The Camelot that was W.i.P. is over. Stuart Braunstein, half of the creative crew in a joint centered around creativity, has split the club, leaving behind a trail of bad things to say, bitter regrets, and little else... even the art. According to Stuart, that art which has so wonderfully adorned the art-based club, is being removed today, probably as you read this. His partner Rony Rivellini remains and has been joined by man-about-town Thomas Moler. This story is moving very fast and has lots of moving parts but this is what I got in the last few days.

It’s happening: the launch of BlackBook’s Goodnight Mr. Lewis email blast. Questions loom as to how this affects your overall health, lifestyle, and after-dark activities. Simply put, signing up to this email blast gives you Steve’s column straight to your inbox before anyone else.

Nightclubs come and go and sometimes, but rarely do they actually come back. The return of Pink Elephant to our scene has me...well...tickled pink. I used to go to its incarnation on lower 8th Avenue just below 14th Street and when it was on 27th Street. On 27th Street it was one of the top dogs on a block that included Bungalow 8 (which is also making a comeback), Cain (hmmm, I hear rumblings), Bed, Spirit, Home, Guesthouse, with Mansion and Marquee right around the corner. The Outer Chelsea or OUCH club paradise was closed down by police action. There were horses and Kleig lights, and cop cars blocking the street to foot traffic. All sorts of search-and-destroy behavior, harassed clubs and customers, and it all went south... literally, to the friendlier Meatpacking District. Pink faded to memory like the day after a satisfied patron’s good time. It will reopen this Thursday at MacDougal and 8th Street and I am excited.

As New York emptied into and out of vacation paradises, I was here holding down the fort. I went to a few BBQs, hung with friends at McCarren Park, and walked the puppy...a lot. When the city empties, you can get a good look at it. I watch with a certain schizophrenia always found in my work and my social life. As new construction tears down the old and makes way for the new, I am sad or nostalgic for what remains of the past era, but I’m often awed by the visions of the modern architects and designers. Evident as we walk are the old advertisements for fabric or tradesman fading on ancient brick facades. On NY1 I caught a glimpse of a story about a barber shop closing that opened even before the television became a popular household item. A similar tale of the new crushing the old was told to me by my friend Dani Baum. It seems that the newsstand on Astor Place is being redone and its owner Jerry Delakas, who has been there forever and a day, is being told to hit the road. Tomorrow night, Wednesday, for those of you who are also confused what day it is after the long weekend, there will be a screening of a documentary about Delakas’ plight and an after-party at W.i.P., which is tomorrow’s scandalous story, btw. Here's the event info:

And suddenly it's summer. Memorial Day weekend will happen mostly elsewhere, but I love the empty city and will use the time to relax, reflect, and regroup. I most note the death of Robin Gibb reportedly from a cancer which could have been treated if only he had taken a test. I had no contact with Mr. Gibbs. I once tried to book the Bee Gees for the Palladium for New Year’s Eve, but my high offer was about one-third their low. The loss of Robin Gibbs, Donna Summer, and Adam Yauch from cancer way before any reasonable expectation of life sends a shudder through me. There are no guarantees, there are no guarantees. I do believe the rain will stop and this summer will be hot, Al Gore-hot, but the now-keener awareness of my immortality is embracing the rain and all the other miracles I enjoy every day.