The city continues to wage war on clubs. The fining, suspending and eventual closing of many clubs speaks volumes about an administration, which in its quest to end smoking or coddle to real estate interests, has once again lost sight of the man or woman on the street. Clubs suffer from a zero tolerance policy from City Hall. If a couple of patron--out of thousands--light up a cigarette, city agencies swoop down and declare it a public menace. God forbid a couple of drunks punch each other. The city's response is, “OMG! See what I mean?” And an order to close the place is obtained. If a drug dealer sells a joint, that becomes living proof of the reincarnation of Pedro Escobar and a declaration of war on the club is issued.

My club career began a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. I was sort of a friend, accessory and co-conspirator of the Ramones. I was dragged to see the band one night by a Staten Island girl named Teressa, who could have gotten me to go anywhere. At that time I was listening to classical music and jazz and was a regular at places like Fat Tuesdays and Smalls. Teressa dragged me through the throngs until we were a foot from Ramones’ bassist Dee Dee. I had never seen anything like them. Three or four minute explosions of catchy tracks with only a 1-2-3-4 shouted into the mike by the nearby rockstar to indicate that a new song had actually begun. Eyes that would later see through the frenzy and noise of crowded nightclubs to some necessary truths began to analyze what could endear me to my new obsession. I noticed the needs of the roadies, the only other calm people in the room that night, and the next week I caught up with the band at a Long Island gig with a couple of neighborhood blondes of bad reputation.