This week it's the turn of Little Italy restaurant Civetta, which is reopening as some kind of mysterious hotspot. Everyone from Sevigny to The Box partner Serge Becker, Standard Hotel owner Andre Balazs, the Pope and Michael Jackson is being touted as behind this saviour-of-nightlife move.

A source points out that Sevigny is in Paris so no deal is complete, that the restaurant only has a license until midnight during the week and 2am at weekends and that any deal is not for the ownership of the space, just for promotions. "Andre Balazs and Serge Becker are not involved, from what I've heard," adds the usually reliable insider. "There's only one project that even comes close to being the new Beatrice and that's the Soho space," he/she/it said, referring to this.

The Jane was closed down last month after a concerted campaign by yuppie neighbours who were shocked to find that downtown Manhattan is not monastery-quiet and hired a PR guy. Beatrice was closed down earlier this year under similar circumstances. (Yes, I am linking to an article by me, sorry!)

Rumors flew that the Jane had reopened on Monday, but they were apparently false; people who attended said the small front bar was open but not the main room. Now someone died in the hotel. Actually literally died, not 'oh my god I just DIED' died. A Texan visitor, staying in one of the $99 rooms, noticed a bad smell. And, after hearing the usual excuses about plumbing, found the room next door sealed with Police DOA notice on it. "Older guy, lived here," explained one employee.

As for Beatrice Inn, this post on Purple Magazine's Olivier Zahm's page got the plaid-clad masses frothing over a pre-Christmas reopening. Because Zahm is friends with the owner Paul Sevigny. Sevigny is not a huge fan of the press but people working on a new deal with him told us the following:

"He's still fighting to open Beatrice," said one. "But if it reopens, Beatrice won't be the same because of the neighbors, so that plan is to move the controversial party downtown to a space that does not have the same sound issues." Until that happens expect to see various swaying French people at Hawaiian Tropic and Hooters.

But there's hope for Bungalow 8 yet. It can turn itself into something useful. Just today we learned that the former Limelight might go from being just one crappy store toa whole bunch of crappy stores. And maybe restaurants. Progress!

Studio 54
Era: 1977-1980
Past the Velvet Rope: A disco-fueled coke den with an balcony full of pre-AIDS wanton sex.
The Scene: Michael Jackson, Liza Minnelli, Bianca Jagger, Andy Warhol, and Halston fighting over the last bump.
What It Is Now: A theater.

Danceteria
Era:1982-1984
Past the Velvet Rope: An artsy after hours that was more about grit than glamour.
The Scene: Madonna passed out on the floor after a coat check shift, Keith Haring working as a cocktail waiter. Lots of New Wave.
What It Is Now: Apartments

Area
Era: 1983-1987
Past the Velvet Rope: You never knew. Every six weeks Jennifer Goode redesigned the space to fit a specific theme.
The Scene: Basquiat installing some crazy piece of art, Michael Musto when he used to be a club kid.
What It Is Now: A fond memory.

Limelight
Era: 1983-1985 with a resurgence from 1994-1996
Past the Velvet Rope: An old Gothic church tricked out into several amazing spaces.
The Scene: The first time around celebs too uptown for downtown, the second time around Michael Alig and his crazy-dressed cohorts.
What It Is Now: A ramshackle store.

Tunnel
Era: 1987-1991
Past the Velvet Rope: A long, cavernous room with a booming sound system.
The Scene: The beginnings of the superclub scene, lots of E.
What It Is Now: A restaurant.

Twilo
Era: 1996-1999
Past the Velvet Rope: We did too much K, we can barely remember, but there were some stairs and a big dance floor and a very '90s futuristic VIP room.
The Scene: Ravers, glow sticks, Junior Vasquez, Chelsea queens, the '90s.
What It Is Now: It was BED, and then we lost track.

Bungalow 8
Era: 2001-2004
Past the Velvet Rope: A California Bungalow, with palm trees, banquettes, and a concierge service that would get you whatever you wanted.
The Scene: People so fabulous and wealthy you wouldn't even know their names. Until the B&T invaded the Meatpacking and scared them all away.
What It Is Now: Closing.

Marquee
Era: 2005-2007
Past the Velvet Rope: A balcony, a dance floor, lots of banquettes, tiny tiny tables.
The Scene: The height of the bottle service era as Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan and others dance on said banquettes.
What It Is Now: Sad, and full of B&T.

The Box
Era: 2006-2008
Past the Velvet Rope: A neo French bordello with the focus on the infamous stage, but really just dark and full of cigarette smoke.
The Scene: The hippest of the downtown, with artist types getting ready to check out naked people in the infamous shows.
What It Is Now: Recovering from the economic meltdown.

The Beatrice Inn
Era: 2007-2009
Past the Velvet Rope: It was small and cramped and the ceiling was low.
The Scene: Olsens, hipsters, skinny jeans, smoking, and watery drinks.
What It Is Now: Empty.

The Jane Hotel
Era: Right this second until about two weeks from now.
Past the Velvet Rope: A small lounge that opens up into a bigger room. Very luxe and loungey.
The Scene: Everyone from Hugh Grant to Kirsten Dunst has boogied here and woken up the neighbors.
What It Is Now: Embattled.

You remember, don't you? I was sitting in the back room of the Beatrice about a year ago, drinking a Stella and checking out the 2 a.m. dance floor scene. You walked over and said, "Did you used to work at Page Six?" I agreed that I had, and you sat down next to me.

I was impressed that you were smoking a Marlboro Red and drinking what looked like a whiskey on the rocks. You told me that you had just filmed an episode of Weeds for Showtime, and asked what I was up to. I said I was working at Maxim, which was true at the time. Or maybe I said that I owned Maxim. Or owned all magazines. Let's just say I was trying to impress you.

I don't recall much about the rest of our conversation, other than you were very sweet, were wearing a lot of black eyeliner, and that your hair kind of smelled like clouds. But I do remember that once we were done with our surreal little chat, you said, "Well, I just wanted to say that you look really good tonight." And then you got up, walked across the room and sat with the friends you came with.

I wondered if I had just been totally goofed on. Because by that point in the night I was most likely a wobbly, red-eyed beast who was only capable of engaging women by doing that magic trick that I do with the handkerchief and the collapsible wand. You know the one.

But in retrospect I think that you were probably just in a really good mood. Had you not been Mary-Kate Olsen, I would probably tried to get your number, or at least asked if you wanted to take a ride in my van. But instead, I just smiled and accepted the compliment. Always wanted to say thanks for that. But I've never been able to, because that was the last time I saw you!

So I thought I'd finally have a chance to tell you in person last night when I saw you at Bergdorf-Goodman, where you and your twin sister Ashley were doing a relentlessly-hyped bartending appearance for Fashion's Night Out.

I knew it was a big deal because my cab driver actually asked if I was going to "the thing were the Olsen twins were bartending." We pulled up to a mob of several hundred eager young women clogging the front entrance. I talked my way into a side door and began to look for you in the oppressively-lit department store that reeked of decades of perfume-squirts and shoppers' flop sweat.

I navigated past the throngs of girls roaming the racks to get on the escalator to the 7th Floor, where you were allegedly pouring drinks. Even the escalator was jammed with squealing humanity, and I started getting claustrophobic and sweating a little myself. Honestly, I hadn't seen that much hubbub since the last time I attended a Jonas Brothers lunch box signing!

But once I got to the 7th floor, you were already gone. Mind you, this was only 7:30, and the event started at 7. When I said, out loud, to no one in particular, "Where are the Olsens?" a sad-eyed teenage girl told me that you had left the building. This was particularly devastating because at this point I really needed a drink.

So I pushed through another mob that was surrounding stylist Rachel Zoe as she was shot by about 20 photographers, towards the nearest fire exit. When I finally made it outside, a black Escalade slowed to a stop in front of the crowd spilling outside Bergdorf's. I thought maybe it was you, but it turned out to be designer Zac Posen, who popped out of the sun roof and waved at everyone.

I went to a few other insanely crowded boutiques before I headed back downtown: The Versace store, where the MisShapes deejayed and Taylor Momsen darted past me wearing a garter belt and a white dress shirt; the Calvin Klein store, where the disturbingly pretty male model Jamie Burke played a set with his band; and Barney's, where so many strangers rubbed up against me that I felt like I owed them money afterwards.

But you weren't at any of those places, so I hopped a cab back downtown and met some friends at the Jane Hotel, which is kind of like the Beatrice was, except not quite as much fun.

Your pal,

Chris

P.S.

Call Me!
Mary-Kate Olsen serves the drinks, for a change.
Sarah Jessica Parker can barely stand the funky music from Oscar de la Renta, Barbara Walters, and Bette Midler. Neither can we.
Fashion Victim.
Grace Coddington is the only Vogue staffer allowed to laugh.
This leatherman is the ghost of the the Meatpacking District past.
Someone tries to mess with The Tinz' perfection.
Radical knitting group tries to take over Barney's handbag department in hopes of reinvigorating interest in wool handbags.
Gossip Girl-on-girl action.
Food! You don't serve food at a fashion party!
Booze. Now that's more like it.
Blake, what if we told you there will be blow at the afterparty.
That's more like it.
Running out of live celebrities, Bloomingdale's hired wax Leonardo DiCaprio to make an appearance.
Fashion's Night Out works! This woman came out to shop for the first time since 1977!
Charlize Theron is beautiful. That is all.
The only way to shut Isaac Mizrahi up is to ask him to sing.
Don't knock these boots.
"Uh, who are we waiting for?"
Give Georgio Armani five.
Rhianna got the dates confused with July 23, which is Fashion's Day Out At The Beach.
Anna Wintour has decided to start talking shit about Sienna Miller to her face.
Jill Zarin inspects her human avatar.
The rare site of Lindsay Lohan shopping.
Last night Jonathan Adler and Simon Doonan made that rhino while playing Ghost.
André Leon Talley shows off his latest Snuggie.
Victoria Beckham thought she was showing up for a literacy benefit.
Michael Kors tries to slap Debra Messing when she points out the step and repeat matches his skin tone exactly.

The hokey cokey smokey anti-pleb celeb haven was shut down in April due to various violations of various legal, moral, and bah-humbugian codes. The "Nightlife Preservation" movement has been working on the Beatrice's behalf, but it's not looking promising. According to P6:

THE "Free the Beatrice" effort appears to have failed. An insider tells Page Six that the West Village hot spot, which has been shuttered since April, is up for a liquor-license renewal at the beginning of next year — and has almost no chance of getting it. "Neighbors are still campaigning against the club, and they have the support of the city," says our source.

All Paul Sevigny needs to do is move the club into a neighborhood populated by less wealthy and powerful neighbors, and he should have no problems at all. SoBro is the new Soho.
[P6. Pic via]

Earlier this week, the Nightlife Preservationists—dedicated to keeping clubs cool and shit, and making sure they don't suck because of sucky people who should just go back to Kansas or wherever if you can't take the noise, bro, welcome to the Big fucking Apple—had a launch party for their cause, hosted by Chloe Sevigny.

Chloe wore a "Save the Beatrice" T-shirt, a reference to the West 12th Street place that was recently shut down by the city. Her brother, Beatrice owner Paul, who deejayed at the party, also had his hipster hangout on the brain. He refused to give an interview, blaming the media for the closure by publicizing the nightly clouds of cigarette smoke inside. The NPC plans to support candidates who support nightlife, and City Council members Peter Vallone Jr., David Yassky, Jessica Lappin and Gale Brewer all made appearances amid the thumping music and gyrating go-go dancers.

The image associated with this post is best viewed using a browser.1. Peter Vallone, Jr. is a total asshole who would love to throw all graffiti writers in jail for decades and vowed to jail parents if their kids are found drinking, neither of which should go over well with the "nightlife community." Solidarity, party people.

2. This party was invitation-only. That's not "nightlife." That's your personal schmoozefest. Kind of like the Beatrice!

3. As civic causes go, "Save the Beatrice" is roughly on par with the right of NYU building occupationists to have vegan lunches delivered.

4. Let's tackle this issue after we finish up the "education" and "health care" things.

Other than that you have our full support.
[Party pics!]

The Beatrice itself was born many, many years ago. It was once a speakeasy, back in those ratty days of prohibition. But its current incarnation—the cokey, smokey, fuck den—sprang to life in 2006, when Paul Sevigny, the brother of actress Chloë, masterminded, along with his partners, a bar/restaurant that would return some classic bar elements to New York. Italian-food specials and jacket-and-tie nights. Old New York, Carrie Bradshaw might neighingly call it.

But, you know, instead it mostly catered to those who could slink past a velvet rope, those who, giddy with abandon because New York was rich and everyone was young all the way back in 2006, wanted to sit in its dark, low-ceiling'd recesses and chain smoke, sneaking away every so often for a quickie or a bump in the bathroom. And there was dancing. Oh was there dancing. So you could say, in some sideways measure, an aura of Old New York did surround the Bea. It was a bit dangerous, a bit wild, and it was definitely mean, in that fashionable kind of way.

And then the celebrities came. Oh boy did they come. Sometimes literally!—actor Shia LaBeouf was heard once loudly begging for sex at the club, as if it was some loud, boorish frat party for the coolest frat kids in the world.

These celebrities set the standards for smoking and held court like it was no big deal. "Here we all are, under this ceiling, just relaxing," they seemed to say. While Hud Morgan, a notorious Bea dancer, thundered a drunken tarantella across the room. Well, he was dancing, but he was also fighting.

The former Men's Voguer 'famously' exchanged fisticuffs with his media colleague Spencer Morgan at the club last year, all over a girl. And so the glitz and glamor of the club, coupled with the constant crowing by some New York-centric blogosphere blogs, began bringing negative attention. Not really just from the crackdown authorities, who meekly tried to curb the drugs and smoking, but from losers and poseurs and people who cast the seething milieu in too-bright, unfavorable light. When all-too-willing media punching bag Julia Allison is seen weeping at your club, its must-go-to days may be numbered.

The whole thing started to wind down about a year ago. People still flocked, people still danced, people threw caution to the wind and did rails in the loo. But some luster was lost. The whole thing just became too top heavy, as any hotspot is wont to do. Remember Butter? Exactly.

A club whose thesis was all about that hard-but-warm New York edge became just another stared-at phenomenon. Sure it was (and still is) sorta tough to get into, but the harder it became, the more it started to look like trying. And as we all know, trying is definitely not cool.

So then we come to that temporary end. On one hand, maybe it'll be the shot the club needs. You know, if a "Free Beatrice" party ends up coalescing in some other dark corner this week, if the place suddenly seems gutter-glittery again.

Or, more likely, it'll just continue its soft decline. You know, there's a recession on and all and New York is changing. Some small few of us might still need those dull thumps and furtive bumps, but for most the whole thing will probably soon just seem silly and indulgent and wrong, joining the embarrassing annals of the city's pop history, like leg warmers or beanies, like Ms. Allison or the short reign of Peaches Geldof. And most bitterly, like all of our money. Our long lost money.

As a former Gawker editor just said to us over IM: "the ceilings were so low it gave me a sad."

Indeed.

The New York Observer says that the place was locked down because of an extra 38 people found in the club on Friday night. They also note that the Bea's owners, Matt Abramcyk and Paul Sevigny, owe the city some $23,000 in unpaid fines for construction violations.

For his part, Sevigny tells BlackBook that there will be a "Free Beatrice" party at some point this week, because the glassy-eyed tiny wanderers who like to sit in the dark basement and feel cool and fucked up will not let their beloved Beatrice, their "living room," sit idle and empty. BlackBook also floats the rumor that Kate Moss's (or former Page Sixer Chris Wilson's) bloody nose was the reason for the shutdown.

Whatever the case may be, it's a tragedy for the entire City of New York, which relies heavily on the Beatrice to each night safely stow away some 125 of its most fucking annoying citizens, so the rest of us don't have to deal with them.

WTF is Rory, anyway? Sure, he looks unwashed. But, as a tipster told us in this post,

"the long-haired front man for iLash is a bonafide heir to the Irish beer empire, but rumor has it that he refuses the monthly trust fund deposit entrusted to him (and sister/Vanity Fair scribe Rebecca Guinness) choosing instead to take the bohemian, starving-artist approach when it comes to reputation."

How noble!

It may even be somewhat true, according to the Independent:

Recently, he's been scraping a living as a runner on films and writing press releases for The Strokes.

"I've realised the nine-to-five isn't my thing. As an artist, it's much easier to work as a waiter or bartender. You can earn $1,000 a night. My girlfriend didn't let me bartend because she wanted me home at night," he says.

However, when he and his sister got nervous when asked about their stepdad, famous writer JP Donleavy, "saying only that they spent their early childhood in a big, gloomy, old house in Mullingar."

His Beatrice Inn video, which is probably the first footage from inside the coke den (remember, no smoking or dancing, please!), hit Youtube today. Kind of amazing that this is the place everyone's talking about.

We're surprised owner Paul Sevigny gave Rory permission to film, due to their hipper-than-you media aversion. First, the Beatrice banned regular George Gurley (and his brother!) from the bar for daring to write an affectionate article about its celeb clientele in Fashion Week Daily. Then, Kirsten Dunst spent half of her Bazaar interview gushing about the place like a teen who's just discovered the roller-skating rink (although they didn't ban her.) Perhaps this is a sign of the Bea's waning exclusivity.

[Photo: Christos Katsiaouni for Guest of a Guest]

• Kate Moss: "Never seen here there, but we have a history. At least in my mind."
• Mary Kate Olsen: "Hard not to stare, because she looks like a tin elfin child playing dress-up in someone else's clothes."
• Paul Johnson Calderone: "Outrageous hipster-fashion-socialite-blogger dude... been back to his place for a bunch of afterparties. All I remember is finding myself on a hide-a-bed at 8 a.m., watching Marie Antoinette, thinking it was maybe time to go home."
• Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson: "Seemed pretty mellow to me, but are known as the 'dramatic duo,' with catfights, tears, making up, making out in front of everybody."
• Josh Hartnett: "Used to have after-parties at his place in SoHo. Has a rack of sunglasses and everyone would wear a pair. Nothing ever happened and people he didn't know had to leave their bags and cellphones in the corner of the room."

• Thanks, George, for enduring that so we don't have to. And for telling us once, at the Bea, that he checks this website "ten, twelves times a day."

The thirty-something "Bea rat"—a real-estate investor who claims an interest in screenwriting —goes in, usually alone, almost every single night. He approaches a woman and says, "I'm going to find you later because you look like the kind of girl who wants to do very bad things." If you're French, he calls you "Frenchy." If a girl's Italian, he calls her "Siciliana."

Not convinced? Well, the lines do sound better in a Greek accent. More importantly, the seduction is accompanied by the promise of cocaine, back at our Casanova's apartment a few blocks away. Simple, but mind-jarringly effective. As studies have shown, the content of a pickup line has very little to do with a woman's response; and other primates have been found to choose cocaine over pretty much anything else, even food.

Most cunning of all: the cap-wearing Euro doesn't actually share the cocaine: that way the calculating seducer remains sober and ready to take advantage of any opportunity. Too creepy? "Well, do you do coke?" a Beatrice bartender asked. "If you do coke, he's a cool guy."

We'll let our informant take the floor and set the pre-Hartnett scene for us:

"Kirsten came in on the early side with a matching blonde wingwoman, and she definitely didn't look like the dirty-haired slob most sightings have depicted her as. She was bubbly, giggly, bouncing from friend to friend near the bar and enjoying the music upstairs. At one point she asked me for a cigarette and a light, so I handed her one, but before I could fetch a lighter, some heroic hipster-y looking guy swept up and took over celebrity cigarette lighting responsibilities. She was smiley all night, wearing a girly grunge flannel shirt and skinny jeans. The Olsen twin came in with a huge posse around the same time, but the two stars didn't say a word to each other all night. The MK/Ashley hybrid planted herself by the DJ's booth and chain-smoked all night while hush-hush gossiping with a tight group of friends."

But it seems that as soon as master thespian Josh showed up around 1am, Dunst abandoned her cigarette bumming and devoted all her attention to the newly shaven star:

"As soon as Josh came in with a couple of wingmen of his own, Kirsten went straight towards him and spent a good half hour laughing and chatting him up by the bar — their faces were so close, they might as well have been eskimo-kissing. And even though Kirsten followed Josh whenever he changed rooms, up the stairs when he went up to survey the dance floor still lorded over by the seated Olsen, and down the stairs when he needed a refill, he was definitely reciprocating. The one non-nauseating sight? Didn't see Dunst take one sip of anything. MK/Olsen/Whichever, on the other hand..."

The icing on the cake? Another source tells us, "My friend saw Josh and Kirsten leave together." And somehow we doubt all that flirting didn't end with a handshake on the curb.

[Photo credit: Getty]

• SPIN ME [NYP]

And at one point while the cops were still there, two girls tried going into the bathroom together (as per usual), and the bouncer wouldn't let them, they got into an argument, admitted they didn't actually have to "use the bathroom", so he just told them to move on.

The fallout from the law enforcement operation?

After they left, the bouncer announced, "Ok everyone, party's back on!"

[pic via NY Mag]

Also,

While standing in line to get in... talking on cell phone giving friend directions. bouncer accosts me and tells me i need to go across the street or to the corner. apparently there is a no cell phone talking rule on their property. ha! that's a first for me.

"Ashley Olsen said hello to Sam at the Beatrice, and Lindsay screamed at her, 'Get your 15-year-old Full House ass away from my girlfriend.'"

Calling Ronson her "girlfriend" is one thing, especially after the two BFFs are now shacking up together, but a piece in today's NY Post reported that Lohan has a new Facebook page under the name "Lindsay Ronson" (revealed by our friends over at Gawker):


So, first comes love, then comes cohabitation, then comes taking your loved one's last name? While we're delighted to hear Lindsay wasn't so far off the rails that she was able to correctly remember which TGIF sitcom Olsen starred in, it seems whatever she was on prompted some sort of amnesia - 15? Sure, Olsen isn't the most mature-looking five-foot-nothing star in the world, but everyone and their father knows the Olsens became legal some time ago.

• SAM'S ALL HERS [NY Post]
• SHE'S BAAACK: LATE-NIGHT LINDSAY LOHAN [NYDN]