Baudrillard's at Bergdorf

There’s perhaps nothing I loathe more than an art fair, except maybe IKEA; they actually have a lot in common. You never know how to leave; you don’t know where “outside” is; everything in it looks terrible. The same is true of art fairs. The art is always crammed into small spaces, there’s a million people, I can never buy anything because I’m not wealthy, and the champagne costs Times Square prices. It’s the most frustrating thing. Why don’t we just conjoin a dive bar to a few good gallery spaces and call it a day? The only thing I love about art fairs is bitching about them, which I’ve done in the past, when Frieze had some kind of shitty Gap lounge. I had a field day. Man I’m a bitch.

However, recently it’s been getting harder and harder for me to legitimize not going to them, especially this past week, when quite a few of my friends had booths or performances. My friends Jonathan VanDyke and Baseera Khan were both involved in NADA; the former a booth, the latter a performance, which was pretty cool, considering her work is contrary to what you’d consider art-fair-like: easily commodifiable, “pretty,” a painting that matches your couch. Khan’s work is gorgeous but it’s tough and fiery, angry and wrapped into questions of identity, religion, and gender. Whoever slotted this in deserves props. 

Actually, the NADA programming looked interesting, with a whole screening series devoted to drag.

My friend Wendy Vogel curated My Body is a Battleground at Volta, and that looked good too. Did I go to any of these? No. Did I go to SPRING BREAK, where a bunch of my friends and my roommate was participating in? No. Am I terrible person? Maybe. Do I need to get over hating art fairs? Maybe, with the help of a gram of Xanax and a beer.

I guess I’m just finding it harder and harder to leave Red Hook, considering I live and work here, and that I’m now part of a cute, non-art-world local community. There’s Jeff, who works at the coffee shop Baked; Deirdre, a personal chef; Kevin, who makes things like massive ice skate props for Madison Square Garden; and his partner Becky. They have a fantastic loft in Dumbo, with a breathtaking roof. I took my Mom up there once last summer, and I had to make sure she didn’t trip over cables and die. But the sunset was worth it.

Yaeji’s Noonside is a nice soundtrack to this freezing Sunday morning. I refused to leave my apartment last night; instead, I made a really excellent tomato chicken pasta thing while I mixed myself two Negronis and watched Shameless (shamelessly), the perfect housewife night. Today I’m still trying to stay inside, even though my apartment won’t get above 66. I’ve been snuggled under the covers drinking coffee and reading about North Korea’s state-sponsored assassination of Kim Jong-un’s half brother Kim Jong-nam, which took place at an airport in Kuala Lumpur this past February, and involved two millennial Vietnamese women - one wearing a white t-shirt emblazoned with the word LOL, which is awesome - who rubbed a nerve toxin all over his face. He died on the way to the hospital. 

WTF, the Kim family is crazy. I imagine if I was a Kim I’d have been killed the minute that soccer ball rolled by me while I was dancing on the soccer field, at the age of 9, when my Dad’s athletic dreams for me were dashed. Or I would’ve been killed went I went to art school; or undercooked my pork tenderloin; or wore a pink palm-print bikini brief to Riis beach; or who the fuck knows. Apparently Kim Jong-nam embarrassed the Kim family by trying to go to Tokyo Disneyland on a fake Dominican Republic passport, and got caught doing so. Was it the passport, or the Disneyland thing? I used to be a Disneyland nerd when I was in elementary school. I even fashioned a miniature Matterhorn bobsleds ride out of clay in third grade art class, and I used to read Disneyland ride reviews and “trip reports,” in which sad 45-year old child-men would complain about seeing trash and tarnished paint, bemoaning the company’s lack of upkeep. That certainly would’ve led to some Metaliica t-shirt-wearing millennial coming up to me at Julius’ in the West Village, rubbing some shit all over my face while drinking a really cheap gin and tonic - or maybe in this case, a gin and VX (the toxic nerve agent used on Jong-nam), everyone’s favorite new cocktail. I’m thankful I’m not politically connected, because that’s always such a disaster. Instead I can make all my mistakes in peace.

#tbt to October 2011, when I wrote a review of Gregory Edwards’ show at 47 Canal for Art in America - which, when they pulled it last-minute for a bullshit reason, I decided to make a copycat magazine to “publish” it, Art in New York, imitating their logo. Then 47 Canal tucked a fake gallery clipping of the review into Edwards’ CV, unbeknownst to anyone, where it still exists.

It's very infrequent now that I come across a show that kinda blows me away - that's conceptually, critically biting and also implicates its own power structures, and that uses commerce in a pretty genuine non-commercial way. Bea Schlingelhoff's "The Art Dealer Reads Misogyny Re-loaded" doesn't even have an artwork in it. It's a brilliant show, in my book, that subtlety overturns all conventions of what constitutes a commercial gallery show. Next month, I'll probably hate it. But bravo! 

I don’t actually think there are any hookers left in Red Hook, sadly. I’m smarting a little today from last night, when I drank for dinner, and ran into this hot “straight” guy Adam (I changed the name to protect the innocent), who I hooked up with last year, after running my hands through his very, very sexy hair (sex tip: touch the hair). When I ran into him then, we made out at Ice House for like an hour. Then I brought him home with me, where I proceeded to suck on his dick, and he on mine. His dick is beautiful, by the way, and big. It was like we were making one of those silly Broke Straight Guy porns or something. He would’ve fucked me if I didn’t insist on doing it bareback. Am I oversharing? Great hair, don’t care.

Anyways, I still see him around now and then, and last night, after I touched his hair some more, we decided it’d be a great idea to go to Brooklyn Motor Lodge, a seedy little motel in Red Hook, to find us some hookers to fuck. Literally. I was gonna go fuck a female. Prostitute. Female. Me. Vagina. Pussy. Female prostitute. Good thing there wasn’t any (that’s some Red Hook 1980s shit), it could’ve been a disaster. Or it could’ve been the hottest night of my life. Maybe one day Ethan, I mean Adam, will decide he actually likes the D.

WORK BITCH. Janet looks good, and I love her fuckpad. Though if anyone lit candles for me my boner would go soft. 

I’ve been to Maine once; it was several years ago, and my friend and her family drove us across the New Hampshire border to some stereotypical Maine beach town, rocky and cold, with waves crashing everywhere like some primal, Earth-shaping ritual. It was beautiful, but desolate.

So when I was offered the opportunity to go again for more than a few hours, I jumped at the opportunity to experience a state I associate most with scenic landscapes, brutal winters, and people chopping each other up into little pieces, Stephen King-style. I’m not really into killing people, but thought this could be a good opportunity to start - by having a real Maine experience. This includes staying in an old, musty cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere, where it’s just you and the woods, and the kitchen knife you just made a lobster dinner with.

Look at this house! Isn’t it pretty?! You’ll probably find my body divided between five different closets there next week. No, actually, it’s beautiful, and run by Kate Ruppert’s family. It’s called Live Well Farm, and it’s in a beautiful town in Maine called Hampswell, which is so stereotypically Maine you’ll want to gag, in a good way.

There’s like, legit lobster everywhere. And boats. And islands; some with houses on it. Who lives in these places? Is this where zombies go to retire? Sign me up!