New York

Toland Grinnell

Basilico Fine Arts

Pity the poor white boy. Here, at the beginning of the end of everything, he is having a hard time. His dick is mostly limp, or in the wrong place, or sometimes just cut off altogether (at which point, it’s spread all over the news). Strange and alien things and people and technology press in on him from all sides: black people and brown people and women and computers and cars that talk back. Previously assured of his divine right to rule the world, the white boy is currently discovering that it isn’t quite as divine or right as it used to be. Which leaves the white boy in the position that everybody else has always occupied: poised, more or less, before the abyss. Or, alternatively, left all alone on his own private island hell: “Marooned . . . Again . . . ” as Toland Grinnell has it. Bummer.

There are lots of possible responses to this new insecurity, and Grinnell’s elegantly

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