2011 rushes into history taking some notable strangers, a few friends, and some cherished concepts with it. I can't complain about the way it treated me because it seemed to have treated a whole world of people worse. The world seems harder and more dangerous and less forgiving than in years past. Every minor conflict that we were worried about seems to have been worth the worry. The news is rarely good news and we seem to be accepting mediocrity as a nation. A recent trip to Virginia took me past town after town of similar malls and cookie cutter architecture. My New Year's resolution is simply to still give a damn.

Lit Lounge is the downtown dive. You can't write about downtown New York nights without mentioning it. It's so popular that it's almost unfathomable that anyone hasn't spent at least one faded night there. But if, for some reason, you've managed never to have been there, here's what you can expect.

The Sly Fox is an unlikely bar for Second Ave., where noted funky spots, like Mars Bar, seem to have either closed down, or are approaching an all out police state (Lit). Hidden under the Ukrainian National Home, a complex that also includes a restaurant, an optometrist, and whatever's on the second story, the Sly Fox (called Karpatys on the awning) is not trying to impress, gentrify, or relive a past. It is simply a place for Ukrainians to get drunk.

I go out a lot -- way too much -- but rarely find myself at a place where I truly enjoy myself. I'm always fascinated by the way operators, um, operate, and can linger at a place I don't like for hours figuring out what exactly it is about it I don't like, and what I would do to fix it. When David Marvisi and I had a meeting about taking over his disastrous Key Club and turning into what eventually became the very successful Spa nightclub, many were amazed that I was able to open the place a mere 38 days later. It was possible because of previous analysis about the wrongs and how to un-wrong them. The champagne at Winstons Champagne Bar tastes like good champagne should.

I was recently asked to give Hotel Chantelle a little kiss. You know, tweak the lighting, paint some walls, and pick out some fabrics for the soon-to-open rooftop bar. It’s been a nice little gig, as everyone involved is mad cool. After a couple of weeks, I decided to go there on a weekend night to see what's going on. Frankly, I had heard mixed reviews: sometimes stellar, and sometimes less than great. I saw for myself. What I observed was actually fabulous.

Tonight will bring me to Madame Wong's, that invite-only, pop-up hot spot at 3 Howard Street. It’s an Interview Magazine event for "Blank City," a feature documentary directed by Celine Danhier. The DJs are JG Thirwell (Foetus), Nick Zinner (Yeah Yeah Yeahs), and Dan Selzer (Acute Records). The documentary tells the overdue tale of the disparate crew of renegade filmmakers who emerged from an economically bankrupt and dangerous moment in New York history. In the late 70’s and mid 80’s, when the city was still a wasteland of cheap rent and cheap drugs, these directors -- Jim Jarmusch, John Lurie, Jon Waters, Amos Poe, and many others -- "crafted daring works that would go on to profoundly influence the development of independent film as we know it." So the synopsis reads.

A tooth that once took a solid left hook from a very tough gal a couple years ago finally went down for the count - and took the rest of me with it. Therefore, I missed the un-missable event of my new year, the 9th anniversary of Lit. The people I was going to meet at the soiree spoke incoherently when I asked them what had happened. They seemed to have had a blast but were of no use to me, so I turned to the proprietor, the debonair man about town Erik Foss, who everyone just calls Foss. Here are his 9 highs and lows:

For some, this week marks the start of Fashion Week, a time when "front row" means sitting stiffly next to editors and celebrities as a barrage of waifs cascade down a lit runway. For music lovers, "front row" this week will mean getting sweated on by The National, Huey Lewis and the News, and Theophilus London. Here's the best of the week's musical acts.

Before I head to B.east tonight to play with DJ Jennifly and her friends at her Hustle party, I will attend the new opening at the Fuse Gallery. The attraction is “Songs,” an exhibition that “features a number of works from a number of mediums. Each work in the exhibition was influenced by the words of the artists' favorite songs, and how the words impact and influence the work they make.” Among the too-many-to list-here artists are Mick Rock, Steve Powers, Alex Arcadia, Tim Barber, Leo Fitzpatrick, Angela Boatwright, Kembra Pfahler, Anton Perich, and Spencer Sweeney.

I was born and raised in Jackson Heights, Queens, a nice enough place. I had friends, went to PS 69 (okay, get it out of your system, I’ve heard every joke possible), played Little League Baseball, and on my birthday, had the Kitchen Sink at Jahns on on 37th Avenue. I was popular, I was brash, I questioned everything. I once had a run-in over my stolen baseball glove with a kid a little bit older than me. His name was Johnny Genzale, and he was, generally speaking, a punk, a “must” to avoid. I got my glove back, and after that scrap, he crossed the street every time he saw me. He grew up to be punk superstar Johnny Thunders (New York Dolls and The Heartbreakers). At Max’s Kansas City we hung out once in a while as two kids from the neighborhood. He was always good to me. I was extremely upset when he died, but I was also surprised he lived so long. Dee Dee Ramone told me that he had been whacked by Louisiana assholes. When I was old enough to know better, I went down to the old East Village, which resembles its current incarnation for only a few moments once in a while, and only at a few places, like Lit or maybe Veselka at 3am.