A Line Is Drawn in the Desert
At Burning Man, the Tech Elite One-Up One Another
By NICK BILTON AUG. 20, 2014; The New York Times
“…If you have never been to Burning Man, your perception is likely this: a white-hot desert filled with 50,000 stoned, half-naked hippies doing sun salutations while techno music thumps through the air.
“A few years ago, this assumption would have been mostly correct. But now things are a little different. Over the last two years, Burning Man, which this year runs from Aug. 25 to Sept. 1, has been the annual getaway for a new crop of millionaire and billionaire technology moguls, many of whom are one-upping one another in a secret game of I-can-spend-more-money-than-you-can and, some say, ruining it for everyone else…”
I asked my friend, Rainbow, about this phenomenon, since he’s been attending since the mid-90s. Here’s what he had to say:
“Man, we were just, like, tripping off these guys. The Facebook cat–starts with a Z–he had obviously coke all over his face, and he’s running around yelling, ‘We’re the one percent, motherfuckers! You all can suck it!’ He started peeing on my friend T-Bone, then asked, ‘How do you like me now?!’ My dog’s all chill, so he’s just like, ‘I do not like this. This is not cool and you’ve got to chill, bro.’
“Let’s see, then there was some guy walking around in just a suit and tie. No fucking pants or nothing! Can you believe that shit? Someone told me they had sold him some fake E earlier. I don’t know if he was high on other shit or just a natural douchebag. He was chilling with some guy who was a big shot banker. He was trying to take people’s tents and shit. He messed with the wrong guy who got in his face and was like, ‘If you don’t go back to your spot, we’re gonna’ burn you.’ Then the guy sat down and cried for about half an hour. I really felt bad for him, you know?”
Colorado ad campaign tests new message to prevent teen marijuana use
That’s heavy, man.
Breaking news on Huffpost; 6.30.2014
“Supreme Court Delivers Blow To Unions”
I’m too busy to thoroughly read the item, but what kind of “blow” is being described? Is it good Columbian or cheap powder cut with baking soda? Did they all participate in the drop-off? Roberts doesn’t seem like the guy to be trusted by either party. On the other hand, unions generally relate to labor and jobs, so maybe something else is being described. That raises some even more interesting questions.
Disgraced ‘sheriff of the year’ who traded meth for sex gets 15 months in prison
“The tables have turned on…Once nationally lauded for his anti-drug crusades, the former sheriff admitted to a drug problem and was sentenced to 15 months in prison for repeated probation violations in a meth-for-sex case, the Denver Post reported.
“The 71-year-old, a one-time national sheriff of the year, missed 36 urine tests and tested positive for methamphetamine or alcohol 10 times in more than two years of probation, his probation officer told reporters…”
My curiosity is piqued concerning the well-known sex-for-drugs link: do methheads (or crackheads or junkies) get into it in the sack? Or do they just kind of phone it in?
World Cup ticket purchase leads to arrest of Mexican drug lord
“Brazliian [sic] authorities arrested a long-sought suspected Mexican drug lord as he attempted to board a domestic flight from Rio de Janiero to Fortaleza, Brazil, where Mexico faced Brazil on Tuesday.
“…bought a ticket to the match under his real name…”
After the apprehension was complete, one zealous cop yelled, “Gooooooaaaaaalllllll!”
450-lb alleged drug suspect kept his stash hidden in his belly fat: police
“…was carrying a little extra weight. No, this had nothing to do with his 450-pound girth. It was the 23 grams of marijuana hidden under his stomach fat that police say they found following a traffic stop…”
I’m pro-pot and all, but I think this guy should not be involved with anything that might produce the munchies.
Baltimore police hot line number connects callers to adult chat
Toll-free number for internal investigations instead goes to ‘America’s hottest talk line’
“A phone number for filing complaints about Baltimore police officers connected callers this week instead to an adult chat line advertising ‘hot ladies’…”
I was able to acquire a transcript of one confusing exchange:
Hot Lady: Hi, gorgeous, I’m Sandy. What’s your name?
Caller: Uh, hi, but I’d rather not say.
HL: Oh, that’s too bad. What can I do to you today?
C: Well, you see, I was going to the 7/11 at the Market Place–
HL: Oh, I love that place. Do they still have those foot-long hot dogs? I could swallow them all, night, long.
C: Dunno’. But what happened was, this officer asked me for my ID–yeah I’d had me a few beers–but I told I didn’t have one.
HL: I’ll bet you have a lot of other things, though. A lot of big things.
C: I guess, but he throws me against the wall and starts putting his hands in my pockets–
HL: Stop, slow down. I’m gettin’ so hot right now. A man in uniform throwing me against a wall and putting his hands all over me. I wish you were that man.
C: I’d never be a cop. No ma’am.
HL: Did he have handcuffs?
C: Uh, I’m sure he did, but he didn’t put them on me. He let me go, but he was so rough and I felt violated.
HL: Did that turn you on?
C: Fuc–I mean, hell no!
HL: It would me. I love it when someone violates me rough. I think I’m gonna’ come!
C: Ma’am, if you have to go, I understand. But could you please put someone else on the line if you do?
HL: You’re so cute. So hot.
HL: Have you ever been rough with anyone?
C: Well, my brothers and me–
HL: Oh, how kinky!
C: Just ‘rassling.
[There is quite a long pause, and when she returns her voice has changed to a serious tone.]
HL: I’m sorry. I–I just can’t do this no longer. Mister, I was abused, too.
C: I’m sorry to hear that, Ma’am.
HL: It was in, in a different way.
C: Who would do that to a nice lady like you?
HL: First my dad, then my brothers–[She begins to cry]–then a couple other assholes.
C: Sure sound like assholes if you ask me.
HL: Where are you now? Can you get any coke?
C: I got some on me now.
HL: Can you make it to Nebraska? We’ll party. I’m done with this fucking job.
C: Nebraska! Maybe in, like, two days.
[Hot Lady gives Caller her address, where he tracks her down four days later. He learns from neighbors that she had committed suicide four nights ago. Despondent, he proceeds to smoke the crack, of which he had brought plenty, in a discrete area he could find near the Greyhound station.
[When the coroner gave his report on our would-be Romeo several days later, he noted, “Technically, I’ll rule this a drug overdose. But, in my nonmedical opinion, our John Doe died of a broken heart.”]