BRANT WATCH

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An all-inclusive yet clearly, for legal purposes, satirical and made-up website for brant brothers sightings, news, gossip, rumors, photos, and other necessaries. Original concept by Scott Indrisek, a slovakian socialite. For legal purposes, written and hosted by someone else entirely.
“As Sandy was to the Rockaways, so Nemo is to New York Fashion Week,” simpered Peter II, dragging wistfully on an unfiltered Virginia Slim 100 in the basement of Mistah Ho’s, a former soba noodle processing plant on Mott Street that has recently been converted into the latest playground for the city’s nightlife elite. “This weather has basically 9/11’ed all hopes of a decent party.” Peter II’s complaints were echoed by designer Harry Lim-Foo, partially obscured in the background of the above photo. “Verdict: Shit city,” he pronounced. “We’re all just standing around taking photographs of each other. Except for some Vice intern who’s offering hand jobs as part of a performance art project in the corner, this place is basically dead.” Lim-Foo, known for his line of chinchilla fur garter belts, said that NYFW’s social calendar has been disemboweled by the recent blizzard. He had been making the rounds with Peter II and Harry since around 7pm; they began at the runway shows for Tibbi (“tragic, but plucky”) and Prouenza Schouler (“I was like, someone please gouge my eyes out with a fork so I don’t have to play witness to this trainwreck”) before hitting up the first after party of the evening: A celebration of the new Moncler/Kid Robot/Diesel collaboration, held at BLK.LBL.RSTRNT, the downtown bistro co-owned by louche ex-publishing magnate Longly Harsh, currently hiding from his creditors in an undisclosed Ecuadorian village. “The storm kept everyone home,” Harry explained, “so basically they were letting anybody in, even some, like, sneakerfreaker nerds, and a whole pack of Chinese kids from NYU who were celebrating New Year’s really, really late.” The trio made a hasty escape and headed to REASON/NOREASON, the NYFW pop-up club based in the apartment of Cat Marnell. “Awwwkward,” Peter II summarized. “We get there and the place is pretty much empty. Cat’s on the floor rocking back and forth, rhythmically slapping herself in the face; her underwear is stained, Fiona Apple is blaring, and the hired waitstaff is passing out lukewarm boneless chicken wings from Applebee’s.” And so Peter II, Harry, and Lim-Foo have ended up here, in the red-lit basement of Mistah Ho’s, chasing the dream of a Fashion Week night that is proving ever more elusive. “It’s basically the end of an era,” Harry sighs, visibly deflating. But then something happens, a rumor telephoning from one end of the club to the other, causing the air to crackle with electricity: It seems as if Frank Ocean is playing a private set at the ultra-exclusive Rodarte/Opening Ceremony party, co-hosted by  the government of Ajerbaijan and the new Timothy Ferris X 5-Hour Energy injectable vitamin serum. “Even in the depths of tragedy,” Peter II says, “there is hope.” And then, like a cabal of magical unicorns disappearing into the mists of history: They’re gone.  

“As Sandy was to the Rockaways, so Nemo is to New York Fashion Week,” simpered Peter II, dragging wistfully on an unfiltered Virginia Slim 100 in the basement of Mistah Ho’s, a former soba noodle processing plant on Mott Street that has recently been converted into the latest playground for the city’s nightlife elite. “This weather has basically 9/11’ed all hopes of a decent party.” Peter II’s complaints were echoed by designer Harry Lim-Foo, partially obscured in the background of the above photo. “Verdict: Shit city,” he pronounced. “We’re all just standing around taking photographs of each other. Except for some Vice intern who’s offering hand jobs as part of a performance art project in the corner, this place is basically dead.” Lim-Foo, known for his line of chinchilla fur garter belts, said that NYFW’s social calendar has been disemboweled by the recent blizzard. He had been making the rounds with Peter II and Harry since around 7pm; they began at the runway shows for Tibbi (“tragic, but plucky”) and Prouenza Schouler (“I was like, someone please gouge my eyes out with a fork so I don’t have to play witness to this trainwreck”) before hitting up the first after party of the evening: A celebration of the new Moncler/Kid Robot/Diesel collaboration, held at BLK.LBL.RSTRNT, the downtown bistro co-owned by louche ex-publishing magnate Longly Harsh, currently hiding from his creditors in an undisclosed Ecuadorian village. “The storm kept everyone home,” Harry explained, “so basically they were letting anybody in, even some, like, sneakerfreaker nerds, and a whole pack of Chinese kids from NYU who were celebrating New Year’s really, really late.” The trio made a hasty escape and headed to REASON/NOREASON, the NYFW pop-up club based in the apartment of Cat Marnell. “Awwwkward,” Peter II summarized. “We get there and the place is pretty much empty. Cat’s on the floor rocking back and forth, rhythmically slapping herself in the face; her underwear is stained, Fiona Apple is blaring, and the hired waitstaff is passing out lukewarm boneless chicken wings from Applebee’s.” And so Peter II, Harry, and Lim-Foo have ended up here, in the red-lit basement of Mistah Ho’s, chasing the dream of a Fashion Week night that is proving ever more elusive. “It’s basically the end of an era,” Harry sighs, visibly deflating. But then something happens, a rumor telephoning from one end of the club to the other, causing the air to crackle with electricity: It seems as if Frank Ocean is playing a private set at the ultra-exclusive Rodarte/Opening Ceremony party, co-hosted by  the government of Ajerbaijan and the new Timothy Ferris X 5-Hour Energy injectable vitamin serum. “Even in the depths of tragedy,” Peter II says, “there is hope.” And then, like a cabal of magical unicorns disappearing into the mists of history: They’re gone.  

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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.

“I’m pissed,” muttered Peter II, sporting a Alexander Wang-modified Joseph Beuys felt suit at a launch party for Art Dubai, sponsored by Exxon Mobil’s new ‘Blood in the Desert’ prize. “They said this was a dry event and I thought they were talking about the humidity. Now here I am drinking non-alcoholic cider with bloated maraschino cherries in it. I passed up a night of extreme camel surfing in Sharjah for this shit.” Peter II is joined by Tatiana D and Olga S, interns working for Marlborough’s controversial Middle Eastern ‘Never 2 Young’ campaign, and Ivan ‘Krank’ Krinski, a part-time Viggo Mortensen stunt double and former fluffer. A$AP Rocky performed a 4-minute “clean” medley of his latest album at the event. The ‘Blood in the Desert’ prize went to Jeff Koons, who, according to the stipulations of the award, will construct a piece according to the detailed specifications of His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum.

“I’m pissed,” muttered Peter II, sporting a Alexander Wang-modified Joseph Beuys felt suit at a launch party for Art Dubai, sponsored by Exxon Mobil’s new ‘Blood in the Desert’ prize. “They said this was a dry event and I thought they were talking about the humidity. Now here I am drinking non-alcoholic cider with bloated maraschino cherries in it. I passed up a night of extreme camel surfing in Sharjah for this shit.” Peter II is joined by Tatiana D and Olga S, interns working for Marlborough’s controversial Middle Eastern ‘Never 2 Young’ campaign, and Ivan ‘Krank’ Krinski, a part-time Viggo Mortensen stunt double and former fluffer. A$AP Rocky performed a 4-minute “clean” medley of his latest album at the event. The ‘Blood in the Desert’ prize went to Jeff Koons, who, according to the stipulations of the award, will construct a piece according to the detailed specifications of His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum.

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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.

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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).”

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A rare production still from the never-seen 2010 FX sitcom, Ya Gotta Break Some Eggs To Make A Billion, co-written by Lena Dunham and starring Patriarch Peter I, Peter II, and Harry as thinly fictionalized, Seinfeldian versions of themselves. In this scene from the pilot episode, Patriarch Peter I humorously contemplates the fall-out when all of Interview magazine’s 279 summer interns are accidentally invited to an exclusive launch party for Belvedere’s new cookie dough vodka. (Spoiler alert: A secondary location is rented in order to host a faux-party, complete with a faux-Patrick McMullan photographer and D-list celeb spillover from the real event’s RSVP list.) The show received critical condemnation from insiders for its insular nature, lack of “real jokes, or anything approaching even that moment where you’d type LOL without actually, you know, laughing out loud,” and “possible insensitivity in the wake of the global financial collapse of 2008.” Dunham was nonplussed: “I imagined a simple formula: The Cosby Show, but Caucasian, and rich as shit, mixed with Curb Your Enthusiasm, but less neurotic Jew-y and more stick-up-your-ass WASP-y, mixed with the fall 2009 Abercrombie & Fitch catalog.” The young comedic writer also has a personal connection to the Brants: Patriarch Peter I owns several saucy paintings by her progenitor, Carroll Dunham. “My dad’s assholes are all over their house,” she said.     

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Peter II, far right, heckling “It Boy” novelist Tao Lin at the opening party for his latest book, Skullfucking in Urban Outfitters on Adderall (Sometimes I Dream Of Suicide But Then I Get Bored And Go To Sleep), due in March from FSG. Lin, posing with the skinned carcass of an Arctic Snuffleupagus, is seated with his girlfriend, 19-year old sex memoirist and Craigslist foot fetish-model Marie Calloway, who wears a hat made of sea anemones that she purchased from Polly Apfelbaum’s Etsy store. The reading, held at McNally Jackson in New York, was attended by Jonathan Franzen, Chris Kraus, and that girl from the East Village who has elf ears. “I’m just here for the booze,” mumbled Peter II, noting that he preferred a writer “with testicles,” like Charles Bukowski. “Lin’s descriptions of a mind-numbingly empty existence, soothed only by interludes of extreme drug abuse and bland consumerism, just don’t resonate with me at all.” Fuck Buttons played before the book launch. Instead of reading from his novel, Lin stood on stage humming the melody to Gotye’s “Somebody That I Used To Know” into the microphone for 27 minutes.

A tired Peter II looking a bit wooden following an experimental surgery intended to shave his septum into a more elegant and “bow-like” shape. He’s joined by James Franco’s umbrella boy Ezie Kracken (left) and Harnett Pousch (right), author of the bestselling e-book, A Chic Girl’s Guide To Chic Life In The Chic City: Chic Edition. The trio is photographed at a December 2012 fundraiser to repair yacht rudders and GPS navigation systems damaged by the ravages of superstorm Sandy; the event, held at Greenhouse, was sponsored by Bulgari, Morgan Stanley, and Pfizer’s new cardiac-friendly erectile-assistance drug. The post-op Peter II was unable to speak during the evening due to sinus pressure, but he amused 12 people by drawing a cartoon on a napkin of a zombie Ronald Reagan sporting a “more than 4+ hour” boner. 

A tired Peter II looking a bit wooden following an experimental surgery intended to shave his septum into a more elegant and “bow-like” shape. He’s joined by James Franco’s umbrella boy Ezie Kracken (left) and Harnett Pousch (right), author of the bestselling e-book, A Chic Girl’s Guide To Chic Life In The Chic City: Chic Edition. The trio is photographed at a December 2012 fundraiser to repair yacht rudders and GPS navigation systems damaged by the ravages of superstorm Sandy; the event, held at Greenhouse, was sponsored by Bulgari, Morgan Stanley, and Pfizer’s new cardiac-friendly erectile-assistance drug. The post-op Peter II was unable to speak during the evening due to sinus pressure, but he amused 12 people by drawing a cartoon on a napkin of a zombie Ronald Reagan sporting a “more than 4+ hour” boner. 

Harry, photographed with British darts-and-snooker legend Excelsior Flavorly. The pair are taking a break from the madness at a January party to celebrate Harry and Peter II’s acquisition of Merchandise Mart Properties, the corporation that runs the Armory Fair. That fair will henceforth be be redubbed BrantArmory, joining a portfolio of self-branded media properties that now include BrantInfo.com, BrantGlobalNews.com, the Harry Brant Foundation, and the Annual Brant Synergistic Adventureship Summit. This year’s Armory Fair will not be run by the Brants, but they are already looking ahead to 2014, and have named David LaChapelle as that edition’s commissioned artist. “I’m like an octopus,” said Harry, visibly drunk on peach schnapps, before trailing off into a slur and collapsing on the floor. (A friend later filled in the blanks of this enigmatic statement: Octopus > a little squirmy tentacle in every nook of the late capitalist system > Etc.) Azealia Banks performed at the party. Peter II told 14 people an anecdote about how he once woke up in Cannes with absolutely no knowledge of the preceding three months.

Harry, photographed with British darts-and-snooker legend Excelsior Flavorly. The pair are taking a break from the madness at a January party to celebrate Harry and Peter II’s acquisition of Merchandise Mart Properties, the corporation that runs the Armory Fair. That fair will henceforth be be redubbed BrantArmory, joining a portfolio of self-branded media properties that now include BrantInfo.com, BrantGlobalNews.com, the Harry Brant Foundation, and the Annual Brant Synergistic Adventureship Summit. This year’s Armory Fair will not be run by the Brants, but they are already looking ahead to 2014, and have named David LaChapelle as that edition’s commissioned artist. “I’m like an octopus,” said Harry, visibly drunk on peach schnapps, before trailing off into a slur and collapsing on the floor. (A friend later filled in the blanks of this enigmatic statement: Octopus > a little squirmy tentacle in every nook of the late capitalist system > Etc.) Azealia Banks performed at the party. Peter II told 14 people an anecdote about how he once woke up in Cannes with absolutely no knowledge of the preceding three months.

“Total JellyFinger (TM) moment!” cackled Harry, joined by Fifi LaMouche in celebrating the fruit pectin-based start-up’s IPO at the San Francisco home of its 18-year old C.E.O., Harold Gargler IV. “JellyFinger (TM) is an anti-sensation,” Gargler IV said, speaking from a podium in the living room. “It is anti-cool, anti-reason. JellyFinger (TM) is anti-anti. It affirms human potential. It’s about taking those special moments in your life and just sticking your proverbial finger in the proverbial jelly jar, pulling it out, and licking that digit for all it’s worth.” But, he went on to explain, JellyFinger (TM) takes that concept and “IRL-actualizes it”; the “product,” per se, is a simple tin of raspberry jelly, sold for $199.99, and intended to be eaten “not by the normal, inside-the-box delivery methods previous generations knew—bread, cracker, spoon—but rather from the fleshy prong of one’s own finger.” “They sent me a case of this shit,” giggles Fifi LaMouche. “I’ve been living on JellyFinger (TM) and generic methamphetamine salts for, like, three weeks now.” Two-fifths of the band String Cheese Incident performed at the launch event. Patriarch Peter I bought 4,000 shares of JellyFingers’ (TM) initial offering; he flipped them the next day, using the earnings to purchase a genetically-modified yak.

“Total JellyFinger (TM) moment!” cackled Harry, joined by Fifi LaMouche in celebrating the fruit pectin-based start-up’s IPO at the San Francisco home of its 18-year old C.E.O., Harold Gargler IV. “JellyFinger (TM) is an anti-sensation,” Gargler IV said, speaking from a podium in the living room. “It is anti-cool, anti-reason. JellyFinger (TM) is anti-anti. It affirms human potential. It’s about taking those special moments in your life and just sticking your proverbial finger in the proverbial jelly jar, pulling it out, and licking that digit for all it’s worth.” But, he went on to explain, JellyFinger (TM) takes that concept and “IRL-actualizes it”; the “product,” per se, is a simple tin of raspberry jelly, sold for $199.99, and intended to be eaten “not by the normal, inside-the-box delivery methods previous generations knew—bread, cracker, spoon—but rather from the fleshy prong of one’s own finger.”

“They sent me a case of this shit,” giggles Fifi LaMouche. “I’ve been living on JellyFinger (TM) and generic methamphetamine salts for, like, three weeks now.” Two-fifths of the band String Cheese Incident performed at the launch event. Patriarch Peter I bought 4,000 shares of JellyFingers’ (TM) initial offering; he flipped them the next day, using the earnings to purchase a genetically-modified yak.