Last night the upstairs toilet overflowed. We had water and God knows what else dripping through our kitchen ceiling. (I’m blaming Katrina karma). This morning I woke up at 4:30 to catch a plane to New York. While eating breakfast I read the NYTimes front page:
A Mystery Odor in Manhattan Raises Alarms and Questions
It was the odor associated with natural gas – the telltale, unpleasant sulfer scent that typically signals a gas leak. But this time, it was lingering in many areas of Manhattan, coursing through its buildings and leading to fears that is could ignite.
On the plane I read New York Magazine. The cover story was on Dash Snow, the downtown bad-boy artist with a De Menil bloodline. In the article he talks about his work:
“I’ve always been a big fan of the Post, and I remember in 1992, or whenever the fuck it was, Desert Storm, the Gulf War? Remember? I’d always read the Post, and there’d be really rad headlines about it,” said Snow. “I was just down for it! I’m down with anyone, even if they’re bad people, if they’re just, like, anti-American, you know what I mean? This is a series I’m working on,” he pointed at some collages on the wall with lots of pictures of Saddam Hussein, whose likeness is also tattooed on Snow’s arm. “They’re old headlines, and they all have come on them. Yeah, mine.”
Snow has been working with his own ejaculate a lot lately; his contribution to the Saatchi show was a piece called Fuck the Police, which featured sprays of his sperm on a collagelike installation of tabloid cutouts, headlines about corrupt cops.
The magazine also features another artist profile. The headline reads, Is Terence Koh’s Sperm Worth $100,000? The article describes the “fist-size gold-plated chunks” of his own excrement” and “his use of come as an art material.” But mostly the article talks about money:
Koh once posted online how much money he claimed to have earned as an artist in 2004: $153,782. Even conservative estimates for his 2006 take would break a million dollars. “I love money,” says Koh. “Having money is the grease that helps me run my other crazy projects, like my magazine and my Website and the new porn production company I am setting up in my basement.”
Is it possible that this mix of art, money and body fluid is the source of the mystery smell in New York? Should I have taken Polaroids of that brown juice dripping through my ceiling to show my dealer?