Twitter lit up midday in New York City today over reports of a hostage situation in the Flatiron building after a troop of police showed up outside. It wasn't a hostage situation, however. It was a waving a pistol in your apartment while wearing jorts situation.

[Submit your own Gawker Stalker sightings to stalker@gawker.com] June 15 @ 11 am I was leaving the Flatiron Building and I spotted Clay Aiken. He was probably heading up to the Macmillan Publishing offices

Tucked between the second (lust) and third (greed) circles of hell lies 21st Street, which the Post is calling the new clubland. And it's true the massive hornet's nest of clubs in the area belches out Axe-wearing alpha males and glitter-bodied sad girls like an old factory chimney. What with Prey Bar and Lounge, Snitch's, Duvet and Aspen, the FlatIron has become the lowest point in the dirty bathroom floor of New York club life. The Post notes the District's clubs now have a capacity of 10,000. To put that in perspective that's about twice the entire freshman class of NYU crammed into the space of a few blocks. (Eww!) And what, Prey tell, do you imagine might be the outcome of such a glut of revelers? Bonhomie? Fraternit ? Esprit De Corps? Nope. Murder, Mayhem, Marauding.