A special friend has relayed the information that Ludlow Manor, that ambitious club/lounge/(restaurant?) had an awful time with the New York State Liquor Authority at the full Board Meeting Wednesday. Nobody got hung or shot, but they did get buried with being forced to turn in the liquor license for safekeeping the end result. My ex-wife took my cat Violet for "safekeeping" 20 years ago and I haven't seen either since. Ludlow Manor is fronted by Georgie Seville and GaGa's ex Luc Carl, something the board took note of. The Times reported that Luc called himself an owner and, by SLA rules, that isn't strictly true. It is merely a harmless exaggeration club-runners use to describe themselves when they often own nothing more than their wardrobe. I wont reveal the names of the real owners here.

Last night, nightlife people behaved like rubber-necking suburban commuters staring at some twisted wreck (a phrase often used to describe me). Tired of their own tragedies, they gained a moment of exhilaration over the misfortune of others. Thus was the scene as word spread that Kenmare was closing. It was a hundred "did you hears" as bon vivants put in their two cents. Most comments and opinions weren't worth even one Abe Lincoln copper. Of course everything was exaggerated. Kenmare isn't closing, at least not the part that waters these players. The restaurant, however, is going to need to change. I called up Nur Khan, always a friend to me when I need one, and asked him what was up.

Tonight I will DJ at "My Favorite Party" largely because my favorite DJ, entrepreneur, restaurateur, and favorite person Paul Sevigny has asked me to. He's telling me to think outside of the box. I haven't thought inside the box since Reagan was president...and even then the box contained a pipe, some combustibles and keys to my Rickie Stickie Tickied Volkswagen Camper. These Wednesday night shindigs at Le Bain started a couple weeks ago but now they’ve added early acoustic sets.

This weekend was spent walking dogs, DJing, and watching war movies -- 3 of my 5 favorite things. As the city emptied out, those who are not inclined to wallow in traffic and party like it's 1999 enjoyed the relative quiet. Clubs in NYC were quiet as well, with many joints closing, and others pared down to skeletal staffs. With almost every real DJ cashing in out of town, guys like me had a chance. On Thursday, I opened for my friend Paul Sevigny at the roof garden of the glorious Hudson Hotel.

“When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.” So goes the famous line from The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. And that’s the way we roll when a legend passes, and such is the legend of Don Hill. We hardly ever dig too deep to find faults, flaws, or the things that define him—up or down—as human. However, recent rumors imply that the joint bearing his name is possibly opening again under “new” management. The implication is that the old management drove the place into dire financial circumstances so that the club was no longer able to continue. This requires a look, as reputations are on the line.

A quiet man who made a great deal of noise slipped into eternity yesterday. Don Hill left us in the way he lived, quietly and without fuss or fanfare. His passing showed us all how to go. I rushed to Don Hill's last night, where friends gathered to support each other, remember and honor. All around, rumors and tales percolated about the circumstances of his passing. It was left to others to figure out how he died, as we all agreed that how he lived was far more important.

At the end of the Oscar-winning flick The Bridge on the River Kwai (which won 1957's Best Picture of Year award), a British officer stands on a hill and repeats “Madness!” while making a funny face. I can relate to him. Fashion Week is madness, and as much as it’s usually a "must avoid" for me, I am swept up in it like flotsam on the River Kwai. So many events, so many friends in town, and the weather is giving me a bit of spring fever—yes, even at my age. Madness! I was swept to The Box for it’s 4th anniversary. The dapper, debonair door principal (and all around nice guy), Giza (Gizaselimi), kindly invited me down, and as I have always depended on the kindness of gentlemen, I decided to go.

Only during Fashion Week do you see industry folk bright-eyed and dressed to the nines on sub-zero, it's-so-early-it's-still-dark-out weekend mornings -- all in spite of hard-partying the night before. You can catch them dashing like trained athletes between shows at Lincoln Center, Milk Studios, and various other obscure venues for hours on end, fueled by copious amounts of caffeinated beverages (sometimes spiked – I mean, who's really that chipper in the am?).

Tonight the party of the century, or at least one of the last good ones of this decade, is happening. Gosh, is anyone aware that the decade is done, kaput, finito? The DGI Management Holiday Party has been unbelievable the last couple of years, and everything says tonight’s event will rock, roll, hip-hop, mash-up, and mix-up all the formats. DGI, among other things, is a DJ management company, so tonight’s music will come from Paul Sevigny, Rev Run, The Misshapes, DJ Ruckus, Jesse Marco, DJ Kiss, Corey Enemy, David Berrie, DJ M.O.S., Mel DeBarge, and DJ Rashida. There are always surprises. Don Hill's is the place, and getting in will be a trip, so start texting, faxing, calling, and bribing now.

I'm packing to come home, and for the first time ever, I will be sad to leave LA. I either just got "it," or "it" changed enough in my direction to have meaning. I had a great time, and I swear I will never use this old joke again: "If its 10pm in New York, it must be 1998 in LA." It just doesn't ring true, as NY has become less and LA more. Back in the big wormy apple I hear that Santos' Party House is reopened, and Gina Sachi Cody is still dearly departed. Gina will be put to rest following wakes and funeral services 2pm to 4pm and 6pm to 7pm tomorrow at the Barret Funeral Home in Tenafly, New Jersey. I'm going, so if you expected to see me, fogetaboutit. I'm sending my sweetness off, even if I must go to Tenafly—wherever that is. I would walk a million miles for one of Gina's smiles, but will have to settle for a photo on an easel.