Illustration by Byron Eggenschwiler.
Iris stands naked, save for a beige thong. She’s shameless and unafraid, arms spread and slathered in gold glitter and Vaseline. Atop her head sits an oversized hamburger hat—puffed yellow buns, brown patty, a plush pickle like an outstretched tongue. She grins maniacally.
We’re at Burning Man, the sprawling festival that, every summer, attracts yuppies, hippies, druggies and queers to northwestern Nevada. The one time of year when over fifty thousand North American freaks swarm the desert. At Black Rock City, the horde builds infrastructure and installations, huffs inhalants, dances hedonistically, tries to hear…
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