The Stay Hotel opened up just as the economy sank, but through a series of adjustments it has managed to stay ahead of the recession. New still sells, and Times Square ain't what it used to be ... it's stocked with a steady stream of tourists. It's better in many ways than it was before the sanitization, but I, of course, miss the old Times Square. When I was young -- yes, there was a time -- I had a strange hobby: I would put on some very old clothes, a hat to cover my face, and put a bottle of Welch's grape juice into a brown paper bag, then lay down or sit propped up in a doorway in a very dangerous pimp-thug-whore environment and listen, watch, and absorb street life. No one ever noticed me. I was invisible. I absorbed the jargon, learned the rules, and saw incredible things. Later, Times Square would become Disneyfied, and the old ways were exiled to another Main Street. The Minnesota strip where pimps would turn 15-year-old runaway farm girls into women who were never saved by Travis Bickle has been converted to some Midwesterners' vision of Times Square, with new neon and less risqué messages. Girls, girls, girls turned into McDonald's, Burger King, and Ruby Foo's.

I was walking my dogs past Café Habana when I ran into a group of old friends. The conversation centered on the 675 spot where Level V should be. The crew -- which included a few ex-Steve Hanson employees -- were talking about how “675 makes no sense” and that "another wave of contraction" of Steve's B.R Guest properties was about to happen. I was told it's "common knowledge” that the Starwood acquisition of B.R. Guest was “one of Starwood's worst deals ever." In between bites of crisp, cheesy corn, I was told that "at least one of Hanson’s properties was on the verge of closing, maybe more.”

Our resident nightlife blogger "Uncle" Steve Lewis got a few mentions in estimable paper of record The New York Times this weekend. A profile of Aspen Social notes the involvement of "80’s club über-guru Steve Lewis." And in a piece noting the recent renovations at Webster Hall -- which Steve also managed -- Steve's described as "a New York night life mainstay." Unfortunately, the Jayson-Blair-esque reporting fails to mention Steve's BlackBook connection.

Last night I watched the Academy Awards over at Aspen Social and Amalia event coordinator Kevin Crawford’s house with the last of my Life-era friends. I was scheduled to DJ over at Southside, but I only found out about the gig through a Facebook flier so I opted out when I realized I had to see the Oscars with the old gang. Everybody had a Mickey Rourke story, but I had a Marisa Tomei story. When I started that Monday-night bowling thing over at Bowlmor Lanes back in the day, Marisa always came by, being friendly, enthusiastic, and real. One day she was hanging out and chatting with me as I was buying my bowling ball in the old pro shop that used to be there. As the guy was engraving my ball "Steve," he realized that my companion was the Academy Award-winning actress, and he slipped up; the engraving came out as "Sneve" instead. That became my nickname for quite awhile. She’s as fun and cool and genuine as she seems, and it was wonderful to see her honored once again.

Forget spiked egg nog, pumpkin-based drinks, and all those other seasonal libations. Don’t even think about a chilled beer or frozen concoction unless you plan on spending the night perched over your heater. Instead, head to one of the spots below where the mixologists are whipping up specialty cocktails for sun-deprived-drinkers.

10. Thai chili hot chocolate @ Thom Bar (Soho) - Made with Thailand’s national spirit -- Mekhong, which is sort of like a pisco -- there’s no hotter way to beat your chills.
9. Wake-Up Call @ Brandy Library (Tribeca) - You could spend all night sifting through the never-ending list of options, but make it easy for yourself and go straight for this warm, aptly named mix of espresso, vanilla vodka, and homemade chocolate and coffee liqueurs.
8. Gingerbread cocktail at Empire Hotel Rooftop (Upper West Side) - The sunny skies may be gone, but the rooftop continues to attract with sweeping views, dim lighting, and a crackling fireplace -- all of which are best enjoyed while sipping on their creation made with gingerbread syrup, Ten Cane Rum, apple juice, and lemon.

● How come if they gave a rate hike to the cabbies because gas went to five bucks a gallon -- then it hasn't come down now that it’s at a buck and a half?

● How come if there's a cop outside of every club anyway, it isn’t made official that the policeman’s job should be to keep the cabs from honking, the smokers from chatting too loudly, and to regulate tons of other stuff that bouncers without real authority (except unacceptable force) are told to handle now? With the exception of places with liquor licenses, a business in New York can rent a cop.

● Why not create a club czar who can oversee the problems and potentials of clubs? He or she can encourage tourism and community/club cooperation. They can follow that "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" lead with a "wake up in the city that never sleeps" campaign, which can create real tax revenues and real jobs. Hotels, restaurants, Broadway, cabs, delis, shops, and thousands of et ceteras will benefit. The film industry has a film czar making sure television, video, and movie shoots are coddled to, and the film industry generated $5 billion last year -- nightclubs generated $10 billion.

I sat with Richie Notar in his fabulous and famous restaurant Nobu 57, and as we talked, it felt like I was just catching up with an old friend from the neighborhood. The amazingly accessible Richie gave me an hour just before he set off to open more Nobu franchises in exotic places far away from his Queens roots. His partnership with Robert De Niro and his relationships with Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager may have kick-started his career, but success on this level is the result of someone who has given his heart, mind, and very soul in the pursuit of greatness. Working his way up from dishwasher -- and not ashamed to say it -- Richie is what this town is about; his hard work produced an empire. I am reminded of Caesars riding in triumphal chariots while a slave whispered mortality in their ears. Richie doesn’t need anyone to remind him from where he came from; he keeps his past real close, and despite triumphal success, remains humble and down to earth.

At last night's BlackBook party for Steve Lewis at Aspen Social, our excellent video correspondent Liz Glover spoke with the man himself for a minute or three. On tap: the design of Aspen Social, the forthcoming relaunch of Webster Hall, Steve's time in the clink, and his views on the coming good times.

Last night a DJ saved my life. Marky Ramone, my old friend, was kind enough to display his considerable skills at a party BlackBook threw me at Aspen Social. (Be sure to check out the video.) There were many reasons to be cheerful. First of all, I'm very comfortable with BlackBook. I have been treated like gold and, although the decision to leave JoonBug was difficult, I am very convinced it was the right move. When I asked Marky to deejay, it was because I didn’t want to forget where I came from and wanted him there spinning music that I love in a place my partner Marc Dizon and I created for our friend, Greg Brier. It was a two-and-a-half month build-out after a couple of months of prep -- about half the minimum time usually allocated for such a gig. I’m exhausted and need to thank all the craftsmen and artists who made it possible. Marky pointed out to my beautiful young girlfriend that he's known me for 30 years. I pointed to young Vance Brooking and Mey Bun, budding nightlife stars and funsters, that I was thin like them back then, around a buck thirty-five, and had my hair. Mey said I still got the hair, but I explained how the illusion works.

I, like many club people, have rules that I try to live by. Things like: Never turn two parties into one; there are no enemies you can’t reconcile with; check references; or, when in doubt, keep them out. One of my rules is that when the belly dancers start their thing, I leave the building. So I ran out of Aspen Social as the awful wenches embarrassed birthday boy Greg Brier, who must be very old at this point -- not Steven Lewis old, but old.