Which hipster-nightlife photographer totally named Merlin Bronques threw a major hissy fit in front of the elevators at the incredibly boring Shindig party last night? "What the fuck is your problem," he shrieked, violently jabbing the 'down' button. "I told you to hold the fucking door for me!" Dude. It's just Halloween. ("Last Night's Party is so not even cool anymore," muttered a girl in the elevator. Harsh!)
"I hate Samantha Ronson, that fucking dyke!" Perez Hilton said on stage last night. He was hosting Paper magazine's third annual Nightlife Awards. Someone (either Paper's Mickey Boardman or Village Voice gossip Michael Musto) had asked him what was going on with all his lawsuits; Samantha is suing him for defamation. It's good to know that his level of wit, sophistication and creativity is sort of lacking all across the board, and not just in his writing or Microsoft Paint drawings. To his credit, he's probably the only person in the world who actually looks thinner on T.V. than in real life! Nominee for "Best Nightlife Photographer" Nikola Tamindzic was there to capture all the bitchy gaiety of the evening.
The other night, the super fancy party for the super fancy Palmes d'Or Champagne was held at this unbelievably beautiful place on Hudson Street that used to be a private residence. It also once housed the seven strangers of The Real World: Back To New York! Nikola Tamindzic was there to document both the location and the champagne-swilling menfolk. One's options in the latter department weren't bad at all, 'cause walking up to the door of the place, what to my wondering eyes should appear? Wu-Tang co-founder GZA!
On this morning's Yo on E! show, DJs Graham Funke and Stone Rokk, frequent masters of record-spinning ceremonies at celebrity-infested local establishments like Area and Les Deux, are induced into talking some smack about the famous clientele to whom the clubs' buzz-craving owners slavishly cater in hopes of keeping their venues from falling out of favor with Hollywood's incredibly fickle starfucking crowd.
From the mailbag:"The cops shut down Beatrice last night around midnight. No one really knew why. One of the bouncers thought it was noise complaints. The buzz in the crowd was the NYC cabaret law." Since drunken weaving doesn't count as dancing and because when people are coked out they tend to think everything has to do with NYC Cabaret laws, we're going with the bouncer's theory.
In many ways the life and death of Dean Johnson told the story of New York nightlife: Periods of debauchery followed by the troughs of consequences and the catharsis of reinvention. Wake and repeat. Or don't. In the most reportey piece ever to run in the Times Style section, Cara Buckley makes the connections between the death of performer and prostie Dean Johnson and old New York.
So as we mentioned, last night's L Magazine Nightlife party was a real touchy-feely affair. There were two cowboy strippers. One of them accosted this lady. One of them accosted me. VideoboyAlex Goldberg was there to capture the incredibly confusing portrayal of sexuality. The part where the first stripper does a handstand on the lady's chair and rubs his crotch in her face? That might be Not Safe For Work. All of this is leading us to a theory which we'll be exploring more over the next week: Are things dirty in New York again?
The East Village bar-club Midway has lost its liquor license. This isn't the worst thing that happened at the place (remember that bouncer who was stabbed by an irate smoker in 2003? We do, we watched it happen!) but it does mean tomorrow's party for the last issue of The Crier has been put on hold, just like the magazine, indefinitely. Boohoo!
It was as if a giant powder puff had descended from heaven and enveloped Lotus in a white glittery cloud of cocaine and sparkles. Frantic energy and cake makeup touched nearly everyone at last night's L magazine Nightlife Awards. Among the crowd, gender was a choice freely made. And sexuality was externalized in a way both alluring and confusing. Jeans, when they were worn, were tighter than a pair of control top pantyhose. Soon enough, a woman would withdraw a hardboiled egg from her vagina. Nikola Tamindzic, who won their award best nightlife photographer, was unfortunately there to capture what ensued. An extended gallery can be found here.
After we were disappointed by the desultory clustering at the Out magazine party, we headed home to watch reruns of "Tim Gunn's Guide to Style." Mistake! Photographer Nikola Tamindzic headed to a party called Slingback, where all the passion we missed at Lotus was in full effect. The party was hosted by Kenny Kenny, the oldish doorman from Studio 54, JD Samson, everyone's fave mustached lesbian from Le Tigre and Michael T, of the long-running party Motherfucker. Slingbacks are a style of shoe that is slightly slutty and tend to dig into the heel of the wearer. Slingback the party is a very slutty party full of sexual healing. Even more of Nikola's photographs of the party are in his extended gallery.
There are parties in New York not run by publicists, parties that don't promote perfumes. Tracie Egan (the artist formerly known as "Slut Machine") and Nikola Tamindzic went out in the field this weekend to a real party: A raging kegger in South Williamsburg. There, they discovered oddly-shaped hickeys, uptight douchebags and a lack of alcohol. And we learned a lot about the way we live now. Or did we?
Guest of a Guest got their hands on legal docs charging Cordell Lochin (who, with Serge Becker, is a major backer of the Lower East Side hotpost The Box) of running a drug smuggling operation. In the filing, the government alleges the operation ran Montreal-grown pot over the border—the docs say Lochin handled the operation's distribution in New York City. He has been charged with conspiracy to import marijuana, conspiracy to possess with the intent to distribute marijuana and money laundering. He pleaded guilty to the first two counts and will be sentenced in two weeks.
Hotsy-totsy big-money Chelsea art dealer Gavin Brown also runs the bar Passerby, known to most of you as that place with the floor that lights up and seems to be made of cocaine. But that party is over. The news of the closure arrived from a new Gavin Brown website called New York Is Dead (.biz!) and is a bit difficult to parse!
If New York club promoter and nightlife-whatever Danny A is, as Page Six says, heading out to Las Vegas, what will become of his hot second-story but sub rosa nightclub Upstairs? More importantly, what will happen to the marginally famous who queue up to party above Cafe Bari? Perhaps they'll head over to the Bench. Or maybe they'll just turn into dust and be swept away.
Super-gay super-underground nightclub Mr. Black, the scene of recent intense police attention resulting in a drug raid with almost no score, will reopen in January 2008—but not in the space sullied by the coppers. According to an email sent by its proprietor (Mr. Black, obvs!) it'll be finding bigger digs. Until then, there's the promise of monthly parties for those who need to feel dirty.
Heralded these days as the hotspot to outshine all hotspots, new Lower East Side institution The Box is at a very dangerous crossroads. Now, celebrities are beginning to outnumber the hip. And now they're not like, cool celebrities. Says an attendee: "Literally ran into Lance Armstrong at The Box on Tuesday night, apparently it was his birthday. He had multiple boxes. I apologized for running into him, he huffed and puffed in his three-piece suit. Although I thought he was innocent of all the allegations I now believe he has 'roid rage. Completely not nice." Dude, Lance Armstrong? Seriously. What Would Studio 54 Have Done?
In the Labor Day weekend raid on Mr. Black, the gay party spot at Broadway and Bleecker, "the NYPD collected 55 packages of cocaine, five vials of cocaine, and 16 Ecstasy pills that were either found on the floor or collected from patrons," according to Tricia Romano at the Voice. This prompted Luke Nero, the bar's cocktail waiter (who is nicknamed "The Ass" [NSFW!]) to claim that "They came to shut down a drug racket, but there wasn't any drug racket to shut down." Uh, really? 15 patrons and 17 employees were arrested all told, two of whom were drug dealers, and eleven more of whom were charged with misdemeanors, including an employee who had four bags of coke on him—in his own pants! Didn't Lindsay teach him anything? Related: Coke is apparently still back!
