WELCOME TO THE ORGY DOME

    Leave it to my old friend Ted Rosenthal to make the connection between East Coast pastoralism and the West Coast phenomenon of Burning Man. I’d forgotten all about the “burner” scene, but Ted’s note led me to google, which informed me that today is the last day of that annual week long suspension of the grind for rock stars, celebs, lost souls and corporate types in the Nevada desert. I see the connection. Instagram influencers wield their iphones the same way 19th century painters captured the light of Overlook Mountain with the tiny shepherd or woodcutter in the foreground. Only now it’s the toothy grin of some supermodel or celeb’s daughter (getting ready for an Ivy League education due to mommy and daddy’s pay offs) who commands our attention. The landscape looming above the ingenue is compelling and inviting. Yearning Man  makes for great backdrop.

    I’ve never been, nor do I want to go. Woodstock and the first Lollapalooza were enough for me. I don’t even like to go to the movies. Sitting in crowds, with a bunch of creepy strangers freaks me out. But, I can’t deny the fact that loads of people (thousands attend) see this as their personal foray into legit sub-culture. These are tourists to the fringe. I live on it year round. One of the best reports I’ve read of this year’s fest was by Stephanie Gutmann of The New York Post, titled “#MeToo’s bad news for Burning Man’s Orgy Dome.” Like going to the movies, I also avoid orgies. But I know a few who either go as participants or voyeurs. Gutmann quoted somebody on Reddit, who visited this year’s Orgy Dome who said after being “issued a ticket, a wrist band and briefing about obtained consent, visiting the Orgy Dome “felt more like I was waiting to pick a lawn mower up at Sears.” Welcome to the Orgy Dome 2019.

   It seems that the sexual underground is disappearing as rapidly as the rainforest. Societal “rebooting” of correctness has put the deviant in as precarious a position as that suction-toed tree frog. How can one break the rules by adhering to so many? Counterculture gatherings are now strictly regimented, reflecting society’s expectations, creating “safe” spaces, denying the real purpose of communal subversion. Sex was one of the last bastions of the rule breaker. No more. “Number 69…..number 69 please pick up your condoms, lube and consent form at the courtesy booth.”        

    

    Nymphs, satyrs and fairies abound in 19th century European painting, but are somehow absent in The Hudson River School. The Catskills seem to be a sexless place. The most we can hope for is a bee on a flower’s pestle—the metaphor of sex. Of course this changed over the years. The 20th century brought bootlegging, casinos, strip clubs and brothels to the mountains. And even in Cole’s time I’m sure there was a sexual underground. It just didn’t make it into the paintings. Today that tradition continues.   

     One particular local aficionado of the small town group grope is someone I’ll call “Dirty Dan.” He periodically shows up (late) to CLGM church services, scantily clad young ladies in tow, complains that “church isn’t what it used to be,” trolls the crowd for new meat and eventually leaves in the “rapey bus,” to do God knows what in the privacy of his own home. This is the Catskill Mountain orgy scene in the 21st Century, and even Dirty Dan is uber-conscious of the rules and regs. when it comes to consensual group sex. I hear he makes sure to lecture newbies that “no” means “no” and that even by watching a little too intently one can be required to sign a consent form. Voyeurs be forewarned. It’s a new world. As the Post reported regarding the burners, “Just because you hugged someone yesterday doesn’t mean you can surprise them with a hug today….Ask every time.” I’m assuming “hug” is a euphemism. Happy Labor Day! Always ask first.