BLACK PRESIDENTS, HEADLESS CHICKENS, AND RICH FOLK
After a month spent flitting back and forth between the East and West coasts—avoiding the cold that has now, officially crushed down on New York—your Senior Editor figured it was about time for a new report from the frontlines. I spent Amazing Obama Election Day™ with a two-hour layover at George Bush International Airport in Houston, nervously expecting some red meat conservative in a ten gallon hat to string me up for dressing like an anarchist. (It didn’t happen.) My plane bumped into New York around 10:30pm; I was listening to a cabbie's radio when the news came in that every state that mattered had flopped in favor of Barack "Second Coming of Jesus, Perhaps" Obama. Celebrations in Brooklyn were ecstatic and very public. There were fireworks and a few arrests on Bedford Avenue, evidently, which later resulted in yet another round of "hate the hipster." I watched the victory speech at Public Assembly in Williamsburg, which was hosting a regrettable hip-hop night in which various semi-talented jerks rhymed and strutted like they were checking themselves out in the wall mirror at the gym. (An MC cut the sound the minute Obama quit talking and starting waving. "That motherfucker can give a speech," he blurted, effectively puncturing my Private Historical Moment with a shot of old-fashioned stupidity).
Anyway, everything went well. (Although I must say it was a bit patronizing to receive an email in the following days, from a Canadian friend, saying "we’re proud of you!"... as if the American electorate were a rather slow child who has, for the first time, refrained from shitting its pants on the bus. I guess that’s not so far from the truth.)
Speaking of being proud to be an American—we checked out William Eggleston’s Democratic Camera show at the Whitney, up now through January 25, and to paraphrase the aforementioned MC: "That motherfucker can take a photograph." (My initial goal, upon entering the museum, was to go on a foamy-mouthed rampage, running around screaming while smashing various pictures. When the cops showed up, along with Page Six, I would start hollering, "You’ve got to break a few Egglestons to make an omelet!" before being hauled away to jail and/or eternal fame. I neglected to carry through this plan.) In any case, the expertly curated Whitney show proves that 70% of American photography wouldn’t exist if not for the long influence of Eggleston, and that includes everyone’s favorite hipster superstar, Ryan McGinley. (Go ahead―throw a Belle and Sebastian lyric on top of "Untitled (1975)" and you’ll see what we mean.)
The craziest part of the show? Some rare black-and-white video footage that Eggleston had took down South, which featured a bunch of hicks biting the heads off live chickens on the street corner. It was goddamn gross—not to mention punker than Iggy Pop ever dreamed off—and proved that Eggleston could have a second career as a Vice correspondent.
What else has been happening? We headed to Carmel, California to drive new Land Rover models and gorge ourselves on lots of delicious food—it was a rare peek into what it would be like to be rich, which felt a bit shameful in the middle of Great Depression ’08, but... whatever, dude. Speaking of rich and shameful, we finally realized—why did it take us this long?—that Vanity Fair is essentially an oversized doorstop for pathetic luxury aspirants and those who like to J-O over real estate porn. Also: I really, really wanted to fight Dominick Dunne, but then I read about what shit luck he’s had recently. I’ll take Graydon Carter instead, right in front of the Waverly Inn. Winner gets gourmet mac’n’cheese for life.
