At dawn, two days ago. Thursday morning. I sling my suitcase over my shoulder and grab my laptop and cross the street to where my pilot friend Scott was camped. We drive out to the airport on a tiny art car, I am still up from a wild night before. The three of us pile into the little Piper plane. “It’s a lot like driving a car,” scott says, “only about ten times more difficult and if you make a mistake while flying, you probably die.”   We see all the sights that I am used to seeing from the ground, Burning Man, Gerlach, Empire, Pyramid Lake, Reno. The Man is so tiny, the event looks so small. 

At the Reno Airport we land in a plush terminal and get chauffeured over too the actual airport where sad burners leave and jubulant burners can’t wait to get there.  I manage to move my flight up a few hours, fall asleep immediately, miss my flight, and end up taking the flight I was scheduled on. 2 hours sleep in 2 and a half days. I squeezed every ounce of waking burn out of those last few days. 

Then I arrive in Denver to the madness of the DNC going on. Obama’s speech is blasting in the Super Shuttle. I am moved to tears many times from airport to hotel. Could it be that Obama actually gets it?  I want my golden age, and I am sure that McCain ain’t gonna give it to me. Our hotel is in downtown Denver, and the DNC has just ended and the city is alive with political hope and joy. It’s infectious. 

Now, I’m working with the Do Lab.  A big convention center. Culture shock. I gotta go to work. More to come.

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