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Supper club

September 4, 2013

Wear your Playa finery, the invitation said, and so, decked out and dusty, we ducked through the dome’s opening into a dining room set with flowers and silverware, candles and skulls. The setting sun filtered through an opening in the parachuted draped above, and a gold-masked man explained the rules for dinner.

Outside, strange cars lumbered out toward the open desert. Riders sailed by, propelled by rusty bike chains, unaware that we were toasting with cocktails and dipping bites of fried chicken in lavender-infused vinegar.

We slipped out after dark, bellies full for our return to mayhem.

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