With applesauce stains dappling the front of his Calvin Klein extruded-silk pajama jumper, Julian Schnabel takes a private moment with friend, billionaire, and professional-enabler Patriarch Peter I. “We did it Petie,” Schnabel whispered, “we really fuckin’ did it. There’s like 400 people here, and I bet only 8% of them know that this is all a joke.” Those annointed celebrity guests included actor Benicio del Toro, best known for his stirring role in The Wolfman; Debbie Harry, acclaimed for her recent guest judge role on Project Runway Season 3; and the ghost of late, lovable curmudgeon Lou Reed, who bumbled about the Brant compound loudly “hating every fucking thing and every fucking body.”
Peter II, wearing a hand-tailored suit from Stephen Cohen’s new Criminal Enterprise (TM) line of menswear, posed with someone’s near-sighted aunt in front of Schnabel’s iconic Smashed Plate Boogie-Woogie (Requiem for Janet’s Face / Bring Me The Head of Caesar, Extra Dressing), 1987. “The plate works are definitely my fav,” Peter II explained. “It’s like Julian just does not give a fuck. Most people would see all those plates and be like, Sweet, dinner party time! But he was, like, ‘I see a specter of destruction, and I shall bring my wrath upon you, vulnerable porcelain detritus of our modern civilization!’ It’s fucking punk.”
Jeffrey Deitch, freshly back from California and excited about his upcoming role as the host of Bravo’s Work of Art 3: The Bushwick Years, is seen here with Marxist fashion scholar Arnie “Praxis” Geez. Deitch wears a couture corduroy suit from Thom Browne’s Talking Teddy Ruxpin Is Your Friend (TM) collection. The pair are posed in front of Urs Fischer’s monumental bronze sculpture, Pain In The Ass, 2003, rendered from a 3-D scan of the artist’s prostate.
"This is my Hurricane Sandy painting," Schnabel said of the piece above, Driftwood Mojo / Hurry Up & Wait / I’ve Got Some Peanut For You, Puppy, 1980. “This was made decades before the actual event, but born out of a certain telekinetic prescience, as if I could feel the storm in my hands as I worked. It’s not the first time this has happened.”
Compound guests were thrilled by vaudeville icon and professional impersonator Jimmy DeVille, seen here in costume as the beloved Christopher Walken, who reportedly died in 1982.
Eddie Schnabel, Julian’s younger brother, is photographed here with the 1986 smashed-plate-and-ox-blood masterpiece Song Of Titan / Moon Warrior Abandon / Trim Your Hedge Fund, Sir. “I’m real proud of Jules,” said Eddie, a partially employed plumber by training who lives in Astoria and tends to see his elder sibling only a few times a year, at gala events. “Our mom always said, J-Jay, you’re gonna be somebody, and look, here he is: Somebody.”
"The tail end of August is the hardest time for these lost souls," whispered Harry, speaking to a reporter from W magazine at the four-day Burning Man Recompression Survivor’s Camp, an immersive healing retreat hosted in Jersey City. “They’re reading all the tweets, they’re seeing the Instagrams, they’re remembering that time back in ‘06 when they just ran fucking free and barefoot all night, on some sort of vision quest, and communed with a gigantic flaming aardvark who was riding a dream-bicycle across the pocked face of the moon. And it just matters that they know: We’re here for you now, everything is going to be alright.” It’s the second year that Harry has volunteered to serve as what BMRSC calls a “flesh-embodied reality anchor”—the terminology itself admittedly a bit of a holdover from the days in which even meatloaf came spiced with LSD. This year, the young Brant’s first charge is Delorean Brattle Spracket (born Emily Holliday), an 18-year old “burner” inducted into the hallucinatory West Coast revel by her cousin, who first began traveling to the Black Rock Desert for an American Studies thesis he was completing at Rutgers University. “At first things were pretty chill?” Spracket says, her voice as hypnotically glacial as mostly-frozen maple syrup. “Like, you’d just be hanging out, and somebody would be like, Care for a free burrito? And the burritos were totally guaranteed to be vegan, you didn’t even have to ask? And then some dude who back home is probably like a lame dad with a bunch of stupid kids is, like, riding a tricycle around naked in the sand, just totally rapping in some language that hasn’t been spoken since caveman times?” (Spracket’s spine does a weird sort of shimmy-jerk thing, at which point Harry enfolds her in a “cone of understanding.”) Fifteen minutes later, she continues: “But then sometimes maybe some guy would be like, Have you ever read Noam Chomsky?, and you haven’t, so you go back to his tent? But it turns out that Noam Chomsky is just sort of like a nickname for his penis, which he’s painted to look like a mushroom with a terrifying face?”
"It feels good to be a role model," says Harry later, still quietly conversing with the reporter from W. “These kids need some grounding. They need what I would call a reality check, or what the literature here refers to as a ‘realignment of sense-parameters with the horizon of greater glee.’ I mean, look at them: They’ve been living in a world without any responsibility, without any need to work or earn money or do something of value that contributes to the planet; they’re just like drug-addled Bobbleheads, bobbling their way from one party to the next, completely ignorant of how the majority of the world goes about their business, blindly supported by parents—if such a word even applies here, I mean, really—who don’t realize what a holocaust of privilege they’re funding.” Harry and the W reporter step outside to smoke an unfiltered bindi cigarette, a packet of which the anemic Brant has tucked into the mink-lined pocket of his rutabaga-impregnated denim motorcycle shimmers. “You’ve just got to shake them—not literally, some of them have brain damage—just metaphorically shake them and ask: What is your purpose? Why are you here? Are you a sentence in the story of the world, or even a piece of punctuation, or are you just dead, blank space on the margins of the page?”
At midnight, Harry’s agreed-upon two hour time-donation was up, and he gave a wistful Queen’s wave in the direction of Spracket, who was deep into a period of mandated journaling (‘text-based gestation of hope-material.’) “Id like one day 2 live in Norway and raise cows,” she wrote. “To milk their udders in the morning, go for walks at dusk, to have a husband with an unruled beerd and rough viking hands” [SIC.] She looked up from her labors in search of Harry, who by then was merely a dwindling red light entering the Holland Tunnel. He’d been replaced on big brotherly duty by Alan Cumming, smiling sheepishly, carrying a battered Whole Foods bag filled with puppets.
The New York Postcaught a scoop this morning (courtesy of Brant Watch) regarding a vitriolic blow-out between white-haired billionaire koala Tony Shafrazi, Patriarch Peter I, and notoriously bad driver Owen Wilson. The scuffle—which ended with pools of blood and hunklets of scalp marring the pavement of 6th Avenue—was the result of a simple text-messaging error. “Everyone knows Patriarch Peter can’t use technology to save his fucking life,” Shafrazi said, oozing an undefined substance from a gash on his left cheekbone. “You say BlackBerry to him and the fucking guy gets all squirmy, like you just dropped a racial slur on the floor.” Shafrazi had been coordinating dinner plans with Patriarch Peter I and Wilson; unfortunately, the latter duo was ensconced at DaVeh’Gina, while Shafrazi was pacing in front of Indochine “like some fucking creep with nothing fucking better to do than fucking burn calories.”
The misunderstanding was partially cleared up thanks to a tweet from Wilson (“Chillin at Duh’Vagenius with @PatriarchPeter, bout to be an oyster HOLOCAUST in this piece” [sic]) which Shafrazi promptly responded to (“UFUCKINGDOUCHEFACE i suggest U clear a boot-sized space in your ass IMATINDOCHINE #livid”). Shafrazi hired a pedicab to rush him to the correct restaurant, where he observed a visibly intoxicated Patriarch Peter I assisting Wilson in the ‘Slurpy-Slurp Friend Luge,’ a Brant tradition in which a dozen fatty Blue Points are quickly ingested, in the manner of a beer funnel, using a scoop-shaped plastic implement passed down from one generation to the next.
Shafrazi, by now so enraged that he was shaking “like a fucking Parkinson’s patient on the Cyclone,” ejected himself from the pedicab and grabbed Wilson around the neck, reversing the course of the last three Blue Points, which were ejected “high into the air like a geyser of mucus” (according to the Post.) A trio of Italian waiters attempted to restrain the boisterous gallerist, to no avail. “You ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER fucking leave me waiting in front of the wrong fucking restaurant,” Shafrazi bellowed, “and you’ll be deader than your fucking career. You’ll be reincarnated as a retarded dog, and you won’t even get cast in Air Bud 6, you fuck.”
By the time the carnage had ended, some twenty minutes later, six anonymous diners on the sidewalk patio had been killed. Patriarch Peter I fled the scene, later found walking in his underwear toward Chelsea Piers. Shafrazi reportedly broke Wilson’s nose seventeen times before being hurled into the street, where a Toyota Prius drove over him and failed to stop, having mistaken his body for a discarded mattress wrapped in black plastic. At press time, everyone involved was pressing charges against everyone else, and Shafrazi was suing Indochine for being “the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time.”
Here we find Harry, wearing tapered anaconda slurpeets paired with a Venetian-mesh blouse and heel-jacked hog-bladder booties, photographed with Gina Berruchio, hostess of the popular Italian gameshow “Your Mommy’s Salami,” wearing a new Gerhard Richter X The Jogging dress produced by Uniqlo. The occasion is the first annual benefit gala at the Wonderwheel Center, a Long Island-based institution founded by Lady Gaga in order to promote “intrinsic and explosive wonder-cality in the performing and visual-type arts.” Guests at the benefit—which reportedly “cleared everyone worthwhile out of Manhattan for an entire Saturday, leaving only the shitty and unimportant behind, weeping into the pillows of their own insignificance,” according to GalleristNY.com—were treated to various coGAGAborations with the likes of Antony, Marina Abramovich, and Dustin Yellin. (The latter artist’s piece was literally electrifying, as it involved Gaga playing a bone-white grand piano whose keys were attached by wires and alligator clips to the nipples of Yellin, who was suspended precariously above a large water basin.) Peter II was woefully unable to attend, as he had previously committed to making a promotional Sweet 16th birthday cameo in Anaheim, California. (“$18,500 to show up, eat some cake, fart, and take the jet home,” Harry explained, with a languorous wrist movement of unexplained import.)
The evening kicked off with erstwhile actor Alan Cumming MC’ing what Gaga referred to as a “wonder-tastic battle between artiste bulls and slavering, testosteroni matadors [sic, from press materials].” Creatives, including Peter Coffin, Matthew Barney, and Sarah Sze, donned frilly ‘bull’ costumes designed by Rob Pruitt, and proceeded to be taunted, “stabbed,” and ultimately slaughtered by James Dimon, CEO of JPMorgan Chase. “In Madrid they eat the balls,” Dimon cackled, to the delight of a braying front-row crowd. “But here we exercise a bit more restraint.”
Later, a select cream of V.I.P.s were skimmed from the rabble and invited to take part in A Boat For My Lady, A Lady For The Lake, a brand new experiential installation produced by Gaga in conjunction with Punchdrunk and General Electric. The event, as candidly described by the Center’s publicist, “is pretty much like Sleep No More except outside, and with fewer people, but with more freaky-deaky Oriental-type shit.” Guests wearing thin-china masks were escorted into the woods by a gaggle of “ninja-clown-butlers” who enacted a malleable narrative based on Shakespeare, Law & Order: SVU, and David Foster Wallace’s Pale King. (Specific details were scant, as media was not invited to participate.)
Harry was reportedly lost from the group for six to seven hours, later discovered by a Long Island police officer curled into the hollow of a tree. He was unharmed, but also different, somehow, from that point on.
This production still for boutique perfume brand Bestial: Indignity: Desire: Bitterness captures Italian motorcross hopeful Lenny Capadappa and Peter II sweatily sandwiching pickle heiress and aspiring actress Lana Porcine. Porcine (whose Facebook page lists “Natalee Halloway” as a personal inspiration) plays the role of a disheveled teen clubgoer being greedily nibbled, poked, and groped by two hormonal strangers who, driven mad by the scent of her perfume, proceed to literally devour her in CGI sequences created during post-production. “It’s like a metaphor for how the way we smell can make our lives better,” Porcine surmised, though she did express some discomfort and confusion that her character ends the commercial as little more than a puddle of steaming, vaguely human material on the floor of a nightclub, said puddle being greedily lapped at by Capadappa and Peter II, who have at this point sprouted pointed CGI ears and pronounced facial hirsuteness, an art director’s approximation of the insatiable lupine yearning triggered by Bestial: Indignity: Desire: Bitterness, which retails for $819 per 10 ounce bottle at Barney’s.
"Now I become Death, the destroyer of worlds," muttered a sweat-drenched Peter II, his irises pinwheeling through the fifth hour of a massive DMT trip at Mi Scusi, the members-only club in Milan co-owned by Silvio Berlusconi. (The Brant family was in Milan so that Patriarch Peter I could ink a deal with Sausages 4 Everyone, the locally-based meat delivery superchain.) "Part of me wants to lower my arms, but part of me knows that if I lower my arms, I’m going to lose the, like, mystical relationship I have to the ceiling at the moment.” Mi Scusi, known primarily for featuring underage girls in short skirts dancing on unexplained box-type structures, has in recent months become something of a haven for psychedelic drug users. “It’s not a question of ‘How are we going to score?’ ” explained Peter II’s friend Leo Pompino, pictured here in white jeans. “It’s more like, ‘Is there any chance we’ll get out of here without someone forcibly shoving a hallucinogenic compound down our face, against our will?’ To which the answer is always No, no we will not.”
In the club’s VIP room, Peter II regaled a rapt crowd with a story about how he once worked at McDonald’s for half a weekend, as a joke. The trust fund-based artist Max Snow turned in an iPod DJ-set comprised solely of Kanye West’s “Black Skinhead” on repeat. By the morning hours the dance floor of Mi Scusi was littered with abandoned purses, scraps of hair weave, crushed lipsticks, and various pieces of ripped clothing. “There’s about a season’s worth of Law & Order: SVU in that room alone,” one clubgoer commented before returning to the overly bright street outside.
In this Brant Watch exclusive photograph, a visibly befuddled and distraught Patriarch Peter I is caught in the back-corridor bowels of Art Basel, seemingly unsure of where, and perhaps even who, he is. ‘I’m in a bad place,’ he whispered, shivering against an invisible breeze. ‘I wake up in a strange bed, I put some ‘clothes’ on my ‘body,’ I’m forced to walk around and converse with other supposed ‘human beings,’ but everything feels so hollow and fake, and one day—I swear—I’m going to punch through this veil of illusions and finger whatever’s on the other side.’ Patriarch Peter I had attended the major international art fair with his family, but he seemed unaware of their whereabouts. ‘You want to know what hell is?’ he asked Brant Watch. ‘Hell is having two kids who literally refer to you as ‘the ATM,’ as in ‘have you hugged the ATM today?’ or ‘better go pretend to love the ATM for five minutes before he stops spitting sweet hundos out of his fat face.’ Hell is having a wife who refuses to sleep with you more than once every six to eight months, and who has assembled a scrapbook of nude photos of herself that she gives to you, when you’re particularly handsy, along with the directive to ‘dear God go take care of yourself in the third floor bathroom already,’ a wife who, when she does deign to relieve you personally, in the Biblical sense, acts as if she’s performed an act of charity worthy of Mother Fucking Teresa. Hell is having to pretend that Nate Lowman is actually an artist. Hell is having to obsessively refresh and recheck a certain website ever since they made light of my manboobs. Hell is—’ At this point Patriarch Peter I suffered what appeared to be a minor epileptic fit, after which he removed his Cole Haan shoes and, putting them on his hands, began to enact what can only be described as an experimental puppet dialogue. ‘Sometimes life is grand,’ the left-hand shoe squawked. ‘And sometimes life is so, so sad,’ replied the right-hand shoe, drooping in an approximation of serious depression.
Patriarch Peter I’s publicist later issued a statement that the Patriarch had experienced a brief bout of psychosis catalyzed by a bad piece of sea urchin sashimi. The publicist denied the existence of any self-made, book-length marriage aids (though he did, in a press release, cop to personal episodes of “onanistic indulgence during my high school years relating to the Guns n’ Roses video for ‘November Rain.’ “)
"Safari chic!" swooned Harry, bits of leopard pancreas gristle still stuck between his incisors. "Nothing gets my pulse racing faster than, like, exercising dominion over violent beasts of the wild. Okay, so like giraffes are pretty pacifist, but a leopard would rip your face off.” The young Brant is photographed here at the Pachinko Wildlife Grounds & Casino in Kenya, alongside heiress Davina Pachinko, who wears a one-of-a-kind transparent skirtgirdle lovingly sewn from the intestinal linings of 30 African Wild Asses. Joining them is Brant superfan and hanger-on Terrence Blastfort, a last minute addition to the family’s exotic sojourn. “To tell you the truth,” Harry later whispered to a reporter, “I’m getting a bit scared. Did you ever see The Talented Mr. Ripley? I have serious suspicions that Blastfort is about to get a bit Tom Ripley to my Dickie Greenleaf. Last night I woke up in the eco-lodge and he was just sitting on the edge of the bed, petting me, telling me that I have ‘the most delicate clavicle.’ But maybe that sort of stuff is normal where he comes from in Missouri or whatever.”
The rest of the Brant family, including Patriarch Peter I and Peter II, were several miles away, knee-deep in the heroic mud of endangered creature-slaughter. Pachinko’s grounds are liberally stuffed with a bounty of animals—most of them controversially treated with Valium nuggets to create a ‘slow-motion, video game-style shooting experience.’ By the end of the weekend the paterfamilias himself had racked up an impressive litany of kills: 14 giraffes, 3 Addaxes, 2 Aye-Ayes, and a Pygmy Chimpanzee in a Pappea tree.
A slightly queasy Peter II mugs for the camera outside the Oval Office, accompanied by socialite and Samsung Galaxy Note 2 heiress Deirdre Cackle III. The occasion is the launch of Michelle Obama’s “America 3.0” program, a new initiative for the American education system. “I’m mainly here from, like, a protest standpoint,” Peter II said, pausing to check a suddenly unruly gag reflex. “I got this mass email saying she’s all about, like, indoctrinating kids in how awesome gay marriage is, and also how meat is murder and everyone should eat a macrobiotic vegan diet. Which is, like, those are decisions kids should come to themselves.”
"Petey’s just a little nervous being here," Cackle III confided, "after that whole Twitter incident and the, you know, A-S-S-A-blah-blah-blah thing. But the President has been really darling; he came out and personally delivered a tray of sashimi just for us."
The evening was fairly sedate, centered around a PowerPoint presentation in which the First Lady laid out her objectives for kindergarten education, none of which seemed to feature same-sex fisting or tempeh. Attendees couldn’t help but remark on Peter II’s descent into a lighter shade of pale, eventually evincing such a pallor that a security guard was forced to physically assist “some fucking vampire boy turning fucking translucent,” as he later put it. Barack Obama himself was quite understanding, despite the disturbance. “It must have been something he ate,” the President said.
Brant family friend and Filipino demolition magnate Johnny Lothario poses next to a portrait of himself by Kenny Scharf, an obscure American artist best known for once knowing Keith Haring. The portrait (painted with diamond dust and lamb’s blood and set within a 24K solid gold frame) cost $1.9 million, a small fraction of Lothario’s net worth. “I made twice that blowing up a shanty town outside Manila last year,” he gloats, “not counting the clean up cost to retrieve scattered body parts.” The piece is one of 300 self-portraits that the rich collector has commissioned for a series known as “Onanism”; other participants include Julian Schnabel (who broke 1,000 plates to create a 10 x 10 foot painting of Lothario in the nude) and Lawrence Weiner (who removed a segment of lathing roughly corresponding to the collector’s height and width from his basement gallery.) “The concept behind ‘Onanism,’ is simple,” Lothario said. “I’m basically jerking myself off and asking the whole world to watch. Which I can do, because I’m incredibly fucking wealthy.” All of the pieces will be installed in a 90,000 square foot private gallery designed by Rem Koolhaas, Frank Gehry, and Zaha Hadid, working for the first time in tandem. The gallery will be surrounded by a moat landscaped by Diller Scofidio + Renfro, with other “security” measures designed to keep the riff-raff out. “This is a fucking disgusting country, so poor,” Lothario explained, in the midst of a John Currin portrait sitting. “But I like my little bubble.”
Harry, clad in a burnished eelskin one-piece, demurely observes a conversation between Elizabeth Wurtzel and industrial fabricating tycoon Jeff Koons. The occasion is the launch of Wurtzel’s new self-published e-book, Girl With The Most Cake, in which she infamously discusses smoking crack cocaine in a Penn Station bathroom after giving David Foster Wallace a blowjob. “New York was a different place,” Wurtzel told Koons, repeating the phrase a total of 213 times while devolving into an ever more disturbing black hole of eyelid flutter and word slurrage. “That Penn Station anecdote made me think of choo-choo trains,” a wide-eyed Koons later told a reporter from the Observer. “Did you know I’m hanging a choo-choo train over the High Line? I like the choo-choo sound because it makes me think of energy and movement. Think of it! A choo-choo just hanging there, like a weird necklace from God!” Harry, noticeably bleary-eyed after disengaging from the duo’s conversation, repaired to the bathroom where he spent a few hours applying skin unguents and acid peels. “I rarely say this,” he told a reporter, “but I feel like my brain just got raped.”
The digital rendering above (leaked from the servers of Vibra-Dent Luxury Bod-Sculpting LLC) demonstrates planned anatomical modifications to be enacted on Harry Brant, exploiting the most advanced (and quasi-illegal) surgical techniques currently practiced in Switzerland. These include fuckurkling (in which residual fat from the underside of the arm is vacuum-sucked and reconstituted along the jawline); fibular distension via lurge-press (a painful, 48-hour process in which each leg’s length is extended by 7-8 inches with a mechanical press similar to that used to tamp down hot tar on the highway); aesthetic digit streamlining (a.k.a. “ugly toe removal,” in which the unappealing pinky toe is amputated in order to provide a more “goose-beaked” foot silhouette); and the introduction of a internal, no-seam pelvic compartment which—in layman’s terms—allows the entire male genital apparatus to be “tucked and stored” within the body, allowing for a minimum of tight-pant bulge and the dreaded SNS (squashed nut syndrome) that results from wearing size 0 women’s trousers. Harry’s publicist has stated that the above rendering, which floats his modified body against the backdrop of St Moritz, is “purely in the realm of the hypothetical” and that her client has “no concrete plans to undergo these alterations at this time.”
Ah, Venice: The fishy reek of the canals, endless popping bottles of prosecco, whimsically multi-colored suits, and ever-present threat of soupy, airborne loads of pigeon shit. The Brothers Brant are photographed here with German street art dealer Hanz Verguenza, heir to the Schoffer microwave oven fortune, and (in red), British poet Blaine Poule, author of the independently published chapbook, My Crotch Is A V, Your Eye Is An O. (Sample stanza: “The cream on your / Exquisite Prada handbag is / not from any latte, dear. / Let me be the / turgid barista of your / fleshy Hermitage.”) Behind the quartet, actress Milla Ivanovich—famous for her roles in the video game-based films Pussy Centipede Death Fest 1, 2, 3, and 4—takes part in an endurance performance entitled “Chick In A Box: (Re)imagining (Con)sumerism,” situated on the lip of the Grand Canal. For the piece, which was sponsored by Swarovski and Ketel One, Ivanovich spent three days in a glass box being gradually buried beneath the weight of consumer packaging while subsisting solely on a diet of Beluga caviar. “It’s about the pressures of desire and this constant slobbering want, want, want,” explained Ivanovich, later wearing an eye patch after a corneal injury sustained from a flying Manolo Blahnik box.
Peter II chartered a private jet-powered gondola to reach the National Pavilions, accompanied by celebrity curator Hans Ulrich Obrist and Marina Abramovic’s publicist, Klaus Biesenbach. He wore a skintight cotton top from Pal Zileri’s Fey Wetsuit collection and a barbershop quartet hat whose permanently jaunty tilt was achieved using water-based epoxy resin and Gorilla Glue. Obrist entertained the group with a story about how he once made $125,000 in 24 hours by delivering the same 10-minute lecture on “globo-tech future-functionality” in Zurich, Istanbul, Moscow, and Sydney.
The Brants were especially fond of the installation in the Chinese Pavilion by the duo Wang Wang Dance, above, who presented several super-sleek sculptures depicting famous political leaders augmented with massive cartoon breasts. “I like that I can check my complexion in the areola,” Harry said. “It’s a very Koonsian effect.” One sculpture featuring Mao Zedong released rice milk from its nipples every forty-five minutes. “Art should always be this direct and powerful,” Peter II surmised. “I can’t stand that conceptual Marshall Douche Amp shit [sic].”
Another Brant favorite was found in the Argentinean Pavilion, with a mixed-media exhibition from Pablo Cerca Cielo, who works primarily with shaved bunny fur, chandeliers, and crushed cans that once held Goya-brand pinto beans. “Joseph Beuys had felt and fat,” Cerca Cielo said. “I have my own materials, equally spiritual.” The installation, entitled “Nunca Olvidas // Chupa Mi Conejito” explores the legacy of the war in the Falklands. Cerca Cielo had planned to include a massive effigy of Margaret Thatcher composed of fur that had been urinated on by drunken campesinos, but the piece was detained in customs.
"I think it’s about the stock market," Peter II said, discussing the massive and controversial sculpture by American firebrand Dustin Piccoliti, included in the “Encyclopedic Palace” exhibition. “I could picture this in the garden, maybe with that pudgy devil guy smushed up against the south wall of the compound.” Piccoliti himself earned a fair share of column inches at a Campari-sponsored cocktail event later in the week, erecting a D.I.Y. booth where the artist offered amateur prostate exams in an edition of 50.
Not everyone was feeling the Venetian love. “I keep getting ditched by my own fucking kids,” Patriarch Peter I said, pictured above looking lost and forlorn on the lawn of the Swedish Embassy, the venue for “this fucking C-list party full of a bunch of nobodies,” he said. “I explicitly asked the boys to CC me on all party RSVPS, but are they fucking capable of doing that? They are fucking not.” He itemized the soirees that he had already missed—including a Luigi Bormioli event featuring nude aerial burlesque, and a Cristal reception for Sarah Tze with a Yoko Ono DJ set. “You know what I did last night? I went back to my room at the Aman Canal Grande at, like, 8 pm, and spent the night struggling, unsuccessfully, to avoid succumbing to a torrid Italian softcore movie that featured a one-legged gondolier and a buck-toothed whore. And then I surfed the BFA site to see what the fuck I had missed out there in the world.”
"I’m sort of having a flashback to a sweaty San Francisco summer back in ’69," Patriarch Peter I chuckled nervously, flanked by Guido Schulutz, A-list leatherdaddy and inventor of The Hole Truth (TM), the first biodegradable, BPA-free artificial anus. "They called me the Reluctant Pony. I was just grooving the scene, trying to start up an amateur polo league with some of the so-called squares. If I’m being honest there’s a period of three months or so that I just don’t remember at all." Schulutz and the Patriarch are seen here at the launch of the Brant Foundation’s latest experimental project space, BrantNowFasterYes2.0, located in a former ketchup processing plant in Detroit. The concept is notable for its reliance on a single artist—Urs Fischer—who has been given almost unbelievable creative control (and an unlimited budget). "We call it instantaneous gratified creative spurtage, or IGCS," Patriarch Peter I explained. "Essentially what it means is that whenever Urs has an idea he’d like to materialize in the world—however insignificant or fleeting—we’ve put the machinery in place to fabricate and install within 24 hours, from conception to completion." Case in point: Fuckheaded Gremlin, 2013, a 60-foot tall bronze sculpture that had been created a mere three hours before the opening, based solely on an iPhone picture that Fischer had snapped of a puddle of vomit on a Dublin street. “This is also a highly progressive jobs initiative,” the Patriarch stressed. “Infamous for being one of America’s ‘dead cities,’ Detroit is ripe for a revival. We guesstimate that by 2014 a solid 87% of the local population will be employed, in some capacity, in the manufacture of Urs Fischer artworks.” A reunited Stooges performed at the launch event, turning in a searing set that ended with Iggy Pop literally slithering down the length of Fuckheaded Gremlin, his impossibly leathered skin barely chafed from the unimaginable friction.
A much-bruised, unidentified youth dodged yet another expertly flung baseball at the Brant compound’s Peg-A-Fuckin’-Ginger celebration, held annually since 1985, for reasons that no one fully agrees on. “I seem to remember a ginger prick we came across on the beach in Cannes,” Patriarch Peter I surmised, “one of those real gangly bastards, all ruddy cheeked and meek, with body hair like a bunch of fire ants. He kicked sand in my face, so I thought: Why not organize an event in which everyone throws lead-weighted baseballs at these fuckers?” Peter II took home top honors at this year’s edition, racking up 4 black eyes, 6 broken ribs, and 3 subdural hematomas. Florence + the Machine played a 6-hour durational cover of Simply Red’s “Holding Back The Years” organized by Icelandic artist Ragnar Kjartansson, who later admitted to being ignorant of the event’s specifics. Harry, as usual, abstained—not out of ethical concern, but because “I throw like a freaking girl,” he said.
Moments after his mistress Fernanda Pokum brutalized the cabana waitress at bottom right, Patriarch Peter I’s volcanic temper erupted on the chin of Argentine playboy Ju-Ju Palacho, who had just (jokingly, he assured) mentioned that the Patriarch’s “budding manbreasts” would one day “make perfect ski jumps for dainty, miniature leprechauns.” After his initially timid left hook, bystanders reported that Patriarch Peter I straddled Ju-Ju in the sand, delivering one punishing blow after another and generating a frenzied scene that “was like some shit out of Silence of the Lambs,” according to one witness. Hours after the violent outburst the pair had already made amends, and were spotted sharing a two-strawed Zombie on the patio of Fernando’s, St. Bart’s go-to spot for top-shelf novelty cocktails. The renewed friendship was likely the result of obvious financial and interpersonal considerations: Patriarch Peter I is a majority investor in Yo No Lo Creo!, the oft-sued franchise of outpatient penile augmentation parlors that Palacho founded in Buenos Aires.
Patriarch Peter I poses with a steely-eyed Leonardo DiCaprio at the Brant Foundation’s Mother’s Day Pig-Flaying. ‘Leo’ wears a rumpled blazer from Target X Ralph Lauren’s Great Gatsby collection and a Newsies 20th-anniversary commemorative cap; he flaunts goatee micro-cultivation courtesy of Sim-Jook Industries. “I’m not surprised that so many well-known individuals turned up here, despite the supposed holiday,” Patriarch Peter I said. “I’ve always held that celebrities are birthed by the Universal Collective, arriving here on earth through the vaginal canal of fame. They are, essentially, orphans. It’s a sentiment that Warhol would have approved of.” The shock-haired contemporary art icon was well-represented at the Pig-Flaying, with previously unseen selections from his “Death & Disaster” series, including silkscreens of Balinese castration mishaps and a Honduran blimp accident.
Harry, wearing a crotchet-embroidered baby-T designed by Ryan McGinness, stretches a recently waxed arm around billionaire Alan Lindehamm, erstwhile art critic and director of the vanity project, Penis Over Manhattan, whose quirky dual focus (vintage Tiffany lamps, and East Indian sculpture depicting tumescent male genitalia) has earned him the title of “most unpredictable art maven on the East Coast.” (Lindehamm rose to notoriety last year for an essay, entitled “I’d Rather Give Myself A Drano Enema And Then Punch Myself In The Face With A Dead Rabbit Than Go To Miami Basel,” in which he lambasted the “hangers-on and poor, groveling dumbfucks” who were “turning the once-proud fair into an orgy of slutty non-socialites with tons of student debt” and “shabby journalists who don’t even have health insurance” who “I hope will drown themselves in the ocean quickly so that the real people can go back to doing what they do best: Making and spending money.”) “I wrote that article as a considered, passionate thinkpiece,” Lindehamm said at the Brant Foundation. “After people got pissed off, I cleverly went back in time and recast it as social satire. I don’t see why no one understands that.” Lindehamm wears a suede Member’s Only jacket and a pair of color contacts expertly modeled on the eyes of Leonardo DiCaprio.
Anton Kerbunkle III, 7, and Davis ‘Skipper’ Rhoades, 6, watch as employees of Quik-Mexicans-Now! (the contract-hire labor force that recently erected the Frieze Art Fair) tend to a series of roasting pigs on the south lawn of the Brant Foundation. The gruesome food sculpture, a clear homage to the oeuvre of Francis Bacon, utilized Corten steel stakes designed by Richard Serra, and a proprietary barbeque sauce curated by Cyprien Gaillard.
"I wanted to look like a werewolf all hopped up on, like, Blink-182 had just, like, went fucking punkwild on my shirt and ripped it to shreds," said Harry, photographed here at the Met’s Annual Sad & Wealthy Ball. "The crazy thing is that this is, like, a $19,000 one-off T, so the little scraps I cut and threw out could probably have fed a fucking family of Guatemalans for a few months." The Brants were only a few of the A-list celebrities who got "punkified" for the hotly anticipated Met gala. Anne Hathaway, for instance, may have found a cure for her plummeting popularity: Wearing a sheer chiffon skirt, she showed off her platinum-dyed pubic hair, which had been artisanally shaved into the shape of an anarchy sign. Carey Mulligan sported a Chelsea girl hairdo and a henna face tattoo advertising the underground band A Million Dead Cops; Sarah Jessica Parker went edgy and referential by dressing as Dead Nancy Spungen, wearing little more than an XXL t-shirt soaked in actual lamb’s blood. Guests were thrilled to explore the exhibits that are part of the Met’s current show, "fRom cHaOS TO couTURE," which is underwritten by Hot Topic, Dorito’s, and Vita Coco; the show includes a life-size replica of the infamously nasty CBGB’s bathroom. ("Don’t tell anyone," Debbie Harry was overheard whispering to a friend, "but I just took a brutal shit in there.”) Fall Out Boy performed at the event, joined by Richard Hell and Iggy Pop for a set entirely composed of Crass covers. “I would say I’m ‘punk as fuck,’ yeah,” Peter II told a reporter. “I once punched a Barney’s salesgirl in the face for failing to separate my purchases in the bag with those little in-between layers of crinkle paper. I’d say that’s pretty fucking punk.” Patriarch Peter I attended the Sad & Wealthy Ball dressed as G.G. Allin—“something of a personal hero,” he explained, enigmatically, while adjusting the reins of his leather-and-metal scrotal harness.
Harry and Peter II provide emotional back-up for Eunice Prask, center, at the Horshance Foundation’s bimonthly support group for former Renaissance Festival staff and participants. “It’s a long fucking road, excuse my language,” said a visibly shaken Nat ‘Pip’ Huckins, the Foundation’s press agent. “I look out there and I see just waves of archaic frills; bosoms squeezed into hellish bodices; lurid patterns that would make Robin Hood and his Merry Men fall into a deep, deep depression. And the headgear, the fucking headgear—there I go again—the braided forehead necklaces, the goddamn feathers everywhere…” Harry and Peter II have known Prask since the late ’90s, when they attended the same survivalist-themed summer camp outside of Greenwich. “I kick myself for not noticing the signs even then,” Harry said, squeezing Prask’s arm to remind her that he’s still there, and always will be. “It started small: those Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett paperbacks, the amateur lute playing. We just never thought it would end up where it did—a full-time job playing M’Lady Trucklefeathers out in Crossford, New Jersey, slowly losing her hold on that dividing line between fantasy and reality…just like Tom Hanks in Mazes and Monsters.” Prask, for her part, is committed to recovery; when pressed, she will admit, shakily, that unicorns “probably do not exist.” She appeared absolutely beatific during the closing performance by Joanna Newsom.
It was hard to stay upright at the 10th Annual Cinco de Mayo and Inspi(RED) World AIDS Fundraiser, held this year at the jewel-dappled Skronkquist Hotel’s Venetian Orgy room, in Montauk. “I slipped on somebody’s puke,” explained Paul “Titties” Goober, star of Showtime’s Gigolos, pictured here at the bottom of a veritable Brant pyramid. “It’s fucking amateur hour in this place. You’d think people could calmly celebrate Mexican awesomeness and decry the brutality of AIDS without turning into, like, tequila-spewing asshole fountains.” Stretching a pencil-thin calf across the torso of “Titties” Goober is carpet empire heiress Paula “Jackie” O’nutsausse, still recovering from a price-gouging PR disaster in 2007 in which O’nutsausse Textiles grossly overcharged for AIDS Memorial Quilt materials. Peter II and Harry participated in a joint Win-A-Date-With-The-Brants auction, going for $10,500 to an anonymous Korean bidder via telephone. At the event, 3ball MTY performed a medley of selections from Rent, and Patriarch Peter I participated in a comedy skit which involved Jennifer Rubell rolling him into the world’s largest burrito; he appeared visibly distraught for the remainder of the evening. “I’m going to have gaucamole in my ass for days,” he explained.
The brothers Brant made unlikely but stylish diplomats during a two-day cameo at Estonia’s National Reindeer Refuge, a wildlife heritage site located roughly 45 miles from the capital of Talinn. President Toomas Hendrik Ilves personally invited Harry and Peter II to act as cultural ambassadors at the First Annual Pro-Austerity Bonanza, an elite event organized to counter the recent wave of blowback against the academically influenced policies which have successfully eviscerated most of Europe’s economies. “We have done everything right, and now it’s time to celebrate that,” Ilves said, to scant but enthusiastic applause. “In the following years I plan to balloon the expense of higher education, privatize all natural resources in Estonia, and bring our medical care up to the high cost, low quality standards demonstrated by our friends, the United States. I also hope to build many more prisons, perhaps by importing some minorities, which we can then imprison.” Harry looked visibly perplexed during the duration of the proceedings, and admitted that he only agreed to come in exchange for a tailoring session with Viga Broonsvn, the Antwerp-trained designer known for inventing the popular genre of “shrunken Nordic clusterfuck.” Peter II shocked a gaggle of elderly ladies by relaying an anecdote about the time he accidentally tweeted a photo of his penis to the Prince of Monaco. Sigur Ros performed their new song “Iiiiiu Plik Hiiii*__@aaa” at the event, with accompaniment from the Estonian Castrati Chorus.
"I’m like a sugar pixie in Donut Land!" giggled Harry, excitedly palpating his clavicle amidst the high-art confectionery of Kenny Scharf’s latest installation, "There’s A Hole In The Middle, You Know What 2 Do With It," mounted in the ground floor of ABC Carpet & Home, the upscale Manhattan branch of Pier 1 Imports. "Kenny’s like a magician of whimsy," Harry continued, visibly frothing at the corners of his mouth. "He’s a maestro of wowza fabulosity. Kenny makes me want to, like, put on a tutu and get on a rocket to Neptune or something. God. I feel diabetic just standing here.” The centerpiece of Scharf’s commission is a 37-foot plastic-and-Plexi alien with laser eyes, a moving tongue, and Martian genitalia fashioned from edible taffy. Making room for the massive, kinetic sculpture was no easy feat; ABC Carpet & Home was forced to reposition their in-house sitar player, as well as cancelling a proposed anti-fracking poetry slam helmed by Mark Ruffalo and the Dalai Lama’s vegan sous chef. Scharf was delighted with the V.I.P. crowd of collectors and museum patrons, who mingled effortlessly with a tight-knit cabal of scruffy New York legends who have known the artist since the ’80s heyday, when Haring and Basquiat ruled the scene. “I saw this guy and I totally thought he was homeless,” chuckled Don Rubell. “And then I realized he was important.”
Peter II with XR3908, far left, yet another iteration of his slightly inferior doppelgänger from rentaslightlyinferiorlookingperson tomakeyoulookbetterincomparison.com (this one cross-bred with genetic material culled from Gavin Rosdale), and performative erotic acrobat Gerardo Villechaize, center, grandson of Hervé Jean-Pierre Villechaize, best known for portraying the character of Tattoo on Fantasy Island. The trio is celebrating the launch of Look3Vita, the new omega-3-impregnated bottled water created by Richard Prince, Chelsea Handler, and Pepsi-Co in partnership with the Dr. Bronner’s Soap Company. Peter II showed up slightly late to the event as he was dealing from the fall-out of CNN erroneously naming him as a ‘person of interest’ in the Boston marathon bombing. He wears a limited edition silkscreened scarf from Nate Lowman’s “The World’s Fucked Up, So Fuck You" series, this one featuring newspaper imagery from the Triangle Shirtwaist fire. "It tastes a bit fishy,” Peter II said, after sampling a tumbler of Look3Vita, “but I think the health benefits probably, like, make it worth it.” XR3908 concurred, nodding his head, but then failing to stop nodding his head, until security personnel were forced to remove the defective equipment from the premises.
The buzz was literally earthshattering at last night’s launch for the new Jimmy Choo X Skittles X Dom Perignon collaboration with Australian ex-model and downtown gallerist Emerald Fitzgerry (right), held at Baka Baka dumpling emporium on Little West 12th, the fabled members-only club overseen by a peculiarly fashion-forward branch of the Yakuza. “The awesome thing about this is that it’s a bit unclear as to what’s being celebrated,” fawned Harry, wearing a dyed pigskin blouse from Givenchy. “Is it a candy? A champagne? A pair of shoes you drink champagne out of, while eating candy?” Emerald Fitzgerry, meanwhile, fielded literally endless questions from journalists about the calculatedly outrageous exhibition at her L.E.S. gallery, Cox: The current show includes photographic silk wallpaper by Olivier Zahm, visible from Delancey Street, with a pattern that is based on film stills from 2 Girls, 1 Cup. “I think art is like a beautiful butterfly that, no matter how wild or crazy, and even if it’s a butterfly that is into unhygienic sexual acts that would make most Germans blush, should still be allowed to, like, fly toward the sun,” Fitzgerry said. “And plus this is really just distracting from my new project with Jimmy Choo, Skittles, and Dom Perignon, whatever it is. I think it might be a folding bicycle. Or maybe a diaphragm.”
It was a day of sticky wickets and crumbled bumpkins for Patriarch Peter I, moonlighting as a Masticating Cavalier Soldier on the South African polo team, White Birch Farm. Patriarch Peter I wore knee-high wollywog boots to protect his feet against the fearsome conditions of a playing field that was positively gramfusculated, noting that he “hadn’t seen grass this hognammered” since the infamous “East Pelham flash fog fiasco of ’88.” Patriarch Peter I’s horse, Whistling Larry, was kneecapped by an especially immoral member of the opposing South Korean team; the referee, apparently blind as a fucking bat, failed to call the appropriate flogwang. Horseless, Patriarch Peter I fought boldly on, dodging flailing hoofs and flying clods to score a last minute +8 hoover with a heroic left-handed onanistic maneuver. Following their victory, White Birch Farm drank chilled grain alcohol beneath the canopy of Harvard Spruces that dot the local countryside, joining together in their boisterous and familiar chant recently popularized by the rap trio Die Antwoord: “Ek het daai ou befok! Ek het daai ou befok! Cheekyprawn cheekyprawn cheekyprawn, fok, fok, fok!” As is their custom, the South African polo club ended their revelry with the all-nude competition game Dop Dop, in which the loser is forced to drink a dram of winkleberry gin that has been poured onto the scrotum of the team captain. A sour-faced Patriarch Peter I, hastily brushing his teeth in the bushes, gave some indication as to the game’s outcome.
Peter Brant II and Harry listen raptly to RuPaul and Bobby Jindal, the dual keynote speakers at last night’s fundraiser for the bipartisan Super PAC, Okay Fine You Gays Can Get Married If We Can Keep Our Guns, co-sponsored by Barney Frank and Ted Nugent. Harry wears a Prada bowtie-and-bib made from preserved tulips and honeysuckle stamens, with eye shadow that derives its color from crushed bricks and lavender poppins; Peter II’s hair glistens with a new veruca-infused pomade from Belgium, and he is photographed enjoying a rocket-and-walnut salad with a liquid guacamole chaser. “These are the kind of political events I enjoy,” Peter II said. “All different sorts of people—black, yellow, gay, straight, skinny, gross and fat—but everyone just hanging out, dressed nicely, not talking too loud.” Patriarch Peter I brought the house down with his bawdy, cross-dressing participation in a skit, co-written by Judd Apatow and Tucker Carlson, which riffed on the concept of a “shotgun gay marriage.” (Several guests were later overheard quoting his show-stopping catchphrase, “With a barrel like that, it sure is death ‘til we part!”) L.L. Cool J and Brad Paisley closed the evening with a performance of their recent blockbuster, “Accidental Racist.”
Harry Brant, at the annual Costume Ball to benefit PETA’s International Euthanasia programs, got his evening off to a bumpy start when he was hit by a yellow Ferrari driven by boutique ice cream impresario Ted Van Leeuward. “I always dreamed I’d be taken out by a vintage Aston Martin or something,” Harry said later, “maybe a baby blue one, circa 1964. It’d be tragic but romantic, like a Smiths song.” Van Leeuward was fairly unrepentant re: his role in the accident: “I mistook him for a ferret or, perhaps, a muskrat,” he said, handing 10% promotional discount coupons to the investigating officers from the NYPD. Luckily, Harry’s outfit was spared any scuffs, scratches, or tears—his skintight black walrus-skin trousers with integrated memory foam codpiece cost “more than a Chinese adoption,” he said. Inside, a crowd of luminaries praised PETA’s astoundingly high shelter kill rate while attendees supped on seitan-encrusted knucklewuggles, faux-bison ravioli cannoli, and melted tofu-and-kale flambé bricks. Harry’s near-death-by-Ferrari anecdote grew ever more tumescent with each retelling. Peter II chimed in with a rough estimate of how many people would attend his own hypothetical funeral (between 2,000 and 3,500). Ice cream impresario Van Leeuward was forcibly ejected from the property after asking the Saudi assault weapon heir Alza Hariri if she would care to “lick his cone.”
“Nothing beside remains round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,” Peter II whispered into the ear of bukkake film heiress Petra Squint. “The lone and level sands stretch far away. Goddamnit, your hair smells like pineapples and hash and rubber cement, I want to just eat it!” The pair is photographed at the Puck Building for the launch of the new CrotchScan 2.0 iPhone app, billed as a “Shazam-style visual recognition software to identify and confirm basic symptoms of STIs” that will “revolutionize the way we fuck strangers,” according to patent holder John T. Kurzwald. Xiu Xiu performed an experimental, 39-minute version of Joy Division’s “Love Will Tear Us Apart” at the event. CrotchScan 2.0 is partially bankrolled by Patriarch Peter I, who hopes to integrate the technology with Grindr, OKCupid, and the popular nightlife listing modules owned by BlackBook magazine. Technicians on-site helped partygoers download the app and offered private, 1:1 tutorials on its efficient usage for partner- and self-diagnosis. Peter II was seen leaving the educational booth, visibly pale and dappled in a sheen of sweat. “It didn’t work,” he hiccuped. “It absolutely does not fucking work, I don’t care what they say.” Harry could not attend the launch party due to a previous obligation to act as a celebriguest at the quinceañera of Telemundo child star Juanita Cullobeso.
An archival shot from the prelapsarian days of youth, before the much-publicized Brant scandals: Harry’s insistence on experimental self-infection with cosmetic vitiligo, Peter II’s involvement in the poisonous snake “prank” that resulted in the inadvertent decimation of the Great Tit population in Greenwich, CT. The boys are pictured at the first public opening of the Brant Foundation’s art exhibition space, seated with their riding instructor and conversational French tutor Yvette Baiser; it was at this inaugural event that Urs Fischer debuted his permanent lawn sculpture Dipping Sauce Not Included, a clay mold of his left testicle enlarged by a factor of 1,000,000 and cast in bronze. “It’s weird sometimes just moving through the world,” whispered Harry, 10. “I feel the wind tickle my hair, I feel voices telling me You are special, you are blessed, everyone is watching you. This is normal, from what my brother tells me.” Chloe Sevigny’s short-lived electropop band Mangina performed at the event. Peter II told several people an anecdote about how he’d gotten out of a final term paper in 11th grade English by accusing his teacher of molesting him. Patriarch Peter I successfully predicted the economic collapse of 2008, and guests ate a bust of famous Argentinean polo player Nacho Figueras made entirely of truffle-dusted white chocolate.
“You call that a goddamn Turbinado?” bellows an irate Patriarch Peter I, captured berating a cabana waitress on the beach in St Barts. “Did you perhaps substitute ass juice for the requisite Angostura bitters?” Patriarch Peter I’s equally peeved companion, Victoria’s Secret fit model Fernanda Pokum, punctuated her lover’s tirade by rhythmically jabbing her finger in the unfortunate young woman’s right eyeball. This incident capped off a tumultuous and accident-plagued week, a vacation from hell that included a chin dislocated during a vigorous face yoga session; back-hair-electrolysis disasters; and an emergency room visit catalyzed by black market Chinese Viagra. Reached later for comment, Patriarch Peter I issued a statement apologizing for the “so-called assault,” but stressing the importance of maintaining top-notch cocktail standards lest St Barts be replaced by another island dedicated to “the crème de la crème de la crème de la crème.” The waitress, whose name is not important, was treated for a detached retina; the Brants recompensed her troubles with a sheaf of gift cards to Factory Bongo Party, the grossly unpopular Warhol-themed tiki bar franchise that Patriarch Peter I launched in the Carribean last year.
Harry vamps at the 2013 Satyricon Swinger’s Ball, held in Soho House’s eleventh floor private pool room. The annual event—was which unfortunately quashed last year due to an unprecedented staph infection outbreak—is a fundraiser for Sasha Grey’s New Horizons, a 501(c) organization dedicated to getting young women out of hardcore porn and into Steven Soderbergh films. Harry wears a copper-plated half-girdle by Givenchy and synthetic eyelash extensions personally gifted by Liza Minelli. Photobombing Harry’s shot over his right shoulder is the infamous grifter Zack Comedone, notorious for posing as exiled French royalty before bilking old, slightly sad gay men for their credit card collections. “The scene here is rather timid, I must say,” mewled Harry. “Back in 2011 I saw a midget getting a Cristal enema while a tumescent James Franco helped Marina Abramovic enact an X-rated version of Rhythm 0. This year the craziest shit I’ve seen is Mickey Boardman being aggressively tickled by a fleet of Belgian lumberjack impersonators.” Peter II spent most of the evening laughing nervously and biting his recently manicured fingernails into ragged nubs. Patriarch Peter I, normally “the unholy center of attention” at this bacchanal, according to sources, was unable to attend due to an overzealous IRS audit.
It was a chaotic evening at the compound when prodigal half-daughter Lala Brant arrived unannounced during an intimate vegan dinner in honor of Dutch gallerist Piet von der Kronk. Lala, wearing a romper from Daniel Buren X Opening Ceremony, has been estranged from Patriarch Peter I for nearly a decade, following a quasi-violent altercation on St Barts re: the correct pronunciation of frisée. “I got as much right to be here as any of these other pricks,” Lala slurred, having inexplicably picked up a pronounced Cockney accent during her sojourn away from the familial bosom. “Plus somebody here owes me a car. Everyone else got a car, I want my fucking car, and it better be expensive and fast, and red.” Harry unsuccessfully attempted to subdue Lala by throwing various shiny objects onto the lawn in the hopes that she would spend a few hours chasing them, a tactic that, he says, “has been super useful in the past.” Von der Kronk appeared visibly distraught at this inelegant disruption of his cruelty-free meal. Thankfully, patience prevailed: Lala lapsed into unconsciousness on a Jean Prouve daybed whose pristine surface was sullied by “only a little bit of vomit,” according to sources.
Peter II, whose serotonin levels have soared in the three weeks he has been taking 50mg/daily of the experimental SSRI HappyHead (TM), demonstrates a classic 1980s voguing pose known as the ‘prancing sunflower motherfucker.’ He wears leather sarong rollerblading wristguards by Rodarte and a scarf sewn from the ear tufts of pygmy kangaroos. “We’re here celebrating sequestration,” he said, posing with Harry in front of the new molecular gastronomy hot spot, Bunsen, where Grover Norquist and the grassroots group Quit Diddlin’ My Wealth were hosting a $6,000 a plate fundraiser. “It’s like John Boner said: There’s gonna be pain, but it’s necessary pain. Obama got his tax break already. I earned my money fair and square: By inheriting it from my father, who made it by the sweat of his own brow after his father gave him a whole bunch of paper factories. This is America. People like Patriarch Peter I deserve what they’ve earned, because they’re smart. I mean, my dad basically saved print media by initiating the now standard 22:1 unpaid intern-to-staff ratio. He’s also sick at polo.” (Stock in Brant-related holdings in the international markets momentarily plummeted after an overeager pap standing nearby tweeted that the elder Brant was ‘sick with polio.’) Norquist, who Harry described as “a cuddly teddy bear, but with fucking fangs,” later came out to share a cigarette with the Brants; he was drinking a 120-ounce Coca-Cola in protest of Mayor Bloomberg’s “stick-up-the-ass sugar Nazism.” Ted Nugent read a selection of unreleased Ayn Rand poems at the event. Peter II delighted between 13 and 15 people by recounting an anecdote about the time he accidentally bought a sweatshop in Malaysia that manufactures novelty iPhone cases.
Harry strikes a pose at last night’s vernissage for the Armory Show, wearing a silkscreened Mortal Kombat panople by French teen seamstress Veronique and whale-sperm eyebrow mousse by L’Oreale. He is photographed in front of politically-charged cast-iron sculptures by the Salvadorean artist known as ‘El Gordito,’ which depict heartbroken campesinos disinterring the corpse of Ronald Reagan while singing a ritual labor ditty. What did the Brants buy at the fair? By 8 p.m. they had already snapped up a mysteriously champagne-drenched canvas by Puerto Rican art stars Allora & Calzadilla; phallic photograms printed on papyrus by conceptual British wunderkind Sammy Harkness; and half a dozen “air sculptures” by the Berlin-based collective Die Schmeg, created by exhaling hot breath into empty envelopes. “I hate when people complain about how art fairs are all about the money,” Harry giggled. “Like, what else are you supposed to buy art with? It’s not like you can be all, ‘I’ll trade you five bananas and a Vitamin Water for that fucking Wade Guyton.’ “ Peter II kept mostly out of the fray, curled up on the couch in the V.I.P. room making languid, soundless gestures to no one in particular. Afterward the Brants took an experimental rocket-powered pedicab to the MoMA after party, where star headliners Jay-Z and Beyonce mugged for admirers while an unidentified individual performed music in the background.
Dayton, Ohio-based socialite Priona Davis, of the Sham Wow fortune, poses with a wax dummy of Peter II recently unveiled at New York’s Madame Tussauds. “He almost looks alive,” she shrieked, poking a finger into his unfurrowed brow before asking a museum guard to take this portrait for her 890 Instagram followers. Peter II’s dummy is part of the controversial “Young Lions, Let Us Hear You Roar!” exhibition, which also memorializes Bullett magazine’s Idil Tabanca and John Prillimom Jr., the Tampax heir and founder of HumpScore.com, the controversial website often described as “like Yelp, but for dudes you’ve fucked.” Critics have blasted Tussauds for stretching the definition of celebrity. “Tom Cruise, J-Lo, Beyonce—superstars,” wrote iconic wax dummy gadfly Hilary Bent. “But who the heck needs to see a life-size facsimile of some chick who backed her SUV over a bunch of disabled kids while peeling out of a Hamptons charity fundraiser back in 2011? Not this reporter.” Indeed, vigilante groups have taken to vandalizing certain of the “Young Lions” statues—Harry’s own wax dummy is currently undergoing restoration after being rendered “anatomically incorrect” by a wild-eyed activist, according to a press release.
Patriarch Peter I discusses the plummeting prices of organic kimchi stocks with Harrius Honeypot, the fabled collector who made his first million as the third caveman in the early ’00s GEICO commercials. They’re photographed at the Gagosian gallery in Los Angeles for the opening of Richard Prince’s “Rasta Mon (Funk Off)” exhibition, which features original Patrick Cariou photographs that have been urinated on by Dan Colen, scanned, and then printed by www.cheapcanvas4u.com. Patriarch Peter I confessed that he’d bought the entire show in advance, with the works to be distributed equally among the Brant compound and the chain of low-carb falafel restaurants he recently purchased in Lebanon. A female rockabilly band composed of former Ryan McGinley models performed at the opening. Peter II and Harry were unable to join their father, as they had previously committed to delivering a joint keynote webcast to the University of Phoenix’s interior design honors program. Richard Prince failed to personally attend the opening, which led to a persistent rumor that he had died, though he had not.
Harry and Peter I with small-batch pickle maven (and erstwhile Entourage fan club captain) Salvatore Squash and his girlfriend Masha, who wears a bleached rhino skin dress from Cynthia Rowley and a self-made necklace composed of “various charms and amulets, and also old house keys, my baby teeth, a rock from this time I went to Machu Picchu, and other significant items,” she explained. The quartet was photographed taking a break from cruising the Barney’s spring sample sale, where Peter I scored the Takeo Kikuchi couture brooch he’s wearing, sewn from the undergarments of Japanese girls who dropped out of high school. “This place: Goldmiiiiine,” swooned Harry, flapping his arms in the manner of an overexcited baby bird. He later showed off his bounty: “A pair of 2010 corduroy strumpets with pumpkin piping; a Narobi leather-accented cane nubbin with ground espresso filigree; pristine Gherkin loafers and a matching pair of knee-high argyle socks with wart-dimple embroidery dramatics; 2013 unreleased velour Capris with silkscreened Chris Wool inner lining that spells out the phrase ‘Fuck Me’ in thirteen languages, some of them dead; a Delfina Delettrez swickgold-and-splatresin necklace depicting a cockroach crawling out of the eye socket of Napoleon’s skull…” After shopping, Peter I and Harry repaired to the new pop-up tapas shop on Elizabeth Street helmed by Belgian countess Gerrie Fahneart, a DJ.
Peter II strikes a pose with Russian teen acrobat Slina Prakova during a photo shoot in Kehinde Wiley’s Beijing studio, where the famous artist is preparing material for his latest series of paintings, entitled “Mo’ Money Mo’ Monarch$$$.” The Brants were in China for the week while Patriarch Peter I finalized the acquisition of Zap Zap You’re Dead, an international laser tag franchise. Wiley’s newest canvases, which will be painted by Foxconn workers, are “an examination of white privilege through the lens of a hip-hop vernacular, simultaneously celebratory and defamatory, but drenched in glamor, sex, and angst,” the artist says. Harry was unable to attend the preparatory shoot as he was recovering from complications following an experimental green tea-and-ginseng colonic. After the photo shoot, Peter II and Patriarch Peter I enjoyed an elegant dim sum dinner in the company of Thomas Friedman, who was visiting China to research a new book about how the world is no longer flat, but rather slightly rippled, like a potato chip.
"The ocean is so over,” drawled Harry, wearing American Apparel Daisy Dukes and a pair of snug-fitting leather Crocs. “I don’t understand the fucking appeal,” Peter II chimed in, re: the ocean. “You know what’s going to happen. The waves keep coming, they crash against the rocks, every now and then a boat goes by, etceteras. I tried sitting here sort of gazing out and contemplating my own mortality, but that got old after like thirty seconds.” The Brants were taking a well-deserved break from the quinceañera-themed 26th birthday of socialite Patti DuLong, heir to the DuLong cement-and-avocado fortune. A marathon 24-hour celebration, the event included a roast pig stuffed with pineapple puree and gemstones; a life-sized piñata depicting Barack Obama as noted Mexican socialist Pancho Villa; a game of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey using live, anesthetized donkeys; and a fireworks ceremony, organized by artist Cai Guo-Qiang, that spelled Patti’s name out in loving cursive across the night sky of San Jose del Cabo. “Mexicans aren’t nearly as lazy as they’re made out to be,” said Harry, taking a break from the complimentary ‘Aztec Man-I-Cure’ booth. “I mean, they’re lazy, but they’re not nearly as lazy as, like, Guatemalans. We’ve had to fire tons of those in the past year.”
Party guests were handed a gift bag that included mezcal, diamond-studded maracas, and a copy of DuLong’s vanity-published guidebook, Fucking Hot On Instagram. “Let’s hope that she steps it up next year and has a party somewhere interesting,” Peter II yawned. “Like in a volcano.”
Harry at the Steers ‘n Beers Oscars after party, hosted by Western Beef, Budweiser Triple-X Select, and the ghost of Spin magazine. The event was held at the historic ranch of Belvedere Strumpkin, a tobacco scion known for his vocal and financial support of astroturf groups dedicated to “overthrowing the Jew-spiracy known as Hollywood,” according to the Google cache of his former website, StrumpkinVSTheWorld.biz. Most guests were ignorant of the politics of their host—who, wheelchair-bound at 98, watched the proceedings from a specially constructed floating dais, wearing a vintage slim-fitting t-shirt that read PUTTING THE PARTY BACK IN APARTHEID. Harry was joined at the event by Veronica Keister, foreground, an extra in Argo. “They cut my goddamn scene,” the actress lamented. “Do you remember that bit where Ben Affleck is in his hotel room, staring out the window, with the sun sort of shining in and just casually glinting off his perfect abs? Well my character was supposed to come into the room and start applying oil to his back and shoulders, in a subtle and poetic manner. I did great, but ultimately Ben didn’t think the scene made sense within the larger context of the film.” Marnie Stern performed a set of post-hardcore Hank Williams covers at the event. Peter II told fourteen people derivations of an anecdote about the time he mistook Anne Hathaway for a meerkat.
Harry and Peter II in the audience for Lou Reed’s “hypno-poetic” performative lecture, held at Cooper Union and co-sponsored by Kraft and the personal injury law firm of Schmiller, Sandler, and Whipple. They are joined by Leonard Berkus, the affable star of the FX sitcom Hey Hey, Tomorrow’s Another Day; AsienBoySk8RFace 2000, the sexual horoscope blogger and rising star of the snakeboarding scene; and XR1215, an updated version of Peter II’s slightly inferior doppelgänger from rentaslightlyinferiorlookingperson tomakeyoulookbetterincomparison.com. Harry wears an Alexander Olch tie in a patented shade of Slippery Pimento; Peter II sports motorcycle pants sewn from parachute material utilized by the elite team that killed bin Laden. “I’m sort of here by mistake,” Harry said, noting that he had inexplicably mistaken Reed for Stephan Jenkins, the frontman of Third Eye Blind.
The former Velvet Underground icon’s performance began with an a cappella rendition of Poe’s The Raven sung by Rufus Wainwright, who shimmied and flailed above the crowd using technology borrowed from Fuerza Bruta. Afterward, a naked Reed was carried onto the stage by a team of notables that included Cindy Sherman, Antony, Matthew Barney, and, somewhat counterintuitively, Guy Fieri. He was left, shivering ever so slightly under a spotlight, while an orchestra composed of NYU sophomores performed a deconstructed symphony for the tiny viola. As the music swelled to a near orgasmic crescendo, the arts journalist Linda Yablonsky descended from stage left, dressed as an enormous hypodermic syringe; Reed began spasming and Yablonsky, in homage to Jennifer Rubell, dripped honey on his bashful genitalia.
"This is fucked," said Peter II. "These people are old enough to know better." The Brants cut a hasty exit before the piece’s finale, which included a donkey show and a cameo from Michael Stipe.
"It took a few years, but I finally caught the yoga bug," Peter II explains, rocking a "distended grasshopper" pose in the supply closet for the Valentino NYFW show, co-sponsored by the Army’s recent Collateral Damage campaign. "I’m a fairly inflexible person—if we’re talking physically, and not morally—but I’ve since found that the practice can bring about a great deal of spiritual peace. I’ve also started eating Greek yogurt." Peter II helped himself to a pair of Kandahar Krush loafers and a limited edition Hey Haji! laptop slipcover. "I love this camo shit," Peter II swooned. "It’s so ironic. Our gardener’s son served, like, six tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan. When he came back we used to hang out because he had the sickest weed connection in Greenwich. We used to call him Dead Eyes Danny.” The Valentino runway show, one of the most controversial and critically-acclaimed of this year’s Fashion Week, featured eleven gay, partially disfigured war veterans wearing head bandages; the amateur models limped rhythmically down the runway to a soundtrack of dupstep that had been slowed down to 12bpm. “This is my small way of paying tribute,” the designer said.
Harry at the NYFW runway show for SixAsSeven, the Argentine/Canadian collective known for their use of reflective mirrors, silkworm feces, and the experimental stitch pattern known as the ‘Infinity Orgasm.’ The young Brant wears the label’s 2012 shrunken velour jacket, inspired by the bathroom wallpaper of Slovakian pensioners, and a pair of snug oatmeal pleggings (unpictured.) He poses with Carlos Skimpy, fashion blogger and owner of www.fuckyeahscarves.biz, and Michael Hapless, the consultant and tastemaker who facilitated SixAsSeven’s recent collaboration with Chuck Close on a series of Nag Champa-scented wheelchair draperies. In a bold conceptual move that nodded to Yves Klein’s Le Vide, the runway show did not include a runway, or models, or any clothing, for that matter; attendees merely watched an empty, spotlit stage for 27 minutes, while the famed Mongolian pianist Hrv Kntlp performed an atonal composition by banging his Steinway’s keys with a glass dildo. “Anyone who says that fashion isn’t art can, like, shut up now,” Harry said, helping himself to a cocaine-dusted snail ravioli. Peter II told Yoko Ono an anecdote about the time he visited an afterhours Tokyo cat cafe. The evening concluded with a Buddhist prayer.
“This isn’t goddamn physics,” said best-selling self-help speaker and noted leather daddy Kelvin Prunchin, explaining the mechanics of the ‘Silent Duck’ to a visibly squeamish Harry and Peter II. The trio were in the front row at the tents to view the latest collection from Betsey Johnson, inspired by Skittles, Cyndi Lauper, and the rich history of British chav culture. Problems arose from the start, beginning with an amateurish DJ who hadn’t received the memo that ghost-house is dead, having been ousted by acid-grunge and Italo-disco-horrorcore circa January 12, 2013. “You make the duck’s bill,” Prunchin continued, even as the models began flopping down the runway, “and then you just insinuate yourself in there in a very ninja-y manner.” After the show concluded and the casualties were tallied—two broken ankles, four nosebleeds, and an unexplained mini-outbreak of Hepatitis C—the group repaired to Kwanzaa, a new members-only club housed in a former women’s shelter on Avenue D. An Andrew W.K. impersonator performed at the event. Gift bags, surprisingly robust for this year’s NYFW, included copies of Gone Girl, boxes of Kimono’s I Can’t Believe It’s Not Bareback (TM) prophylactics, and miniature kitten ceramics by Karen Kilimnik. Peter II and Harry managed to evade the aroma of hairgel and despair that is Kelvin Prunchin, even as he continued his unsolicited lesson: “The secret, boys, is plenty of Purell….”
Harry and Fifi LaMouche share a knowing chuckle with the audience at a February meeting of the Landmark Forum, held at Soho House and hosted by self-help guru Anton Schickle, recently paroled after an unfortunate incident involving a ‘deep breathing meditation tent’ and a few 17-year old Danish girls. “Landmark is like the newer, cooler Scientology,” Harry explained. “Plus it’s way more inclusive. Even some black people do it.” The event was sponsored by Kvatkin, a Scandinavian start-up that produces yoga mats for kittens. At the event, Peter II—who has reached “Illuminated Tingling Scion” status within the Forum—shivered while telling eleven people an anecdote involving David Miscavige and a sock full of quarters.
Harry and Peter II with Yvonne Peusteur at the annual Swarovski Vajazzling Party, held at the Diana von Furstenberg shop in the Meatpacking District. An assortment of A-listers including Blake Lively, Anne Hathaway, and Genesis P-Orridge received custom vajazzling work from the medium’s undisputed master, the Swiss artisan known only as Le Maître. “I don’t have a vagina,” Harry says, “but I wore this Swarovski baronial smock, which is what I’d want my vagina to look like, if I had one.” Peter II showed off his decidedly less ostentatious crystal bead work. “If I had a vagina, I’d want it to be subtly ornamented,” he said. “I wouldn’t need my vagina yelling to the whole world, Hey! Hey! Look at me! It’d be more of a whisper, a gentle breeze.” Photographer Juergen Teller snapped photos of Hathaway’s vajazzling work, based on Venetian stained glass patterning and Arabic numerology; see the exclusive shots here on HuffPo. Peter II told fourteen people derivations of a humorous anecdote about how his driver once ran over a small child in Ibiza.
A vintage commercial still of the Brants at the Tempe, Arizona construction site for Patriarch Peter I’s “luxury concept community,” BrantLand, which notoriously involved the eviction of 18,600 African-American and Latino residents. (Many were graciously hired back as BrantLand cleaning staff.) Peter II wears a skintight riding outfit from Prada’s Sullen Versailles Teenager (TM) collection; Harry, having yet to hit his stride, is still shopping at H&M. BrantLand opened its gates in 2010, despite a shaky 12% sale rate on its townhouse units. The complex—which included a contemporary furniture design museum, an organic salmon hatchery, a small-batch whiskey distillery, and a textile library conceptualized by a Rem Koolhaas intern—was attacked, on a nightly basis, sometimes violently, by a melange of activists so radical that they refuse to have websites. “Tempe had a chance to become a world-class city,” Patriarch Peter I later told the Arizona Spectator. “Instead, they chose to destroy my noble project with harsh words and the occasional Molotov cocktail. My an Arby’s grow on the sour wreckage of my dreams.” Urs Fischer used the in-progress BrantLand site as the inspiration for his famed Gavin Brown exhibition, “Fuck You (And You, And You, Too).”