
Hippies on the Increase call for some Creative Thinking.
- Box Burner
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- Simon of the Playa
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5. declare that Burning Man is a Govt. Run Social Experiment and they are being watched...oh wait....nevermind...
why do you think there is only ticket delivery by mail...(no will call)......they get your address....
THEY KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE..........
why do you think there is only ticket delivery by mail...(no will call)......they get your address....
THEY KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE..........
Is 4 shots enuff? no foo-foo drinks; just naked Espresso
Tactical Espresso Service http://home.comcast.net/~espressocamp/
Field Artillery Tractor
FOGBANK, GOD OF HELLFIRE
BLACK ROCK f/x Trojan Horse,Anubis,2014Temple
burn shit and blow shit up
Tactical Espresso Service http://home.comcast.net/~espressocamp/
Field Artillery Tractor
FOGBANK, GOD OF HELLFIRE
BLACK ROCK f/x Trojan Horse,Anubis,2014Temple
burn shit and blow shit up
- Simon of the Playa
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- Sail Man
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I love this oneToolmaker wrote:
Excuse me Ma'am, your going to feel a small prick.
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Damn Simon,
I think those hippy types have grown wiser in thier old age. I found this on a secret hippy blog. It looks like they might be mobilizing. BE AFRAID!!
http://www.deviantev.com/tubahurl/hippy.html
I think those hippy types have grown wiser in thier old age. I found this on a secret hippy blog. It looks like they might be mobilizing. BE AFRAID!!
http://www.deviantev.com/tubahurl/hippy.html
Too stupid to know better!
The Popcorn Guys.
http://www.deviantev.com/tubahurl/
Cap'n Tub (killin' threads one post at a time)
The Popcorn Guys.
http://www.deviantev.com/tubahurl/
Cap'n Tub (killin' threads one post at a time)
- Simon of the Playa
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- Captain Goddammit
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If that '54 (plus or minus a year or so) GMC still has the Stovebolt 235 six in it, and the 4.10 or more likely 4.56 gears, driving it too fast and ripping the shingles off just isn't a design issue.Sail Man wrote:I love this oneToolmaker wrote:I've been building one in my melon for sometime now. just don't wanna drive to fast or you'll rip the shingles off
![]()
Edit: Oh shit, I just noticed the Washington plate on it, and looked closer at the background... that's eastern Wa... that pic has to have been taken at the Barter Fair! That's where ALL the hippies come out of the woodwork!
You wouldn't believe how much those fuckers want for home-made soap! (A LOT more than you think!) It's shitty stuff too.
But I guess that explains it... they think soap is too valuable to ever USE any of the stuff.
GreyCoyote: "At this rate it wont be long before he is Admiral Fukkit."
Re: Hippies on the Increase call for some Creative Thinking.
Damn, how did you know?Simon of the Playa wrote: We have tried No drum-circle circles. We have tried sonic repellents, but there seems to be a Techno-resistant strain of hippy, probably originating in the Eugene - Portland corridor that is oblivious to the oooontz ooontz that in past years would send the long hairs screaming.
- Simon of the Playa
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do not feel so special, oh long haired one. You are merely one of the 44 sub groups of demographic personalities. We have been studying your "ilk" for many years now.
You are The north-western Crunchy Critter.
You wear shoes made from recycled recyclables.
You eat tofu, or soy based products more than 3 times a week, and you're most likely anemic, if female.
you have dabbled in Buddhism, and Homeopathic healing, but secretly long for a mercedes 560 e class.
you know i'm right.
You are The north-western Crunchy Critter.
You wear shoes made from recycled recyclables.
You eat tofu, or soy based products more than 3 times a week, and you're most likely anemic, if female.
you have dabbled in Buddhism, and Homeopathic healing, but secretly long for a mercedes 560 e class.
you know i'm right.
Frida Be You & Me
- chiefdanfox
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I have a recipe for soap made from bacon grease and lye. One of those recipes from the Brethren in northern Michigan. Not only does it work really well, there is also a faint, but familiar aroma.Captain Goddammit wrote:You wouldn't believe how much those fuckers want for home-made soap! (A LOT more than you think!) It's shitty stuff too.
But I guess that explains it... they think soap is too valuable to ever USE any of the stuff.
It all makes sense now...
Ahhhh... that explains why sometimes the playa smells like a hippie in a frying pan...chiefdanfox wrote:I have a recipe for soap made from bacon grease and lye. One of those recipes from the Brethren in northern Michigan. Not only does it work really well, there is also a faint, but familiar aroma.
Is it anything like the recipe from black table?chiefdanfox wrote:I have a recipe for soap made from bacon grease and lye. One of those recipes from the Brethren in northern Michigan. Not only does it work really well, there is also a faint, but familiar aroma.Captain Goddammit wrote:You wouldn't believe how much those fuckers want for home-made soap! (A LOT more than you think!) It's shitty stuff too.
But I guess that explains it... they think soap is too valuable to ever USE any of the stuff.
http://www.blacktable.com/bacon030515.htm
http://tipnut.com/bacon-grease-soap/
http://www.instructables.com/id/How-to-Make-Bacon-Soap/
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- Simon of the Playa
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why would you waste good 'speck' on der hippies.
bacon grease is for spreading on my morning toast...
and besides, if they smell like bacon, they will be harder to avoid at night, as most mutant vehicles have patchouli sensors and these would be rendered (no pun intended) inoperable.
bacon grease is for spreading on my morning toast...
and besides, if they smell like bacon, they will be harder to avoid at night, as most mutant vehicles have patchouli sensors and these would be rendered (no pun intended) inoperable.
Frida Be You & Me
- chiefdanfox
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- Bob
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Hippies, the perfect alt-fuel...
Or have we reached Peak Hippie yet?
Or have we reached Peak Hippie yet?
Amazing desert structures & stuff: http://sites.google.com/site/potatotrap/
"Let us say I suggest you may be human." -- Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam
"Let us say I suggest you may be human." -- Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam
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- Simon of the Playa
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- Monkeypoo
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Re: Hippies on the Increase call for some Creative Thinking.
Y'all are so funny, I swear. I am in stitches.Simon of the Playa wrote:as most of you are well aware, the influx of the "Hippy Element" into burning man has reached crisis proportions and if we do not address the pressing need to staunch the flow of the great unwashed, we will certainly lose our way in the Desert, and experience our own little Altamont before too long.
we've actually hired some Hells Angels this year to keep people from stealing our muesli and activia yogurt.
We have tried No drum-circle circles. We have tried sonic repellents, but there seems to be a Techno-resistant strain of hippy, probably originating in the Eugene - Portland corridor that is oblivious to the oooontz ooontz that in past years would send the long hairs screaming.
Is there a Spray perhaps? Can we change the date at the last minute? because you KNOW these fucks wont check their e-mail for WEEKS on end...
SOMETHING MUST BE DONE!
perhaps a blockade at the Oregon border, like what california did for the med-Fly problem.
maybe billboards advertising a free Phish concert in sacramento.
a containment net around center camp and the cafe?
whatever it is, we need to act quickly, and decisively, or all will be lost forever, and instead of chilly PBR's, we'll be sitting around drinking chai tea, which i am of course, morally, and spiritually opposed to.
SO....here is a forum to offer practical solutions to a growing, fungus like problem that is plaguing the playa and smells like patchouli.
Hippies gave us a lot of things in the 60's. OMG, could you imagine if the hippies hadn't changed the way people were headed? We'd still all be June Cleavers.
I'm a hippie gal most of the time and you love me, so what's the problem? xoxoxoxoxoxo
- Simon of the Playa
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monkeypoo, we dont HATE hippies, in fact some of my best friends are.
hell, i'll even share a cab with one if they have enough money.
and yes, they do smell funny, but i believe it's not really their fault, they have overactive glands.
it's the sub-group also known as the Intolerant Hippies who must be hunted down and re-educated. You know the ones, the assholes who attend rainbow, and scream at good, hard-working party people like myself just because we're carrying a big ass bottle of tequila, wearing a brand new seersucker suit and white bucks (it was summer, it's cool all you fashion mavens) and a panama hat.
fasco-Hippies....Dogmatic Ralph Nadar sucking counter-productive hippies who believe that they can change the world one cliff bar at a time.
volvo hippies who can AFFORD to be totally green and look down their noses at the rest of us who can only buy foods with preservatives and cant spend for the free range gerbils they use in their organic sex games.
yes, these are ones we must watch out for.
The Vast majority of the Great Unwashed just need a little coaxing, and water and soap, and possibly a test drive in a new BMW to set them straight and on the road to conspicuous consumption so that we can grow the economy.
you know i'm right.
hell, i'll even share a cab with one if they have enough money.
and yes, they do smell funny, but i believe it's not really their fault, they have overactive glands.
it's the sub-group also known as the Intolerant Hippies who must be hunted down and re-educated. You know the ones, the assholes who attend rainbow, and scream at good, hard-working party people like myself just because we're carrying a big ass bottle of tequila, wearing a brand new seersucker suit and white bucks (it was summer, it's cool all you fashion mavens) and a panama hat.
fasco-Hippies....Dogmatic Ralph Nadar sucking counter-productive hippies who believe that they can change the world one cliff bar at a time.
volvo hippies who can AFFORD to be totally green and look down their noses at the rest of us who can only buy foods with preservatives and cant spend for the free range gerbils they use in their organic sex games.
yes, these are ones we must watch out for.
The Vast majority of the Great Unwashed just need a little coaxing, and water and soap, and possibly a test drive in a new BMW to set them straight and on the road to conspicuous consumption so that we can grow the economy.
you know i'm right.
Frida Be You & Me
Sunday, July 29, 2007
The tale of the filthy hippy, or How I met my brother
One fine Sunday not so long ago I was out driving around looking to do bodily harm to hour or so. I had stayed up all night in an effort to get some badly overdue errands done before picking up my daughter later in the day, and the craft store was last on the list.
I needed foam, sheets of garishly colored foam rubber for the construction of a bird-hat. Not a hat for a bird, rather a hat in the shape of a birds head that I was planning to construct for the up-coming Burning Man event. It was nine AM and the craft store I needed did not open until ten.
So it was that I found myself wandering around the streets of Sugarhouse, a quasi artsy-yuppie sort of neighborhood in Salt Lake, with the vague idea of getting something to eat. I was just pulling up to a stop light when I thought I heard someone calling my name. I looked around, a bit confused because nobody I knew should be up and moving at the unholy hour of nine in the morning, and there, skating up to my driver side window right down the middle of the street was a filthy hippie.
He was pretty average for a hippie; in his twenties, skinny, sporting a straggly beard perhaps four or five inches in length, with long brown surprisingly dread-lock free hair; an oversight his unwashed brethren have surely pointed out to him. He was wearing moss-green corduroy overalls, ragged around the cuffs, and a faded blue Pink Floyd teeshirt. Hemp and cowrie shell jewelery, and a long-board completed the ensemble.
"Hey bro", he repeated, putting to rest my momentary puzzlement at how this peacenik knew my name, "I'll give you five bucks and a smoke if you can give me a lift a few blocks". I gave it some hard thought for a second or two, and agreed, telling him to meet me around the corner as I was in the left hand turn lane and the light had just changed.
I pulled around the corner to the designated spot and threw open the passenger door. He climbed in and tucked his skateboard between his legs as he closed the door. We gave each other the once over, trying to determine if the other was a narc. Both of us satisfied, he then thrust his grimy paw at me. "I'm Blue" he said. I returned with "I'm Bear, pleased to meet'cha".
Blue gave me the address he was trying to get to, a destination about twenty blocks away. Though it was not far by car, I could understand why he would be looking for a ride, it being early July, and the temperature steadily climbing into the realm of intolerable. Also I figured Blue, being a filthy hippie, did not eat meat, and was therefor weak from malnourishment.
I pulled out into traffic, and my passenger true to his word, produced the promised smoke. We exchanged pleasantries- trivial bits of personal data, along with my lighter, for a few blocks; then each lit up cigarette; for me, a big fat delicious wide, and him, an American Spirit. He gave my lighter back to me at the same time handing over a wadded up Lincoln. I thanked him and stuffed the bill into a pocket.
Blue was one of those wandering homeless sorts of hippies that hitchhike across the country following bands, or gatherings or whatnot, picking up oddjobs along the way. At the address he had given me, he was to meet some friends that were heading for Portland. Blue had been behind the Zion Curtain for nearly four months and was looking to move on. I don't think he had any problem with Salt Lake, indeed, he said the city of salt had treated him well; the boy just had itchy feet, and was in the mood for scratchin'.
By the time we had finished our cigarettes, we were drawing near our destination. He gave some last minute directions and I pulled up in front of a large apartment complex. We shook hands one more time and I wished him luck. He returned the wish and thanked me again for the ride. Then he got out of the car, hopped on his long-board and rolled away into the bowls of the complex.
A thought occurred to me as I was driving away; not once did Blue ever say my name. Every time he addressed me he called me brother. It is unlikely I will ever see him again; but it makes me smile, knowing somewhere out there I have another brother.
Even if he is a filthy hippie.
The tale of the filthy hippy, or How I met my brother
One fine Sunday not so long ago I was out driving around looking to do bodily harm to hour or so. I had stayed up all night in an effort to get some badly overdue errands done before picking up my daughter later in the day, and the craft store was last on the list.
I needed foam, sheets of garishly colored foam rubber for the construction of a bird-hat. Not a hat for a bird, rather a hat in the shape of a birds head that I was planning to construct for the up-coming Burning Man event. It was nine AM and the craft store I needed did not open until ten.
So it was that I found myself wandering around the streets of Sugarhouse, a quasi artsy-yuppie sort of neighborhood in Salt Lake, with the vague idea of getting something to eat. I was just pulling up to a stop light when I thought I heard someone calling my name. I looked around, a bit confused because nobody I knew should be up and moving at the unholy hour of nine in the morning, and there, skating up to my driver side window right down the middle of the street was a filthy hippie.
He was pretty average for a hippie; in his twenties, skinny, sporting a straggly beard perhaps four or five inches in length, with long brown surprisingly dread-lock free hair; an oversight his unwashed brethren have surely pointed out to him. He was wearing moss-green corduroy overalls, ragged around the cuffs, and a faded blue Pink Floyd teeshirt. Hemp and cowrie shell jewelery, and a long-board completed the ensemble.
"Hey bro", he repeated, putting to rest my momentary puzzlement at how this peacenik knew my name, "I'll give you five bucks and a smoke if you can give me a lift a few blocks". I gave it some hard thought for a second or two, and agreed, telling him to meet me around the corner as I was in the left hand turn lane and the light had just changed.
I pulled around the corner to the designated spot and threw open the passenger door. He climbed in and tucked his skateboard between his legs as he closed the door. We gave each other the once over, trying to determine if the other was a narc. Both of us satisfied, he then thrust his grimy paw at me. "I'm Blue" he said. I returned with "I'm Bear, pleased to meet'cha".
Blue gave me the address he was trying to get to, a destination about twenty blocks away. Though it was not far by car, I could understand why he would be looking for a ride, it being early July, and the temperature steadily climbing into the realm of intolerable. Also I figured Blue, being a filthy hippie, did not eat meat, and was therefor weak from malnourishment.
I pulled out into traffic, and my passenger true to his word, produced the promised smoke. We exchanged pleasantries- trivial bits of personal data, along with my lighter, for a few blocks; then each lit up cigarette; for me, a big fat delicious wide, and him, an American Spirit. He gave my lighter back to me at the same time handing over a wadded up Lincoln. I thanked him and stuffed the bill into a pocket.
Blue was one of those wandering homeless sorts of hippies that hitchhike across the country following bands, or gatherings or whatnot, picking up oddjobs along the way. At the address he had given me, he was to meet some friends that were heading for Portland. Blue had been behind the Zion Curtain for nearly four months and was looking to move on. I don't think he had any problem with Salt Lake, indeed, he said the city of salt had treated him well; the boy just had itchy feet, and was in the mood for scratchin'.
By the time we had finished our cigarettes, we were drawing near our destination. He gave some last minute directions and I pulled up in front of a large apartment complex. We shook hands one more time and I wished him luck. He returned the wish and thanked me again for the ride. Then he got out of the car, hopped on his long-board and rolled away into the bowls of the complex.
A thought occurred to me as I was driving away; not once did Blue ever say my name. Every time he addressed me he called me brother. It is unlikely I will ever see him again; but it makes me smile, knowing somewhere out there I have another brother.
Even if he is a filthy hippie.
Bullshit makes the flowers grow, and that's beautiful.
I think the misunderstanding here comes from the use of the word "hippie". I contend that there are no more hippies, there are only old hippies like myself who have moved on in our journey, we look like any average person on the street, but in our hearts still burns the same beliefes that fueled the REAL rebellion and change of the 1960's. So hippie isn't really a way of dressing, bathing or tea drinking, it's all an inside thing, a philosophy. I myself am almost 63 years old, look like a librarian or teacher at a catholic school, have a professional career, and after five, baby, I go home and water my luxuriant pot garden and listen to sitar music, which I dearly love. No one looking at me would ever guess.....but I am a REAL hippie. I've noticed that everybody from street people, to homeless perople, to people at the burn with dreadlocks are always referred to as hippies, maybe because there is no other slot they can be easily filed into. There are no more hippies, there are only people that can't be described any other way. If you're under 55, you're not a hippie. The hippie died in the early 70s. Everything else is a poor imitation. Maybe it's the word...hippie....there are only old hippies like me, and we know when we see each other, and we smile....
- Bob
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Indeed, hippies think they're on a *journey* while everybody else is on a *trip*.
Amazing desert structures & stuff: http://sites.google.com/site/potatotrap/
"Let us say I suggest you may be human." -- Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam
"Let us say I suggest you may be human." -- Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam
- oneeyeddick
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- Location: Probably in your pants
Karlene wrote:I think the misunderstanding here comes from the use of the word "hippie". I contend that there are no more hippies, there are only old hippies like myself who have moved on in our journey, we look like any average person on the street, but in our hearts still burns the same beliefes that fueled the REAL rebellion and change of the 1960's. So hippie isn't really a way of dressing, bathing or tea drinking, it's all an inside thing, a philosophy. I myself am almost 63 years old, look like a librarian or teacher at a catholic school, have a professional career, and after five, baby, I go home and water my luxuriant pot garden and listen to sitar music, which I dearly love. No one looking at me would ever guess.....but I am a REAL hippie. I've noticed that everybody from street people, to homeless perople, to people at the burn with dreadlocks are always referred to as hippies, maybe because there is no other slot they can be easily filed into. There are no more hippies, there are only people that can't be described any other way. If you're under 55, you're not a hippie. The hippie died in the early 70s. Everything else is a poor imitation. Maybe it's the word...hippie....there are only old hippies like me, and we know when we see each other, and we smile....
Hahahahahahahahaha !!!!
.............fuckin' hippie................
We have an obligation to make space for everyone, we have no obligation to make that space pleasant.
ROFLMAOoneeyeddick wrote:Karlene wrote:I think the misunderstanding here comes from the use of the word "hippie". I contend that there are no more hippies, there are only old hippies like myself who have moved on in our journey, we look like any average person on the street, but in our hearts still burns the same beliefes that fueled the REAL rebellion and change of the 1960's. So hippie isn't really a way of dressing, bathing or tea drinking, it's all an inside thing, a philosophy. I myself am almost 63 years old, look like a librarian or teacher at a catholic school, have a professional career, and after five, baby, I go home and water my luxuriant pot garden and listen to sitar music, which I dearly love. No one looking at me would ever guess.....but I am a REAL hippie. I've noticed that everybody from street people, to homeless perople, to people at the burn with dreadlocks are always referred to as hippies, maybe because there is no other slot they can be easily filed into. There are no more hippies, there are only people that can't be described any other way. If you're under 55, you're not a hippie. The hippie died in the early 70s. Everything else is a poor imitation. Maybe it's the word...hippie....there are only old hippies like me, and we know when we see each other, and we smile....
Hahahahahahahahaha !!!!
.............fuckin' hippie................
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