Rusty asked me to write this newsletter because he’s getting his second microchip implanted today, and I needed an excuse to catch up on my reading from last week. So I am pleased to bring you... a few days ago in Tabs.
Anna Wiener writes about the soothing world of nonexistent interiors, aka renderporn. John Yau writes about overlooked artist Deborah Remington and chillingly proposes that “when you don’t have a genre, you might as well be invisible.” Adjunct professors are the main characters of the new campus novels, where according to Maggie Doherty, “education means learning just how precarious your future is.” Also Brandon Taylor on Elaine de Kooning and the freedom of letting subjectivity simply abide: “The minute you acknowledge the existence of a white audience, you find yourself othering your own subjectivity.” Sophie Haigney on works cited and not cited.
Something has changed in America; something is still pulsing beneath the carapace of party politics. The rebellion didn’t just release a jet of fury, but lodged the riot, without apology, in the very rhythm of political life.
Today in Wikipedia: I’m sure there is a massive Pitchfork retrospective forthcoming, but have you ever looked at the list of albums that were released in 2011? I’m not sure we’ve been giving that year enough credit. 2004 is back, so why not 2011.
According to Jason Diamond in GQ, '90s yuppie scum is also back. We’ll see how long this lasts once everyone gets a whiff of even ONE sweaty boat shoe. At my day job as a watch influencer, a co-worker circulated this photo of a Louis Vuitton caviar trunk:
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Today Intern Tess Lunch… I mean Lynch brings us a darker nacho than we might have expected, in:
Something about yesterday’s serving of links—the Prego dumped on the white marble kitchen island, the “scary” ghost kitchens—reminded me of the Manifesto of Futurist Cooking, a form of performance art dining that banned pasta and featured recipes with names like “milk in a green light” and “divorced eggs,” as well as requiring guests to engage in literal dinner theater: wearing pajamas covered in sandpaper, then eating salad without using their hands and getting sprayed in the face with perfume by a waiter whenever they came up for air.
Filippo Marinetti, human Dark Nacho and one of the two authors of this cookbook/manifesto, was obsessively nationalist and later would be one of the first members of the Italian Fascist Party. While the story behind all the recent viral gross-out cooking videos is not quite as sinister as that, Ryan Broderick’s exposé on who’s really dumping the clickbait sausage directly on the counter is disconcerting, especially if you were naïve enough to believe that these “home cooks” were coming by their pageviews honestly. And if this does take an evil turn, well, that’s on us—we were given all the clues: this is a criminal mastermind who content-farms on Facebook, strategically aims for maximum watch time, and he’s a magician? Come on.
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I can’t leave out my visual tabs, so here are some brief notes on the vibe: The vibe is bikers taking a break. The vibe is drinks with strawberries. The vibe is Estonian punks. The vibe is nude self-portraits. The vibe is tongue chair.
The vibe is this tweet:
And also this one:
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need both hands free for white girl dancing to this song: