Beatrice Inn impresario Paul Sevigny's long-awaited project to transplant the downtown NYC celebrity party scene to Atlantic City at The Chelsea Hotel has now launched. Nightlife dude Ray LeMoine writes rapturously about the trip down to AC on a weeded-out party bus and the awesome penthouse party. "Las Vegas but with cool people," he says. The "collective nowness" of "Team Beatrice" could make The Chelsea "a new weekend spot for downtown's kids," he adds. Have fun, kids! We'll pass. [Medicine Agency]

Silly Kirsten Dunst. Temporarily living outside of her natural celeb-friendly West coast habitat where any late-night messiness is handily kept on the DL by celebrity-catering club warlords, the recently rehabbed star is currently staying in New York while filming All Good Things. And the many sightings sent in by helpful Manhattanites haven’t exactly painted Dunst as the soberific poster child perfected of late by Miss Lindsay Lohan. The NY Post chimes in today reporting that Dunst continued her boy-crazy habits of yore by making out with the DJ at the celeb-infested Beatrice Inn two nights ago. But a Defamer tipster had the pleasure of spotting Kirsten last night at the same bar, and rather than cozying up to the same DJ, the actress spent the entire night flirting, following, and eventually frisking another Beatrice regular: that talented thespian, Josh Hartnett. Details on what our tipster witnessed, and which Olsen twin watched the romance blossom from afar, after the jump.

The Beatrice Inn should at least pretend a little more convincingly. The signs in the downtown nightspot warning against drugs, sex, smoking, and dancing are routinely ignored, particularly for Josh Hartnett-level celebrities. And according to a tipster, bouncers told all the patrons to extinguish their cigarettes shortly before a raid by the police last night. Two heavyset cops came in around 2 a.m. and made a beeline for the bathrooms—which are, by regulation, drug-free. Still, even the police presence didn't stop two girls from trying to conduct their nefarious business in there:

Beatrice Inn, the "babe central" Manhattan nightspot that already cracked down on sex and drugs with a sternly worded bathroom sign, has now also banned smoking and dancing. All that's left is for them to ban pretty women and young horny celebrity guys, and they can shut down in peace! Of course, Emily Brill knew about this months ago. [DBTH]

Writes a tipster, "Anyone at the Beatrice Inn party last night for The Chelsea? [Paul Sevigny's newest venture, a boutique hotel in Atlantic City.] While standing in line, in back of [53-year-old louche novelist and former "literary brat-packer"] Jay McInerney, a guy behind me says rather loudly, "Do you think he knows he's 30 years late to this party?" Oh, Jay, we say: you wrote Brightness Falls and can do whatever the hell you want.

When Lindsay Lohan falls off the wagon, she falls hard. So hard, in fact, that she spent this past weekend traipsing around New York in what appears to be a long and eventful whopper of a bender. As we reported yesterday, Lindsay spent her Saturday night downing Grey Goose with new roomie Samantha Ronson before promptly (and nostalgically) passing out in a car. But today's NY Post informs us that the night before was far more eventful. Tagging along with Ronson to the Beatrice Inn on Friday night for one of the chain-smoking DJ's gigs, whatever mysterious substances were floating through Lohan's system manifested into a screaming match directed towards teeny tiny Ashley Olsen:

Would the downtown Manhattan nightspot Beatrice Inn like to shed its reputation as a coke den where insiders say that two of the Six Rules For Getting Laid are to flout the rules, then flout the rules some more? There should certainly be no rule-flouting in the presence of these small paper signs warning against sex and drugs, which are posted in the bathrooms, where they can do the most good. Of course, they might make an exception for Josh Hartnett and friends.

Shia LaBeouf stars in the upcoming revival of the Indiana Jones franchise, and the young Hollywood star has twice made the cover of Vanity Fair. At Manhattan's babe central, the Beatrice Inn, he should have as much certainty of romantic success as a Sultan in a harem. And yet, according to Page Six, the spurned actor was overheard whining: "How do I get a girl to go home with me?" Well, first of all, not by whining. But LaBeouf's is still a valid question, so we tapped some regulars at the West Village nightspot for advice. Here are the six rules.

According to Jeff Bercovici, Maxim no. 2 A.J. Baime "quietly returned to Playboy, from whence new Maxim editor in chief James Kaminsky poached him." Maxim is suffering from declining newsstand sales and also that whole flap with the Black Crowes review they made up before hearing the album. Meanwhile, we hear... that former Page Sixer and current Maxim deputy editor Chris Wilson either got canned last week or is the kind of dude who uses the "I just got fired" line to pick up ladies at Beatrice. Update: According to Chris Wilson, Chris Wilson still works at Maxim. "Your spies must have misheard. Maybe I said I'm tired, because it was late."

It turns out that Beatrice Inn—that beloved Village hotspot and home to so many Page Six characters—is nothing but a common coke den! A stalker reports: "Josh Hartnett came into Beatrice around 1:30am with a blonde girl and two attractive guys. Literally went to the bathroom four times within one half hour, always with one of his delegates (one time with two of them). Also, none of the security guys were letting anyone smoke until he lit up a cigarette and suddenly the No Smoking signs were ignored by everyone. Plus, dude is TALL and gorgeous, even with the Pedro 'stache."

What do you get when you take the snobbish manufactured exclusivity of the downtown NYC faux-celebrity modeltrash circuit and combine it with the barren urban nightmare that is Atlantic City? I don't know, but idly rich hipsters across the tristate area will soon be paying big money to find out, if cultural connoisseur Paul Sevigny has anything to say about it!

This story is so awesome: in part because it centers around Hud Morgan, the scarf-wearing and fruitini-drinking libertine who's dating a barely legal daytime TV actress; but mainly because last night's incident between two journalists at the Beatrice Inn is an echo of the noir New York of vicious gossip columnists and drunken fights over starlets. (If we're playing Sweet Smell Of Success, can I be J.J. Hunsecker, please?)

A reporter at the Beatrice Inn was asking random people whether they had any drugs last night. That isn't all that surprising: he was a reporter, after all; and Beatrice Inn is a (classy) coke den. But my editor was shocked. "On a Sunday?" he asked. This, apparently, is the functioning professional's coke-taking code: a bump or two is socially acceptable, so long as it doesn't interfere with productivity. My unthinking response: "Hey, it was Oscars night." So many exceptions! So let's propose some common standard: coke is acceptable only on Friday and Saturday nights, and at the Beatrice Inn on cultural holidays. And, S, don't ask a gossip columnist you hardly know whether they're holding.

Julia Allison may have finally met her match. The Star magazine talking head was seen in tears last night at Tara Subkoff's party at low-ceilinged downtown club, the Beatrice Inn. (Party photographs are on Getty Images.) Allison is pretty thick-skinned, her ambition undimmed by the abuse she's received from blogs and former boyfriends. But other party-goers, who included maybe-gay socialite Fabian Basabe, saw her traumatized by a half-hour lecture from Hud Morgan. The belligerent Men's Vogue writer accused the "craven self-promoter" of dragging other people into her bad press. The talking bosom's plaintive response? "I'm a dating columnist. It's what I do. People don't give Candice Bushnell a hard time. Why is everyone so mean to me?!" Why, indeed? (The answers, which include a red scarf, and teen starlet Leven Rambin, after the jump.)

Larry Page, the co-founder of Google and a man worth about 18.5 billion dollars, was turned away from Paul Sevigny's Beatrice Inn about two weeks ago, a very excited Nick Denton told us. In fact, we haven't seen him this excited since the Bush twins were turned away from Freemans. In the doorman's defense, while the Bush twins look like little George W's, Larry Page basically looks just like a dorky white dude. Any more information would be much appreciated. Google doesn't turn up anything on it, obviously.

When the New York Observer's lover-for-hire George Gurley embarked on his quest to reveal the top ten sexual fantasies of the women at the Beatrice Inn, we lauded his Kinseyian quest for knowledge. As vapid and annoying we find those jangly-braceleted, soft-cotton-cosseted lithe young things who frequent the Beatrice, we also secretly want to touch their soft parts. So we looked forward to the article as a playbook, if nothing else. Imagine our flaccid disappointment when Alexa Rose Greenstadt, ("a lush, busty and witty 21-year-old who was wearing Lanvin pearls, a Zac Posen dress and brand new Prada shoes") divulged her sexual fantasy.

Last night, around 8 p.m., Daily News gossip columnist Ben Widdicombe, lightly bearded, was in a blazer on a low couch, with Rush & Molloy's reporter Patrick Huguenin close to his right. This was at Paul Sevigny's Beatrice Inn, at 285 West 12th Street. Former Gawker and New York Observer intern and current Radar assistant editor Neel Shah, ever hunky, was holding down the other end of the couch. The night before, someone said, they'd met a woman who said that she knew four men who each said they'd had sex with John Travolta! Four! What a claim! Everyone received this short story with not particularly great interest. Mark Tusk, the former acquisitions guy at Miramax, came and sat on the arm of the couch. One thing led to another, and Ben warned the crowd, "Do not Image Google 'ocular gonorrhea.'" Boy, that's good advice. So the funny thing about Patrick Huguenin is this.

A different tipster writes:

Hipsteraunt Beatrice Inn, the West Village hotspot owned by Paul "Brother of Chlo " Sevigny, has divided opinions throughout our fair city: Some find it to be a pretentious little box full of nausea-inducing douchebags, while a couple of people like that you can smoke there. In any event, a tipster suggests that everything might not be on the up-and-up at the twatwaffle canteen: