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#a193 :: Kidsville wristband

August 25, 2008

ENLARGEIt usually takes 10 hours to drive from Los Angeles to Black Rock City.

This trip has been particularly rough: Usually I nap for 3 or 4 hours before we hit the road at 9 p.m., sale then drive until 3 or 4 a.m., sildenafil while my wife and the kids sleep. When I’m ready to crap out, view she’s rested and ready to take over.

Not this time – sleep eludes her, I push myself farther than I like, and we wind up conking out for a couple of hours by the side of the road, snoring like frat boys while traffic rushes past.

We awake, not quite refreshed, and make it to Black Rock City, which is engulfed in a wicked dust storm. In the midst of all of it, we arrive in the Kidsville area of the camp, where cheerfully off-dressed Kidsvillains check us in and slap friendly neon-green wristbands on our son and daughter, as proof against them losing their way.

We’re among stranger-friends, and begin pitching camp amid howling winds packed with talc-fine alkali dust. It feels good to be home again.

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