Hell in the Desert

This is the funniest description of hell that I’ve read in weeks.

Granted, I’ve never been to Burning Man. I’ve also never been chewed up by a crocodile nor lived in a refrigerator box on Harrison Street, but I somehow instinctively know these things wouldn’t be my cup of tea, even though others might find them to be life-affirming growth experiences or important exercises in community-building.

Ditto for Burning Man, which seems to be pretty much nothing but “the San Francisco scene” relocated to some godforsaken desert in Nevada, featuring the same tired old cast of very conformist non-conformists, assorted art poseurs and hippie wannabes, and — most notably — thousands of middle-class white folks who want to be perceived as art poseurs and hippie wannabes.

The only difference seems to be that this collection of humanity manages to smell even worse at Burning Man than at home in San Francisco. Which is, I’ll grant you, a rather significant accomplishment.