It sent me to the medicine cabinet.
Just watching it gave me a sugar rush by way of heatstroke via straight-up migraine. But nothing can cure what ails me.
Lacking a peyote button or those handy Hunger Games suicide berries, I am forced to resort to blogging as a way to alleviate my malady. Burning Man started in the mid-80s as an artsy-fartsy homage to the Solstice, burning effigies as a form of “radical self-expression,” clearly a hippie euphemism for a low-grade case of pyromania (and not the totally rad Def Leppard kind). I love fire like the Heat Miser but this creeps me out. After sitting through The Wicker Man only to watch a dude burned alive as an offering for the harvest, I am not down with towering infernos.
Then there are the hipster hippies dropping acid while dropping trou. No. Just no. The Places I’ll Go? Pretty sure my list doesn’t include Black Rock City.