As I write this, tourists are roaming the art garden in the hundred degree heat, in full defiance of every survival instinct that brought their progenitors out of the world’s birthing pool and onto dry land. It may be that the desert was designed to be uninhabitable to more complex life, but then again so is Los Angeles. We can adapt to anything, given a long enough timeline and enough distractions. (eg: stagnant election season? Throw some naked face-eating zombies in there and watch the guy who promises free guns for everyone rise a few points in the polls.)

I don’t need to point out that it’s a good thing there are people who think a slanted house and a rotting tire elephant are reasons enough to park the car and get out of the air conditioning — even if us residents would rather not get off our asses to show them around. Of course we’d prefer to stay in the shade: we’re crazy, not stupid. East Jesus is underground, in all but the most literal definition (so far), and when you’re underground (or outsider, or alternative, or art brut, or any other self-satisfied moniker denoting that, in thought and deed and form, you dwell all the way out past east jesus nowhere) it’s nice to have people stop by to tell you your shit don’t stink.

Ego thrives in all climates. Art, too, I guess.

Admittedly, one could make the argument that, with self-promotion being one of the more fundamental raisons d’être of the internet, the underground has pretty much been unearthed. Very little of the iceberg remains beneath sea level. You’re in discovered country, baby: buy a goddamn t-shirt. And in our case, there’s some small truth to that. We’ve been featured in publications like Vice and Time, entertained everyone from high-ranking military officials to one of the guys instrumental in getting Max Yasgur to lease his land to Woodstock. The middle of the desert isn’t as remote as it once was.

But then, mutating towards mainstream or not, there will always be people who still won’t get it. They’re the ones who don’t even bother to get out of the SUV, the people who drive up to the gate and take pictures of the desert savages through their tinted windows like they’re on safari. The people for whom five minutes spent filming the Range on a weekday or driving down Slab City’s main street is apparently enough to form an accurate assessment of the area. Here’s part of an absolute gem I found this morning:

When I drove us to our destination out past that creepy “town” that is Slab City,  the marines that were assigned to be with us got dropped off via helicopter. At the end of the day the chopper came back for them as we were still packing up the SUV. I still remember this, and it gives me goose bumps….the last marine to board the chopper stopped, turned around in the doorway and said “You guys need to pack up fast and leave….don’t be out here after the sun goes down”. He gave us a quick nod, then they flew away. Oh my god….we all looked at each other and double timed it  on the packing up. We had the SUV full in 5 minutes and I was driving fast. Sun was setting, it was getting to be dusk, and more campfires could be seen as I drove my team through Slab City and back to the real town and our hotel.

That place is so creepy! While we were out in the desert doing our classified work we also had to be on the lookout for “Scrappers”. Mountain folk that would drive their trucks around the mountain range looking for bombs that the military had shot. They would rip them to pieces and sell the metal as scrape. At base we were told they are armed and very territorial. Of course, we had no weapons. Wonderful.

And that’s fine. Really. Because funnily enough, that kind of misinformed, knee-jerk ignorance is exactly what I need now and then. Life is hard here, and hot, and miserable sometimes. And on days when it’s all three of those, we appreciate some narrow-minded idiot dropping by to give us a good laugh and remind us why we left ‘civilization’ in the first place.

But if you come across this place by accident and actually have the courage to get out of the car and the curiosity to wander around the garden, then we’ll probably like you and invite you in.

And that’s fine, too.

But for fuck’s sake, we average upwards of 110 degrees this time of the year. Maybe wait until summer’s over, yeah? We promise we’ll be much less cranky.