It's fun how the Meatpacking District is already experiencing rollover from one objectionable set of properties to another even more objectionable set. Markt, the restaurant on 9th Avenue and 14th Street, was moderately heinous in its own right — and yet the joint seemed a model of tasteful restraint compared to its newer Meatpacking neighbors. As expected though, the establishment was kicked to the curb on January 1, and now the construction drapes are up to hide the gutting and refurbishment into an Urban Outfitters or something. How's that piazza going, anyway?

With the Dia Art Foundation dropping out, uptown's Whitney Museum of American Art has jumped to grab the new location right in the ass end of the Meatpacking District. The new space at Gansevoort and Washington will technically be a "satellite museum," even though it will be considerably larger than the original Whitney. And since it will serve as one end of the constructivating High Line elevated park (pictured), one could conceivably walk there from Chelsea without ever setting foot in the Meatpacking hellmouth. Just imagine — rather than drunken jerkoffs screaming at you from a Hummer limo, you can pay admission to watch projected videos of angry homeless men screaming at you from bathtubs full of crude oil. At least the museum should reliably produce some more tasteful T-shirts.

The stretch of Eighth Street between 5th and 6th avenues has long been populated by cheesy shoe stores and other seedy establishments, and local media outlets have long looked to the "what the hell is up with Eighth Street?" story as a reliable chestnut during a slow news week. The Times takes the bait today, reporting that the street's landlords would like to bring more restaurants to the block to replace the now-empty storefronts. As much as we'd like see a nice boite or two to complement Gray's Papaya on the corner, we fear that the strategy may be a bit misguided:

The landlords are little bald men with small penises who live in Greenwich. We're never going to leave, and they're never going to come in my restaurant.

The NYC health department released neighborhood-level statistical reports yesterday, and Greenwich-Soho-Tribeca took the prize for highest rate (23%) of binge drinking (defined as five or more drinks in one sitting, or what we like to call "lunch"). The New York Post immediately dispatched a correspondent to the Hog Pit in the Meatpacking District (or what they like to call "the uber-hip Meatpacking District"). And yes, it turns out this bar is, in fact, one of those bars that serves alcoholic beverages. Not only does binge drinking consist of a paltry five drinks, but you only need to have engaged in such once within the last month to make it into the stats. Such unseemly imbibing is not tolerated at the Hog Pit, as "anyone interested in bingeing should go elsewhere." The bartender says they "definitely cut people off," and she says it "sternly." Consider yourself on notice, B&T crowd.

Saloon-atics Are Still Drinking In the Moment in the Big Apple [NYP]

Streetsblog details a laudable but doomed effort to improve the dead center nexus of the Meatpacking District by converting the confluence of Little West 12th Street, Gansevoort Street, and 9th Avenue into a "piazza." The project involves dedicating existing streetspace to delivery, hotel pickup, and parking lanes, all of which would be promptly filled with taxis (even the sidewalk cafe space). The plan's admirable in its intentions, but the little triangular plaza that serves as the centerpiece looks particularly unappetizing (unless you're a fan of sucking down auto exhaust with your app & bev). On the other hand, we approve of the prototype t-shirt pictured here, sent in by an anonymous reader and modeled by a pair of unsuspecting Meatpacking honeys. That, friends, is the past, present, and inescapable future of the neighborhood in question.

Last night, Intern Heather, Wingwoman Kate, and erstwhile Gawker videographer Richard Blakeley hit the "Target Red Room," a.k.a. Meatpacking District lounge Bed, for an afterparty dedicated to English pop crooner James Blunt. The attendees included the "Beautiful" (and by "Beautiful", we mean "greasy as fuck") Blunt himself, some cast members from Blue States Lose: The Musical, and a bunch of sluts. The result is the video above, featuring more tard-dancing than ever collected in one clip, plus an ample photo gallery (with captions, even!) of various unsavory characters. Abandoned on the cutting room floor was footage of Blunt crying tears of grease over the fact that partygoers (especially the Gawker Intern and her trusty sidekick jumping spastically on the bed) enjoyed Toni Basil waaaaay more than his craptastic album. Heavy hangs the head that wears the crown of specious hipster fame.

• And so the Meatpacking District continues to burn: tomorrow night, Level V hosts a party for NV, the "beauty enhancing diet pill" currently being hawked by Carmen Electra. How appropriately gauche. [Animal]
• After their long, overdramatic stay in Namibia, Brangelina pledged $315K to a local preschool and area hospitals' maternity wards. Too bad Namibians haven't even seen 1/10 of that money. [Radar]
• If you never have the chance to sit and scream like a banshee in Oprah's studio audience, what's the next best thing? Sitting and screaming liking a banshee in the car she drove cross-country with Gayle King. [KickingTires]
• Meredith Vieira confesses to being one of those psycho Harvard wannabes. [Meredith Vieira Today]
• An insider privy to Diane Sawyer's interview with Mel Gibson (airing Thursday) says Sawyer was, "f****** harder on him than I could imagine. I was cringing." Rock. [Deadline Hollywood Daily]

Attention Carter boys, this is how it's done. Last week, marginally legendary drag queen Flotilla DeBarge got involved in a scrap with two patrons at the Meatpacking District's Apt., which is desperately referred to as "a West Village club" in said article. Witnesses claim DeBarge didn't start the fight, but she finished it with interest, trouncing the offending seat-grabbing man and his date with her high-heeled shoes. DeBarge — perhaps most widely known for impersonating Star Jones on an anti-fur PETA calendar — reportedly spent the week at Rikers, but may have been released on bail by Friday. She joins Suzetta as another vintage-era Meatpacking habitu now finding the neighborhood less than commodious. Join Mickey Rourke in boycotting!

So, our campaign against the Meatpacking District has borne fruit, but is it the fruit of knowledge or the fruit of the poisonous tree? Two recent events leave us in a bit of a quandary.

Over the course of our weeklong Meatpacking District cluster-klatch, we've outlined the problem, filled in the history, and outlined our case against quite a few of the worst local offenders. There's not much left of the old Meatpacking District, and what's left in its place today may not be that pretty to look at. Nevertheless, join us in contemplating the Meatpacking District that once was and could be again, merging our own hopes and dreams with demands sent in by readers. Fully annotated retro-futurist map after the jump.

When considering all the assorted tragedies that have set up shop in the Meatpacking District, it's nearly impossible to assemble them in a rank and file from bad to abhorrent. They're all bad, they're all filled with overly slick playas and faux-empowered hobags. So rather than enumerate all the things worth hating, we're instead focusing on what comes to mind as the four most offensive, neighborhood-iconic, and ridiculous venues: One, Level V, PM, and G-Spa — the four horsemen's stables, if you will.

So we're wondering, vis- -vis the MPD, what's left? What holdouts remain from the pre-Florent era when everything started going to hell? We've taken a look around; after the jump, the surprising results.

There are few more thankless job than door control in the Meatpacking District, but among them is attempting to interview bouncers and doormen in the Meatpacking District. Some are actually quite friendly, while others are friendly in the "I will break your shit" way. Observe the reactionary gamut from cheerful chatting to hunter-killer mode when nightlife enforcers are confronted with the camera.

As part of this week's anti-service journalism work, we're providing a handy print, sign, 'n' save Meatpacking District Avoidance Pledge for you and all your friends. We're hoping that most of you instinctively abide by this pledge anyway, perhaps even more religiously than the terms we describe. Nevertheless, it's good, positively negative reinforcement for those who are still on the fence, unsure of just how bad it really is down there, or without a brain in their heads. After the jump, examine and enjoy.

Sure, we could show you hours of B-roll depicting Jersey girls staggering over the Meatpacking District's cobblestones on unfeasible heels. OK, maybe we'll show you a little bit of that. There's the doll who shouts, "I don't smoke, I'm famous!", and the chicks swarming the utterly superfluous and yet ever-present NYFD fire truck on 9th Avenue ("Crowd control," muttered one fireman when asked why they were there, his eyes following a bevy of passing short skirts). Perhaps most compelling is "Suzetta," the "58-year-old Vietnam veteran" cross-dresser, and her handler, Jimmy. Suzetta was denied entrance to various Meatpacking bars due to leaving her ID at home. Still, she was quite willing to borrow Jimmy's van and our various nubile interns, for purposes best left unexplored on a family website.

Though the cobblestone streets house all sorts of horrors, the District of Packed Meat extends upwards as well. High above the teeming masses of tight-shirted young men and gum-snapping women there is another sort of Meatpacking District: the rooftop pools. In what can only be described as a feat of "hey they did it, so will we" design, both Soho House and the Hotel Gansevoort boast rooftop pools, right across the street from one another. Funny, considering their target guest is the type who'd rather drink lighter fluid than spend a moment baking in the heated squalor of Manhattan in the summertime.

Glitz. Glamour. Grease. These are the three elements essential to a restaurant's success in the horrific environment that is the Meatpacking District. After the jump, we look at three of the more ostentatious examples of fine dining chez MPD.

It might not have technically occurred in the hellish heart of the Meatpacking District, but after having spent this week bemoaning a neighborhood drowning in hair gel, it's nice to see that the area's gritty glory days aren't forever lost:

Oh hey, perhaps we're being too hard on the Meatpacking District as a hive of tourists. We're sure that lots of locals still hang out there, right? So what if they're from France, Italy, and/or Texas. New York is all about the melting pot. Good thing, as the only actual New Yorker we found on a night of crawling the neighborhood was a tranny who couldn't get into the Hog Pit.