E.D.M. will be the death of our culture, if molly doesn't kill us all first. That is what I gathered from "Night Club Royale," the New Yorker's semi-profile of Paris Hilton's ex, producer/DJ Afrojack, who amused me so when I saw him at the Electric Daisy Carnival in 2012, and through whom writer Josh Eells gives us a good look at the entire Vegas nightclub casino scene. (Between this and the Rolling Stone Miley Cyrus profile, Eells having the best culture-writing week ever.)
Your crush on Prince Harry is about to end. At a nightclub in Croatia, he was videotaped climbing onto a banquette and performing a catastrophic sideways shuffle dance, culminating in a loss of balance and a dive into the swimming pool behind him. Then he gets up, pulls the ol' "I totally meant to do that," dances his way to shore and climbs out, saggy denim butt dripping all the way. Apparently if he were not a prince of England, Harry would be an overgrown frat boy in the Meatpacking district. Good to know.
New York nightlife is in an incredibly bad place if the biggest spender on the scene is an Episcopal priest who drives in from Wilkes Barre, Pa., to drop tens of thousands of dollars on bottle service. The New York Daily News tries to figure out where Gregory Malia, the youngish fellow second from the right in the photo, gets enough cash to drop $52,000 in one night. He was ordained as a priest in 2002 and otherwise runs a pharmaceutical business that specializes in supplies for hemophiliacs. "I work hard. I make good money. How I spend it - that is my business," he tells the News. "I haven't done anything inappropriate."
As Amy Sacco either A) fades into middle age and social irrelevance (soon she'll be just a Wikipedia stub) or B) plans a second legendary take-over of the world of nightlife, her underlings are graduating from beneath her. One underlord in particular, the "irrepressible" Bungalow 8 doorman Armin Amiri—protector of the realm and accused bruiser of p(r)etty boy Fabian Basabe—is set to open his own spot, called Socialista. It will apparently juxtapose Castro kitsch with Veblenian conspicuous consumption, down at Jane and the West Side Highway. "I believe in a healthy balance of capitalism and a socialism," he tells Spencer Morgan. So chin up, Amy Sacco—in case you ever need it, surely there's a dacha for your dotage in the offing.
So you know how you're not allowed to dance in any bar or club in New York City that doesn't have a cabaret license, and Rudy Giuliani was known for, among other things, closing places down that didn't have the appropriate licenses? Well, you still can't do it, and you won't be able to in the foreseeable future, either. The state Supreme Court ruled yesterday that the 80-year-old cabaret law could be upheld because there's no constitutional right to dance. Oh yeah? Try telling that to, like, Junior Vasquez! The people just want to dance! Enjoy your shuffling-in-place moves this weekend.