What happened on the playa that Monday night? There you are, in a fireman's coat, hurling through the wee hours across a parched and dusty lakebed in a 1979 American LaFrance fire truck. Above you the rare shadow of the earth has morphed the full moon into a dusky half-burnt clementine that hangs there pendulous like some wandering orb on the cover of a 70s SF paperback. "Baby's on Fire" is spewing out of the iPod, and Fripp's incandescent solo mixes with Burning Man's surrounding soundscape of engines, explosions, house beats, and the rising cries of gesticulating passersby who have-wait a sec-just realized that the iconic 40-foot-tall trademark that centers their entire week of organized revelry is prematurely aflame.
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On our little urban farm in the heart of Los Angeles we produce food, hack our house to generate power and recycle water, plot revolution and build community. You can too. Trust us, once you eat a sweet tomato still warm from the sun, or an orange-yolked egg from your own hen, you will never be satisfied with the pre-packaged and the factory-farmed again.