Groaning Man

I know what you're thinking.

It's Wednesday, September 9th, why aren't you and your wife at Black Rock, Nevada for the Burning Man festival?

From the body paint and the balloon head adornments you might have mistaken the couple in the picture for my wife and I, but rest assured. It's not us. We're in Culver City. Coming home from the supermarket.

"Why did you buy the Pike's Roast? You know I like the Starbuck's Breakfast Blend. That other coffee gives me heartburn."

Oh shit, you say, here's comes another Old Man Rant about crazy kids and their crazy antics.

But, actually no.

I like debauchery as much as the next fellow.
I like drinking to excess and letting my hair down, Hair #138.
I like letting loose under a starlit Nevada desert sky.
I like avante garde art, like this fascinating piece.

Or this:

Or this:

And you certainly won't hear me grouse about all the ample nipple exposure.

So what, other than a mortgage, two college tuitions, and the volatile stock market, keeps me from packing up the Lexus 460 LS and joining 100,000 professional partiers in the 110 degree heat?

If you've been a fan of RoundSeventeen you know the answer can best be summed up with one of our previous tag lines:

"L'enfer, c'est les autres."

 Or as Jean-Paul Sarte famously said, "Hell is other people."

Burning Man would be so much better for me if it didn't include so many other people at Burning Man.

Guys in pithe helmets, gone.

Guys in Steampunk attire, gone.

Guys in ironic Boy Scout uniforms, Speedos, body paint, horned hats, feather appendages, welders glasses, Elvis wigs, Native American costumes, puka shells, or any Nazi insignia, gone, gone and even more gone.

All those pretentious adornments are fine on women.

And in fact, I would encourage the 50,000 female Burning Man Attendees to have at it.

You see, ideally, My Burning Man Festival would include, a small smattering: a bunch of my friends, advertising colleagues, high school buddies and camping cohorts.

Musicians.

Artists.

A cadre of fireworks professionals.

And the aforementioned 50,000 painted, slathered in oil, nearly naked uninhibited woman.

Oh, and I guess I'd have to invite my wife, too.