“He likes hot chicks! With big tits! He likes hot chicks. I like hot rats!” sneers Tayler Lee, one half of my favorite musical gruesome twosome, Genre is death, on their cataclysmically cacophonous Zappa-referencing song, “Hot Rats,” from their debut album Talk. But what if you didn’t have to choose between hot chicks with big … Continue reading
Throughout my years of writing about art, I’ve, of course, encountered many, many terrible press releases, filled with impenetrable jargon, effusive yet meaningless artspeak, and so much liminality, relationality, materiality, and space. I’ve rolled my eyes. I’ve sighed. I’ve cackled. Yet, it wasn’t until recently, with the overwhelming AI sloppification of NYC art galleries’ written … Continue reading
Take the watch. Pocket it. Nobody, not even the nit-pickiest gallery worker, will notice it’s missing. Until too late, that is. It’s barely noticeable anyway, plunked at the edge of a puddle of shucked clothes—a crumpled Van Heusen suit, a snaked tie, itty black undies tucked into dress pants, and brown leather shoes due for … Continue reading