Once Burned

Published April 28, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Here’s a phrase you’ll never hear me say – “I’m going to Burning Man.”  Burning Man is “an annual art event and temporary community based on radical self expression and self-reliance in the Black Rock Desert of Nevada.” Translation: The “I’m too old and too sober to attend shit show of a festival.” Last night however I did attend a small art show in an obscure section of Los Angeles – featuring artists who will be attending Burning Man.  The gallery was set up to sell art to help these folks earn money to fund their BM projects.  I walked in to see a young woman and a young man standing on platforms both in dresses. They each had a jar and a pair of scissors in front of them.  The concept was – put money in their jar and you get to cut a piece off of their dress.  Huh?  Okay.  I can kind do this at home or watch Project Runway but whatever. Someone had taken a giant swatch from the guys genital area proving – even Art lovers can act like immature assholes.  I asked him what happened and his female counterpart said “Some jewish guy did that” proving even artists models can be racist idiots. Most of the women at the event were dressed like weird circus whores and a whole bunch of the guys had those Snidely Whiplash/Salvador Dali twirly mustaches.  I asked my friend what the outfits were all about and she said that a lot of people who attended BM chose a style of dress called Steam Punk – like the guy in the circus pants and top hat. See what happens when you don’t go out people – you miss this stuff.  I like art and all – in fact – I try to support all of my friends who paint or sculpt or draw or whatever it is they sell – I buy – but this was not my bag.  People who all dress alike seems to say the opposite of “I’m an artist.”  Expressing yourself exactly the same way as someone else doesn’t seem to jibe with the free thinker I assume all artists are. But what do I know. Maybe I’m fashion schizophrenic since I can’t seem to pick just one style.  But this steam punk business mixed with the idea of spending days in a desert with no shower, no high heels and melting lipstick , did not sound like a fun idea to me. And then, I saw him. The Ryan Gosling of the Steam Punk world. He was wearing a suit vest and suit pants. No shirt. Biceps for days and a Dali mustache.  And suddenly I knew – that’s why girls go to Burning Man.  This guy was worth sleeping in dirt and smelling like pee.  This guy could make any girl feel okay about standing in line for a porto-potty in a hippie dress and a bad beaded necklace you bought for the occasion at Forever21.  Suddenly I remembered the days of what I would do when faced with someone like that. I’d throw back another shot, waltz up to him and just start making out. I had courage when I drank.  I also made really bad choices in men because I had liquid tolerance for weird people in circus clothes and usually ended up somewhere like Burning Man.  Not so much anymore.  Last night I didn’t try to make out with Ryan Steam Punk Gosling. I didn’t make a date to meet him under the art tee pee by the iron gorilla sculpture in the desert. I took my Valentino shoes and Chanel purse home where they belong.  I think I’ve been burned enough.

3 comments on “Once Burned

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