From yet another lady:

"I met him at this "power woman" party last week, or rather I was cornered by him... He walked up to me at this cocktail thing, grabbed my hand and kissed it before I could yank it away (and believe me I did, I'm not sure I could have been more rude, actually ) and then as I kept backing away he kept stepping towards me, like the Seinfeld close-talker... I think his story this time was that he was an Oscar producer or some such.

Silva's fictional "projects" include action film Judex (with Michael Douglas), Hunt of the Sea Wolves (a modern-day pirate film with Bruce Willis), and Raritan Valley Line, a domestic drama starring Sissy Spacek and Mary Louise Parker. Here's the treatment for the unfortunately-named historical drama Legend of Black Tom. It sounds kind of good, actually?

From 2008:

The Tennessean, July 28: "Comfort food and a comfortable atmosphere seems to have appeal in a tougher economy. On the flip side, past boom times have led to expensive and outrageous fare. "When times buckle down, people say, 'You know, I just want to feel comfortable, secure and warm."

The Early Show, Feb. 5: "So the fact is we want comfort food in our high-end restaurants. Again, please, take me to that place...where I can be secure and familiar... Now here's another really important part about the comfort food, and this is what—where we get to our recessionary times."

New York Times, Jan 31: "Unlike previous portrayals of the late '50s and early '60s as a time of unalloyed optimism, fashion's latest embrace of the past appears to reflect the nation's darkening mood. ''It is the fashion equivalent of comfort food — I think we need it... things are timeless right now, or you want them to be."

Seattle Times, September 17: "We've been around a really long time and actually, if you look at the history of the 5 Spot, when they started, the goal was to create a recession-proof restaurant. And it's working. People go back to comfort food in hard times."

San Francisco Chronicle, September 28: "In a Union City factory that twists out 150,000 pounds of Red Vines licorice a day, plant manager John Nelson is betting that $10 million in capital investments, made when money flowed freely, will help his 240-person plant prosper through tough times. "We won't call it recession-proof, but licorice has always held its own. It's kind of a comfort food."

From 2001:

New York Times, Nov. 4: "We ate high on the hog and low on the calf. We ate our way through the Eisenhower recession, the Cuban missile crisis, Vietnam, the assassinations of J.F.K., R.F.K. and Martin Luther King Jr., through Watergate, the Persian Gulf War and the Clinton crisis. Recently a journalist friend was on the street, covering the World Trade Center disaster. She ordered a sandwich, saying: ''Don't bring me any fat-free mayonnaise. If the world is coming to an end, I want the real thing.''

New York Times, Dec. 26: "Comfort food and blue-plate diner dishes showed up all over town, sure signs of a looming recession, but the door was wide open for a chef who could make simplicity seem like an inspiration rather than a limitation."

New York Times, Jan. 26, 2002: "There was a lot of talk after 9/11 about what was going to be palatable for audiences, that people were looking for the theatrical equivalent of comfort food. I felt that way too."

BBC, July 30: "Food manufacturers, retailers and utilities will also be cushioned from the worst effects of any recession."

"Mr. Hammerstein said he had recently become engaged and would marry 'in Decemberish.' He did not elaborate. Mystery, he said, is really the core of his business."

As for charges that he regularly slapped female employees on their asses hard enough to leave bruises and that he coerced the Porcelain TwinZ, Amber and Heather Langely, to dirty up their act so that he could rename it "Twincest"? Oh, pooh-pooh. He's an artist!

“I’m a director,” he said. “I edited their show. Whether I change the tone or the color of something, I’ve never gotten anyone to do anything they don’t want to do.”

Mr. Hammerstein said employees have access to a handbook in the payroll office that explains that anyone with a sexual harassment complaint can report it to one of two people, one a man and the other a woman. “They never complained when they worked here,” he said of the sisters.

The Langleys said they had never heard of the sexual harassment policy, had never seen an employee handbook and did not complain sooner because they feared losing their jobs. A performer at the Box who has worked there for more than a year and who requested anonymity because she fears being fired backed up some of the twins’ claims, saying that if there was an employee handbook, “that’s something that just started that was never passed out for the long-term employees.”

[NYT]

• The Beatrice just got theirs reinstated, reports the Observer—much to the chagrin of its sleepy residential neighbors, who want the open-'til-4 coke den gone.
• The Box's license, as previously reported, was not granted renewal last week. Angry neighbors are tired of getting carded on their way to their apartments!
• The East Village bar Death & Company didn't get their license renewed last March; they sued the State Liquor Authority. [Observer]
• Scores totally had it coming: prostitution charges, plus the mobbed-up nature of the organization.
  
  Other than Scores, the rest of these clubs are located in largely residential neighborhoods—perhaps reflecting that people are tired of the mega-club hell of West Chelsea, which was actually zoned for nightlife.
  
  [Photo: Nikola Tamindzic for Home of the Vain]

[McMullan] had just bagged a shot of Kelly Osbourne. “This is where a photographer is really a photographer,” he said, wiping some sweat from his chin. “You don’t have time to change the lighting. You have to get it, and then you edit.” He zoomed in on a dress with white ruffles. “Now, that is beautiful!” he said. “We may do a piece on ruffles, for example, if I’m seeing a lot of them. It’s a photo-driven magazine.

What else can you expect in PMc? "A tone poem about New York" (with special short, iPhone-appropriate sentences!) and relentless cropping of skeletal celebrities:

Merriam found his favorite shot: a picture, from the Marc Jacobs show, of Victoria Beckham’s back. If you zoomed in, and held the phone close to your face, you could read words tattooed between her shoulder blades. “Awesome,” he said.

Farrell pointed to some bony parts of Beckham’s back. “Can you crop it to get rid of that horrible skeletal shit? Because we’re not Us Weekly. We don’t want to scare people.”

A sure springboard to the A-list.

[New Yorker; pic via NYM]

The crowd at 10:30 p.m., via Nonsociety.

There's no satisfying way to explain the party, other than a PR clusterfuck/fuckup.

However, maybe people are getting a little tired of the franchise after a six-year TV run, one of the most-hyped movies of the year, and a cultural reach that, on some days, seems to have infected the entire city with luxury brand names and bus tours.

What does this say about the sequel? We're guessing nothing good. Sometimes you just have to get the shotgun and take the old mare out behind the barn.

“Say I swiped an A.T.M. card; how do I get his money out, he’s an asshole,” [Luciano] said. “There’s a toy. You can buy it at the toy store in Time Square. It’s called an Etch A Sketch.”

Break open an Etch A Sketch, he said, and pour the black powder into a bowl. You have a credit-card-swiping machine, which is connected to a phone line, which connects to the bank. You take your finger and dip it into the black powder, and then run that finger across the magnetic strip on the back of the card. Now you swipe the card. The machine spits back 10 digits. The four digits in the middle, sandwiched in between three on each side, will be the pin number. Ideally, it will be around 11:50 p.m. Take the card to an A.T.M. at a bodega, not a bank—no cameras. Withdraw as much as you can, usually $800. Smoke a cigarette. Wait till the clock strikes midnight. It’s a new day! Withdraw another $800."

We also hear that you can use an Etch-a-Sketch to hack into Sarah Palin's e-mail account.

[New York Observer]

"Alleged misrepresentation is just one of the club’s—er, dinner theater’s!—problems. Residents of the surrounding area say they are tired of wading through a sea of bottle-addled hipsters every time they walk down the block—the place has apparently been getting noise complaints since day one. Even more damning, people from the building next door showed up to inform the board that they often get carded trying to get into their apartments."

[New York Observer]

In the Daily News' Rush & Molloy gossip column today, there was this about Dicaprio:

Leo? The good times find him. The other night, at a Chelsea club, an exquisite brunette glommed onto him. (Isn't that disgusting, guys?) But we're assured they did not exchange phone numbers.

Ha, but guess who was hanging on the other arm of that brunette? Ron Burkle, of course! An eyewitness tipster tells us that the 55-year-old rich white guy was on the other side of the girl with his hand on her leg, while she was simultaneously caressing Leo's head. Uh, kinky, I guess.

This behavior will do nothing to keep Burkle out of the gossip spotlight. Neither will his insatiable thirst for models. We also hear that not long after the Leo-brunette outing, Burkle scored a front row seat at the William Rast show at Fashion Week. After the show, "he hung around the "VIP area"
and mercilessly hit on May [Andersen]"—to the point that the model started calling people on her cell phone while Burkle stood there, just so she didn't have to talk to him.

Ron Burkle seems to lack a bit of grace. And good sense. Money can buy many things, but it will never buy him a face and body that can compete with Leonardo DiCaprio's. Nor will it buy a complete press blackout of all his high-flying partying. Although it's obvious that Burkle (along with some Jesse Jackson relatives) is interested in establishing a friendly media beachhead with Radar—we hear he went in for a meeting with those folks just last week.

It's not enough, Ron! You're uncontrollably drawn to models and parties. Either embrace that lifestyle publicly and accept the ridicule you'll get for it, or give it up. It's just like that unreachable fantasy featuring you, Leo, and that girl: you can't have it both ways.

(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]

The fetish-burlesque cabaret duo the Porcelain Twinz have been performing their hot-twin act for years. They were mentioned in Neil Strauss's pickup-artist book The Game: "You know what's funny," they told the author when he tried to hit on them, "We get all our physicality out on stage... we're probably more distant than most sisters."

Last year, they were tapped to perform at the Box. They recently quit the show, posting a long screed on their website called, "This is Why We Left the Box in NYC." They accused the handsome Hammerstein of everything from neglecting his dog to pressuring them into a threesome; they also mentioned that last month, the entire tech staff quit.

Their complaints resulting from the sexed-up work environment ranged from employee ass-slapping to sex they didn't want to participate in to other types of sexual coercion and job threatening. Hammerstein also allegedly charged them $2000 a month to live in an 8X20 room in his apartment.

A former Box employee we spoke to said that the Porcelain Twinz's story is "not at all" an isolated incident—and said she quit because of "a specific incident with Simon Hammerstein." What, exactly, is going on inside this Box?

From the Twinz:

• "Simon Hammerstein regularly slaps the girls so hard on the buttocks, that it leaves handprint welts for at least two days before leaving a bruise. This has happened to one of us as well as several of the classically trained dancers known as the "Hammerstein Beauties." Simon sexually harasses the employees constantly..."
• "He abuses the tech staff on a daily and nightly basis, constantly putting them down, calling them idiots, and ripping headsets off of tech staff's heads when he is in a fit of rage over something."
• "Simon sexually harasses all of the Hammerstein Beauties requiring all of the girls to sleep with him if they want to have a job, or if they want to be chosen for a special spot in the show, while constantly pushing cocaine on them."
• 
  

  The former Box employee we spoke with said, "I've seen this stuff happen. And I've experienced similar things. There was also a lot of job threatening... the treatment of staff is pretty abysmal. The slapping of asses, etc—I would see that all the time. It was playful, but then it was... not cool."

  "I had a lot of fun at the Box, and I love it. The staff there is some of the most interesting and exciting people I've met. There are just no consequences to owner's actions, mostly Simon's. People are at his whim."

• Other allegations: filthy dressing rooms (pictured below), in which the Twinz say Hammerstein abandoned his dog for days. (An employee stole the dog at one point, hoping to protect it.)
• 
  
  

  Of course, there's something to be said about having different expectations for your work environment when it's a cabaret nightclub that bills itself as one of the sexiest and no-holds-barred acts in town.

  But still: is the Box being run like a nineteenth-century Dickensian whorehouse? Calls and e-mails to Hammerstein for comment went unreturned. As Hammerstein himself told the New York Times last year, "The show’s only as good as the people you’re watching it with."

  One of the Twinz's acts (not shot at the Box):
  

The backstory: our downtown scene tipster, Molly Friedman, reported that the scruffy Republican had made comments asserting how "hot" he found Sarah Palin's teenage daughters. Gallo responded with a long screed denouncing Friedman as an "ugly cunt whore," which is wholly inaccurate. He also mentioned that a New York Magazine reporter had recorded the interview, and that he would gladly shove said microphone up our ass. Well, New York played the tape on their website and it looks like Gallo said nothing untoward during the time he was being recorded. But you're still going to hell for calling Hillary Clinton a "pig" during that same recording, Vince! [Intel]

• 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."

"'We've had quite a spike, mostly people who are curious come down and they wind up leaving and having a good time,' said Robert Parker, the manager of the Gay 90's club in downtown Minneapolis which features a popular 'drag queen' show. 'Mississippi, Alabama, California, Arizona, I've seen people from all over,' said Parker."

As for the Virginians and the tourist guides they refused to collect, Parker says, "Shame on them. [The club] is all about inclusiveness, including everybody no matter who and what you are, and I think if perhaps Republicans come and see that and they would come in and see that the world could be that way, and they may learn something."

"In a statement, Virginia Lt. Gov Bolling said he was sorry the cancellation occurred 'and wish it had not happened.' He said the delegation would reimburse the publisher for his costs." [ABC News]

See you in hell.

[via Cityfile; photo by Nikola Tamindzic/Home of the Vain]

The rumor's not a complete surprise—we were reporting last year that some freelancers were having trouble getting paid by TONY. Our tipsters, though, say that's just a symptom of more serious money problems for publisher Allison Tocci and company:

Middle management has been instructed to reduce operating cost by whatever means necessary. They owe so much money across all their major vendors that it’s just a matter of time before something bad happens — vendors have already stared black listing TONY from doing business with them, because of their delinquent account practices.

TONY has seriously hurt themselves in the eyes of many vendors by not been more proactive towards reducing their ever-increasing debt.

Last year's investment in the website may have sucked away cash that could have been used to pay down debts, our tipster says, and some freelancers haven't been paid "in months." From another tipster:

Time Out NY is in such a critical financial quagmire that insiders speculate that it won't make it to the end of the year. Vendors and some freelancers have not been paid for two years, and that's probably a conservative number. Some of those vendors, including paper suppliers and printers, are ready to stop doing business with TONY until they pay up the hundreds of thousand that they are owed.

Whatever the case, there's certainly some animosity against management and their financial decisions over the past year or two. Any of you had trouble getting paid, or know more about TONY's situation? Email us.

THE Flâneurs:

Liam McMullan: The 19-year old son of the 80s most infamous air-kissing, matchmaking, Hilton-pose-perfecting photographer Patrick McMullan, Liam is not only easy on the eyes but shockingly sweet. We hear he has a screenplay in the works, but before rolling any eyes, note his rumored inspiration for one scene: that fateful February evening when Julia Allison and Hud Morgan fought over the title of teenage soap star Leven Rambin's Fakest Friend With Biggest Blow Job Fetish.



Paul Johnson Calderone: Having perfected the art of wearing ass-tight denim shorts and bowler caps without shame, the Papermag.com blogger (recently promoted to Market Editor) and Peter Davis arm candy is the closest thing New York has to Michael Alig these days (minus all the glitter and tendency to murder rival queens mid-meth rage.)

Sean Glass: This Manhattan-born, Dalton-educated filmmaker is slowly-but-finally making his mark with short films starring friends like Liam and Byrdie Bell at underground film festivals—after impatiently-but-determinedly wading through Emerson's film school program. A reputable ladies' man.

James Cruickshank: Known by some as "J.C.", "that Hamptons kid whose proctologist dad threw him some cash to live out his childhood dream of presiding over a skateboard company," and, of course, "Annabelle Dexter-Jones' boyfriend," James and his childhood crew are responsible for LOLA, the high-end t-shirt line named after their beloved childhood skate park in the Hamptons. The then-12-year old posse's public protest against Southampton's rent-a-cop division's decision to shut it down was quasi-legendary and successful. (Back in 1995, when pot clouds prompted Hamptstein cops to close the tween version of the hidden-from-sight hilltop version of Beatrice hangout, James and his droogs held a town-wide petition against the Mayor, complete with a mini-parade.)

Michael Martin: Rare handsome straight young rich under-the-radar charmer, head of the National Arts Club's Junior Committee. Single, freelance art writer (New York magazine, for example)

THE NEW EDIES

Kelley Hoffman: After internships with Vogue and New York mag, the SoCal native and Smith graduate recently left her job in Vogue's Creative Services dept. to break out on her own as a rapidly successful style writer for refinery29.com—and is known as the cutest dancer at Beatrice. Instead of using the dusty "high/low" aesthetic, she prefers "low/low," perfecting her look as a snow-blonde, thick-banged Chloe Sevigny lookalike with better boobs and a penchants for vintage Betty Page one-piece swimsuits worn as tops underneath American Apparel mini-skirts.

Molly Friedman: Comeback kid. After following in many a magazine editor's footsteps by putting a couple of perfumes on eBay, the daughter of novelist and screenwriter Bruce Jay Friedman has finally moved on after her 2006 banishment from Conde Nast. After toiling away for our own sister site Defamer.com, Friedman is currently finishing a novel said to be Alice in Wonderland meets Vile Bodies.

Lizzy Fraser: The ghost of Edie Sedgwick reincarnate: model, Columbia undergrad, Warholophile and photographer favoring self-portraits of herself surrounded by a minimum of four mirrors in varying sizes and shapes. See lizfraseronline.com.

Harley Viera Newton: See here.

Annabelle Dexter-Jones: The one Dexter-Jones-Ronson kid to avoid controversy, this girlfriend of James Cruickshank shies away from anything "coke den"-related. She's moved on from modeling for half-sister Charlotte Ronson and Teen Vogue to simply smiling her way through after-hours Manhattan.


THE NEW "SOCIALISTS":

Summer Rej: Born and raised on Park and 68th, the Calhoun- and Cornell-educated blonde who began toiling for Vogue's business side days after graduation recently hosted a garden party to launch her own jewelry line 3 Blondes. The event, its guests, and the line itself merited coverage on parkavepeerage.com, and garnered three times as many comments from notoriously vicious Park Avenue Peerage readers than otherwise innocuous and repetitious posts on former social stars like Amanda Hearst and Olivia Palermo.

Pamela Love (right): See here.

DJ Nick Cohen: UES rich kid turned famous DJ and sneaker brand entrepreneur

Joey Goodwin (right): Palm Beach- and UES-raised, Goodwin is the actual designer behind Unruly Heir, despite Kristian Lalliberte's offensive decision to portray himself as the face of the brand. Rumor is that Goodwin is planning on firing Lalliberte ASAP.

See also: Rebecca Schiffman

THE NEW ARISTOCRACY:

Rory Guinness: Yes, 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.

Marissa Bregman: daughter of Scarface producer Marty Bregman.

James "Carlton" DeWoody III: Son of Rudin Management heiress/Upper East Side art collector Beth Rudin and artist Jim DeWoody, Carlton fools most partygoers into thinking he's a poor man's Dash Snow with his oddly-shaped glasses and skinny white jeans. But the underground artist and designer of both The Big Empty's album cover and Vornado's logo is a closeted hottie who inspired a group of 50 media-centric partygoers to chant "OBAMA!" on a Chelsea rooftop this past April, despite wearing a fur-lined hat and shearling winter jacket.

Mickey Sumner: When you're the daughter of Trudie Styler and Sting, blonde, Fieldston-educated, and grew up in a Central Park West apartment (complete with one room occupied only by Sting's vintage guitar collection), the natural progression to actress/model is tempting. But after a half-hearted attempt to join the Richards sisters and Liv Tyler among rock royalty's laundry list of quasi-talented pretty young things, Sumner quickly chose art over artifice—drawing, photographing, and paintings. She also stars in her friends' short films; see Michaelimagirl.com.

See also: Tess Brokaw

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."

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]

despite being invited to a private party at the hudson hotel, and being +3 years over the legal drinking age, tonight I was denied entrance to the bar, and was threatened with having my drivers license cut up. however, the two (and i know this for a fact) underage blondes in front of me were able to get in without a problem, and have their "ids" scan just fine.

oh and try to ask for a concierge or a manager? yeah that draws out the scissors for your real id.

believe me, my brother and sisterinlaw are cancelling their reservations at this hotel and i will never give them my service again.

and yeah, i'll be that moderately in shape brunette raising a f***ing stink in the lobby tomorrow.

That bouncer should be careful, unless he wants to get stabbed about the face and neck.

Reports one eyewitness: "The last straw for the police was when a really good song came on a boom box that this guy was holding on his shoulder a few feet away from me. The cops must have known that something sinister was taking place because there were at least 10 people dancing to the music. Then a cop grabbed the guy with the boom box by the back of his arm and yanked him into the street, pushing him to the ground and making him loose grip of the stereo. Now, I know that dancing is illegal and also a sin, but I think there was excessive force used in this situation. The stereo fell, batteries flying everywhere, and when a few of his friends picked it up, a woman cop angrily lunged for the boom box and tried to further dismantle it!"

Plenty of pictures, video, and more citizen journalism on what will be know for the next day or two as The Williamsburg Riot can be found at FreeWilliamsburg and Gothamist.

McMullan's new "magazine" will be strictly iPhone-only, I guess to keep it out of the hands of the wrong crowd. The "magazine" will be called PMc and feature his own photos, a double shot of self-promotion.

Calling it “the first of its kind,” the bimonthly will be distributed via iTunes for 99 cents per issue. Content will be refreshed daily in order to give readers “an inside look into the glamorous world of Patrick McMullan and his peers.”

Ahem. McMullan's self-described "peers" are presumably actual celebrities, or it's hard to see what attraction this "magazine" would have over, I don't know, ANY OF 1000 (free) WEBSITES. But it's doubtful a little venture like this will help the photographer escape what some who know him say is his intractable problem: the more the celebrities and socialites he shoots treat him as just another photog, the more frustrated he becomes. And McMullan's nerves aren't made for that; he once punched an assistant in the face because his camera wasn't ready, we hear.

This "magazine" may prove dangerous.

[pic via NY Mag]

OK, fine. We will take him up on that plus-one-with-a-laser-card offer. After all, you're only young and stupid once!

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]

Sacco: "Bungalow 8 London is more like the sophisticated European sister of New York."

Reviewer: "damn right! There are many worthwhile ways to spend your £350 in London - this isn't one of them. You've read the reviews - they are accurate. It is nothing like Bungalow 8 NYC which was so much fun a few years ago..."

Sacco: "And the downstairs opens at eleven o’clock, Tuesday through Saturday, and it’s much more of a clubby vibe than we have in New York."

Reviewer: "I'm a fair person....So I tried EVERY night in the week at Bungalow 8, and I'm talking weekend, early, midnight til late.... and it was a DISASTER....spent over £500 each night on champagne. Waste of money if you ask me."

Reviewer: "The place is very disappointing time after time. Specially compared to other clubs I have membership with. The music is cliche and dull. The members are like a bunch of estate agents, the place itself is like a corridor and the drinks are overpriced. A lot of hot air. I would rate the club lounge at Heathrow Airport higher than this place."

Etc.

[BlackBook, View London]

Yes, of course! Throw the bums out for not spending money quickly enough! Damn this policy:

"A glass of beer," rasps the old man in a homberg shambling up to the counter. "God damn it, I'd like a glass of beer." Stefan the bartender motions to a sign that reading "NO DRAFT—BOTTLED BEER ONLY."

"Awww, shit." He coughs. "I been gone thirty years. They finally let me out. They actually let me out!" He surveys the place: "It's still a dump. It was a dump thirty years ago, last time I was in here, and it's a dump now."

The old bartender wheezes something in reply. "Where?" I'd guess he is saying. Let him out from where? Prison? Bellevue?

"I ain't tellin' you," the old-timer says, leaning across the counter until he is almost touching the bartender's face with his, a smile creeping across his face. "Old man! How old are ya, ninety-nine?"

"Eighty-nine," the bartender rasps. "Eighty-nine."

"Come here often?" the old guy asks in my direction; we're the only two people in the bar. "Is it Sunday? I just got out. Wasn't there a holiday this weekend?"

"Fourth of July."

The TV breaks into the silence: "The wild horses are beginning to ignore me, which is more than I ever could have hoped for," intones the narrator for a nature show.

This appears to be too much for the just-released man; he gets up and leaves in an cloud of cursing and invectives. "Fuck this," is the last thing heard before he hurls himself back onto the street.

A tourist couple comes in, snapping photos, loudly enunciating their words. "What. Do. You. Want. To. Do?" the girl asks Stefan the bartender.

"Sleep," he says, his voice barely audible. "I want to sleep."

[Photo: Urban 75]

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 o