“Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, yo!” Glasspopcorn yelled. He had clearly studied his rap music videos (come to think of it, so has Mr. Trecartin). The crowd chanted in unison and a very large black woman grinded against the chrome rims.
“I wrote this next song when I was 12,” he said, now relocated to the stage. A slow but pummeling dub beat, like an irregular heart beat run through a Marshall stack, began.
“My swag piece, my swag piece, my swag piece,” the song went.
He had one more song to play.
“Ed Hardy,” Glasspopcorn mumbled into the microphone. “Ed Hardy, Ed Hardy, Ed Hardy.”
Then he tossed a bucket of red Twizzlers into the mob.
“I’m starting, to not, trust the house,” says a female character, who is holding a sledgehammer, in “The Re’Search (Re’Search WaitS),” perhaps the best of the nine pieces in Any Ever.
Her companion turns to her.
“I’m starting, to not, trust the house!” the other girl says.
The Observer had gone inside to the exhibition, where revelers could witness the madness of Any Ever before it closes this Saturday. But we had seen it before, and it seems everyone else had, too. Many mouthed along with the scatter-shot scripts and laughed before the jokes were deployed. We went back to the party.
#HDBOYZ, a by-the-numbers boy band named for a hashtag, had taken the stage, so we opened the Twitter application on our iPhone and refreshed.
Unsurprisingly the party was being tweeted. “I can’t expect your age group to understand my personality!” someone wrote, quoting one of Mr. Trecartin’s films.
“I never say ‘they’. I say ‘us’ or ‘we'” #trecartin” wrote someone else.
“Ware be @ PEOPLE ?¿” Mr. Trecartin tweeted (during the party, it appeared he couldn’t keep his iPhone 4 in his pocket for more than a few minutes).
Over in a corner of the outdoor plaza, two women associated with Trecartin’s crew were interviewing random strangers for a faux newscast, inviting them into his work.
Naturally we volunteered.
“This show is called ‘The World of Wonder!’” the fake anchor announced as the light from the camera obscured the crowds below, all of them pouring behind us toward the stage or toward us, to the exhibition.
“Are you having a good time?” she asked.
The microphone was jammed in front of our mouth.
“This is a fantastic party,” we said. “Where do we go from here?”
And then closing fireworks burst into the air, spastic and unexpected, the kids jerking in shock at the noise. A Family Finds Entertainment, Mr. Trecartin’s first film, ends in almost the same way.
Who knows what’s next for Mr. Trecartin, but it’s most certain he’s on a roll. “New stuff is coming!” the artist said to The Observer. The party was to end soon and we were leaving. A walk over the Pulaski Bridge would eventually take us to Greenpoint, but leaving Long Island City we spotted the dancer who had been booty dropping, aggressively, on tiny Glasspopcorn earlier than evening.
“My name is Spicee,” she explained. “S-P-I-C-E-E. Spicee.” The fishnets were a little worn down, and she had thrown a coat over a comically small top.
A few other guys from the show shouted to her as a cab pulled up.
“Goodbye!” they yelled.
“I gotta go, but you can watch me on Spicee TV,” she said. “It’s on YouTube.”
