Burning Man’s desert outfitters fashion prep

Burning Man starts in 86 days.

The official newsletter sent out last week summed up my own sentiments pretty well: “Right about now's the time Burners look at a calendar, then at a project, then at a spreadsheet, and proceed to freak the f*ck out because Burning Man is right around the corner!! GAAAH!!”

Yup.

Though, I'm not really a Burner yet. This will be the first year I travel to Black Rock City and take part in the most mysterious of magical festivals.

Luckily, I live in a house with people who have been going for years, and this year, they're creating their own camp. Er, we're creating our own camp.

I feel pretty useless during Burning Man-planning talks. It's tough to give any input when the most common thing people tell me is something like, “No one has invented any words yet to adequately talk about Burning Man.”

Expectation: impossible.

So, during a three-hour discussion last weekend, I sat and listened. There were big ideas: a giant kaleidoscope, a bicycle-powered snow-cone machine, a cocoonlike sanctuary, brunch with no hands, a school-bus dance party and other things that sound awesome in theory, but I can't quite imagine erecting in a desert.

There were also basic, important logistical questions about water, transportation, power and shade.

But the others in the circle have experienced Burning Man before, and they looked excited. I trust that I'll be able to roll with it when the time comes. I am, at the very least, confident in my attire.

A week prior, we went on a related mission to Thrift Town. All clothing was serendipitously half-off on Memorial Day, which just happened to be when Black Rock City happened to enter our minds.

“Do you go shopping for Burning Man clothes every year?” I asked one campmate.

“Yes,” she said.

“Does that mean everything gets destroyed?”

“No. It's just fun—my favorite part of Burning Man.”

It's the chance to wear anything—anything—your heart desires. And usually suppresses. As another campmate eloquently put it: “Fur. Leather. Anything gaudy. Sequins. Glitter. Anything shiny.”

Six of us filled up two shopping carts and squeezed into a dressing room, trying on and trading our finds. We walked away with enough to later hold a pretty decent fashion show.

Futuristic bodysuits, hot-pink and teal leotards, sequined silk tops from India, suede pants, sparkly jackets, gemstone-covered cocktail dresses, fuzzy shirts, flowing tutus and shiny-sheer bro tanks were all strutted down a poorly designated moving catwalk.

I am now the proud owner of a burgundy jacket best imagined on a grandfather, smoking a cigar in his den. Except it has a velvet shawl, shiny-gold threading and a silver, glittery handkerchief attached to a fake breast pocket.

And a purple two-piece that I can only describe as something Jasmine from Aladdin might wear. I'm still debating how I can get some use out of it in Midtown, before it's covered in white dust.