New BSC Review Column

Notes from New Sodom: The Kipple Foodstuff Factory

The high-brow, high-class literati of the Bistro de Critique aren’t about to invite a bunch of what appear to be crack-addled whores and hustlers in red leather miniskirts or denim cut-offs to their cocktail parties. Just cause we all know the ghetto chic stylings and those who wear them well enough to tell the bohos from the hobos, don’t expect the incogniscenti to. We see Tiptree-worthy transvestite performance artists; they see tramp-stamped tarts in the leopardskin print of thrift shop drag. They see the bad rep that the ghetto has for a reason — because business is done on the street corners, johns passing through in their cars, pulling over at a painted face — pancake makeup gaucher than a 70s cover illustration of Gully Foyle’s tattoos. You have to be a regular down here to know that the guy or gal leaning in the driver’s window, batting long black eyelashes as they barter, isn’t promising the sort of good time that a stranger might expect them to be...