Stinky Winky

There is probably an embittered trend skulking in some corner of Bushwick that thinks that PS1's Warm-Up is played out. They would, of course, be missing the point. In theory, a mixture of DJs and modern art should attract crowds that resemble more a carpet of purest faux-hawk than an evening out on the Jersey Shore.

So what PS1 does, in attracting such familiar, nay conservative, DJs, is ensure that the whole event doesn't disappear up its own bottom, and that the event has a decent turn out. Coming up for instance, will be a set from Norman Jay, Member Of The Frickin' Empire.

But the event still attracts the more dubious element. Not the ones in J Crew shorts and unironic polo shirts (we won't be chucking those rocks, since we're halfway there). No, we refer to the spawn of Victoria Gotti, the lesser spotted guido.

You probably haven't seen the guido out of evening wear, in which they are a familiar greasy sight - all pinky rings, shiny shirts and too much hair oil. But were you to be hanging out on a street corner in Bensonhurst, you would encounter gangs of tanned, almost orange youths, clad mostly in basketball tops and trucker hats. It is this headgear/torsogear juxtaposition, as well as a surly demeanour, that distinguishes the young guido during daylight hours.

Why they had decided to take up residence on the steps immediately in front of the DJ, and then sit and scowl and anybody dancing, walking, or spilling beer in their vicinity, was beyond us. The attractions of Josh Wink were presumably a large paart of this, as were the people to stare at. That, and the opportunity to hoover up cocaine undisturbed, since the security was mostly confined to the perimeter.

Did we mention the guidos were coked up? Oh, yes, ten gonzo little twitchy pigeons alternately grinning and scowling, like a Johnny Boy convention. We'd forgotten the macho techno element, but this little crowd was preposterous. One of them was bleeding profusely froom the nose.

We suggest you visit this set of Flickr pix for the smiley version of events, and to get an idea of how much Target merchandise was floating around. Everyone got visors, and usually threw them away, but there were a fair few seat cushions as well, and people took the foam out of them and started using them as frisbees. The guidos didn't like the cushions because every time one of them hit them in the head it disrupted the tough guy pose, so they tended to try and stockpile them, although quite often someone would sneak up behind them and steal their stash.

And so at about six thirty from the roof of the gallery comes a hail of Target beachballs, and everyone starts battting them about in the crowd like the infant hipsters they are. Not the guidos. If a beachball came into guido airspace it was brought down and stabbed with keys, the same keys that had been shovelling coke into guido noses for the last hour or so. The pile of beachball carcasses was a noble sight, and we're sure in the eyes of the guidos went some way towards atoning for the cowardice of their ancestors in the face of the Saracen invasions.

We went to queue for a drink instead. The art? Really good. Go and see it for yourself, especially the creepy fluffy white creatures.

We're not going to pretend we owned Belly last night. No, we owned it two YEARS ago. Mwah. Hah. Hah, Hah. Mom's Pizza, though, that's been bagged.