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I'm the newly-appointed Future editor at Business 2.0 and the former San Francisco correspondent for Time Magazine.
Wow, so does this mean everything you write reflects Time Inc's opinion? Or do you perhaps have some sort of standard disclaimer to the effect that it doesn't?
Naturally, the opinions contained in this blog are not those of my employers. In fact, some opinions may be the polar opposite of my employers. Some may be the same, for all I know. Hey, it's not like I ask my employers their opinions about everything in the news, okay? Let's just say that if this were a Venn diagram with one circle marked "my opinions" and the other one marked "my employers' opinions", there would doubtless be some overlap. But neither I nor my employers are able to pinpoint exactly where that overlap is.
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An experiment for a column I wrote about blogging back in December 2001. All these years later, I haven't been able to kick the habit.
If it's called Daily Blah, how come you don't ... hey, wait, you're writing every day!
See? Told you I'd try harder.
Mister, you talk funny. Are you one of them furrners?
Why yes I am, as it happens. I was born, raised and educated in Great Britain. I've been living in the U.S. since 1996 and identify as British.
I say, old chap, you forgot the "u" in "colour."
No I didn't. I may identify as British, but I am also an American journalist writing for an American audience about mostly American issues. These two different sides of me are a constant source of tension. Nevertheless, Daily Blah will adhere to American English grammar and spelling.
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Daily Blah for... Tuesday, September 02, 2003
I Went to the Desert ...
"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately," wrote Thoreau in Walden, "and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." It occurs to me now, sitting here wrapped once again in the garb of civilization, my hair, skin and nails picked clean of playa dust, that this is also the Burning Man philosophy. For one week at the end of August, thirty thousand people go to the desert because they wish to live deliberately.
They may not do this exactly the way Thoreau did. Walden's resident was Spartan in his intentions; he wanted to clear the noise of the 19th century city from his head, not create more of his own. Had he been in Black Rock City last week, Thoreau would no doubt have been shocked by the costumes, the licentiousness, the thumping rave music. Nevertheless, the playa is a harsher environment than any mere wood. Nature does not want us to live here. To survive for a week -- and be able to party at the same time -- requires a keen mind. You have to jury-rig some way to keep out of the heat in the noonday sun, and a mere tent won't cut it. You have to drink a gallon of water a day, or you may die.
Thoughts like this concentrate the mind, and you are made suddenly aware of the satiated haze in which we spend most of our modern lives. Case in point: on our way there, P and I visited about four different shopping malls to pick up our supplies. Coming out of the last one, we both had the sudden disorienting realization that we had no real sense of exactly where we were on our route. Was this Sacramento? Vacaville? Who knew? All we could see was a Starbucks, a Home Depot and a Wal-Mart. We could have been anywhere on the North American continent.
To me, the $200 Burning Man ticket is worth at least that much for the feelings you get on your return alone. I'm not just talking about that first post-playa shower, but about everything: nonfat double mochas. Delivery Indian food. Fridges. TV. Every trapping of modern life seems like a gift. And at the same time, it is obvious that this is all they are. We've kidded ourselves into thinking we need more of this stuff than we actually do. All you really need to live, and to have a rollicking good time, is a gallon of water a day, three meals, seating, bedding, shade, a bicycle, fabulous clothing, community and art. All the rest is icing on the cake. Yes, we all like icing. But too much of it and we get spoiled. Too much of it and we get sick to our stomachs.
I've observed, over the course of my five Burning Men, that this feeling generally lasts a couple of days before the general nonappreciative glaze of the consumer returns. And that's why I cherish this particular post-party hangover like no other.
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