I list these in no particular order:

1. Double Down Saloon

Self-proclaimed “The Happiest Place on Earth,” the DD is legendary, but still authentic, as it’s dirtier than ever, and the mosh pit will leave you bloody.

One look at the men’s bathroom, the toilet/urinal/sink, with no stalls, no toilet paper and certainly no soap and you won’t doubt that this icon is still a dive.

The walls and ceilings are painted murals of demonic flapper era naked circus girls and elephants and psychedelic swirls. Punk and psychobilly shows most nights, and never a cover charge, though a donation to the group of hoodlums at the gas station next door is recommended if you want to make it home alive.

If you seek a quieter dive experience, come late, 4 AM on a Tuesday perhaps, when the strippers are getting off work and looking to unwind, and order a round of Ass Juice for one and all.

2. New York Café

Even most locals don’t know about this jewel, where old junkies play the sickest blues/jazz/funk you’ll ever hear on weeknights starting at midnight or 1 AM, until sunrise, with long breaks in between sets. The only cost is whatever you can afford to drink, and your soul.

3. Rush Hour

One of a thousand neighborhood dumps, this one is on the edge of the dreaded Green Valley suburbs, a much needed reprieve from the endless malls. No music here, except the jukebox.

I recommend the graveyard shift, weekends. Tell Josh I sent you and you’re sure to have a few on the house. Great place to just stare into the void.

The Double Down Saloon / photo by MP and Todd Lussier

4.Yayo Taco

That’s not “yeyo,” but it’s close enough. This college bar has exotic tacos such as the Shanghai, and a nice selection of beers and tequilas. Just avoid Thursday’s “frat boy” night, and you’ll be fine.

5. The Crown and Anchor

In the mood to watch a classic bar brawl, or better yet, start one? This British style pub is just the place. Real live European soccer hoodlums just looking for trouble at 8 AM on a Sunday morning. Plus 35 beers on tap, and waitresses in plaid skirts.

6. Champagne’s

Imagine the Beverly Hillbillies decorating their home like a nightmare from Frank Sinatra’s third cousin. Avoid karaoke night unless you are masochistic.

7. The Bunkhouse

The walls are adorned with pictures of Gary Cooper in High Noon and John Wayne in half the movies he made. But this is not done out of some postmodern irony b.s.; I think the owners just like westerns. Drinks at the Bunkhouse are stiff and the degenerates are aplenty.

The author on the couch at Cactus

8. Dive Bar

How can a real dive bar be called Dive Bar? Easily. Once you feel the spilled beer, broken glass and general grime under your feet, and see the six inches of plumber’s butt perpetually showcased by the bartender, you’ll understand.

Free punk and metal shows most nights. Open ‘til sunrise.

9. Cheers

An institution. Just across from the school, part of the Maryland Parkway drunk stroll, which includes Yayo, and the Crown and Anchor as well, and Champagne’s if your feet are feeling good. Everyone claims to go here, but few actually do, except the loyal handful of regulars who live there.

If you think your life is pathetic, stop by Cheers after 10 PM for two dollar well drinks, two and change for double tall drafts, and look at these hopeless barflies. Open 24/7. Conveniently located next door to the infamous Roberto’s taco shop, the perfect place to get cheap greasy food before you pass out.

Community Connection

For a look at a totally different side of Vegas–check out our Vegas Green Guide.

Photo above by bikoy. Feature photo by ianqui.

I think it’s the walking that is doing me in. Taking me beyond the normal New Yorker stress. Getting me close to going Pacino With A Gun.

It’s not just the tourists, eyes perpetually pointed skyward at the pretty buildings, aiming their bodies towards my blazing, efficient path. These folks are merely the impala of my urban animal kingdom; cheap eats for oncoming trucks, for eight-inch curbs.

It’s fun to watch Betsy from Columbus, proudly displaying her minus-ten body from a summer program at Curves, trouncing blindly into a Don’t Walk. Nobody yells “Betsy, look out! It’s a big one! The double-decker kind!”. We New Yorkers know to weave down another avenue, because soon it will be all crowds and sirens. And police reports.

This kind of foot traffic is du jour for me, easily elbowed and knocked aside. Lately though, it’s the Fucking Blackberry People who are making my blood boil. New York, a town of born walkers, is crazy with pedestrians looking at their hands, typing messages into one device or another.

Basic motor skills (look where you’re going) have been lost on a Darwinian scale, bred out in just one generation, now as important as a third nipple. Everywhere – and I mean everywhere –dipshits are headed straight for other bodies, fingers blistering urgent messages. “B rt there!” “WAS, did we jst brk up!?”

Photo by holly_northrop

On top of this, there is now The Hawker Thing. The streets are filled with pay-by-the-hour workers, trying to sell ridiculous concepts like Cranberry Yogurt and votes for McCain. It’s not like in Southeast Asia, with blissfully blatant demands (“You Come Here Eat Now!”). Instead, ad company execs are hurling their sly ideas directly towards the streets, vying for a buzz that will never come for Hefty’s new panty liner.

Most lead with a forced-smile line, one that that screams for pity. “Do you have a minute for World Peace?” Four more blocks, “Do you like stand up comedy?” Two more, “Have you tried Domino’s new oven baked sandwiches?” The messages blend together and by the time I’ve reached home, I don’t know whether to adopt a child or eat a Pop Tart.

Take this image of our streets and now factor in cabbies from Grand Theft Auto School, delivery guys rushing orders for big tips and ditzy broads. Add daytime drunks, joggers and assholes like me. It’s getting ugly.

It’s shocking for me to discuss my growing loathe for the bustle of Manhattan, a place that I used to praise like a zealot on an eight-ball. But lately – and maybe finally – it’s just become too much. Guliani swept the dirt under the rug and somehow allowed in a bit too much sunshine.

Now all that I can see are the parts where the molding doesn’t meet the door frame. I find myself actually wondering if Paul Theroux might be right, if New York has become an example of what he dislikes about cities, places that are “vertiginous, threatening, monochromatic, isolating, exhausting, germ-laden, bristling with busy shadows and ambiguous odors.”

Photo by Mannequin-

All of this business with the people walking into one another – it somehow makes the sirens seem louder, the garbage trucks come earlier and the homeless more zombie-like. It makes me want to put on my iPod and not interact. To shut my windows and make love to Tivo. The City That Never Sleeps is beginning to make me a shut-in and it’s scaring the living hell out of me.

If there was one thing I was certain of it was that New York City was my home, that I am of a breed that is impervious to all of this commotion. I think maybe that this city now belongs to a new model, a 2.0 that I don’t want to become, or simply can’t upload. New York City, quite possibly, does not compute.

Editor’s note: This was the winning blog in our Not For Tourists Guide to NYC blog contest.

Photo by john curley

Monday 23:00 – Drive through Reno, relishing your last bits of civilization for a week. Stock up on water, groceries, and critical last-minute supplies like one more box of glow sticks.

Monday 24:00 – Arrive at the entrance to Black Rock City. Peer out the window at the stark lunar landscape, and wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into. Stop at the Greeters’ Station, where you are cheerily assaulted with a dusty hug and a hearty “Welcome Home!”

Tuesday 1:00 – Carefully drive around the City at a speed of 5mph, find your designated camp and pilot your mothership of an RV into its appointed spot. Get some sleep… you’ll need it!

Tuesday 10:00 – Greet fellow campmates and spend some time lighting and accessorizing your bike. You just *knew* that Electronic Yodeling Pickle from Archie McPhee would be put to good use someday.

Tuesday 12:00 – Enjoy your first Playa meal – pasta alfredo with smoked salmon and a crisp Chardonnay – and thank your higher power that you are camping with foodies, while others eat pop tarts.

Tuesday 14:00 – Explore the neighborhood. Greet your neighbors in their scorpion dune buggy. Visit The Golden Café, a full-service bar with live music. Dance barefoot in the dust.

Tuesday 19:00 – Attempt to shower in the RV’s tiny bathroom, and realize you’re just going to have to live with Playa dust in all your nooks and crannies for the rest of the week.

Tuesday 20:00 – Don your furriest, glowiest Playawear and head out to visit The Man. Admire His Dudeship in all his neon glory. Climb the tower and take in the exuberant, sparkling cacophony that is the Playa.

Tuesday 22:00 – Catch a ride home on a lit-up dragonfly art car. Marvel at the fact that although this has only been your first day, it feels as though you have been here all your life.

photo by raindrift

Wednesday 13:00 – In the 110-degree heat of the day, plunk yourself down and let the circus come to you. Immediately get rewarded for this brilliant plan, as a man covered in Mardi Gras beads walks by and gifts you with a freezie-pop.

Wednesday 23:00 – Assemble with several friends and ride out to The Opulent Temple, where some of the world’s best DJs spin house and techno from a booth that belches gigantic flames in time to the beat.

Thursday 11:00 – Crack open your copy of “What Where When” and become instantly overwhelmed by the sheer number of events taking place at any hour of any day.

Thursday 12:00 – Set out in search of 4:30 Plaza, where an art car tour of the Deep Playa is setting sail at 2pm. En route, stop at Pee Funnel Camp.

photo by alexthompson

Thursday 13:00 – Encounter the infamous Barbie Death Camp & Wine Bistro. Enjoy a refreshing glass of white wine, while relishing the torment of legions of plastic blondies. Celebrate the arrival of the French Maid Brigade, who stop by and “clean” everyone with huge featherdusters.

Thursday 14:00 – Arrive at what you believe to be 4:30 Plaza, where there is no art tour because you are actually at 4:30 Portal. Sigh. Spot a man bedecked head-to-toe in purple, wearing a beaded purple fez. He produces two George Bush voodoo dolls from the depths of his gold suitcase. Who needs art tours, anyway?

Thursday 15:00 – Enjoy the spectacle of the Topless Teeter-Totter of Terror, a three-story wooden seesaw ridden by a bevy of topless passersby. Consider riding the TToT yourself, but decide you’d rather have a cold lemonade in the shade.

Thursday 21:00 – Set out for a night of party-hopping that includes, in no particular order, stops at Spike’s Vampire Bar, Unicorn Camp, Ashram Galactica, Porn & Eggs, Duck Bar, and the Tree of Knowledge. Dance to Bollywood, techno, blues, and the ever-present tribal drumming.

Saturday 11:00 – Take a bike ride out to the Temple of Basura Sagrada, an enormous structure meticulously crafted from recycled materials. Write a personal offering on the Temple. Spend a few moments in silent contemplation.

Saturday 13:00 – On the way back to camp, visit the art installation “Bummer,” a massive Humvee painted khaki and dayglow colors. As another art car passes by blasting ‘80s tunes, join other Burners in an impromptu dance party on the Bummer’s roof and reflect on the duality of The American Dream.

Saturday 15:00 – Head inside the RV as an enormous dust storm begins to gather strength. As other campmates pile into the vehicle for shelter and libations, and Mother Nature shows no sign of letting up, you wonder if this might be the first year the Man actually does not burn. Shrug and help yourself to another mojito.

photo by mayhem

Saturday 18:00 – Listen to RFBM for some news of the Burn, but realize there is really no way to know if the howling wind and whiteout conditions will subside anytime soon.

Saturday 20:00 – The Man will burn! Hurriedly throw on some flair and join the grand parade out to the Esplanade. Watch the fireworks as the Man begins to go up in flames, and the crowd of nearly 50,000 people cheer, sing, chant, and dance.

Saturday 21:00 – As the remains of the Man tumble into a huge bonfire, the crowd rushes forward to dance around the circle. The world around you is a stew of music and lights and tribal drumbeats and other celebratory sounds. Hop an art car shaped like a giant rubber ducky, with laser beams shooting out its eye sockets, and ride into the maelstrom. The revelry continues till dawn.

Sunday 6:00 – Bleary-eyed, pack up your gear and head out of Black Rock City. Donate leftover foot and booze to the sainted volunteers who will remain behind to clean up. Adios until next year!