“BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH…” reads another transparent banner, tugged along by a plane above Miami Beach today, as a part of Adam Shopkorn-curated airborne art show for Art Basel Week. Not sure where the promised Richard Prince, John Baldessari, etc. are at, but this one’s a bit on the nose, innit?

This is bad.

The proper context to see those two banners would be… Rolling over awake on the beach, plucking a martini glass stem out of your back, scooping mysterious granular residue out of your eyelids and then, while as you’re frantically bury that phallus you don’t quite recall chipping off a Paul McCarthy and wrapping in Wayne Coyne’s popped bubble deeper into the sand, looking up through a fog of self-hatred and the splintering rainbow flare in your singed corneas to see…


… thinking, oh God, where are my pants?

But you’re spared any wanna-B.E.E. Miami chronicles from me, as we might be a little tapped out on trips this year. Or journalism.

So about that very insular and industry-specific event. With 140 or 180 or 190,000 galleries descended in Miami this week in various, gigantic fairs, satellite events, opulent parties, charity shin-dings, hot new art stuff — though there are some shows I’ve honestly been really dying to gawk at — you would have probably gotten something like “100 Art Butts I Saw Today.” We’re overwhelmed to be even sifting through others’ reportage.

Speaking of which, the exceptionally professional coverage by media compatriots in this utter insanity is greatly appreciated: Any front page of any big art blog with a travel budget ever right now. Kidding. But for serious this time: Big ups to team Hyperallergic (and our shared Kyle Chayka) for finding things, as well as Art Fag City and L Magazine for the accessible, stellar commentary on the art, the bullshit and the sexy sex. We salute you.

Now back to those fucking banners. Are you serious? If this is a commentary on the entire “art”/”party”/”rich people who can afford art partying” affair, that banner’s most definitely part of it. It’s either so self-refferentially, self-regurgitatingly meta it’s basically eating shit or… someone trolled, hard. Nice trolling.

(Image: Interview Magazine)