A herd of us went to the opening at English Kills Art Gallery on Saturday. We were all at a party on Knickerbocker and Starr but wanted to take a field trip to check out the art. It’s funny watching the poorly-hidden terror of a group of art fags and hipsters as they lose one or two of their flock a block or so back.

“Where’s (Whatsername)? This street is too dangerous to get separated!”

Me and Luis looked at each other and smirked. Eventually, the entourage moved on.

We got there, and Forrest Street, a little sliver of asphalt between Central and Flushing on a diagonal, was mobbed by the thin and fluourescent-haired. It was nice seeing so much activity on a fringe industrial street. There was a sweet little entrance yard on the side of the building, a semi-converted warehouse, and people were slung all over cool bits of garden furniture chatting each other up.

Inside, the weirdness began. There’s not much to say except I don’t get art that doesn’t look like art. This show was an extreme example. Behold:

This was a decent piece. I mean, I wouldn’t put it in my house but, you know what I mean.

This was interesting — we guessed it was boxes full of dirt and junk and weeds collected from each of the five boroughs.

Now it gets kooky. Performance art. A guy gets locked in a prison of 2x4s. Mkay.

The pièce de résistance: some wood with a sock. *cough*