I wear multiple nightlife hats. I, of course, write here daily; I design joints; I DJ; and I help in the marketing of that delicious Beau Joie Champagne. There are often conflicts, especially in the writing. I follow the rule of disclosing what I can about the new projects I am designing, but I do comply with the rules publicists and management lay out. I often do not get the first photos of places I'm designing or often even the first substantive story. In the case of the The Elsinore at 17 Stanton Street, my latest creation, publications like Crains and Thrillist got the scoops. I also will not write about a place differently because I am involved. This has upset a few clients, but others like the added dimension of this column.

As the economy recovers and money becomes available, places that were long ago shuttered or recently deceased prepare for rebirth. Restaurants lay around like old chairs and sofas covered with white sheets like in an old horror flick. The biggest prize in my eyes is Plumm, that ripe spot on 14th Street with a ton of tradition. Nell Campbell had her infamous joint Nell's there back in the day. It became famous for charging everybody -- and I mean everybody -- door admission. Cher refused, got turned away, and the little gimmick turned the place into a hit overnight. In later years, I would go and listen to jazz bands and eat good food before the mayhem of the dance halls. Noel Ashman took the joint over and called it NA. Some said it meant "Nell's Again," but most thought it was a tribute to his own dapper self. Noel eventually closed NA and transformed it into Plumm, with a gaggle of celebrity investors including Chris Noth, Damon Dash, Samantha Ronson, etc. Plumm proved to be a bitter fruit, never really catching on with a crowd that spent enough money to pay the rent.

Yesterday, DBTH reported that the Plumm, Noel Ashman's celebrity-powered nightspot, had been closed. Sometimes being a nightlife writer puts me in conflict with my other career of club/restaurant designer. Noel had me and my partner Mark Dizon lined up to give the downstairs a quick new look. I knew there were problems, as Noel just couldn't pull the trigger on the redux. I could not report what I knew because Noel was a client. DBTH broke the story, and after reading Scott's post, I felt I had one less reason to be cheerful. Plumm was shuttered, and I was out a design fee. I called Noel last night to hear his side of things: "Plumm had a four-and-a-half year run, which in the end ran into a real tough economy." He went on to say that the club had been "plagued by lingering debt from NA," the previous club in the space, which Noel also owned. I could never put a finger what NA stood for, and Noel still won't tell. Most thought it was simply "Noel Ashman" or "Nell's Again" (from another way-more-accepted joint that lived there). Some quipped it meant "Not Again," and I'm sure my more snarky readers can go even farther.

● Remember 18,000 years ago (OK, it was 6), when Phil Spector allegedly killed somebody? Well, allege no more: Spector was convicted yesterday of second-degree murder . Here’s his booking shot, where his bouffant is looking a tad depressed. [TMZ] ● Hot off the heels of the unreleased Terminator: Salvation, director McG will be taking a sharp left turn by bringing the Broadway smash rock musical Spring Awakening to the screen. [/Film] ● Damon Dash, co-founder of Roc-a-Fella records, just designed a Range Rover with diamond accents. Too bad he can’t buy the car himself, since he owes $2 million to the IRS. [AnimalNewYork]

Openings and closings. Re-inventings and re-hashings. Clubdom is reeling like a Detroit car company. Now Plumm, Noel Ashman's three-year-old celeb boite, is expanding to accommodate its celebrity crowd -- they need a bigger place but don't want to go anywhere. I caught up with Noel in the unused Plumm basement lounge while Saturday night raged up above. I was rather surprised as I was being whisked to Noel's table -- not only was the place packed, but the crowd was hot. Not "three years ago hot," but better than the other places I was hitting that night. A steady stream of hip hop treats led me to Noel's table, only to realize that he wasn't there. I glanced up to see who was playing, and there he was: DJ Ashman. Noel offered two more tunes, and we headed downstairs to see what could be done.

Last night at Bottino, the barely-there air-conditioning wasn't doing its part in helping the sweat off my forehead. The shoulder-to-shoulder guests didn’t help either, and the cool white wine was futile. It was hot. I envied the rows upon rows of Heinekens, Coronas, and Amstel Lights, cooling off in a field of ice. So I drank as many as possible, because, well, screw them. But to be fair, revenge upon beer wasn’t my sole reason for sweating my away around the Chelsea restaurant. There was an event going on, funds were being raised, awards were being presented, and young talent was being recognized. The Ghetto Film School is a nonprofit film training program started in the South Bronx, and last night was their fourth annual Spring Benefit, celebrating excellence and raising money to send ten of its students to Uganda, for their fourth-ever thesis film project.