The new Bald Ego made me nostalgic (gag, sorry, but it did) for my poetry infancy in New York, when Max Blagg was making the jump from slams to ads for The Gap on TV, Valery Oisteanu was terrorizing the open mics at the Church, and the suspicion lingered that we (who? the world?) may have seriously underestimated Rene Ricard and Gerard Malanga. That was the last dream I remember of a glamorous poetry. I mothballed it with my velvet jacket.
Nudes, fashion, world travel, famous names -- all here. You may remember Blagg's co-editor Glenn O'Brien as the text-chauffeur for Madonna's first venture into the world of publishing, Sex. O'Brien got his start editing Andy Warhol's Interview; I desperately need the dvd of his show TV Party. He now blogs for style.com, and in Bald Ego, he produces what I for one hope(d) Purple would be -- a journal that's unabashedly giddy and decadent, with patches of gorgeousness to anchor the glib.
Curtis quits drawing to pursue $12 martinis and brunch on Sunday afternoons
Rosalie directly asks why he still sleeps on a futon
Andrew chokes on his words as he compliments another artist he hates
Tomoko explains that she used to baby-sit her heroin dealer's baby for three bags
Cindy has plans to be pregnant in a year
Ricky hates to hear your stories and only wants to hear his own
Xevi is in Spain paying for his young X-boyfriend for reasons he can not explain
Andrew explains his life in the Transcendental Meditation cult with a cool ease
--Michael Bullock, from "These Golden Years"
I suppose you'd have to find Warhol's work gorgeous to see what's relaxing in the parallelism and the straight-ahead syntax, which I also suppose would mean you'd sometimes be confusing gorgeousness with sadism and recklessness. Anyway. If you're craving some signs of life in poetry, have a look. Fifteen, on newsstands almost everywhere.
Jordan - #