Flaunt Magazine

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!

“So Jacob said to his household and to all who were with him, “Get rid of the foreign gods you have with you, and purify yourselves and change your clothes.” Genesis 35:2

“Another time it might have been so different, if only we could do it all again. But now it’s just another fading memory out of focus, though the outline still remains.” Genesis - “Fading Lights”

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.

The 8th annual Siren Festival, presented by the hypocrites at the Village Voice, was this past weekend at sort-of-worth-going-to Coney Island. Since nobody else could be bothered to leave their air-conditioned apartments Saturday morning, we sent Summer intern Alex Gavin there for nine hours of heat-stroke and his first lesson on how to really judge people, the good-old-fashioned NYC-on-NYC way.

Did you wake up Saturday a broke-ass twenty-something with no plans? Well, me too, but The Siren Music Festival had it covered. For the 8th consecutive year, the Village Voice offered a generous sampling of live entertainment by orchestrating fourteen bands into a giant hipster-magnet just off Surf Ave. All this mobbin’ was packed into nine hours of frantically paced sets from the who’s who of the indie scene at the unobjectionable cost of absolutely nothing. That’s right, for-fucking-free. While most festivals have pawned the value of band exposure for that of AT&T, it is nice to see The Voice kickin’ it old school in the land of Christopher Wallace at the always colorful, Coney Island.

After weaving through the strollers that dotted the bustling boardwalk, I arrived at Main st. for Parts and Labor. This Brooklyn-bred quartet sprinkled rhythmic electro-subtleties over brutal riffing to create auras of an undead A/V club, and as the last chords bled out, I cruised over to Stillwell to scope the other stage. Sweeping through pockets of the deep-fried air that radiated from vendors trafficking their wares to the hungry, hungry hipsters, I found myself absorbed in two divergent soundscapes: the menacing synths of Parts and Labor yielded to Film School’s airy reverb; the dueling resonance vied for space amongst the sandy planks of the walkway. Muted tones from both stages reverberated throughout the Wonder Wheel, and with each step, Film School faded in over the unbridled glee of nearby carousel giggles. In this moment, a symbol of childhood innocence whirled in perfect rhythm with music characterized primarily by drugs and excess.

As the sun lost control of the day, the roasted-pink shoulders of a formerly pasty populace squared up for some Beach House. The dulcet duo of Victoria and Alex swayed cozily in time with their Gila opener and dedicated a haunting Heart of Chambers “to sweat, and sweating,” as the heat graciously dissipated in their presence.

As I approached the only foreseeable drawback to Siren— that is, deciding between Stephen Malkumus and Broken Social Scene, my choice was clear: BSS. Not simply because BSS serves as the SNL of modern music by spring-boarding careers of former members to solo success (e.g. Leslie Feist), but, to be honest, I had snuck in [ed. note: bitch is underage] a few beers throughout the day and Stephen Malkumus was just too rigid for my buzz. Rewarding this judgment, BSS opened with a belting, horn-driven “KC Accidental”, washing down a day in the sun with a flawless set that peaked at a mind numbing “Cause = Time”. After the last encore faded, spiraling lights from nearby rides befell the area, unveiling a luminous new visage of the moon-drenched Coney Island. Siren came to a close, and a new neon landscape emerged on the horizon.

Photos and Text by Alex Gavin

We emoticon-artists eat your digital sympathies for supper.

Put that in your strife and smoke it.