Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.
–Ernest Hemingway
IF THERE'S ONE THING The Manifest is serious about, it's libation. Sweet ones, spicy ones, psychedelic glowing ones, we believe wholeheartedly the words of Ben Franklin: "There cannot be good living where there is not good drinking."
Like many young frustrated writers, I spent not a few evenings furiously scribbling away at the barstool. Unfinished plays, poetry, book and article fragments would magically appear on the page after the first drink. There's a reason creative people tend to gravitate toward chemicals.... the inspirational "spirit" is hard to resist.
Of course, after the fifth, or eighth (or gallon) the writing becomes a blur in the background of pinball machines and women dancing on top of the bull wearing nothing but beads. After many libertine years my body is currently on virgin request, so I must rely on foggy memories for this salute to libation liberation:
RENO: 08.24.02
There's about 10 of us in the Circus Circus suite awaiting the big trip home tomorrow. This being my first expedition to the nether regions of alien Nevada, I am a bit perplexed by the scenery. My neuropsychiatrist partner is now showing his true technoshamanic roots; he assures that the greeters will prepare me to be the perfect virgin playa sacrifice but I'm beginning to wonder what kind of sick ritual they've got in mind.
Some dude's getting a mohawk in the bathroom while the other loo is occupied by a man washing out 500 plastic icepops. The whole place smells like artificial sweetener; Larry Hagman's on the TV talking about how Jack Nicholson gave him his first joint and how LSD dissolved his fear of death. I venture down to the most macabre casino in town to win enough money on roulette to pay for the room. There are bad 80's bands playing at the Hilton, but some of the pilgrims tell me the Wild Orchid is the best place to enjoy this exotic landscape.
Bill Cosby's friend the Astronaut shares his Tangeritas
BLACK ROCK CITY: 08.27.02
If it's one thing burners can make, it's an alt-bar. Whether it's draped in pink maribou with a glowing catwalk or driving along in plush yellow fur, burners create incredible drinking experiences. It's truly quite an art form.
The icepop plastic now triple-santized we go about the business of making our specialty, Puddin' Pops. A turkey baster, some Schnapps and a bowl of minty good puddin' create a delicacy fit for Bill Cosby's boinger.
Fill, squeeze, laminate, chill and they're ready for the dispenser, a lifesize cutout of a man vaguely resembling Bill Cosby, striped sweater and all. It appears our Bill-facsimile has quite the schlong, nine inches, with a hinged head that lifts to reveal a puddin pop just waiting for the kids.
We made vanilla peach, chocolate coffee, but my favorite was most definitely the chocomint dickpop. Mmmmm....chocolatey.
Meanwhile our campmates, the orange-jumpsuited Tangs, had a much easier time making Tangeritas for the catheter of the astronaut. With the vicious showdown between Puddin' and Tang fast approaching, we were eager to consume as much of our own creations as possible before hitting the Tug O'War arena.
Yes, Tug O'War. One of the simplest ways to determine true supremacy. Brute strength meets pure will meets….a vat of pudding and tang. Delicious.
No need to dig up the details of the grudge match -- suffice it to say that by the end of pudding wrestling my ruffled panties were more than adequately ruined. The orange jumpsuits were jumping for joy while the poor Puddin's had to settle for leftover jello.
BLACK ROCK CITY: 08.29.02
Well, I've broken my ass. My fractured coccyx would like to thank Werner Herzog and the fine citizens at the Black Rock Refinery for fueling a midnight adventure on a bicycle much too tall for me.
There are wonderful things about living in a city that is built specifically for the purpose of celebration. Luckily the Cat Bus has been giving me rides so that I don't miss out on the action. Unlike paltry metropolii with their designated club areas and cover charges, the playa offers miles of desert landscape to play with the most fascinating creatures.
Painkilling elixirs are offered by all, free of charge. I wake up in the morning, have a shot of hyperwhiskey with a slimfast chaser and I'm ready to make sushi for 200.
BLACK ROCK CITY: 08.31.02
This is our last night with the Parsi-like rituals of the fire-worshippers. The Puddins' and the Tangs' unite for a final drink of electric koolaid before venturing off into the neon desert. The man burns tonight, and the city is as bright as a hundred glowing suns as massive mutant vehicles launch fire high into the sky.
But I, the sober donut-sitter, get to be the responsible one tonight. As the bacchanal blowout comes to an end I contemplate cleansing by living
fire, the divinely destructive akasa we all share. Some would say that this city is built for one big party, but it seems more like we are creating myth every day, a new day-glo religion where mystics wear thongs and the yearly ritual of tapping the creative source begins with playa and puddin'.
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