Nice guys sometimes finish second. I sat on the Emma Cleary story to allow time for negotiations to continue in private and my fair friends over at Grub Street ended up beating me to the punch. Since yesterday, a bad situation has gotten worse and lawsuits and injunctions seem to be imminent. The much awaited redux of Double Happiness into a restaurant lounge manned by gal around town Emma Cleary will most likely not happen. Although sources have told me that the space is just about done, internal strife between the investors and Emma have reached defcon 5 and she “feels better just walking away.” The problem here for the investment group is that it is her dear name on the liquor license. It is my understanding that if she does turn in the license as she plans to do, as early as today, the place will have to reapply, a process that will push the opening back for a year and maybe forever.

Ancient rockers Don Hill and Nicki Camp will celebrate their birthdays at a “gala event” at—you guessed it—Don Hill’s. They’re saying it’s a gala event because gala is only two syllables and four letters and they’re getting very old. They’re not Steve Lewis old, but very old indeed. Don has been around since before The Beatles (not the band, the species). As owner of Don Hill’s, he’s involved with booking the bands, hiring staff, community relations and PR, lighting, sound, and hell, at the end of the night he sweeps out the joint. I spent a year there last night talking to Don, Nicki, and my pal Mark Lewis. We talked about olden days and old friends alive and dead while I waited on a death metal band called Humanity Falls that I had promised to check out.

The Nightlife Preservation Community event at M2 was by all accounts a smashing success. Thousands of people came out to enjoy the amazing talent. The politicians that came were enlightened as to the realities of the numbers of voters who enjoy nightlife. With over a million names at our fingertips (after overlap it should end up being over 700,000 dedicated names), nightlife will become very political. Politicians who favor fair treatment for the business of clubs, patrons, and hundreds of thousands of employees will have their campaign efforts supported by email blasts. Community groups and government agencies will have access to our names as well.

Nick Mathers’ lounge Baddies, under Kingswood, is a step up from his ultra-small restaurant Ruby’s. I live in Nolita, surrounded by some pretty great places to catch a meal. Ruby’s is one of those joints that keeps me coming. In the winter it’s often so cold you have to wear your coat and sit by the pipe. I’ve seen my breath more than a few times. Yet there’s something about the place that makes me endure and indeed celebrate its smallness. Ruby’s seats about 25 people, and that’s practically sitting on your neighbor’s lap. Neighbor is the key word; you’re made to feel like you belong, that it’s your neighbors and friends that you’re eating with. Celebrities are a regular sight. I go for the best burger in town, the Whaley’s, or maybe the pasta or pear and walnut salad. I don’t’ think I’ve tried anything else, and I’ve been there a hundred times. Baddies and Kingswood bring that same casual friendliness. Everyone in town awaits the return of Beatrice and every hipster joint is declared its heir apparent. Baddies will do until the return of the baddest boy in town, my dear friend Paul Sevigny. Until then I’ll be hanging with Nick Mathers and his mates.

An autopsy may reveal it was pills or something similar that shut Michael Jackson down, but the heart really gave out because it once was loved by the whole world and wasn’t anymore. My emotions roller-coastered through a day of death and rumor. A great sadness consumed me as allegations and innuendo, tributes and music bombarded me through open windows and closed doors. From beatbox radios and every TV in the neighborhood, I was told to remember or condemn or to forgive or just listen. The complexity of understanding the meaning of Michael Jackson’s death personally and on that grander scale became harder by the hour. I was enlightened by Jesse Jackson, Quincy Jones, Cher, Paul McCartney, and even Celine Dion. Everybody except Elizabeth Taylor was getting into the act—it is an act we and they will find impossible to follow.

I met Matt Assante and Dustin Terry at Marquee. They are too much the face of the plague, for they are promoters who have gotten this “models bring bottle-buyers” thing down pat. At Marquee and the roof of Gansevoort and similar places, they line up a herd of models and book gentlemen suitors at nearby tables. The “bringing in the posse thing” is so pre-recession. In today’s club economy, in order to score big you need a percentage of the table sales to make ends meet. Matt and Dustin’s star rose just as the Dow Jones sank. Where most promoters bring 20 people or less, this dynamic duo are—in the words of one seasoned club entrepreneur—“killing it. They are one of the few teams that actually draw anymore, and their crowd actually spends money.” To those who say bottle service killed clubs, they are public enemies number one and two—or are they just a couple of nice guys trying to finish first?

The word “character” has multiple meanings in trying to tell people about Gaslight owner Matt De Matt. He certainly is a character, having been a doorman and subsequently a friend to celebrities like Bruce Willis, Mick Jagger, and scores of Page 6-worthy names. He’s been an actor appearing in movies like The Professional as part of Gary Oldman’s bad cop crew, Searching for Bobby Fischer with Laurence Fishburne and Sir Ben Kingsley, and a couple flicks with pal Mickey Rourke. When Mickey went up to prison for research on a character, he brought Matt along to play his cellmate. He lands these 20-lines-or-under parts playing a badass. He’s been a wrestling announcer for the ECW (now WWE). There’s even a book coming out about his life called War Stories. The first four chapters of this tome, “written by a New York Times writer,” are war stories, door stories, whore stories, and more stories. He’s a self-professed “live and die by a handshake, not trying to be a celebrity just trying to be a nice guy, putting out a good product” type of guy.

That line is a real little joke offered by me when somebody tries to explain to someone from Peoria who I am. Years ago, I was a driven club mogul trying to create and operate the best nightlife places on earth. The word “driven” is an understatement. I was a monster. To my close friends who took the time to look past my rough exterior, I was the chihuahua-owning gardener and loving husband. To many I was a reason to be uncheerful. That “they” person says you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs, and I guess I made enough omelets to keep Denny’s flourishing for decades. Yet over the years I did make a ton of friends, and for the most part I was respectful to those who gave respect and even to those learning that seminal lesson. Those close to me have stood by me through some real thick and thin times. For last night, I put on my Steve Lewis mask, and I was able to pull in a lot of favors for the good cause (see photos by Kirill). I asked some of the best DJs, doormen, and promoters around to work for free for an event many think created an opportunity for positive synergy with those “they’s” holding power over our club community. The outpouring of love and genuine good time had by all reminded me of an era when the mixing of music and folks from different strata of society was as common as the scowl on my face.

Tonight is the first night of the rest of our lives. The Nightlife Preservation Community party at M2 tonight will bring out the masses. But before the hoi polloi gather, a serious schmooze-fest will be taking place between the owners and operators of clubs and politico types who are RSVPing in droves. The politicians are predictably figuring out that the hundreds of thousands of voters enrolled in the marketing banks of club promotional entities can make a big difference in upcoming primaries and elections. The final DJ lineup ensures a huge turnout. Chloë Sevigny will introduce New York Nightlife Association honchos Rob Bookman and David Rabin—sometimes known as Batman and Robin. With only a little help from some friends, these two have fought the good fight for many years. At times, they have been the only thing preventing the industry from collapsing under the weight of oppressive legislation and enforcement. The NPC will give them new tools to forge ahead with a more cooperative effort between the city and the clubs. We are not trying to fight City Hall; we are trying to have City Hall recognize nightlife, a $10 billion industry, as a useful revenue-generating tool in these dark economic times.

I did the door at the Dos Equis/?uestlove/Mirrorball event last night down on Broad Street in the Financial District. Broad Street proved to be not broad enough, as an army of hipsters, dipsters, scenesters, and clubsters filled the famous lane and spilled into neighboring streets. The actual event space was filled to capacity by 10:30p.m., a half hour after doors opened to the masses. If the “Most Interesting Man in the World” indeed showed up, he didn’t get close to the place. For me it was all crowd control while security guards and New York’s finest and bravest cleared the legions from the street and eventually the space, which included a huge bank and the prestigious Claremont Preparatory School. Nobody seemed to be prepared for the turnout. I screamed at friends Amy Gunther and 1Oak’s Adam Alpert, who got close but no cigar to getting in. Adam took my intern and her friends to 1Oak for a good time instead.