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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.

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.
Last edited by seven
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.
Last edited by S'tan
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.
Last edited by seven
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
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,
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:
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:



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!



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.



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.")



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:

"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...

"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


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