Today marks the beginning of the Burning Man Festival in the wast
elands of Nevada. Thousands of people will pour o
ut into the desert, abandoning day jobs, relationships and social norms to dance around in one hundred degree heat wearing capes and glitter. For
unfamiliar with Burning
Man, it's a weeklong event dedicated to self-expression, community reliance and sexual contact under the guise of spirituality. I know this because I went last year for the first and last time. I went seeking a utopian enclave of open-minded
and accepting brothers and sisters, I followed rumors of a culture rising from the desert clay and supporting itself for seven days on nothing but love,
understanding, and a little pharmaceutically induced introspection. Instead I found misguided, fat men in tie-died t-shirts with exposed genitals caked in dust. Suffice it to say, Burning Man let me down.
"Dude! I know it's your bike, I just need to borrow it, OK?"
I first discovered the festival a little over a yea
r ago while accidentally dating a vegan. She explained, a little too aggressively I thought, that the tattoo on
around ritual sacrifice were not something I condoned, and while never actually accusing her, I may have insinuated that she was a witch. The relationship
didn't last long after that. Still, I grew curious about the desert party she was forever proselytizing. A week before it was set to start, I did a little research
and discovered the true romance of Burning Man. It was a veritable mix tape of al
cha gio
