I attended the screening of Dan Levin's Captured, a documentary about the iconic chronicler of downtown culture Clayton Patterson, at Collective Hardware last night. All of the unusual suspects arrived to witness a world that has largely disappeared as a result of more than a decade of hardcore gentrification. The Lower East Side, where I learned to stand up, is full of defunct clubs, and squatted buildings have long ago been replaced by condominiums, co-ops, and baby carriages. At this point it’s too long ago to point fingers or even think what could have or should have been. Captured just shows downtown as it was without pulling punches, needles or blood. Nothing was hidden from a new generation who might not be able to imagine what it was like without this amazing film. My special friend, a pretty young thing from Southern California with more than a fair share of cerebrum lives on Essex Street, and she was awed by the changes and indeed by the history portrayed in this film.

Clayton Patterson is that strange-looking dude taking photos of everybody at all those art openings and downtown events. He has amassed a history of downtown -- warts and all - -that really needs its own museum. Ask him about it the next time you see him, but bring coffee and something to eat because you’re going to be there for awhile. A long time ago, I was married to a model, and we decided to go on a camping trip hitting all the major parks out West. At one point, we had been in the woods for about two weeks with only a jump into a cold river for a bath and lentils and add-water type items for food. This story is a story in itself, as my never-camped-before wifey entered the wilderness in a black Azzedine Alaia dress and Chanel boots. She chased a bear cub because she thought it was cute, and I waited for the grizzly mom to eat us, but somehow we survived. Anyway, we emerged from our safari and checked into a real nice hotel for real food, a real bed, and most importantly a warm shower. She went first, and I flipped on the TV to see if the world was still there, and on the national news, there was my bloody friend and club owner Rudolf, who had been clubbed by a rioting police officer in Tompkins Square Park in New York.