DJ Burning Man

[orangepeelmoses]

Burning Man is many different things to many different people. for some, he is an art festival, a community experiment, a giant playground, a networking opportunity or a photographer’s paradise. for others, he is a corporate retreat, a hardcore religion, a pagan orgy, a symbolic protest or a week-long massive. the Man is more than happy to be all those things to all those people, but, apparently, he wants nothing more than to be recognized for one more little-known role…the woodiest disc jockey in the world.

sure, plenty of jockeys get wood, but none can possibly top the ridiculous amount of lumber purchased every year by the Burning Man organization to build their celebrated centerpiece. in fact, the Man has got so much wood, he could easily satisfy every single Critical Tits parade participant and Drag Racer at the same time. that, my burning friends, is a shitload of fucking wood. not only has the Man got a lot of wood, he knows exactly how to use it. do not be fooled by the usual stiffness of his statuesque demeanor. taking wood from the Man is not as much like having sex with a robot as some might expect. granted, there are going to be a lot of splinters involved, but splinters are a small price to pay for unlimited orgasms. that’s right, wood nymphos, eye said unlimited orgasms. unlike mere mortal woodies, which eventual fall flaccid as an empty garbage bag, the Man’s wood simply doesn’t go down…until Saturday night, of course.

even though most nightclub promoters have little clue about the Man’s crowd-rocking skills, a handful have already booked the jockey to rattle their patron’s hineys. this past February, at a club called 8150 in Vail, the Man made his Colorado debut behind the decks. promotional posters with the Man’s mug on them elicited curious queries from 8150’s regular customers.

“Who’s DJ Burning Man?” asked one particularly annoyed ski-bunny, who refused to cough up the ten dollar cover charge (especially for someone she had never even heard of).

“That’s him,” insisted the bouncer on duty, pointing his finger at the forty-foot wooden man on the flyer. “He’s from San Francisco.”