Oh, it’s darn near the end of summer again, and you all know what that means.
It’s time for the pretentious and preposterous to gather together in the Nevada desert once more for that annual self-indulgent, primoridal bacchanal known as:
BURNING MAN
Yes, kiddies – that legendary gathering of the wealthy, the well-to-do, and their sycophantic hangers-on. Who litter the desert with refuse, drug paraphernalia, condoms, and obscure, pseudo-intellectual works of “art” which can mostly only be appreciated by the stoned or the supercilious. Much of the art, like the Burning Man sculpture itself, are meant to be ever-so-fleeting – temporary flights of whimsy that dissipate in the heady glow of being surrounded by like individuals who claim to revere thought, creativity, the planet, community, and a good toke.
So lofty, so airily overweening, so wrapped in a warm cocoon of “you can’t be…
