I have learned not to get New York magazine out the free bin at the library, because I am old enough to feel good about who I am, which is not a full of shit city fuck. (Of course, I realize the hypocrisy, because I am a full of shit semi-rural fuck, and far more self-aware than most semi-rural fucks.) New York magazine has entered the realm of mags that I flip through to see if there's an interesting article before I take a free copy of. But I took this one, because the cover story about NYC's new bohemian artists intrigued me.
This one guy, Dash Snow, who's name sounds made up, is some sort of Neil Cassady type, or so this article paints him out to be. His art consists of Polaroids of his fucked-up lifestyle, and pieces that are clippings of New York Post headlines about corrupt cops that he masturbates across. This, in itself, would be enough for me to judge him as full of shit (though I'm a sucker for Polaroid projects, I do admit, so not completely so), but on top of this he is some sort of disavowed heir to some super-rich art collector family. This means, no matter how hard he has been disavowed or clipped his family's tethers, he still comes from shitty rich people. Which means his Bohemian bullshit is like my kids putting on play clothes from the play clothes bin to pretend they're princesses.
You can't shake your lost in life, no matter how hard you try. You might be able to move a couple steps up the ladder and hope your offspring do the same, but you can't shake the tethers of your birth position. And some fucking fruity rich kid, even if he is slumming it up in NYC doing coke off other dudes' dicks and shit, can't jump far enough to escape the fat comfortable branches of his family tree. Fuck a Dash Snow. I bet his real name is far more stupid than that.
No comments:
Post a Comment