Flaunt Magazine

The clickonomics of Obama.com took a giant leap today, squelching further The Bush Regime’s policy of hiding how fucked the American people are from the American people, reinforcing Barack’s 21st century policy of telling us how fucked we are directly to our stupid faces. (A Change We Can All Grive In!)

The Prez Elect will do so by continuing to display the technoratory abilities that helped win him the election: each week, 2.Obama will publish on Youtube his democratic address. Sort of like FDR’s “fireside chats,” except instead of sitting near a wholesome fireplace, the President reminds us that we’re all engulfed in flames of doom; and in lieu of a cozy living room, Obama seems to be sitting in the “office” of some personal injury attorney advertising on late-night TBS (love that faux-fica), which seems like a perfectly reasonable way to reach millions of assholes.

Check here to see the video.

Oh shit. Wrong video. To see Obama’s Weekly Address, click here.

Tomorrow, the election will be over. If Barack Obama is elected, his first order of business is to have Shepard Fairey resdesign the two dollar bill, and mainstream graffiti artists will finally declare victory after years of struggling to completely eradicate any notion of or nostalgia for their earnest, statement-conscious guerilla beginnings; sort of like James Belushi in Curly Sue; holmes got all fancy and shit and forgot where he came from.

In related news: also tomorrow, the Carmichael Gallery will moderate a panel discussion for collectors featuring “experts from the Urban Art movement” at the Sunset Boulevard location of Bonhams and Butterfields auction house. Panelists include the aforementioned Fairey, UK artist Charming Baker (panda bear below), film director Jon Reis, whose documentary Bomb It, documents the “new contemporary art movement that has risen out of street and graffiti art,” and Shana Nys Dambrot, governess of good taste, humor and hipness as art critic and managing editor of Flavorpil.

The panel discussion is in conjunction with the Carmichael’s new exhibition, Pour Me Some Smoke, open November 6th through the 30th. The exhibiton features artists Charming Baker (panda below), Case, Guy Denning, Ian Strawn and TRXTR, with a reception on opening night from 7pm-Midnight. Go get a free drink. Cheers. Here’s to keeping the streets clean.

TRXTR’s “Kate Escape”

Address: Carmichael Gallery of Contemporary Art
1257 N. La Brea Avenue
W. Hollywood CA 90038

Opening reception: November 6th from 7.00pm ­ - Midnight
Exhibition Dates: November 6th ­- November 30th

On March 12, 1955, while the sounds of Tommy Dorsey’s trombone sang televised into Nica De Koenigswarter’s room at the Stanhope Hotel, Charlie Parker died on her sofa. But not before the hostess, Pannonica “Nica” de Koenigswarter, a member of the English branch of the Rothschild family, was able to celebrate her friend The Bird by not merely hosting his performances at her Weehawken home, a jazz-haunt and known locale for many a late-night jam-sesh, but by capturing polaroids of Parker and asking him, simply, with childlike sweetness, if he had three wishes, what would they be?

This patron saint of hepcats and hi-hat hipsters, “Bebop Baroness” Pannonica photographed the jazz scene throughout the 50s; from 1961-66, she asked the soul-singers and brass blasters who adored her what their three wishes might be, taking notes in leather-bound Hermès journals. John Coltrane, Duke Ellington, Miles Davis, Charles Mingus, Coleman Hawkins, and Louis Armstrong are just a few of the 300 jazz musicians included in her journals.

Pannonica cleaned and collected her photos and their wishes and attempted (but failed) to publish them. A couple years ago, however, her granddaughter managed to finally get the fabulous and essential work into print. And tomorrow, to celebrate the English-language reprint, Three Wishes: An Intimate Look at Jazz Greats (Abrams Image), as well as the great Pannonica herself, the humble historians and art afficianados at Hermès pay her tribute and show honor of her toting their leather-engraved name to the dark, smokey holes of New York mid-century hip by hosting— much like the Baroness did herself— these iconic jazz legends to gather (albeit in photo form) into their boutique for one final jam.

The exhibition of original prints from Three Wishes: An Intimate Look at Jazz Greats will be on view, beginning tomorrow, October 31, at Hermès, 691 Madison Avenue. A Halloween treat indeed.

Sarah Palin née Health, 1984 Miss Alaska Beauty Pageant Runner-Up. Isn’t she lovely?

False enchantment can last a lifetime
-W.H. Auden

Flaunt’s associate fashion editor Matthew Henson reports:

New York City- During the mayhem that is New York Fashion Week, designer Miuccia Prada invited all of NYC’s bon vivants to Prada’s Broadway Epicenter to celebrate the release of her latest animated short, Fallen Shadows. Once I was plucked from the crowd at the door, Team PRADA USA escorted me to a private screening room, which was a departure from last season, where the film was shown amidst the partygoers and Pradaphiles. Fallen Shadows is a darker continuation of last season’s Trembled Blossoms. This time, Miuccia’s film takes us through a journey of self-discovery for a woman clad in Prada Fall ‘08, whose shadow lives the life she wishes to live. It’s an outer-body and utterly beautiful story. And given that the movie is only about four minutes long, one can only imagine what Miuccia could have done with an hour long film. I know I don’t speak for myself when I say, “Miu, we want more!” Now I’m left with grandiose fantasies of what she’ll deliver next time. Until next season, my sweet. Until next season!

sweet lovers love the spring

…the soul is a captive, treated humanely, kept
In suspension, unable to advance much farther
Than your look as it intercepts the picture.
-John Ashbery

Honey you know I’d die for you
They got your number, scared and runnin’
But I’m still waitin’ for the second coming
of Ophelia. Come back home.
-The Band

Who’s familiar with an actuarial life table? Nobody? Click on that hyperlink. The More You Know…

Because numbers are scary, I’ll break it down for you: An actuarial life table shows the probability, based on age, that death will occur in the following year. To keep things topical, let’s use as an example Senator John McCain (R-AZ).

McCain is…let’s see: if he became a POW in Vietnam when he was 31-ish, became a member of the house in ‘83, assumed senatorial office in 1987, that should make him…about…old as fuck. He was thirty-fucking-one when he was held captive in Vietnam. I didn’t think homeless people could pull that whole “Vietnam Vet” thing anymore because the math didn’t work in my head. Shows what i know. (Not shit.)

John McCain was born in 1936. Conceptualize the year 1936. Just try. Think of an old photo or something. This might help: Gasoline cost 10 cents per gallon. Mussolini announced the official foundation of the New Roman Empire. The Golden Gate Bridge had not yet been opened. John McCain is older than the Golden Gate Bridge.

Now think about twenty years later: 1956, when McCain was 20. Attach that to anything you can. And because I doubt you’ll contextualize it as being the year that Fidel Castro LANDED on Cuba in the Granma with the mere INTENTION of overthrowing it, let’s go with something more commonly known: Back To The Future. McCain would have attended the Enchantment Under The Sea dance about two years before Marty McFly even showed up from the future. McCain was a senior when Biff was a Sophomore. He was probably Biff’s senior buddy. That movie came out in 1985, when John McCain was 50.

Or how about this: When Anne Frank died, John McCain was 9-years-old. NINE! He’d turn 10 two months later. That’s terrifying. How many people do you know to whom you can ask, “where were you when Anne Frank died?” and they’d have been old enough to actually remember? Think about how ancient the archetype of Frank seems, that black-and-white photo of her as a little girl. Now think about if that little girl had survived…to the year 2010…and she’s sitting in front of you. How’s her breath? Would you trust her with an armed pistol? Your laptop? Nuclear security codes?

But none of this is intended to insult McCain. I mean, how could it? It’s not insulting to say someone’s old. It’s merely a fact. Dude’s old. Very very old. Once a hardass, yes:

But now, just really fucking old.

My point is: science and stats show that McCain is on a beeline for the flatline. Our friend the actuarial table says: it ain’t looking so good. And that doesn’t take into consideration the fact that he’s battled cancer repeatedly. There’s a very strong chance that, if elected, he’ll die in office. Very strong. Which means Sarah Palin, a woman we know basically nothing about, will become President. Of the United States. Of America. The President of it. All of it.

So what do we know about Palin? We know she served as Governor of Alaska for not-quite two years, which I can only imagine to be a strenuous and dramatic job, and which easily qualifies her to be Commander In Chief of our army, military, airforce, etc. If she were to engage Putin (who I’m sure isn’t at all skeptical about the empowerment of women) or some Islamic Fundamentalist (ahem), she’ll look back on her pre-Governor career during which she served two terms on the Wasilla, Alaska city council, or the two following years in which she became mayor of Wasilla. Wasilla, that economic powerhouse with an insane crime rate: oh, wait, nevermind. It’s only got an area of about 11.7 square miles and a population around 6,000. I must have been thinking about Detroit, which, incidentally, is 10 times larger. So, if not that, perhaps she can look back to her high school experience on mock U.N. or the blow job she refused her boyfriend on prom. Or driving her kids to fucking hockey practice, because apparently that’s like a really big deal.

Like I said: The More You Know.

And if you’re too lazy to do the math for yourself, click here to find out when you’re going to die.

In Short:
Dear John McCain,
The Sky’s The Limit, Motherfucker. Get there.

feel free to write: elliott@flauntmagazine.com

Now that CGI has finally surpassed reality in the Seemingly More Real category—everyone loves a really real false reality—and the fact that Wall-E brought me closer to tears than I’ve been in years, there’s one thing I know: technology blows. I miss the internet of yore: the rustic feel of Microsoft Paint™; arduous nudie .gif and .jpg bartering, followed by the torturous two-day wait for my 9.6kbps modem to stream a girl undressed, followed by that sweet satisfaction of finally seeing bush (or–gasp–none; folds!). What with today’s complete pornografication of cyberspace, I could be shopping for sheet music or windshield wipers and still somehow stumble across a video of two 19-year-old ESL girls from Taipei scissoring while a hermaphrodite mixologist dressed like Eva Braun prepares shizer shots in the background. I’m just sayin’.

Lucky for us, some of this late decade’s finest satirists (bloggers; totes jeals net dweebs) realized that a look back to this early computer aethetic is a fantastic platform for cultural criticism (see: the phoenomena of Lolcats, and Jezebel.com’s subsequent maturation of it into LOLVogue, a bitchin way to bitch and point out Fashun HipoCrassy).

Never one to pass up a good opportunity to rip assholes new assholes, Flaunt’s book columnist and fabulous poet, Justin Taylor, brings you a fantastic version of today’s new yesterday, new and improved, brought to you today! Unlike LOLVogue’s focus on fashion, Taylor is committed to a greater shit-talking cause: contemporary political theater, and the douchiest of its cast: Isadore “Joe” Lieberman; M. Bison Romney; McCain (please die tomorrow; please die tomorrow; please die tomorrow…); and Taylor’s <3<3<3<3, the Partridge-cum-Palins, baby-daddy and all. Taylor’s captions range from The Bible’s more apocalyptic passages to haughty philosophy to quality lit to shit poetry to tongue-in-cheek webslang, poli-slogan and headline-lingo. More of his images can be seen at Jeremy Schmall’s fantastic blog: Ron11 Was An Inside Paul.

O you youths, western youths,

So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship,

Plain I see you, western youths, see you tramping with the foremost,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

- WaltWhitman.gov

“Everyone knows rednecks don’t eat pussy, but I thought it was funny anyway.”
- Justin D Taylor

step one: add humans

step two: let simmer

raceforthecure

We are the music makers. We are the dreamers of dreams. We are the creatures who do bumps in the night. But let’s be honest: for the most part, the crew sort of blows these days: the extras are obnoxious and self-important; the key grip is too busy doing key hits to grip shit; the open bar is closed cash; and the No Shitty Kids Act of 2005 has become a document corrupted by douchebaggery of the highest nepotistic order. But hey, we roll with the punches, drink the punch and get on the bus anyway, right? And why? Because not everybody’s a twat-like-me. For example: Dima Dubson, a class-act kid with an accent of indeterminable origin, who’s always emerging-with-a-smile from the dark recesses of NYC’s nightlife holes for the gritty elite. Dubson, who is often accredited with having the best attitude in the room— which basically means that, unlike everyone else, he’s not a total dickhead but rather a gen-u-ine pleasure to see—is a filmmaker, and then something else he told me about the internet (I was really drunk; sorry brah (see what I mean about me being a twat?)).

The other night, at a certain West Village treehouse that needs not mentioning, a downtrodden and downright darling (not to mention a featured fret-strummer in our on-stands-now new issue, Growing Pains (see link above: The New American Protesters)) Lissy Trullie DJ’d doo-wop and dream rock cocktails, delivering the bunch of drunks a local/social anesthetic as if to prep them for back-alley dialysis. As she and I chatted it up in attempts to distract ourselves from our respective ennui, Dima arose from the smoke clouds that were blinding the bored to brighten up our dank surroundings. “I just made a short film using Lissy’s music,” he said. “Oh nice. I’ll blog the shit out of it.” Which brings us aqui, naturally. Here’s “Self-Taught Learner”:

If Dima is not overtly referencing Reese Witherspoon getting first-time fingered by Mark Wahlberg on a rollercoaster in Fear, it at least presents some fortuitous, arguably-accurate math: The Sundays + The Rolling Stones = Lissy Trullie. Regardless, this unofficial music video is simple and excellent, and Dima’s take on Gen W(e document ourselves)— see: his video for Scott Matthew’s “Little Bird”—has the lovely little spin of Lissy coming out of nowhere, appearing more cameo than cause, which is a testament to the power of Lissy’s lovesong itself, and a refreshing break from videos whose focus are entirely on performer and rarely on plot. The video for “Self-Taught Learner” is a 21st century love letter; a time capsule in as much our technology still allows them; it’s Michael Winterbottom’s 9 Songs, only it makes sense and doesn’t blow (no pun).

To see more of Lissy (and her bassist Harley), check out the video below of the girls on set for the FLAUNT shoot.

FLAUNT PHOTO SHOOT BEHIND THE SCENES WITH LISSY TRULLIE from Barakaat Livan on Vimeo.

And to bring it all home, here are the girls playing their own instrumental cover of “Wild Horses” in Tokyo, where they’re massive megacelebrity fun gods.