Harlem Mourns Loss of Pedophile.

“We are all Sean Bell/NYPD go to hell.”

Today, Al Sharpton and thousands of others did their best to “shut the city down.” There were protests at 125th and 2nd, in front of the Triborough Bridge; at 59th, in front of the Queens Bridge; downtown in front of the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges…and of course, one at 1 Police Plaza.

Here’s 125th.

Pedophile Convention at Yankee Stadium!

The Pope came to Yankee Stadium. I assume the fact that today is Hitler’s birthday and the Pope was a “reluctant” member of Hitler Youth is mere coincidence.

Rose Bar, B8…whether I’m at a trendy club or uptown sipping cheap whiskey out of a coffee mug with my boy, I’m still getting drunk.

Nur Khan – The Sweet Smell Of Success (Part One)
A Conversation With The Creative Director/Partner Of Rose Bar & Jade Bar, The Ultra-Exclusive Bars At The Ian Schrager, Julian Schnabel Collaboration, The Gramercy Park Hotel

Rose Bar is different; it’s 2pm and an impeccable staff is greeting, straightening up, cleaning, and repairing. I watch a matronly Asian women quietly vacuuming a Julian Schnabel rug in one direction, always keeping the grain in mind. A highly fashionable artistic-type woman is touching up the walls with what looks like paint. I look up at millions of dollars worth of art. I am awestruck. The Gramercy Park Hotel is simply amazing.

Nur Khan, who operates the ultra-chic Rose Bar within, brings me and my crew inside. Rose Bar is out of reach, unattainable for most. It is simply the best room the city has to offer. A reservation only door policy, tightly controlled, ensures a constant flow of A-listers eager to hang with each other, far away from the maddening crowds. Nur Khan and I are neighbors. We do stop and chats when we see each other and for awhile, after he left Hiro, when it wasn’t what Nur really wanted it to be, I watched him bustle about with papers and plans and dreams under his arm. The well documented convergence of the giants Ian Schrager and Julian Schnabel and the baby they produced, the Gramercy Park Hotel, was lacking a captain for the heart of the place, the lobby bar/lounge. New hotel designs more than ever give considerable space to fabulous restaurant, bars, and lounges, as it is felt that they are necessary these days to drive the hotel. In Nur Khan, Ian found a man at the top of his game. Nur was to be taken to the next level and preside over absolutely, no doubt about it, the best joint in town…Rose Bar.

Hype is a motherfucker.

It could’ve been the bitter, drunk guy I went on three contact-free dates with six months ago repeating, “You know, I went on a few dates with her…thought it was going well…”

…it could’ve been the effects of the large amount of Ciroc (fuck you, Puff Daddy…that shit goes down far too easily) I snuck into my large seltzer water at Madison Square Garden at the NIT tournament game an hour earlier…

…or it could’ve just been the anger caused by poorly-mixed $20 cocktails.

Whatever the reason, I was underwhelmed.

Following the tradition of Bungalow 8, Rose Bar forbids photography.

They say it’s because of the original art on the walls.

Admittedly, I’m nowhere near fashionable and my tastes are completely unrefined. But every new, trendy nightlife venue comes with a more militant door policy, more expensive drinks, more posturing, and more pretension. NYC nightlife is becoming a parody of itself.

Beyond that, there is no single “It” place. None of these clubs stacks up to Studio 54 on their own. My boy says, “Someday, we’ll be able to tell our grandchildren that we went to Bungalow 8.”

…but I remember when Marquee was cool…and now we shake our heads and laugh at the poor bastards waiting outside when we pass it on the way to Bungalow.

Free Mumia! Oh, and 50 other pointless and unrelated causes.

I got an email (an interoffice email) urging me (and the 600 other staff members at my agency) to attend one of two rallies protesting the continued incarceration of Mumia Abu-Jamal, former Black Panther and convicted cop killer.

I don’t know how I feel about the case.

…but protests are always a good time. How do these people manage to tie Communist rhetoric and “Free Puerto Rico” into a protest to get one motherfucker off of Philly’s death row?

Happy Birthday to Shrine!

Last night was Shrine’s one year anniversary.

Red Hook, Brooklyn.

A night in Red Hook is a fine way to escape the chaos of Manhattan. Getting there requires a train ride to Brooklyn Heights and a bus to Van Brunt, but hey; it adds to the experience.

As is typical of much of Brooklyn, going out in Red Hook with friends will most likely begin by sipping absinthe, listening to Belle & Sebastian, and drawing tenuous parallels between the war in Iraq and the innate tendencies of the cat sleeping in the corner.

But visiting any bar in the Hook will make the distinction between this relaxed, surreal neighborhood and the hipster purgatory that is Williamsburg quite apparent:

The abundance of middle-aged bluegrass musicians.

Nine Reasons I’m Leaving NYC.

Since everyone asks and few believe me:

1. There is one bar for every three people living in Manhattan.

I didn’t know how much I liked alcohol until I moved to NYC. Three years later, I can walk into countless establishments in practically every neighborhood in Manhattan and have my drink waiting for me before I reach the bar.

We have Broadway…the best restaurants…shitty sporting events almost every night of the week…and nobody drives. Convincing anyone to partake in booze-free social activities is virtually impossible. If a person doesn’t want to drink, he or she will remain in their cramped little apartment, shut off to the world. It’s the same shit every night.

The only variables are the type of shitty weather I have to deal with to go out, and whether my drunken bar banter consists of the NBA and Obama:

…or college football and McCain.

2. I pay $1100 a month to live in the shittiest little apartment imaginable.

My friends from third world countries visit my apartment and laugh. I don’t even have a bathroom door. And while my situation is a bit extreme, it is par for the course in NYC.

3. Cigarettes are $7-8 a pack.

At the stand next to my office in the Financial District, the grand total for a pack of Camels is $8.25.

I’m glad Bloomberg cares enough about my health to sodomize me with cigarette taxes…especially as I inhale asbestos dust from the WTC site next door.

4. Nobody with half a brain has a car in Manhattan, so you have to rely on mass transit.

…and it sure is fun cramming into a completely packed train for the 45-minute commute home! “Pardon me, sir…could you remove your erect penis from the crack of my ass?”

5. There’s no fucking Wal-mart.

To get the diverse shit one trip to Wal-mart would yield, you would have to go to fifty stupid specialty stores in NYC. And then you’d have to try to get all the shit you bought on the train to get home.

6. The bums are fucking crazy.

It doesn’t seem like it’d be that big of a deal, but sometimes a urine-soaked degenerate shaking a cup in your face just fucks your day up.

7. The weather always sucks.

It’s either oppressively cold or oppressively hot at any given time in the City. I didn’t know what the fuck “sleet” was before I moved here. I’m either covered in sludge and road salt or drenched in sweat by the time I get to work in the morning.

8. Bandwagon mentality is endemic among New Yorkers.

This applies to politics, city issues, trendy bars and restaurants, and most notably, sports. A prime example would be the millions of new Giants fans. I can’t imagine how many “Superbowl Champions” shirts were sold in this city the morning after they beat the Pats. Real Giants fans have started to rock their tattered, puke-stained Giants shirts from when they took the Bills in Superbowl XXV just to distinguish themselves from bandwagon fans.

And most importantly…

9. I hate the fucking Knicks, and there’s no smoking deck at Madison Square Garden.
***

Another Friday Night at the Garden.

After the Knicks lost by 40 points to the 76ers, scalpers desperately tried to offload tickets in front of MSG for as little as $5.

Even the Bronx Looks Less Crappy Covered in Snow (Pictures).

Slightly less crappy.