Aim for the Pink

More of our relentless coverage of Continuity Now (now can you get a sense yet of how differently our drinking is when it is paired with something other than anger and a barstool -- snide commentary about actual things, rather than just presumed or remembered), God's Day Edition (yeah, not your God, you event attending with no write up something something).

Sunday's wristband was pink. Given how poorly we communicated our witty and incisive commentary from Saturday, we decided to start low and head down: "What, is this going to be Day Without Creativity?" Shortly thereafter, I headed into the bathroom, where free copies of Tokion were available even in the stalls, and realized the urinal cakes were the exact same color as the wristbands. After two days of drink, drug and general exhaustion (look, sitting through a couple discussion panels isn't building Rome, I know, but any event that demands Team YM be up before noon is going to strain our good cheer), staring at the urinal cake and the wristband (coincidentally on the same wrist I use to manage such affairs), I start to get confused about where I should piss. It seems like a good metaphor, if by good, you mean a nonsensical one. I told myself "Aim for the pink". But that wasn't the best advice, given the circumstance.

[There were fewer peplums on Day 2. But more neckbeards. -D]

I was spending more time in the bathroom because I was trying to avoid watching the Death of the Conference Panel Panel, also known as Mark Gonzales (dude, your site needs updating) stoned out of his fucking gourd (Korine probably was too, but he was holding it together better). [You neglected to mention our exchange at this point. 99: Is Harmony Korine still a junkie? Me: No, look how fat he is. - D] They were 'interviewed' by a man who I won't name because our rabbi got us $14 thimbles of champagne (tip to spirits community: mitten laynards on drinks really are the way to go for consumers like Dana) and the parole officer told us being nice might help our long-term prospects. But if you ever get asked to be on a panel with a guy who has a name like Larlo McDoorprick, run very far, very fast. As he attempted to gain access to the stage, Dana started audibly wailing "No, no! Nooo!"

[I will give the stoners this: They managed to flummox "Larlo" so much that he was barely able to ask self-aggrandizing questions. At one point he turned bright red. -D]

It was nonetheless entertaining, mostly at the point where Gonzales was simply giggling uncontrollably, finally begging to Harmony to 'help him' while the entire audience knew that exact moment of stoner nadir, and laughed sympathetically. [A baby in the audience started to cry. From my notes: I know how he feels. -D] Otherwise, the key phrases of the afternoon comprised the following:

"Irascible Visionaries."
"Can you talk about how difficult narrative is right now?"
"When you get bored you try to make things happen."

[At this point, the Gonz took out a harmonica and started playing it into the mic. I wrote in my notes: I wish I had a harmonica. -D]

And the most impressive insight of the day, from Gonzales: "Anyone that skateboards knows: you have to push to go."

[Personally, my favorite part was when "Larlo" asked Korine about fatherhood. Larlo: So now that you have a kid, do you have any insights on fatherhood? Korine: I don't have a kid. Larlo: You don't? Korine: Nah man. Aborted. -D]

Then the guy who tried to sit next to Dana to take photos turned out to be David Blaine, who, even though he acts very much like he's embarrassed by any attention, apparently still carries around a fresh, cellophane-wrapped pack of cards everywhere he goes, and he threw some at Harmony. After, Dana turned and told him she wished he had thrown them at McDoorprick. [What 99 didn't know is that when Blaine asked me about sitting next to me -- I told him the seat was broken -- I thought, briefly, Hey, that's David Blaine, but then decided he was too shrimpy. Isn't David Blaine supposed to be all buff? -D]

Team YM them repaired to a neighborhood provider of drink. Curt turned out to be the pushiest bar patron ever (our server, helpfully attired in a boy scout oxford, parried all his requests ably) and we were the loudest drunks in the East Village. This has more comedic resonance when you understand that it devolved into a Very Special Episode of Dana's History of (Female) Bodily Functions. [At one point I thought Curt was going to fold his 6'3" frame into a some compact shape so that he could hide under the table. Also, the topic was germane to the conversation in that I was suffering from a bout of intestinal distress brought on by two Bloody Marys and a plate of baked beans. But you have to concede that you were interested, Curt. You even admitted you found high colonics fascinating. -D] That, and the fact that every person who returned from the restroom observed that all our words were entirely audible even inside, but we managed to forget and talk shit about whomever took a turn. I didn't notice because my reflection in the brushed stainless towel dispenser over the sink made me think it was Gerhard Richter for Target.

[We actually got back to the conference in time for a panel we had no intention of attending in the first place, but by the time we realized it, it was too late. I noticed a man in peplum short pants -- this is getting out of hand, this peplum thing. -D]

All I have from the last panel is that even though we are cop haters to a woman around here, I will advise assholes with badges that out there somewhere is an artist from MIT who wants to fuck you and put you in her art project (Dana: "She is the Sarah Silverman of video performance artists"). [Have you forgotten the moderator whose breasts distracted from the fascinating black-and-white animation of the ball rolling down the escalator? {Dana also admiringly observed she had a "heart shaped ass"- 99} That artist, by the way, said something about how YouTube equaled the "values system of high art" and how he wanted to capture the "pictoral temporal movement without narrative." -D] The most fitting conclusion would be the proprietor of www.gooo(53 o's)ooogle.com. He was the coolest of the lot, and waxed philosophical about both the good and the bad of appropriated art. He used a (serious) funeral video for one of his works, and wondered about how the person who posted it originally might feel about that, and what he would do if it was taken down: "At this point, I think I could find another funeral." [My favorite part was during the Q&A. Some guy in the audience asked 53 Os guy "How do you monetize your art?" He replied, "I work a day job that pays me $10 an hour. That's how I monetize." -D]

Note: Dana was supposed to annotate this with the best lines, but she's burying a body in Washington Square Park right now. Curt doesn't have a clever wristband because we marched him straight on in. We have that kind of juice.

Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds There She Goes, My Beautiful World

After the Show Is the Afterparty

If anyone here is still interested in reading about our amazing adventures at Creativity Now (first dispatch here, probably to be updated with my extensive notations, because 99 was so busy doodling pictures of boobs with legs in his Rhodia notebook--very Philip Guston, I might add--that he missed a few things), let me give you a better rundown of the vaunted "afterparty," to which we were, for some stupid reason, invited.

The person known as les-francophile, who will probably lose his job because of us, was the one who got us on the list for both the conference and the party. And for this, to us, he is Christ-like, because we drank our weight in Champmagne (99: vodka and tonics) and ate our weight in miniature pulled-pork sandwiches and summer rolls. The funny thing is, when we arrived at the conference, we weren't actually on any of the lists. The pretty young women behind the check-in tables, all clad in peplum skirts or shorts (now I know what's fashionable this season) searched for our names to no avail. "Maybe we're on the press list?" I asked, trying not to giggle. "I'm really not sure. But [les-francophile] is the person who invited us."

"Oh, [les-francophile]? Of course! Here are your wristbands, go get a totebag."

So, we went to the first day of the conference. Then, after taking a 40-minute cab ride (see, I had the directions to the party somewhere in my phone, but 99 made the foolish decision of getting me high, and you know how when you're in high school and you're baked and you're trying to keep your shit together but you're convinced that everyone knows? Well, this cab driver sure as shit did. "Have we decided on a destination yet?" he asked. 99 replied, "Um, no, just keep circling.") we arrived at what was basically a warehouse on the far outskirts of Tribeca...with a velvet rope leading up to it.

Naturally, I hadn't changed my clothes, because I was running around like an asshole all afternoon, so while everyone else had abandoned their poplin peplum skirts for satin peplum skirts, I was still in jeans, a plaid shirt, and a hoodie. We had to get past two peplums with clipboards. "Um, we should be on the list..." "Who are you with?" they asked.

"[les-francophile]?"

"Ah, of course. Go right in."

Now, all day long I looked for [les-francophile], to thank him for his generosity, asking around for him and even emailing him. Nowhere to be found. I'm beginning to wonder if "[les-francophile]" is actually a code word for "we have large quantities of Bolivian cocaine."

The afterparty was held in a furniture showroom where everything in there looked like a bench, but we weren't allowed to sit on any of it. They were serving the Champagne in individual bottles with funny little wristbands on them so that you don't drop them. I had about seven of those, and some weird vodka drink with apple juice in it that reminded me of my babysitter when I was four. We didn't know anyone (this didn't stop us from approaching David Shrigley and David Cross, the latter of whom, by the way, seemed really bored and irritated. Not just by us. By everyone) so we stood as far away from the stereo speakers as possible and people watched.

Somewhere, on someone's camera, there are photos of us from this party. I think that this is because we looked like such slobs in comparison to the Peplum Army that everyone assumed we were somehow Important. They have already discovered this is not the case.

Did I mention how fucking loud the music was? There were two DJs, two turntables, and two iPods. Which two items do you suspect sat unused? Yeah, I know I have a hateboner for non-vinyl DJs, but when they finally plopped a record down, it was dusty and had a skip.

The line for the bathroom was so long that I sent 99 to go for drinks while I held our place. I watched two girls make out in front of me. (99: You missed out!) A seemingly interminable parade of girls went into the john, 2 by 2, stayed in for 45 or so minutes, then came back out. 99 returned with a tepid, but strong, vodka tonic. "They're out of ice."

This was a major bummer and evidence that we had to go. I finally made it into the bathroom. There was a clawfoot tub in there! That's why the peplums were taking so long--they were taking bubble baths. 99 was next. He came out. "I pissed in the tub."

And then we left.

The Zeitgeist of the Now Then

The first thing I learned at Creativity Now is that iPhone keyboards kind of suck (and I'm not just saying that because of the pervasive Zune sponsorship; some members of Team YM even shattered journalistic integrity and took a bag emblazoned with the Zune logo). A lot. I felt like I was playing Legend of Zelda in Sanskrit on a DS that had fallen in a tub of lube. Which accounts for our dearth of exciting tumblina yesterday.

It doesn't account for the paucity of, um, attendees. Shit was sparse. Our house expert assures me in years past it was a clusterfuck like a secret drop at Alife. But if you are looking for canaries regarding the parental will subsidize the art life of their children, it looks like the will to surrender that last $75 after $45K for NYU was a little tepid.

Some facts and notes from a creative scene:

1:12PM: Eggers mentioned the first time
1:25PM: Porn mentioned for the first time, because at a conference of twee graphic designers, you talk about Eggers before you talk about porn

3PM: (this transcribed verbatim; y'all can guess which panel it was) I hate you. And I hate you. Oh, and you. And yes, you too. Have I missed anyone? Ah, you on the end. Hate.

Circa 5:30PM: David Cross, speaking about Gawker commenters: "Worthless pieces of shit." Team YM briefly considered contacting Denton in his lair to prep an immediate response, but then we realized we pretty much agreed with the sentiment.

The best question of the day came from the exceedingly Scottish woman who asked David Shrigley (who was so good he alone made it worth the trip) if he believed in 'feddies'? It was like that moment in Sixteen Candles where Jake doesn't believe what he's hearing from Long Duck Dong (only imagine two reasonably thick but different regional UK accents instead of a racist Charlie Chan one):

Feddies?
Feddies.
Feddies?
Fathlies!
Ah, yes.
Good.

Team YM, diligent to the core, grabbed Mr. Shrigley on the way out of the after-party to confirm he was being honest when he answered, or just accommodating. Thus we bring you the YM exclusive of the day: David Shrigley does indeed believe in Fathies.

Bob Rising: I Believe in Faeries