(Above: Look at this fucking hipster poster boy, Snow)
The New York Times today has a memorable piece on some dead junkie named Dash Snow. Apparently people care because he was rich and made art.
[Snow] was East Side royalty, the discontented scion of the famous de Menil family
[What] distinguished Mr. Snow from working-class addicts like William S. Burroughs, Herbert Huncke — and himself. “It was like his money never ran out,” Mr. Walls said. “When it came to doing drugs, he could do these marathons for days and days on end. In my day, in Huncke’s day, in Burroughs’s day, when we wanted a fix, we had to go work — we couldn’t just sit around getting high for three straight weeks.”
By the end of the viewing, there were dozens of mourners milling on the street — friends, admirers, pillars of a certain downtown scene. There were stories, reminiscences, tears, then everyone went to eat at Lucien, a French bistro on First Street and First Avenue. Mr. Snow’s body, meanwhile, was taken to New Jersey and cremated.
Dead at 28, he leaves a child behind. Commence with the eye-rolling.