Rickey Bird almost crashes helicopter into Bakersfield's Burn The Witch art show - By N.L. Belardes

The helicopter arrived and out came Rickey Bird, one of my many compatriots for Zowietown. The landing had been rough—no guy-flown helicopter is going to make a perfect landing when about to confront a sea of chick art. His camera almost didn’t power up from the strange magnetic beams emanating from the Empty Space Theatre. Rickey himself looked strangely attractive in the sunlight, his military-style cap making him more debonair like some kind of suave Cuban revolutionary having just cruised above the Atlantic in his art deco filmmaker chopper.

What is it these women have done with their collective growl of artwork? Had I suddenly fallen in touch with my feminine side? Was I getting sensitive and now Rockey Bird was like some kind of Che Guevara of the immaculate conceived film art? This wasn’t a sensitive show… that’s a stereotype… most of the women who are my friends are tougher than me anyways. Take chingpea for instance. You don’t go through life beating the shit out of boys in smalltown Delano, get a rare liver cancer, go through chemo, lose all your hair and most of your friends, slim to a sickening 90 pounds, have your papa sneak in ice cream to you everyday because if you’re going to die, you’re going to eat what you fucking want to eat, even if ice cream is your last steady meal, then you bounce back, go into remission—albeit an unsteady form of it, get shots from me every single day to keep you functional that are made of some kind of cocktail that I liken to Kool-Aid mixed with Clorox, laugh about it, laugh in the face of death because you lived one more day, have a kid when doctors say you can’t… do I need to go on?

Burn the Witch? Don’t people know witches don’t burn? They’re typically falsely accused and tough like some kind of Teflon-coated human being with hearts made of an iron core. I’m serious. If you listened through their chests you would hear the equivalent of an AT-AT Walker storming through their innards—either that or tiny Death Stars powering up.

And yes, women can blow up planets if they wanted to.

Hasn’t one ever destroyed your world?

Here’s some photos of the art show. You can attend today anytime from 2PM-7PM:


Helicopter control panel... system overload... about to crash...


A safe landing and powering up.


I'll take the vagina razor art behind curtain #1, please.


Somewhere in this room lurks nudes...






Artists NYOKA and Jen Raven (Also co-curator with Jenn Williams)


This wall of witch shame is delectable. Noveltown bought 5.






You sure you want to see her Death Star heart?






Filming for Zowietown...




The artist becomes the art...


Later that night I had a BBQ to attend. Needed some serious guy time.


Me and Oscar were getting killed by his son and a local pastor. But then we stormed back and won the GALACTIC CHAMPIONSHIP. And I became a guy again... I think.

Bring your money to the Empty Space. You can buy this cool art...

(Read my other burn the witch write-up)

This entry was posted by N.L. Belardes, on Saturday, September 09, 2006. You can leave your response.