"I was talking to a young woman I know who had just returned from Buring Man, the neo-bohemian festival that's held every Labor Day weekend in the deserr northeast of Reno. What was it like, I ask her, a Gen-X Woodstock? No, she told me, not a bit -- This is post-counterculture. They're people who work at Charles Schwab and Yahoo!; a group from Intel came in a fleet of RVs. People walked around naked in the sun, or cruised the playa in beds rigged with sails and battery-powered recliner couches. There was nude croquet, an alien-abduction camp, and a huge script neon W that someone had rigged up on the top of a pole. I asked her what the W was for. "Well, what else could it be?" she said, and made her hands into a W, with her index fingers raised and her thumbs touching. "What-ever." It allayed any misgivings I might have had about not going to the festival myself. I mean, if you had to ask what the W stood for, you probably didn't belong there."
from "An Interjection for the Age" by Geoffrey Nunberg