Though I don’t partake myself, I am totally and completely down with the expansion of one’s consciousness through the use of hallucinogenic substances. Furthermore, I would guess that a rather large percentage of the art, music, and film that has so profoundly moved me and informed both my personal, as well as my professional, life was either conceived or created with the assistance of something snorted, smoked, shot, or slugged. Sometimes the only way through is BEYOND.
With that said, I JUST DON’T GET the infernal tripfest known as Burning Man. Perhaps I am old. Perhaps I am tired. Perhaps I am just fucking NO — but let me tell you something, Mein Poppets…if I ever want to go a whole week without warshing my vagina, whilst sitting in a vegan bronze and pleather steampunk lawnchair sipping absinthe in the sweltering, dusty desert surrounded by naked Road Warrior guys with greasy assholes and their nuts painted ochre, I’LL DO IT IN THE COMFORT OF MY OWN BACKYARD, thank you very much — though I have to admit I WOULD LOVE to have the baby wipe concession up in that motherfucker.
BURN ON, BABY…and don’t forget to bury your byproducts after you stagger off and squat in your very own place in the sun.