Sunday, September 01, 2002
I was on my way to Burning Man, driving through Nevada, when I decided there just wasn't any challenge in trying to corrupt a bunch of pagans -- so I just kept going and aimed for the heart of Mormonism, Salt Lake City. There, in the center of town, I found the extravagantly lush (in that "Angel's singing" kind of way (complete with a background soundtrack of choir music)) temple square. Mormons tithe 10% and a lot of it goes here -- including their daughters. The "sisters," flown in from around the world, pleasantly accost visitors and give personal guided tours of the grounds and deliver lessons in Mormon history. As much as I am opposed to their philosophy and every delusional fantasy they propagate, it is hard not to be drawn in by a cadre of serenely smiling young women. Soon, before I knew it, I found myself in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir:
But my voice is atrocious and I was soon booted back into the harsh (but possessing of a more honest and natural beauty) environs of the surrounding desert.
Back in the desert, I thought of all my friends at The Burn. I had waffled painfully, and was missing hanging out with people who I had looked forward to cruising the playa with -- but I've been to a lot of Burns now, and although they're still great, I can't shake the feeling that the quality is slowly deteriorating as the cost goes up. Plus, oddly, I just wasn't feeling social enough to plunge in this year. So I enjoyed the desert sunset and looked for a quiet place to lay my bedroll.
As I drifted off to sleep staring at the stars, I enjoyed sinfully compromising visions of one of the "sisters" -- but alas, it just wasn't meant to be.