Last night The Observer hopped on a hot, sweaty subway and emerged in the hot, sweaty Lower East Side. We trudged, wiping the sweat from our brow, to the Vice Magazine Photo Show.
Arriving at the door of the gallery, a mob of perspiring partiers was causing the doorman and bouncer much distress. “Everybody back up!,” the seasoned bouncer would periodically yell, muttering under his breath about the overwhelmed Vice rep at the door. We got inside, hoping to escape the humidity, and found ourselves confronted with the feverish calidity of young drunken body-heat.
We waded down the slim staircase, and pushed toward the bar where tattooed youths waited for their helping of free alcohol. The drinks were strong. A booth and speakers had been set up in the small downstairs space where DJ Vito Fun blasted Florence+The Machine, the Killers and the like. “Racism is Gay!” his shirt read.
Tipsy hipsters clapped to the music and danced, hand in sweaty hand. Girls in lace dresses dabbed at their foreheads in futile desperation while boys in T-shirts soaked through with sweat looked on. Within minutes we were overcome by the raging temperatures and had to step back outside where the crowd had not subsided. “Everybody back up!” we heard once more as we walked down the street.
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