(What I generically imagine are) Shitty one-syllable clubs Quo, Myst, and Prime didn't wait even a full day to send out this press release to Alex Geana:

Quo, then Myst and finally Prime were one of the most successful "bottle" venues in NYC. We took full advantage of that era. But now, that era is over and its time for a new model.

With the new Prime comes a new attitude and a new goal creating pleasure for the customer and making the party a fun party. Admission will no longer be driven by bottle sales. If someone looks good enough to get in and comes with the right attitude, they will get in without bottles.

On Monday, the whole fucking era was over, just like that, kaput! Quo says so! Furthermore, a new goal of creating pleasure for the customer. Which stands in opposition to the old goal: Pissing off everybody except I-bankers. We applaud this new nightlife paradigm.

[Alex Geana; pic via here]

Neel notes that the Olympian was accompanied by an entourage of striped-shirted schmucks, one of whose sole duties appeared to be pointing a flashlight at anyone attempting to photograph the swimmer during his efforts to obtain a gold medal in ass-grabbing. ("It was unreal," says Neel. "Within moments of entering the club he summoned two girls over... I've never seen such an aggressive grip.")

[More at Radar]

Sacco's rise to fame is familiar by now. She's just a Jersey girl who came to New York City, worked in the restaurant business, and made some important friends who eventually bankrolled her first club, Lot 61. She hit her peak with the opening of Bungalow 8 in 2001, which succeeded in turning the once-barren area of West Chelsea into the club capital of New York—to the point of destroying the exclusivity and isolation of the neighborhood that helped attract the top models and A-list celebrities to Sacco's clubs in the first place.

But Sacco's more recent history is one of unmistakable decline. She opened a Bungalow 8 in London, which received (and still receives) a tepid reception from the locals. Bette, the restaurant Sacco opened as a "neighborhood joint" near her own Chelsea apartment, closed without warning earlier this summer. She got a slew of nightlife and image consulting jobs that, while lucrative, aren't nearly as glamorous as her former life as an NYC tastemaker. And she says she's simply getting tired of it all:

After three decades in the game, she was bored and worn out. As Amy admits, “If I’m bored, I’m just miserable and I think that translates.”...

“I’m in Vegas, London and New York,” Amy says, “and I’m adding to my calendar. I definitely want to go to Dubai.” When she’ll return home is unclear. She’s been renting an apartment in London since November. “Certain people bitch and moan because I’m not in New York,” she says, “but I can’t be everywhere. I deserve to have a life.”

Now she has a new, younger boyfriend—London chef Andrew Lasseter—and says vaguely that she's "gone into hedge funds and finance." That presumably would help with the $179,000 tax lien leveled on her apartment, which Stein says may or may not be cleared up by now.

Of course, money shouldn't really be a problem for Sacco now. She talks about wanting to "reap the fruits of my labor," and no one would deny her the privilege. But that may involve her acknowledging that her moment is past, and ceding the nightlife crown to a new generation. Bungalow 8 is no longer hot in New York, and Sacco's decision to take the club to London rather than, say, Vegas when it was still popular may have cost her the chance to cash in on brand at its height.

People get older, and stop clubbing as much. In the same way, club moguls see their popularity wane as their proprietary crowd gives way to newer, younger stars. So what? Amy Sacco can either move into the more serene field of hotels, like Ian Schrager, or hang it up altogether. Less buzzing around is usually a healthy thing.

[P6 Mag]

Nazarian is remaking The Sahara, a former Rat Pack hangout on the Vegas strip that's become a piece of crap: "Outside, life-size Arab figures pull a row of cheesy plaster camels. Inside, $34-a-night rooms pull in pack-a-day low rollers."

But Sam is changing all that! He's remaking the hotel, and the casino, and the restaurant, and the clubs! Soon the Sahara will be the awesomest Lindsay Lohan hangout ever. Although it may or may not cure what seems to be his confusion over whether he's a young superprodigy or a wizened old business genius:

After dropping out of college, Sam Nazarian invested family money in commercial real estate and began to amass his own fortune. He was 22 years old and was known as Samy Boy. Today, his public-relations team says pointedly, he is addressed as Sam...

Although he and his PR handlers cringe at the term "nightclub king," Mr. Nazarian became known through the Hollywood club scene, starting in 2003. He formed SBE Entertainment (for Samy Boy Entertainment).

First, change your company's name. Then, fire your PR team.

[WSJ]

"A notice at Pacha gave the following information for the club shutdown. There has been surveillance of the club since Aug. 11, 2007. Since that time, the warrent said, there have been drugs bought that included Ecstasy in various quantities for about $20 per pill; cocaine, up to as much as $750 worth; marijuana; and 'alleged' ketamine (which could mean it was sold as Special K, but might have been a substitute).

"The warrant cited drug buys within the cub on dates from August 2007 into June 2008, but the big drug buys only started occurring around December of last year." [EdgeNewYork]

A tipster to Eater says:

At Bette last night for the closing party. I live and work in the area and dined there fairly regularly. The bartender told me that Amy Sacco sold the restaurant and gave the staff about 8 hours notice.

Cold. Why, we remember a few years back when we were talking about Sacco's "quest for total domination," and HBO was planning a story about her rise to fame. She had so much success in the city, she said she'd rather die than return to her native Jersey.

Then things started to slowly go downhill. Rumors flew that Sacco was stiffing her PR agency; the usual suspects started placing bets on when Bungalow 8 would close. Her doorman struck out on his own. She tried to export her magic to London, but failed to find the same popularity.

Sacco recently called New York nightlife—and herself—"overrated." Now she's been proven right.

Victim number 1's friend wanted to call 911, however the two owners of the nightclub, Sartiano and Akiva, told the friend NOT TO. 911 was called regardless. The club owners then wanted to rush the victim into a car when they knew the ambulance was coming. A minute goes by and the attacker was able to walk right out of the club, without security questioning or anyone's interference, even after the victim's friend screamed out "that's the guy!"

Interesting that a popular, exclusive club with extensive experience handling lots of excess and otherwise unwanted guests`— and run by four club veterans — had so much trouble holding on to this one troublemaker. On the other hand, no witness or victim has yet stepped forward to put their name behind their version of the story, and few club patrons are equipped, at 2:30 am, to be definitive eyewitnesses to anything.

[Post]

(Club photo via Men.Style.com)

I wanted to contact you today and see if Gawker would be able to run a story about a hate crime that occurred early Wednesday morning at the trendy NYC nightclub 1 Oak which is owned by Richie Akiva and Scott Sartiano (dated Ashley Olsen, and Jamie Lynn Siegler) -

Early Wednesday morning (June 18th, 2008) at approximately 2:30AM - two individuals were attacked by a man inside 1 OAK. and were called "faggots" - victim number 1 had to be rushed to the hospital due to massive blood loss. Victim number 2 had no visible wounds at the time.

Victim number 1's friend wanted to call 911, however the two owners of the nightclub, Sartiano and Akiva, told the friend NOT TO. 911 was called regardless. The club owners then wanted to rush the victim into a car when they knew the ambulance was coming. A minute goes by and the attacker was able to walk right out of the club, without security questioning or anyone's interference, even after the victim's friend screamed out "that's the guy!"

The attacker turns out to be someone that frequents the club often and knew the doorman and the staff, since he was able to walk right into the club and said hello to the doorman in the beginning of the night. When questioned, the owners claimed to not know who the attacker was, and provided no information.

Victim number 1 ended up with 5 stitches, a broken nose, busted upper and lower lips, and lacerations around the face. Victim number 2 suffered from acute migraines due to an attack to the back of the head. A police report was filed the next day. However the club owners did not seem concerned, and did not supply the name of the attacker and did not phone the victim to follow up on the progress or the status.

The owners of the club did not seem to care for what happened within their club, and only was concerned that the police was not informed and no press comes out of this, they wanted to retain their public image.

From 1 Oak's PR firm, Shadow PR:

Unfortunately, the situation that occurred at 1OAK was out of the establishment's control. 1OAK is cooperating fully with the necessary parties and hope the matter is resolved immediately. This inappropriate behavior is not acceptable and will not be tolerated.

[Interior pic via Men.Style.com]

The Gramercy Park Hotel's super-exclusive private roof club:

The space consists of a few drawing rooms crammed with Damien Hirst paintings, ringed by a large terra cotta patio.

The Spotted Pig's super-exclusive third floor:

This exclusive apartment is ironically small and simple, housing a tiny open kitchen, a sofa, two long tables, and two fridges. 'One is stocked with beer,' says a regular.

Cipriani's super-exclusive upstairs:

In the words of one habitue, a 26-year-old model, it's filled with 'slimy guys who want to hang out with younger women.'

The super-exclusive "underground" club called Upstairs:

'Patrons ascend a set of stairs, walk down a graffiti-lined hallway past the bathrooms, and open a door into the club itself. It's really one of the least stylized nightclubs ever.' Upstairs is a sparse, cheaply furnished room with banquettes lining the wall and utilitarian lighting.

One day, baby. One day.

[Joshua David Stein]

Now readers of blogs can choose to not read books the cheap way. Elizabeth Wagley, a communications adviser for Doctors of the World, has founded the Progressive Book Club, which hopes to harness the power of the Internets and is already off to a good start by complimenting the vast competitive conspiracy: "The right has always understood the power of ideas, the power of books as legitimizers of ideas," Wagley tells the New York Times. Unfortunately, at about $1 a book, her left-wing pricing is as mercenary as the middle-aged and grumpy Conservative Book Club. Also, Michael Chabon, Erica Jong, and Todd Gitlin choose your monthly selections, so hope you like chess-playing Zionist sex fiends obsessed with the sixties.

Michelle Berger, the Progressive Book Club’s chief operating and marketing officer and a 10-year veteran of Bertelsmann’s book clubs, said readers still wanted someone to “cut through the clutter” of titles. The new club, she said, would also improve on the old model by eliminating paper catalogs and offering a social networking component on its Web site, as well as the opportunity for members to form local book discussion groups.

Await the MySpace widget for "I applaud Michael Harrington's attempt to bring class back into the national conversation." But will going online boost sales? Bloggers who write books haven't been so successful (we have the Venn diagram to prove it). And one reason — oddly unmentioned in the Times piece — why politically oriented book clubs are suffering from diminishing returns is that their target readers are too busy exiling each other from Daily Kos, or watching Michelle Malkin do this on YouTube.

[New York Times]

All Nude Private Club!

To whom it may concern:

I would like to proudly announce the opening of my first adult club, COUSIN VINNY'S LITTLE SECRET! This private club located at [REDACTED] in the Bronx, NY is the first of it's kind. During the day it is an extraordinary "Subway style submarine sandwiche shop" offing the highest quality meats along with the freshly baked bread that you would expect from the offspring of a longtime Subway Restaurant. In fact this was a Subway franchise up until May 2008 when we were disenfranchised due to politics and differences of opinion as far as marketing is concerned.

At 10 PM Wednesday through Saturday this seemingly harmless sub shop becomes the wildly, exotic and explicit, all nude private club "COUSIN VINNY'S LITTLE SECRET". The club is located in the rear, private area of the restaurant and is strictly PRIVATE! You must pay a one time fee of $20 to become a member. Some of the advantages of membership are the following: unlimited access to the semi private lap dance rooms, 6 hours of non stop, hardcore, live action from some o the most beautiful young ladies who have ever chosen to take their clothes off in public, a bring your own booze policy that will save you a heck of a lot of money in comparison to the average club, unlimited fountain soda for your mixers, a footlong sandwiche of your choice, and a discrete and totally safe atmosphere to indulge in your carnal fantasies. Our ladies are eager to please and not to mention the fact that Cousin Vinny Agnello has been a leader in the erotic arts for over 15 years. He has been called, "the creme de la creme" of the adult industry by famous celebrity, Tony Kornheiser from Monday Night Football fame! Cousin Vinny Agnello was ever referred to as a "celebrity" by Diggs.com, a very famous website. Cousin Vinny for years has been in the eye of the storm of controversy — taking on such famous law enforcement officials as Jeanine Pirro, who tried in vain to take Cousin Vinny down. Cousin Vinny Agnello is controversial, entertaining, and fun. He does not take the media attention too seriously but is the first to tell the best and most interesting life stories. Cousin Vinny is most of all known for his high QUALITY FEMALES! Why don't you stop by and meet Cousin Vinny and find out why this former soap opera actor and male stripper has such notoriety. Come to our grand opening! Sit in a prive 24 seat theatre and watch the ladies bathe together in the see through shower, or watch them indulge in their lesbian fantasies! It's all there and more at COUSIN VINNY'S LITTLE SECRET PRIVATE CLUB AT [REDACTED]. MEMBERSHIP HAS IT'S PRIVILEDGES!

PS: the first 24 gentlemen to arrive on show nights will be admitted on a first come first serve basis. Admission is $50. We advise all patrons to please call for reservations in advance. Cannot remember our phone number? Simply call information for the number to the Subway Restaurant on East Tremont Avenue in the Bronx! Hope to see you soon!

Sincerely,

Your friend with the ladies,
Cousin Vinny Angello

I'd like to see someone from IMG do that!

[Intelligencer]

The club was quite a hot affair for the first 40 or 50 years after its founding in 1905. It once boasted members like Dwight Eisenhower, Harry Truman, and the cream of the city's journalism, literary, and artistic communities. Today, it can be more accurately embodied by the membership of gossiping octogenarian oddball Liz Smith. They're old:

A weekly e-mail message is sent out to "newcomers and forgetful old-timers" reminding: 1, Lunch is still $25 and wine is on the table; and 2, please be sure to turn off cellphones, or put them on vibrate.

They like to get buzzed:

A gold medal dangling on a red ribbon is handed out to guest speakers and performers, engraved with the club's mascot: a man in a top hat and tails with a monocle reclining in the bottom of a martini glass.

And they're now equal-opportunity horndogs:

Women were not admitted until 1991, a dramatic change that came about after intense voting, which required a recount because of suspected cheating...

Since the 1920s, the club has produced a yearbook known for its drawings of nude women that used to be inspired by the club's favorite coat check, hat and cigarette girls. At the end of the annual dinner, members will be given their 2008 yearbooks by the club's first woman president, the cabaret singer KT Sullivan.

[NYT]

You tell them that no hot club in L.A. is going to let two dudes in—let alone four or five—so you need to rotate trips to L.A. unless you don't mind partying at the non-exclusive clubs. Or tell them that they need to come with cash to offer the promoter or door person. If I was bouncing the door at a hot spot, five dudes would cost at least $500 dollars.

Uh, hey Spencer: if you were bouncing the door, people would just walk in for free with a hard glare.

one problem was for a place that easily charges the highest prices in London (10 quid for a tiny bottle of water...you are having a laugh) it doesn't offer much in terms of entertainment except if you get a kick out of spending crap loads of money and getting little back in return.

We are regulars at Bungalow 8 and on Wednesday evening we went down at 10pm for our usual champagne eve. The waitress took our order twice and came back saying they did not have this and that bottle in stock! The third time we ordered a bottle which was around £100-£150 on the menu approximately. I know because I checked it on the menu. Two bottles later we got a bill for £485. We are not the type to complain or make any sort of fuss, but we were all very disappointed and appalled at the fact that they would deliberately overcharge, thinking just because you can afford it, its ok to do that.

I'm personally very disappointed...

Last night my fiance dragged me down Bungalow 8 for a few drinks, as she has recently received her membership. My god, I was appalled by the manners of the lanky doorman - the tallest door person there with dark brown hair. I can't believe they get away with having staff like that at a reputable club. Anyway, drinks were great, the music was ok, on and off, but the no. of freaks there were the entertaining part of the evening!!We were told it was an A-listers club and considering the membership fees of £300 and the hassle of being 'shortlisted' for the membership, it was a load of K*K.

[Ratings via The View, London. Related: what is this "K*K"?]

A club called Headquarters New York is giving you a perfect excuse to do what you've been dreaming of since this whole scandal broke:

The club, located on West 38th Street, will hold an "Ashley Dupre Look-alike Contest" tonight at 10 p.m. So, if you're feeling like a girl gone wild — or a guy gone wild for that matter — we'd like to see a drag version of the infamous call girl who felled Eliot Spitzer - anyway, the point is, show up at Headquarters tonight.

[Urbanite]

So we know what Scott Storch will be doing tonight.

While WET REPUBLIC's main area will entertain the crowds, the highest level will serve as an exclusive escape with six VIP bungalows, three private spas and dedicated restrooms. Bathed in beiges, browns and ruby red, the ultramodern bungalows will be decked out with plush offerings including a king-sized day bed, teakwood furniture, giant flat screen TV, video game console with the latest games, DVD library, fully stocked mini fridge, ceiling fan, telephone, personal safe and more. Complimentary Wi-Fi will be offered throughout WET REPUBLIC. Sheer drapery will offer optional seclusion for moments of privacy. Each bungalow will boast a panoramic view of WET REPUBLIC and have pool-goers salivating for a chance to reign at the top of the party scene.

Ten hip party cabanas that line the pools will be the hot spot to kick it with friends or meet new ones. Featuring a neutral palette resplendent with splashes of orange and green, the venues will feature L-shaped oversized couches and ottomans along with all the amenities and services of the bungalows. Diligent sun-kissed servers will attend to every detail from food and beverage orders to coordinating poolside massages by skilled therapists from the Grand Spa at MGM Grand.

In addition to the bungalows and cabanas, guests may reserve one of the 18 spacious day beds or more than 80 oversized deluxe chaise lounges placed throughout the poolscape. The innovative lounges are adjustable on both ends, allowing guests to soak up the best rays throughout the day without having to physically swivel their chair. Combining the best of both worlds, 18 water lounges will be located within the pool's six-inch-deep wet deck. All guests can swim and sun in WET REPUBLIC's two main pools or opt for a more intimate dip in one of three cozy spas located on the far side of the pool area near the main entrance.

Their sense of outrage is refreshing. Lots of people line up zombie-style and shuffle in and out of "fun" clubs, tossing out money left and right, every night. We've all done it before. But mostly, although you know the night was a ripoff, you just shrug and tell yourself that's how it is.

Not the Hendersons! As much as most people would dread their parents going with them to a club like this (I mean, I think it's sweet, it's just not for me personally), maybe the LAX club should fear the parents more. Their daughter would have been thrilled to get in and party no matter what; dad, on the other hand, is like, "The fuck?"

And now it's all over the papers. As a bad thing! Not how things always happen in Vegas! We love the sweet smell of nightlife pretension burning in the morning.

Do not allow your parents into these shitty clubs, people!

To hear the Hendersons relate their bad experience on video, click here.

[pic and video via Las Vegas Sun]

Now this is not a gossip column and we touch on celebrities because most clubs treat celebrities as commodities. Their names are used to draw the public to events or appear boldface in the magazines and newspapers, placed there by either the celebrity's publicist or the PR firm that is on the club's payroll. These PR firms coordinate name placement at the numerous star-studded charity events that clubs host for free or on the cheap. Celebrities swarm to charity events, some even for the right reasons. It is perceived, correctly, that the image or news of a celebrity at a club will attract the gawking masses on future nights. What the public expects to find when they visit the club on the next Saturday night and what they expect to achieve by seeing Paris in the flesh; well I'm not sure. It's some strange Win a Date with Tad Hamilton or Simple Life fantasy working overtime.

One stunned onlooker told us, "All these cops busted in, and they were searching people. They lined people up near the bathroom and started going through their stuff. Nobody seemed to understand what was going on."

Cops Raid Downtown Hot Spot [Page Six]
Police Raid The Box [Eater]

"Hello."

"Love, life, and laughter is all I be-lee-heeve..."

"This is The Past?"

"I never learned how to hold love ... Yeah, dude. It's me. Golly, sweet-n-ho, I think I might be in love."

"Golly? Love? Okay, I've asked you not to call me when you're on drugs."

"I'm not high. It's just that there was this dreamy guy I met at Webster Hall's Makeup Room."

"Sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. It's just that you didn't sound like yourself. You met someone."

"Yeah. Tia, Paolo, and I went out. We started early over at that dump, Dick's. There's a mannequin head there on top of one of the speakers that we like to call Delish, because she looks like this tranny of the same name who sort of disappeared last year just after she got all fierce on a dress that Tia wore to Tunnel. Our story is that Tia lopped off her head and left it at Dick's, so we like to visit her every once in a while. The fact that it's just a block away from their apartment helps. Her head looks so pretty surrounded by all the Christmas lights and cobwebs."

"That's kind of sick. Decapitation? Really?"

"Oh, it's just a joke, jazzyjizz. Anyway, then we went over to Webster Hall, went down to the basement for that hip-hop party that's always empty and to check in on our favorite bathroom attendant. We chatted up Miss Understood for 10 minutes and then went up to the balcony. Omigod, there were a Susie and a Marcy, just begging Chris Couture to let them up to Makeup Room and Ms. Couture was all, 'I'm not high and it's not your birthday.'"

"Wait. A Susie and a Marcy?"

"Susie and Marcies. Girls from Jersey. The kind who are always in the bathroom stalls, like, peeing and shitting, and talking to each other. All 'Hey Sooooosie. You in dehre?' And whatever? It's great that they pay cover and all, but they are so obnoxious and freak-out-y when we're all hanging in the loo, you know? Granted we get them back by stealing their drinks off the bar when we don't have drink tickets handy."

"So they pay admission but can't come up to the party?"

"Oh god no. See, Makeup Room is on the balcony level where there's a private bar that's just for the gays and the freaks. Reign Voltaire promotes it and it's truly the funnest of crowds. Steve Travolta came out of the booth to kiss cheeks and then we went down to the stage on the main floor through the dressing room stairwell. Tia was doing runway with TJ Mozzarella when I saw him."

"This guy you're in love with."

"Totally. He's kind of a little Latin guy, but wears these really high lace-up platform boots that actually make him taller than me. He's all bedecked in black leather and denim and wears these gigantic wings. He was all, 'I've seen you around, but we've never talked,' and I was all like, 'Yeah, why is that?' even though I knew the answer."

"Which is?"

"Because my friends all say he's bad news. And they say he's straight. But I still think he has pretty eyes. Anyway, he gave me a bump..."

"Hey. You told me you weren't high!"

"Spinchtermunch. A bump doesn't get you high. A bump gets you going. Anyway, he was all like, 'See me later if you need some more, baby.' Granted, I didn't see him again tonight, but I so want to. He's sort of dangerous and dreamy all wrapped together."

"Um, listen. How do I ask this... Was his name Angel?"

"Omigod! Yes! Do you know about him? Is he some clubland superstar in the future? Is he my boyfriend?!?"

"Oh, wow. I can't say anymore. It could change the future and, well, Wilson Cruz doesn't get a lot of roles."

"Wilson ... Huh? You mean Ricky from My So Called Life? What's he got to do with Angel?"

"I think I should just hang up. Just be careful and call me next week, okay?"

Related: Party Boy in a Cage [NY]
Related: Michael Alig Mugshot [Gawker]
Earlier: Past, Over

"Hello?"

"Dude! Does this ever happen to you? You take a bow, the night is over. You get home and your pill kicks in again?"

"A pill? Like a lorazepam? I've been taking those ever since you started to call."

"Marzipan in a pill? Nutty, heh. Um, no, nellynads. Ecstasy. It seems my pill just had a final wave, which is why I'm calling you, to keep me grounded."

"Street drugs are too uncertain. Maybe that was your only choice, but now we have pharmaceuticals that provide even release and predictable results. Ask your doctor today about..."

"Predictable results? Who the hell wants predictable results when they're at Palladium?"

"Palladium? That N.Y.U. infestation?"

"Yeah, it's the end of the year. Papers written. Finals taken. Professors blown for extra credit. There were a lot of N.Y.U. kids out tonight letting off some steam."

"I think we're talking about a different..."

"Did I say tonight? I should've said yesterday I guess. It all started innocently enough. My trannygirl Tia handbagged me over to the Chelsea Clearview to see the new Madonna video."

"Handbagged? Is that a sexual thing?"

"Handbagged. Sometimes when a tranny wants to do something she'll call you up and take you along. Not as a friend really, but sort of as a fashion accessory. Anyway, she wanted to see the video to check if there were any looks in it she should be stealing. It opened before some movie that we didn't stay to watch. Anyway, we started heading back to Tia's room at Hotel Seventeen. There in the lobby was Amanda Lepore with her tits du jour. She was all 'Palladium this, Palladium that' and informed us we were already on the list before dashing off to Pat Fields' to get her wig switched out."

"Patricia Fields? From Sex and the City? I saw her once!"

"I don't read the Observer every week, but is that column still running? Wait. God. I'm so feeling this effervescent wave of ... Oh. Anywhat, around 1 we head over to Palladium. We walk under all of those blinking bulbs on the marquee, pass the rope and kiss-kiss, hug-hug our way up to the bar. The music is way too electronica for us, but we still do our routine: Walk along the right side of the columns surrounding the dance floor. Look to see if we know the go-go boys, but there aren't even any dancing tonight and the pedestals are peopled with full-price entry types. From there we walk to the middle of the dance floor. The giant disco ball is up in the rafters and obviously not coming down to us. We stand there for a minute attracting attention, then head over to the left side of the stage to make fun of anyone we know making out in the dark over there."

"You didn't dance?"

"On the main dance floor? Oh gods no. We then headed for the VIP area where Steve Travolta was spinning acceptably danceable tracks and made our hellos, popped our pills and then headed to the bleachers on the second floor to survey the crowd a bit."

"It sounds like you were a little removed."

"When you're handbagging sometimes you have to be. It's not a bad thing, cuz you're getting admission and drinks and everything for free. Except cigarettes. Those cigarette girls would not give you a free pack to save their lives. And there was only one in the club that night, so I left Tia in the bleachers to get some Marlboro Lights, the perfect complement to any drug. On the way back, I ran into this guy Luis I'd been fucking and, totally not thinking, got a bump."

"Not thinking?"

"Duh. Cocaine and Ecstasy cancel each other out. Anyway, turns out that was the least of my worries. I got back to Tia and within a few minutes I couldn't talk. She looked me dead in the eye, said 'You stupid fuck,' and stormed off."

"Why would she..."

"She comes back with three glasses. I still couldn't talk, but she forces the drinks down my throat. Luckily there were only a few other people in the bleachers because she was totally causing a commotion. After the third glass I was sort of lucid again and all, 'Why did you ...?' She immediately asked if I had done a bump. I admitted to the one from Luis (whom she despises) and was informed that I had been in my first K hole."

"Your first?"

"Believe it or not, yes. After seeing all the zombies on K at Disco 2000, I'd always avoid it. But Tia was not having it. The drinks she gave me were straight up soda. Between the caffeine and the sugar I came back to life. And, just as things turn out, our pills started kiki-ing. The rest of the night is sort of a blur, but undoubtedly a blast. And here I am now. Safe at home, chatting with mon cocu innocent. Ahhhh. Traveling, traveling, I'm gonna relax. Traveling, traveling, in the arms of unconsciousness ..."

"Hello? You still there?"

"Mhmm. So go to Palladium and have some fun. Traveling, traveling. I need a nap, but remind me to tell you about that time I hung with Björk on the roof of ClubUSA. In the arms of unconscious ..."

Earlier: Past, Over

As clubs on 27th street have shuttered, the crime has migrated down to 21st street. As per a the handy graphic in the Post, one can see almost an exact 1:1 relationship between felony assaults reported on 27th street v. on 21st. You know, we used to think the myth of clubgoers turning violent was just another urban myth along the lines of albino ninjas in the sewers and rats in kitchens. It's nice to see that at least there's some certainty in this topsy turvy world—namely, where testosterone, Red Bull and Vodka meet, bloodshed shall follow. —josh

Clubland "Refugees" Rock Flatiron Hood [NYPost]

The menu, by Ivy Stark, late of Rosa Mexicana and Dos Caminos, is billed as new American with a Mediterranean twist. The menu itself is tailored for the the mid-50's diner, a geographically as well as demographically apt description. The clientele, middle-aged business folk, a few young'uns and a couple of geriatrics, were out on the town and dammit, they wanted a show.

For $18, the hamachi crudo appetizer is accompanied by a entourage of tangerines, saffron, vanilla pickled onions and fussy droppings of sauce. The Muscovy Duck entre comes with a knife weighing at least as much as the dish itself (no small feat considering the sheer quantity of duck). Basically, things are good—especially the banana and kataifi with frozen lemon yogurt. Overwhelming, but good.

Which brings us to D'Or, the restaurant's self-proclaimed attempt to draw a downtown audience, reachable via a glowing "floating" mosaic staircase or its own separate entrance. There's rough-hewn wood la Peasant wine bar; there's a DJ with a sleeve la any East Village dive; and the ubiquitous gay waiter with black fingernail polish, a gray t-shirt, and tight black jeans.

And yet, it just doesn't pass. Could have been the striped and popped collars all around, or the in-ground lighting as smooth as a Jodeci slow jam, or the plush cream leather chairs—but despite the external reference points, you knew you were somewhere between 28th and 58th streets. Of course, as any high school kid knows, even the basement of the VFW can become the coolest place in your suburb. Perhaps in the days to come, droves of hipsters will crowd under the lowly vaulted ceilings of D'Or but right now the obviousness of the effort has the stink of self-consciousness. —Josh

Amalia [Official site]
Amalia [NYMag]

"Oh, my God, I had my coming-out party here 11 years ago," said Terrence Cairy, a reed-thin, 35-year-old jewelry designer from Melville, on Long Island. "I brought my friends and broke the news. Some friends I lost, some friends I kept."
But, he said, "This place stayed. Oh, my God, I used to come here every weekend. One friend, I brought him here three years ago to come out. It's a safe place to come out, and oh, my God, it has the best D.J.'s in the city."

Last Hurrah for a Gay Playground [NYT]
Earlier: Saying Goodbye To The Roxy

"Hello?"

"Hi."

"Um, The Past?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. You usually insult me right off. I didn't recognize you."

"Well, sorry, um, dummy."

"Dummy? That's not the aggressive type of retort that I've come to expect. You okay?"

"I just heard a rumor that The Roxy is closing."

"Do you talk to someone else in the present?"

"No, why?"

"Then how'd you hear about The Roxy?"

"A friend of mine just told me."

"Well, yeah, there have always been rumors of The Roxy closing. It's sort of part of the place's charm."

"So you mean, it's not closing?"

"Well..."

"That's awesome to hear. It seems like the rumors of its demise have always been around."

"Maybe it's part of their marketing plan?"

"Ha! You made a funny, twinkle-toes! But you might be right. See, there used to be a theater called 'The Roxy' way up at 49th and Seventh. A big gigantic place that was the shit, up until they build Radio City Music Hall. In fact the Rockettes used to be the Roxyettes until they left the Roxy for Radio City."

"What's this have to do with..."

"Always with the interruptions, you. Anyway, when The Roxy Theatre was demolished in 1960 there was this mega-famous picture of Gloria Swanson in a feather boa, being all glam in the theater's ruins."

"Sounds hot. I'll have to look it up."

"Good luck with that—it's pretty obscure. Maybe the library would have a copy of the old issue of Time when it ran."

"It's probably on the Internet."

"The what?"

"Never mind, go on."

"My guess is that the drag queens probably hold a reverence for that classic picture and would love to recreate it. Can't you just see Lypsinka in a feather boa with a disco ball hanging in the ruins?"

"Or Candace Cayne!"

"I don't know who that is, but I can just hear those queens starting rumors throughout the years. 'Oh, that latest drug bust was the last, the owners have had it. Roxy's closing for good.' Or 'I heard Junior Vasquez's latest hissy-fit/overdose has just scandalized the Roxy for good. It's time is up.' Oh! Or 'The Fire Department busted them on code violations and the Health Department said there's urine in the ice machine and John Blair has up and had a heart attack. Roxy is closing forever, Miss Thing.'"

"You do a pretty good drag voice."

"Thanks, kitten. Regardless, it's good to hear The Roxy is still going strong."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you. See, Friday night is the last roller-disco party and then Saturday night is the last dance night. Ever. The place is scheduled to be demolished pretty soon."

"Demolished? As in condemned and dangerous? Is it, like, all decrepit, but like in a cool way?."

"Nah. They're knocking it down to built some residence or something."

"Like a halfway house?"

"Huh? No. Probably some mid-rise luxury glass and steel bullshit. A halfway house?"

"Roxy's in an area that's pretty desolate and there's no subway or anything. So I'm guessing that since it's so remote, they must be building some kind rehab residence or something for society's undesirables."

"Sort of depends on your definition of undesirable. Anyway, since it's near the Chelsea Piers and the High Line ..."

"It's perfect for what? Exhibitionist sluts and rat aficionados?"
"If you'd let me finish I could expl—"

"If I'd let you finish I'd probably want to slit my wrists, numb-nuts. I've gotta call all my buds and let them know Roxy's safe. For us, anyway. Sorry you're losing it, but hey, at least you've still got Palladium. That place will always be around."

"Uh, Palladium is .."

"Gotta go. I'll call you next week."

Chelsea Brain Trust? 'With-It' Anglophiles Redo Landmark Mansion on West 14th [NYO]

"Three years ago, Noah Tepperberg and Jason Strauss transformed an old taxi garage (see attached pictures) into a nightlife Mecca. Here is what's happened since.

MARQUEE is:

The first club the Olsens hit when they moved to NY
Where Jay Z took Beyone to dance on her birthday.
Where Stevie Wonder serenaded his daughter with "Isn't She Lovely" on her birthday.
Where the Simpsons, Lindsay Lohan, The Hiltons, the entire 70's Show cast all come every time they are in NY.
Where Bruce Willis eats donuts with the staff at 4am.
Where Donatella Versace, Christina Aguleria and Scarlet Johanson have rung in the New Year.
Where P Diddy carried the Olympic Torch.
Where Mike Tyson, Lennox Lewis and Evander Holyfield came on fight night.
Where Sean Penn drank cosmos with Tim Robbins the week before he won as Oscar.
Where Andre Balazs and Uma Thurman made their first club appearance.
Where Cameron Diaz and Justin Timberlake hosted a Halloween bash dressed in an "Eyes Wide Shut" costumes.
Where sports legends Tom Brady and Derek Jeter met for the first time.
Where Mariah Carey, Danny Masterson (aka DJ Donkey Pizzle), Ricky Martin, Usher, Kelly Osborne, Debby Harry, and Glen Close have moonlighted as DJ's.
Where Leonardo DiCaprio partied after the premiere of the Departed with Matt Damon, Bono, Mick Jagger, Janet Jackson, Mark Wahlberg and others.
Where Tim Robbins brought his son Miles to see the Stanley Cup during a NHL Party.
Where Micha Barton shot the Bebe adds currently running all over the world
Where Paris Hilton canoodled with Stavros Niarchos, Paris Lastis, Travis Barker, Marcus Schakenberg, Simon Rex, Lenny Kravitz, and others.
Where Britney and K Fed made their first club appearance as a couple after they wed.

Come celebrate three years of Marquee this Thursday as they begin the next three years of milestones.

MARQUEE 3rd Anniversary
287 Tenth Ave.
December 14, 2006
11pm - 4am"

Personally, we think Sean Penn's performance as Oscar was kind of hammy and overrated. Also, Paris Hilton seems like kind of a slut. Also, can somebody burn this motherfucker down?

Earlier: Gawker's coverage of Marquee

Unrelated: The hipster is mocked for "doing blow in an LES basement." We suppose that's infinitely more obnoxious than, say, snorting rails of the back of a toilet tank in Siberia at the same hour. But we don't suppose any of the young kids at the Post would know about that, would they? Just sayin'.

Give it up for bridge & tunnel [NYP]

Deadly Drinkery [NYP]