So if you've ever been to New York, or known anyone from New York, or walked by some random person on the street who, it turns out, spent a weekend in New York in, say, the summer of 1992, then you know the thing. The thing where someone tells you how much cooler it used to be in New York, you know back in the '70s when everyone did coke with Halston and Bianca at Studio 54, or in the '80s when everyone shot dope with Basquiat, or in the summer of 1992 when some dude threw the best party ever at this hidden spot in the lower east side where nine 12-foot DJs spun underwater for hours in an old pickle factory that, yeah, bummer, has since been turned it into "industrial living" lofts that start at $1.2 million. Whatever. Screw those people, right? There are still great spots in New York, right? Dark and delicious dens of iniquity where you can dance, really dance, not to warmed-over '80s lite, but to real DJs with clever and exotic monikers from far away lands who bring it big and loud and fun for hours on end to a crowd that isn't just made up of wanker bankers, or upper east side rehabbers, or the tragically hip locals from [insert your neighborhood here,] but all of those people at once, dancing, real close to you, too close, not close enough. There are still spots in New York that bring it until 4am every night of the week, right? Spots where, hey, if you feel like meeting someone new, or if you feel like getting into some trouble, or if you feel like meeting someone new who will ultimately get you into trouble, you can do that, places you walk in and think: well, all right, New York fucking City, maybe even a little like it used to be at The Factory or Max's Kansas City or that party with the 12-foot DJs in the pickle factory. New York's still got tons of those places... Right? Uh, wrong. Have you been out lately? It's fucking bleak. New York's got one of those places left. It's called 205. on 205 Chrystie. Brought to you by people like Serge Becker (google him, really, fun!) and the one and only Andy Kelley keeping things right on the inside til the breaka breaka dawn. A bunch of other watering holes have opened up in the neighborhood recently, so you'll have to skirt some town cars and a few of Jersey's most precious to find us. In fact, it's probably wise to make sure the spot you walk into is our spot, the spot, 205. But do come. And quickly. Your annoying seen-it-all, done-it-all, danced-it-all stories are waiting.From: Zev Borow
Andy Warhol Factory Reunion: vanityfair.com http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/video/2...
VANITY FAIR December 2006 The Art Issue
