Farewell Charming Old New York

Oh seven...
what an image! I can totally see it.
And I agree with you. The show is really a nostalgic look at a scene.

And Stan,
an update.
Edit actually just called me the other day and left a very long, beautiful, criptic New Year's message. I guess she's OK. She works with Donald Baechler now. She's still on the sauce but functioning I guess.

And...
I sat next to Rene not long ago at a show. He's very twitchy. He had to leave every few minutes (which was good and saved him from being thrown out). He's the same... just more so.

And yes, I know about Pat Hearn. Chi Chi and I were in Provincetown when she died. Bruce Fuller & Jack Pierson told us. It was very sad.
Of course the EV Art Show is about the art. It can't be divorced from the scene it, the art, first and foremost created. It was not just a bunch of people drinking in bars, e.g do you think the "Meat Market Scene" will end up in a gallery?

Did David W. live and die for your dismissals? Just because you don't like the art doesn't mean it is not a real force... we did not predict then how important it would be, and you can't predict now how influential it will continue to be.
S'tan, please calm down. Nowhere have I said I did not like the art.

I would respectfully like to hear what you think about how or in what way the art from that secene was influential, and what or whom it has influenced. And what real force it is supposed to have exercised other than an economic one. A widely accepted and agreed hallmark of the vast majority of the art from that scene was principally that it was known for being derivative and for being based on reams of influences. Also, I would respectfully like to hear what, according to you, David W. lived and died for. The museum show sheds absolutely no light on these points at all, in fact the curators self-consciously abstain from doing so.

I'm not sure what the point is that you are trying to make about a bar scene S'tan.
This thread is not about the EV Art scene. It was trying to reflect on those aspects of New York we have seen depart: Farewell Charming Old New York.

Sanctimonious attitude from those -- including myself -- who are not painters, deciding that some passionate artists are really only sell-outs, or even deciding they were perfect, whatever... what is the point? Do we really know eveything about who they were, and what they intended? Because Kostabi and Warhol were cynical money-lovers doesn't mean everyone else was or is or will be.

I was reminiscising about those times 1980- on, and how my life and the lives of artists I know have changed. Not just in the East Village, but all over the New York area. Starting with famous old bars and nightclubs, and the ghosts of those who dwelt there... I am sure you don't care that these 'elitist' establishments are all dying. But for example I can't say 'why' I was so devastated when the original Russian Tea Room died. You grow up in a place, and you don't like to see things die. Even if it is just an artificial construct like a bar or restaurant.

This is one reason I love Paris so much. There are shops there and scenes which haven't changed since my first trip there in 1973. Call me boringly sentimental but when something lasts, I'm in awe, like it's a miracle.

By the same token I love destruction and total upheaval. And this is why the EV scene was so wonderful for me and quite a few others. Artists from that time, now in their fifties & sixties who once had a good scene going in New York, now have to live in the boonies and travel all over to make a living. The economic realities of the 1980s, when you could literally work a couple of days a month and pay your rent, are poof. At least half a dozen I know have moved to the Deep Styx in New Mexico, and some have the shell-shocked look of an army who liberated themselves within one country, only to find it become totalitarian, and they had to flee with their lives.

So if you want to keep carrying on about how that scene was false, dubious or just an illusion -- wow how awful for the art world -- please go to Troylegra's first thread and continue on. Perhaps I will answer you there on that subject.
I'm sorry but you are completely wrong about me.
And most of what I've said here, which of course you have so delightedly misinterpreted for the purpose of your displeasure.

That in itself has a certain charm.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with the view that a whole scene could be overpopulated with people bent on self-preservation, economic viability, finding a place to seek whatever pleasure was to their liking, while producing art that for the most part wasn't really so momentous, but still the people -the individuals themselves- possessed a certain toxic attractiveness.

But I understand your dismay at having found there is someone who does not think disagreeing with you means they should stay out of here.

Surely you can see how charming something like New York's art world is when it exercizes some of the city's principal characteristics: distortion, exaggeration, bile, self-absorbed melodrama.

So you should take heart dear S'tan, that even though so many of your acquaintances seem to have become figures of pathos in backward parts of the nation, the underlying character of this city remains ever so twistedly charming.

It is a rather easy exercise for me to call out the names of the Jack Wilers, Patricia Landrums, Bimbo Rivases, the Tomassos, the Giza Endeshas, the Cenens -beautiful, and beautifully flawed, creators who existed in the eye of a blastfurnace scene, who are now all dead. But their destruction provides no priviledged history. It is easy to mention the JD Rages, Steve Canons, Carl Herrs, Diane Burnses, Tito Lespiers, the Jemeel Moondocs, people whose creativity had no peers, living diminished existences after all the great parties only led to punishing rents, careers as cab drivers, regimines of reverse transcriptease inhibitors, methadone or haldol. The charm of these people is that the city never noticed them. And that's the charm of this city too, that it can be so utterly ignorant of what it has. That it can waste so much human brilliance. That the powers of its official myths, once you've lived on the inside, aren't any more noble or admirable than the rude jerk cutting on you in line at the turnstyle.
Farewell charming old lines outside of nightclubs! Finally, no more waiting around to get into all my favorites: Cielo, Spirit, et al. It's PartyBuddys! Yesterday's NYT had a fascinating story about a couple of alleged former Limelight habitues, who are putting their club-smarts to good use: PartyBuddys helps Joe and Jane Schmos bypass lines and gain instant access to VIP lounges at all of the city's top clubs -- for a fee. I am so down with the hire-a-paparazzo, too. A steal at $250/night. It's not enough to have an open-door policy all over town these days. Now goons can bypass the hundreds of other goons in line, by paying out the wah-zoo. Paging doorminatrix Kitty Boots! Now why didn't I think of this??

January 16, 2005
An In With the In Crowd, for a Fee
By FRANK OWEN
New York Times

DRESSED in a sober business suit, Jorge Lima, 30, a salesman for a pharmaceuticals company, looked out of place among the gyrating house music mavens at Cielo, a lounge with a futuristic theme in the meatpacking district known for a rotating cast of celebrity D.J.'s.

But Mr. Lima didn't mind. On a recent Saturday night, sitting at a private table with a bottle of overpriced vodka, he was having the time of his life watching his pal Sam Oro awkwardly navigate the sunken dance floor and listening to Veronica Vega, a trim and attractive 28-year-old, urging him to dance with her as she poured him a drink.

By day Ms. Vega is a makeup artist, but on Saturdays she works for a company called PartyBuddys and is paid to accompany people like Mr. Lima and his friend from club to club, making sure the velvet ropes always part and that they are shown the best tables.

Ms. Vega, who was dressed this evening in Seven jeans and a Phat Farm top, was to earn $200 plus tips for her night's work from PartyBuddys, a six-month-old service that is basically a nightlife tour company.

"Many of our clients work for big corporations and they don't know the scene," Ms. Vega said. "My job is to make sure they get treated like V.I.P.'s so they can concentrate on having a good time."

Only 20 minutes after arriving at Cielo, Mr. Lima vowed to invite his pharmaceuticals-company colleagues to join him next time. "This is as cool as it gets," he said, as the walls pulsated with lights behind him. "I'm so relaxed right now. I don't have to worry about anything. The guys I work with would love this environment."

Outside a Town Car waited to whisk Mr. Lima off to the next stop, Spirit, the cacophonous West Side dance club, where George Parades, another employee of PartyBuddys, had already arrived to makes sure managers, bouncers and doormen were aware that special guests were on the way.

"I hope there's a line 50 feet long at Spirit just so I can bypass the whole thing," Mr. Lima, who lives and works in New Jersey, said as he headed out of Cielo. "You know what it feels like to get out of the car and walk straight into the club without having to deal with doormen or bouncers. It's amazing."

For the average person, gaining entry to a Manhattan nightclub can be an exquisite form of cruelty. There's the velvet rope that separates the hip from the hoi polloi. There's the seething crowd waving worthless invitations and begging for admittance. There's the snooty doorman looking for flaws in your appearance. Once through the front door, there are often more barriers to navigate: the V.I.P. rooms and the V.V.I.P. rooms, all designed to underscore the customer's place on the social totem pole. Even the most enthusiastic clubgoer can feel deflated.

PartyBuddys, the inspiration of James King and Jason Roefaro, both 30 and both from Union City, N.J., promises to "make normal people feel fabulous for the night," according to its Web site, www.partybuddys.com.
Its night-out package includes a guide (the party buddy) to usher clients "through crowds of jealous bystanders," limousine service, complimentary drinks and V.I.P. treatment at six Manhattan clubs (Cielo, Plaid, Webster Hall, Copacabana, Spirit and China Club).

Fees for the night start at $350 a person; full rock-star treatment is available for $1,200.

Mr. King and Mr. Roefaro, who operate the business out of Mr. Roefaro's late grandmother's brick house in Union City, estimate that at least 60 percent of their clients are middle-aged professionals from out of town who have never visited a New York nightclub.

"This service is like paying to drive a race car or be taken up in a fighter plane," Mr. Roefaro said. "They're not race car drivers or fighter pilots, they're accountants and lawyers, but for a short time they can imagine they are. For that night, they're not an accountant; they're Paris Hilton or P. Diddy."

He told the story of a dozen executives from a Minneapolis financial consulting firm who were visiting New York for a conference. "We didn't plan this part," Mr. Roefaro said, "but they hired fake paparazzi to photograph them getting in and out of the limo. They also had their own velvet rope and red carpet they carried around with them."

Paying someone to help get you into a nightclub may seem like a tacky idea, especially to those who use their personal style and personal connections to breeze past the velvet rope. "It sounds absolutely awful," said Jonathan Cheban, a nightlife publicist. "V.I.P. rooms are for real V.I.P.'s; you're not supposed to buy your way in. Who knows who these PartyBuddys people are? Maybe they're celebrity stalkers."

But the existence of such a service in today's club world is not surprising, said Steve Lewis, who has worked at many New York clubs of the last 25 years, recently helping design the interiors of the hot spots Marquee and Select. Mr. Lewis said PartyBuddys was a sign of the times. "The new V.I.P. isn't a downtown trendy, a Suzanne Bartsch or a Chi Chi Valenti," he said. "The new V.I.P. is a businessman with a credit card in his pocket who is willing to spend money."

Noah Tepperberg, an owner of Marquee, which is known for attracting celebrities, has never heard of PartyBuddys. To him, he said, it sounded like one of the many so-called concierge services (Fast Metropolis, Quintessentially, Key2NewYork) that phone Marquee regularly to try to get clients admitted. "We tell them to come down but we can't guarantee entry," Mr. Tepperberg said. "Basically it's up to the doorman."

Mr. King said PartyBuddys is different from a concierge service. "Concierge services don't send their employees out with you to watch your back," he said. "With a concierge service, once you get to the club, you're on your own."

The idea for PartyBuddys came from Mr. King's and Mr. Roefaro's experience as club-goers dating back to the early 90's, when both were regulars at Limelight, the Chelsea nightclub that stands as a kind of high-water mark of 90's nightlife decadence. "Friends would always call and ask us, 'What do we do? Where do we go?' " said Mr. King, who is short, stocky and baby-faced. "After a while, we were like, 'Let's make a business out of this.' "

After a car accident in 2001, in which Mr. Roefaro nearly died, he quit his job at a funeral parlor and persuaded his boyhood friend Mr. King to leave his job as a television cameraman and go into business with him, first with a small advertising agency, and then, three years later, with PartyBuddys.

But times have changed since Limelight's heyday, as the new company's founders realized. New York clubs are now more conservative environments that cater to a crowd ready to spend generously on a night out.

Exorbitantly priced liquor, not drugs like Ecstasy or Special K, is the intoxicant of choice. "Our clients aren't snorting coke in the back of the limo," said Mr. Roefaro, who is tall and thin, with long hair and a beard that make him look like Al Pacino in "Serpico." "In fact, we make them sign a contract saying that if they use illegal narcotics the tour will be terminated."

PartyBuddys has arrangements with the six Manhattan clubs it visits to pay a fee in advance of a client's visit, based on each club's door charge, the size of the party and an estimate of how much alcohol will be consumed. (Mr. Roefaro said the company estimates one bottle at each club for every three people, which costs between $250 and $350.) The fee also covers gratuities for the clubs' employees; customers may tip the party buddy for good service at the end of the night. In addition, the service includes a "party ambassador" who acts as a liaison with the clubs and makes sure a table is waiting when the customers arrive.

Not everyone who uses PartyBuddys is paying for admittance to a world of fun and fabulousness to which they would otherwise be denied access. Some hire the service for the convenience factor. A week before Mr. Lima visited Cielo, three women in their mid-20's from Weehawken, N.J. - a nurse, a clerk and a teacher - paid $350 each to be ferried from Copacabana to Plaid and then to Webster Hall. All three are regular clubgoers and could have passed through the portals without the aid of PartyBuddys, though they probably would have had to stand in line a while.

But they chose the service because they wanted the night to be hassle free.

"We had a great time," Jennifer Ballester, the clerk, said at the end of the night. "I thought it was good value for money. I didn't have to worry about driving. I didn't have to worry about waiting in line or getting a table. It was well worth the $350."

So far, the nightclubs with which PartyBuddys has negotiated deals also appear pleased with the arrangement. "They bring in a very nice class of people," said Sean McGarr, the president of Webster Hall. "I've heard a lot of people talk about starting something like PartyBuddys, but they were the first to actually implement the idea."

Mr. King and Mr. Roefaro said they are not yet making much money from their enterprise, though they have attracted about 120 clients in six months. About 70 percent of their revenue goes to pay the clubs, the limousine service and the company's guides.

They have added options to increase their income. Now clients can hire a personal bodyguard ($45 an hour), a pseudo-paparazzo ($250 for the night) and a personal shopper to help find the appropriate outfits to wear club-hopping. They are also hoping to expand their roster of clubs. Recently, Mr. King approached Marquee, which is known for its strict door policy.

"I talked to someone at Marquee about our clients coming to the club, and she said, 'Sure, come down, we're interested,' " Mr. King said, and laughed. "I went there but the doorman wouldn't let me in."
I'm speechless.
This is so funny it's not even funny.
Hundreds of thousands of people are dead and suffering in Asia but these turkeys from New Jersey (sorry Debbie) can spend a thousand dollars to get into Webster Hall!
I wonder if they think they are going to see Jennifer Lopez there. Or maybe dance on a table with Paris Hilton or do coke with Tom Cruise.
Oh wait, no drugs.
Just when you think things can't sink any lower...
they do.
So let's just go to "Cain" and call it a day.
And this from Musto:
quote:
Having just recovered from all those mind-rotting 10-best lists, it's time for a four-worst list of the year in parties from a schmooze-or-lose veteran who really knows when he's being punished by "fun." For this purpose, I've melded examples of the skankiest party elements into composites of the most heinous events you might have gotten invited to if Satan was on your shoulder. And so:


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WORST CLUB

Six different promoters put you on the list, but the "door god""”fresh off death row thanks to a call from the governor"”is still screaming, "How do you spell Michael?" You bribe your way in and find a clientele that's diverse only because, later on, each person gets off at a different exit of the Jersey Turnpike. They're all freelance toilet scrubbers, but somehow, they're able to spring for bottle service"”i.e., wildly overpriced decanters of medium-shelf booze served by a sultry siren whose exposed butt crack can't be fully appreciated by old-school gay guys. If CHARLES MANSON showed up and was willing to pay for bottles, he'd be swept right in with his entourage, while MATHILDE KRIM, the DALAI LAMA, and the LORD himself would be asked to wait for hours in the freezing rain. The decor is nouveaux equatorial African as envisioned by someone who has never left the Upper East Side. You shouldn't have either, especially since the DJ playing tunes from the '80s, when all music apparently stopped, could just as well be clubbing you over the noggin with his turntable. Worse, none of the doors marked "exit" are really exits, for some reason. They didn't want you in, and now apparently, they don't want you to ever leave!



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WORST PRIVATE PARTY

It's a self-published-book bash at the above club, and though you got so many Evites for it that they crashed your computer, that same door god is there giving you a glazed look as his steroids kick in and his dick retracts and peeks out through his butt. You covertly service it to get in, then find that the crux of the party is a glorified photo op taking place in the lobby, which is layered with posters for a Latvian liquor made out of potato skins. The bored photogs start shooting you, since the only "stars" there are reality show losers, warthog understudies from The Lion King's tour of the Adirondacks, and, of course, MISCHA BARTON. The flack pushes you out of the photos and onto the host, who graciously hands you a signed copy of her book"”to give to someone else.

In the main room, the "bar god" (another ex-con) is only serving the Latvian liquor, which for obvious reasons has a limitless number of bottles to give away. You beg to pay for a real brand, but he won't even think of something so subversive, and suddenly bottle service doesn't sound so bad, does it? You throw the book at him"”literally"”but karma comes when you stand near the kitchen door to get first dibs at the "sumptuous eats" (namely one soggy spring roll per hour), and end up flattened by a speeding waiter on tina. At least some scalding sauce has fallen onto your face and you can try to lick at it to stay alive. As you do, the publicist leans over to say, "Make sure you mention the Latvian liquor." The next day's papers say that five minutes after you left, every one of your favorite stars came and partied naked for hours.



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WORST PARTYGOER

A nebbish who cranes his head to find someone better, when you were only talking to him as a charity fuck anyway. The douche who says, "I haven't seen you in 15 and a half years. What's new?" Or "Hi. Who am I? Do you remember me? Come on, who am I?" Or "I'm so happy we're both still alive! Everyone's dying!" Or the self-promoter who exults, "Hi! I was mentioned in the Times Real Estate section last year! In an ad I took out!" Or the dickweed who says inane, boring things no one could possibly care about, followed by "That was off the record, by the way." Or who skips all formalities in order to start spewing Z-list name-droppings. ("I was hanging with Nicole the other day. You know, Eggert. She's Ginger on
Gilligan's Island. Well, The Real Gilligan's Island. Well, she's one of the Gingers.")



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WORST RESTAURANT

There are tons of available tables up front, but they ask you to wait at the bar for "a few minutes," then an hour later seat you way in the back room where you can't be seen by anyone important. (Little do they know you're the arbiter of Gotham chic.) You couldn't get a waiter's attention even with a flare gun, especially since your waiter is that scary door god, who finally got fired and is angrier than ever. You start humming "Mr. Cellophane" from Chicago and someone across the room snaps, "Shhh!"

Even worse is the opposite"”an attention-hungry place where, for lack of anyone better there, you're the unwitting center of the entire staff's universe. Before you've even gotten a stale roll, people are pouring out of the kitchen to ask, "How's everything so far? Do you like it?" ("Oh, yes," you want to gush. "The silverware is just amazing!") With every nibble comes another plea for approval until even the chef's daughter's gym teacher stops by to say, "How's everything? Are you enjoying yourself?" Gee, I would be if you freakin' well-wishers would leave me the fuck alone for a second!

Actually you'd still be suicidal. After all, you have to sit in the lotus position as your kimono-wearing server, Seymour, screams the specials over the Ultimate Kylie CD. You thought he said wasabi scrod, but he actually brings walrus scrotum, and on skewers yet! It's being served dysfunctional-family-style, so you and your party have to battle it out over every bite, torn between friendship and survival. Models love this place"”but then again models don't eat, do they? Ready to run home to the Stouffer's, you sign the credit card bill and nobly check the box that adds a specified tip. Seymour brings back your receipt, which shows he gave himself a larger percentage. (This actually happened to me at Tavern on the Green.) At least he had a great beverage recommendation"”$20 shots of the Latvian liquor, served warm. You jump into a cab and notice your driver is the ex-door god.


tell em Michael

________________


(FYI the "worst club" is our favorite, CAIN)

Musto Rules!
Though I haven't actually been there and just might not as my evening clothes are growing cobwebs, Cain sounds just as bad as all the others:

http://newyork.citysearch.com/profile/41467347/new_york_ny/cain.html?cslink=roundup_name_noncust&ulink=roundup__roundupentity1-1_1__0_profile_5_1

"For the women who love fur and the men who love them" - seriously!

I'd like to direct a sleazoid version of Partybuddys. Venues will include the Cock (where I will leave the women standing outside), the Hole (where I will force them to buy drugs)... any other suggestions? As I'm not even up on my sleaze. At the end of the night the whole party can get arrested, or better yet, gay-bashed by a hand-picked gang of NJ-ites... And of course if they can find him, Gnome will be added to the entourage.

Or better yet, why not just BUILD a FAKE nightclub dedicated to these rich jokers, where can role-play anything they want? Build them a VIP lounge and pay all kinds of folks to populate the place and fawn on them. Why stop at the interior of the limo?

Oh. I guess... 'fake nightclub' is an oxymoron. At least this year.
Just when you think it can't get any lower...

quote:
"My MTV reality show starts March 10. It's a Go every Thursday for six half-hour episodes. The program follows me and my young assistants. It shows how they organize a party, who they invite, what celebs are draws, which journalists you call, when you schedule it."


Lizzy GrubWhore

Attachments

Photos (1)
Her young assistants -the class D felons, organize a party by shooting hand signals in the mess hall, invite the lifers and initiates only, plead for the attendance of transferees from Guantanamo Bay, keep the whole thing on the downlow, and schedule it all during showertime -all up in Ossening State Prison.
S'tan-- Sorry for resuscitating this thread, but (from today's Daily News) it appears there're only a few nails left for this coffin. What a long, sad, death. Why don't they just bring out the wrecking ball already?

quote:
Is New York City putting its worst foot forward in its bid to host the 2012 Olympic Summer Games?

Lowdown hears that members of the finicky International Olympic Committee - who are also being wooed by Madrid, London, Paris and Moscow - are staying at the Plaza Hotel during an official scouting visit later this month.

Unfortunately, the storied hotel, where guests pay up to $1,100 a night for a luxury suite, is starting to resemble a Motel 6.

"They should replace the concierge desk with a complaints bureau," reports a Lowdown spy. "They're cannibalizing the place and not buying any equipment or resources."

The Plaza is scheduled to shut down next month - after the IOC visit - for two years of renovations.

But maybe that's not soon enough. Guests are suffering such indignities as filthy rooms, bathrooms and hallways; empty minibars; paper napkins and mismatched plates at the ritzy Palm Court, and even a shortage of basic utensils like teaspoons.

What's more, most of the items on the room service menu are no longer available, and the once-posh Oyster Bar is now serving strictly pub food.

But perhaps most unnerving, Lowdown hears, is that when guests check out, the unused portions of their complimentary bottles of lotion and shampoo are taken downstairs, emptied and blended into other bottles.

Informed of the litany of complaints, a Plaza rep would offer only: "The Plaza Hotel is at a historic transition period. The staff of the Plaza continues to do its best to deliver services befitting the hotel's legacy with all available resources."

Hotel workers' union spokesman John Turchiano told Lowdown, "It's obvious the new owners are milking the building for everything they can get."
Speaking of farewell, this charming property is available for sale right now in Tribeca for only $1,800,000. Here is the description:

"Handsome corner Tribeca Loft Building with a rich cultural history. Filled with light from fourteen windows per floor. North & West exposure, exposed brick, exposed beams. All new systems throughout. Former home of (guess...) Country kitchen, vintage tiled bath, two additional full plumbing risers, finished with architectural concrete and Beechwood 5" plank floors. Central A/C..."

Another hint: it's located two blocks south of Canal, just east of Broadway.

For The Answer, Click Here
I don't know the real deal at this building, but it seems more than a little disingenuous for this Rosenblatt character to use "the homeless" as a pawn in the thing. Ugh.

Famed Punk Bar CBGBs Facing Eviction

Mar 17, 4:43 PM (ET)

By LARRY McSHANE

NEW YORK (AP) - Hours earlier, Hilly Kristal joined rock's royalty inside a Waldorf-Astoria ballroom for the latest Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductions.

By the morning, though, Kristal sips a cup of coffee and pops an antacid as he considers the future of his own piece of rock history: CBGB's, the venerable birthplace of punk. After 32 years in business, the world-renowned club on the Bowery is in danger of losing its lease.

"Even at this Hall of Fame thing, people were coming up and asking, 'What can we do? What can we do?'" Kristal recalls, sitting at his cramped desk just inside the club's front door. "It's very discouraging after all these years."

Kristal says the club owes $91,000 in back rent - through a bookkeeping mix-up. (His landlord concurs, but still wants the money.) Come August, when its lease expires, he expects the current $19,000 monthly rent to at least double, although Kristal's landlord says there will be no new lease unless the old mess is gone.

"Show me you can meet your current obligations, and then we'll talk about new ones," says Muzzy Rosenblatt, executive director of the Bowery Residents' Committee. "His destiny is in his own hands."

Rosenblatt's group holds a 45-year lease on the building, where the agency houses 250 homeless people above the club. CBGB's is their lone commercial tenant; their rent feud dates back five years, when the committee went to court to collect more than $300,000 in back rent from the club.

The agency currently is in court trying to evict CBGB's, citing the current unpaid rent and Kristal's alleged failure to repair code violations in the legendary club. Kristal is battling on both fronts.

"I'm energized," says the gray-bearded owner. "I'm going to fight."

For fans of the dank storefront bar, its demise would mean the demolition of the Empire Punk Building.

"I consider it a historic place," says Tommy Ramone, drummer in one of the club's most enduring bands. "It would be like losing a landmark of sorts, you know?"

CBGB's, with its familiar white awning, holds a special place in the city's music history. It was here that the Ramones, the Talking Heads and Blondie created the punk scene for small crowds that paid a $1 cover charge.

"CBGB's allowed bands - original bands, no less - the freedom to go and play and do whatever they pleased," recalls Tommy Ramone. "It was a good fit."

Rosenblatt is aware of the club's legacy. He and his future wife shared their first kiss inside the club, although he's quick to add that nostalgia won't keep its doors open.

"I will not subsidize CBGB's at the expense of the homeless," Rosenblatt said. "I can't allow my own sentimentality to impede our ability to serve homeless people."

For Rosenblatt, that's one of the major problems in his agency's dispute with Kristal. He estimates the committee has spent $50,000 in legal fees and expenses to collect back rent from the club and to force Kristal to bring his space up to code, taking money away from the homeless.

Kristal suggested that greed was at the root of his problems with the landlord. A new tenant could afford a much steeper rent, and the building housing the club is now worth many millions of dollars, he said.

Back in the early '90s, when the neighborhood was still dicey, Kristal considered buying the building - but he couldn't raise the needed $4 million. The majority of money generated by the club now comes from T-shirt sales, he said.

Kristal was considering several options, including turning the space into a museum during the day. The club is already a repository of rock 'n' roll memorabilia, with every spare inch of its walls covered in posters, fliers and stickers for hundreds of bands.

Several wealthy benefactors have also stepped up with offers to rescue the club, including Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban. "It's an icon of the New York music scene," the dot-com billionaire said by e-mail, confirming his interest.

Kristal doesn't know if that will help.

"You raise $50,000, $100,000 - big deal," he said. "This is going to be $20,000 a month more, at least. It doesn't make sense."
Hi Guys I am posting this event here too scusi if you have seen it in the WB category - This is an emergency tho - Bloomberg wants to turn Wburg into Battery Park City. I am too old and cranky too be forced from my home. I am also frightened of waking up to dicover I am living in a huge friggin Ikea surronded by blonde wood!
Thank you all!

March 30th: Rev Billy and the Stop Shopping Gospel Choir at St. Mark's Church in the Bowery --8pm-- Cast the devil out of the developers!

Bloomberg and his greedy land-grabber friends have proposed one of the most catastrophic rezonings in NYC's history for Williamsburg/Greenpoint, Brooklyn. It's happening under our noses and, in fact, it's happening all over the city. Who will decide what development looks like?

It's an epic battle...meet the players in the Williamsburg Rezoning Brawl:

Team Bloomberg has a plan to add a wall of 40-story, luxury condos along the waterfront and privatize access to the river. As for silly extras like more park space, increased L service, or affordable housing...who needs them? Safeguarding over 4000 local jobs and businesses will take a back seat to high-rise hysteria.

Team Community has a plan to create a public esplanade on the water, set a height cap on sky-rises and mandate affordable housing. All that and green space too! Plus increased L service, and a healthy light industry sector.

The Final public hearing takes place at City Hall April 4th. We must pack the place, inside and out. Tell the city "No!" and remember:

Bloomberg has a scam -- the Community has a plan!

**For more information:**
http://www.communityplan.org
http://www.northbrooklynalliance.org
http://www.williamsburgwarriors.org
I wonder how many Motherboarders have worked there over the years? C'mon, I know you have.
(Remember that hideous Dyke Bitch "Helen" who would never give anyone a booking?) "The Gaiety" and "Billy's Topless" have done more to support art in New York than ANY grant from the N.E.A.!!!!!)

One more nail in the coffin.

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From towelroad:

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The Gaiety Theatre in Times Square, Manhattan's last male strip club, has closed its doors after nearly 30 years of notoriety. A message on the theatre's listed number says,

"The Gaiety Theatre is closed. Thank you for a wonderful 30 years. Also, watch the gay publications for a possible relocation address."

According to sources, the building housing it was sold and is being torn down to make way for a new development. This is certainly a passing moment in the city's gay history. With this last nail in the coffin the Disneyfication of Times Square can now be called complete.

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From towelroad:

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The Gaiety opened its doors on a winter night in 1976 and consistently attracted an interesting mix of young hustlers, businessmen, tourists, and celebrities on the DL to its pleasantly dingy, boxy room with its small stage and sparkling curtain. Andy Warhol, John Waters, and Divine were all patrons back in the day but the theatre attracted legions more of the years, whether they were sitting in the back hiding behind dark glasses or not.

In 1992 Madonna published her Sex book and shined a spotlight on the theatre, employing some of its dancers, along with porn star Joey Stefano and German cult movie actor Udo Kier in her erotic adventure.

When Giuliani came in to clean up the image of Times Square back in 1995, the theatre scrambled and changed policies to adapt to the new code and stay in business. Since then, the porn shops and sex venues that used to litter the area have slowly vanished, one by one, but the Gaiety's demise is certainly a milestone in the history of sex in New York.

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Great link Hattie!
Though I do take issue with the statement that The Gaiety Boys didn't put on shows like they did at The Eros.
quote:
Unlike the Gaiety dancer who's primary prop was an erection, Eros dancers would oftentimes put on something of a theme show incorporating props such as chains, ponchos, "Indian garb", chaps and whips. Some of them would even have little sets depicting some kind of scene.

That's just not true. In fact, my "New York 88" show featured a "Cowboy" and an "Indian" act. Straight from The Gaiety (and The Guilded Grape & G.G. Barnums).
There were shows!

And Jimmy Scouse, where you been whore?

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Aww, Daddy, the Gilded Grape! You just slammed me with a bunch of memories of a gay New York that no longer exists... bars and floors and stages that harkened back to a mysterious
verboten subculture that truly was the twilight world of the homosexual (always one of my fave phrases, of course.)
I can remember waking up each day, hungry to experience a different aspect of it... would it be the outdoor cruising at The Soldiers & Sailor's monument, the miniscule dancefloor at The Barefoot Boy, the Stand-And-Stare at Boot Hill, The Barracks Baths on 42nd Street, The Gaiety or The Gilded Grape, The International Stud in the Village, The Trucks, The Piers, tonight?
New York had an amazing menu to choose from. All of which was very obviously leftover from the great influx of homosexuals to this town during the War. There was always the feeling that the sticky floor under your feet had not been cleaned since the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. It was, dare I say, romantic, dangerous and very very secret. And there was a lot of it-- much more than there is now. If you were not in the know, however, it was very possible to be completely oblivious to its existence. You really did have to be a "member" of a secret club to know what was hidden behind this or that particular doorway. The map to these secrets was passed down from generation to generation-- a living, oral tradition, always acquired at an early age; it required a finely tuned radar to navigate the difficult terrain. So much so, that later I was able to go to anyplace on earth, discover the exact counterpart to this hidden world and even speak the local sexual lingua franca with ease.
Part of what erased this, of course, was acceptance. Which is what we really wanted in the first place. But along with that acceptance has come assimilation and even ghettoization. The signs are very clearly marked for the uninitiated-- it's now a "gay club" or a "straight club," squeaky clean, above board and... soulless.

Ah well, I remember driving with my friend Karl downtown in his father's car. He was so much older than me, 21, and had a license. We would go to the the Gilded Grape or The Gaiety and just marvel. "Girl," he would say in his rotten Bronx accent, "Didja get dat dancer? Da one in cowboy drag? She had trade fa days... fa' days!"

And there is also a gorge bit in one of the genius Miss Vera's books describing exactly what The Grape was like in those days.
Hattie if you don't write that book I'm gonna come downtown, turn you upside down and shake it out of you!!!!

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I can remember waking up each day, hungry to experience a different aspect of it... would it be the outdoor cruising at The Soldiers & Sailor's monument, the miniscule dancefloor at The Barefoot Boy, the Stand-And-Stare at Boot Hill, The Barracks Baths on 42nd Street, The Gaiety or The Gilded Grape, The International Stud in the Village, The Trucks, The Piers, tonight?


"The Soldiers & Sailor's monument". You are killing me. I never even heard of half those places.
Oh what a life you've led Hathaway.

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