I thought I’d finally see what all the fuss was about, so I dragged myself out to Burning Man. I figured: dust, art, and maybe a decent hotdog stand. What I got instead was a sandstorm that could peel paint off a battleship and rain that turned the desert into a swamp. I spent three days chewing grit and trying to convince myself that this was “transformative.”
The big moment was supposed to be the statue going up in flames. Except it didn’t. It stood there like a soggy popsicle stick, dripping and pathetic, while everyone around me pretended that staring at wet wood was still somehow profound. I tried to help, but even my lighter refused to participate.
In desperation, I wandered into the so-called Orgy Dome. Apparently, “casual interest” doesn’t count as an invitation. Before I could even make a witty remark about communal living, I was manhandled out into the mud by two volunteers wearing nothing but boots and body paint.
I don’t take rejection lightly. On my way out, I gave a couple of their precious tension stakes a solid kick. One thing led to another, and the next thing you know, the whole dome collapsed like a circus tent in a hurricane. People screamed, others moaned—it was hard to tell the difference.
I brushed the sand out of my eyes, looked back at the mess, and said to no one in particular: “Finally… some real art.”