Twenty-six years ago. . .

. . . a small group of joy seekers drove out into the Nevada desert, got naked, took some drugs, enjoyed some sex, and sang some songs. At the end of a short visit, they erected a large crude wooden structure resembling a man, and ritually set fire to it. If it was some kind of message, it's unlikely many of them cared; they just enjoyed the glorious light it cast over the sand. It was so memorably pleasant they kept going back each subsequent year to try to recapture the feeling.

In small part, it put me in mind of the night, as a teenager, some friends and I gathered a large pile of driftwood on the shore of Lake Michigan and roasted hot dogs and marshmallows in the glow of the fire. It was large enough to attract the attention of the Coast Guard, who had to sail by to assure themselves no beach houses were burning.

The Burning Man ceremony finally also drew some government attention, and then flocks of looky-loos, detractors, and finally, jerks who are spoiling the experience. I suppose it was inevitable that those early unrestrained people would have loose lips to match, but that doesn't excuse later interlopers spoiling the fun. This year, there are 53,000 people vying to attend. It's like having to buy a ticket to Christmas morning, and that's just wrong.