AFTER LONG SILENCE: SPEED BLOGGING

HELLO FRIENDS! I am like ridiculously busy right now (case in point: launching new website (this fugly-ass thing is not it but stay tuned), launching niche website for fake-awards show / VH-1 talking heads package stamped w/ VIBE Awards, writing whatever Sean Fennessey wants me to write, friendly sparring with El Jefemanica, writing mondo gigantor piece for which I have done literally 9 interviews in the last five days. I almost thought I missed this weblog’s four-year anniversary but I guess it’s not for another week. Not sure what kind of birthday we will have. Maybe i will publish my entire catalogue of personal diaries from 1984-2004, uncensored so you can see how often I meta-self-consciously reference the movies Heathers (“if you wanna fuck with the eagles, you gotta learn to fly”) and Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (“WRITE IT IN YOUR DIARY”) whilst writing in said diaries just to entertain myself, but oh wait no cause FUCK A MEMOIR. Seriously, if you haven’t jumped out of six airplanes, formed a virtuous non-profit organization, or discovered a treasure map on the back of the Constitution (word to my fave actor Nick Cage aka Omega Man Jr.), YOU DONT NEED TO WRITE A MEMOIR UNTIL YOU’RE 80. That “Elizabeth Wurtzel Goes to Yale Law School” shit drops like a piano off a fire escape. Norman Mailer’s Godpiece shoots blanks. You don’t gotta cash in all your literary chips before you’re old enough to buy bodega Sparks with your Utz sweet’n’hot, nahmean.
An ironic stance to purvey on this vessel of internet-age confession-booth, I know … and I digress. Here are remarkable things of the past week:
1. Halloween.
Historically lacking passion for the holiday, yet feeling mildly more festive this year than most, I halfheartedly cobbled together a costume from items already existing in my closet (a garment rack, really): a traditional Mexican dress and earrings. Some flowers in the hair, a banging fake monobrow painstakingly applied with three kinds of eyeliner and voila! Frida Kahlo. My man friend graciously agreed to go as her infidel husband Diego Rivera and made a scarily realistic beer belly by strapping a bunch of LRG all-over print hoodies to his stomach with duct tape. Shout to his gameliness; I don’t believe the post-BBC fake-fat was all that condusive to dancing. The DJ played house and he hobbled all night. Also, people kept coming up to me and speaking to me in Spanish – I guess the authenticity of my costume gave me away? Which was crazy, and awesome, cause no one ever guesses I’m Mexican; people always think I’m Jewish, I don’t know why. Racists.
We ended up at Max Fish at four in the morning with Nick, obviously. He was dressed convincingly as Soulja Boy. Dante Ross was a Ramone.
2. The following day, I became terribly ill and could not leave my bed for two days.
3. The Klimt exhibit at the Neue Gallerie is small but worth it. Includes the famously “most costly painting ever auctioned,” that portrait of some bougie Austrian dame, which is huge and beautiful and well crafted and blindingly gold and, once you get past the razzle-dazzle, imparts a decent semblance of emotion. That beautimous Austrian dame is trapped in her own damn bouge. Her eyes implore, her wealth imprisons her.
B. The reason all of Klimt’s portrait-ladies have after-sex flush in their cheeks is revealed: enough sketches of voluptuous femmes fondling themselves to fill three entire Neue Gallerie hallways. He had a second calling as a gynocologist, that is if they had gynocology in the late 1800s (fuck, why don’t I know that?).
2. Damien Hirst’s Shark-in-formaldehyde thing, now in dead residency at the Met: I went in thinking it would be a load of hyped up bullshit, and went out thinking not so much. The best part: when you stand in front of the shark’s face, it feels like you’re underwater, about to be swallowed up. But when you walk around it, there are all these gross holes stuck into its flesh and it’s hanging by thread through its fin, and as a fear factor, it’s impotent. See: Francis Bacon. (MY ARTICULATE POTION IS SLOWLY EKING AWAY, PS, AND AFTER THAT I SWITCH OVER INTO “GIRLTALK” PRETEEN SLUMBER PARTY MODE BEFORE I EITHER A. PASS OUT OR B. FREEZE YOUR BRA. AN FYI, IN CASE YOU THINK SOMEONE IS GHOST-WRITING MY BLOG.)
3. Finally went to the feminist art wing at the BKLYN art museum. Judy Chicago’s dinner party is a feat, but beyond that, here is my review: “I Can Has Vaginaz?”
Seriously, some curator over there is straight entrenched in body politic like it’s 1991 – other than the terrifically conceived porcelain-crafts hallway, virtually every piece in the whole feminist wing focuses on some form of blood, body, flab-rolls, magnified vulva, or hologramically manipulated pubes. I did find a couple things to love: a 30-minute video piece splicing old black-and-white movies to create a classic love-dumped-revenge narrative, and a giant photo of a woman on a motorbike with her head thrown back and her mouth open like she was about to swallow the whole sky. But I feel like for a feminist wing – the first – in a semi-major museum, featuring a large-scale, precedent-setting, important work of feminist installation art, they didn’t think too much beyond shulamith firestone and “I’ll take a menses-on-the-rocks with a twist” kinda ’70s thought. Disappointing, like when you found out Gwen Stefani had no discernable personality.
The good thing, tho, is that now they have a ton more women interspersed throughout the regular part of the museum, which is just as important as having a specifically feminist wing – maybe moreso.
Ok friends. It’s after midnight on a school night. Candy-and-soda high over. Slumber party winding down. Mom came to the basement to tell us to stfu (“GIRLS GO TO SLEEP IT’S THREE IN THE MORNING!!”), crushes have been revealed, two girls have had a catty fight that can best be described as a power struggle, another girl has locked herself in the bathroom crying – probably from the sugar crash. The girl who came over with the strawberry shortcake sleeping bag has been asleep for an hour already. Now it’s time for the bad girls to get their beauty rest. This includes me. ‘Til the morn… Good night.