Watching the debates is far more entertaining with 50 or so like-minded people than sitting at home alone muttering at your TV set. So I headed out to the FISCHERSPOONER studio space in Williamsburg, where CASEY SPOONER and ADAM DUGAS hosted JOHN KERRY supporters for the second presidential debate, followed by a screening of the experimental political movie See the Elephant, which juxtaposes contrasting images from the Republican National Convention on four different screens.
The first debate fell on Thursday, during one of FS’s weekly salons, so they turned it into an impromptu political party. It was such a success that they decided to do it for the remaining debates. Since watching GEORGE W. BUSH “debate” is like watching a bad comedy, the room was filled with howling laughter for much of the broadcast. But the bigger surprise was how the crowd rallied around Kerry, cheering whenever Kerry delivered a zinger. A friend commented, “Wow, he actually seems human.” If it wasn’t clear who the Brooklyn crowd was rooting for, it was at the end when Bush was spouting empty promises about finding the terrrists in Iraq, and someone in the back repeatedly shouted, “Fuck you, liar!”
This has been the week of refashioning dreadfully dull activities into more exciting events. Thanks to the party for the “Terminal 5” art exhibition, hosted by V magazine, going to the airport has never been so much fun. The October 1 launch of the show curated by RACHEL K. WARD at the famous EERO SAARINEN–designed terminal, JFK became a playground where hipsters imported from the Lower East Side ate sushi, cavorted on the curvy stairways, and mostly ignored the art, except when the art beckoned—which was frequently.
But thanks to the Port Authority, New York is once again No Fun City, since they closed down the exhibition last week before it could even open. The party wasn’t really rowdy by L.E.S. standards, but was downright crazy according to the P.A. They say rampant smoking, vandalizing, and graffiti inside the landmarked building was to blame for the closure, and claim several partygoers broke out on the runway—which is not only a no-no, but a federal offense. At least no one flipped out like Ben Stiller’s character in Meet the Parents, muttering, “Bomb, bomb, bb-b-bomb, b-b-bomb, bomb.”
Ward, who said, “It’s unfortunate the crowd in attendance did not respect the historic terminal,” spent much of last week pleading her case to members of the Port Authority, and asking that its COO ERNESTO BUTCHER actually come view the art and the condition of the terminal.
“Terminal 5” spokesperson ANDY SALZER said they explained to the authorities that “once the event opens, it will be more similar to a gallery or museum experience. It will be business as usual.” The future of the exhibition is still being negotiated, but perhaps it was doomed from the start. “Port Authority isn’t in the business of dealing with art,” Salzer says. “Their business in dealing with JFK is running the airport.”
One piece that I am happy to have glimpsed was by Japanese artist RYOJI IKEDA, who utilized a long, white tunnel, putting bright lights and a humming sound installation at the end. It drew people in, only to have them turn right back around when they realized it led to a less than enchanting place—the blocked-off boarding gates. Why go down the tunnel when you can’t fly far, far away?
In more heartwarming news, THEO and SEAN PIERCE, the LUNACHICKS singer and the TOILET BOYS guitar player, respectively, tied the knot October 2 in Brooklyn, in half-rock, half-traditional style. A female judge officiated at the wedding, but just minutes beforehand, she slipped and cracked her head, and performed the ceremony even though she was bleeding a little bit. Pierce spent the night before the wedding at a hotel away from the bride, who crashed at their less glamorous Brooklyn pad. Theo wore an off-white gown designed by her friend HEIDI SJURSEN, and walked down the aisle to QUEEN‘s “We Will Rock You.” The couple’s first dance: THE RAMONES‘ “I Want You Around.” It’s so sweet, my teeth hurt.