I crave spectacle. That's why I'd rather watch a movie at a drive-in than on a telephone. I've been to the Oscars, the Indy 500, the World Series and the Chinese New Year parade in Hong Kong, But my favorite spectacle is the one that's happening this weekend: the Burning Man festival, in Nevada's Black Rock desert, 100 miles north of Reno.

I attended Burning Man every year from 1995 to 1999, a period during which this do-it-yourself art festival doubled in size every year--from 2,000 people to 4,000 to 8,000 to 16,000 to 32,000. It was the kind of life-changing event that delirious attendees wanted to tell their friends about. By my third year, it had gotten so crowded that the ersatz campground on the vast, dry lakebed was given a system of roads, and once you staked out a spot for your fanciful camp, you were forbidden to drive around.

That didn't stop a couple people per year from dying in stupid accidents, and in the outside world, Burning Man got a reputaiton as a lawless celebration of paganism and nudity.

That's not quite true--Burning Man has no overrriding principle except self-expression--but it's true that there are few rules (and no commerce). So people walk around the desert naked, or in tuxedos, or Santa Claus outfits.

I was a relative square who didn't come for the (rumored) orgies or the dusk-to-dawn rave parties. I was there for the spectacular artwork, much of which is set ablaze during the Saturday night of the event. I fondly remeber a temple built from hundreds of piano sounding boards, and a lifesize game of Mousetrap, and (yes) a walk-in drive-in theater showing exploitation flicks from the '70s.

The literal center of attention is the Man, a 50-foot tall, neon-trimmed effigy stuffed with fireworks, a mysterious symbol of impermanence whose fiery demise is celebrated by all. (The ritual is loosely based on the movie "The Wicker Man," although its origins also trace back to a San Franciscan named Larry Harvey, who gathered a dozen friends on a beach to purge the memory of a woman who had jilted him.)

When the smoke clears, the clean-up begins. The only reason the Bureau of Land Mangement allows the event to return each year is because every trace of it is obliterated. 

After a long absence, I returned to Burning Man in 2005. While New Orleans was sinking in the flood waters, an oblivious horde of hipsters, out of reach of cell phones and bad news, sought to purify themselves with fire.  

In the box above is a video of that year's burn, which happened five years ago tonight.

(Dubiously, the latest technology allows you to watch this year's event online, at the Burning Man website.)