CLUBLAND
Perhaps this past week in nightlife has given us yet another clue as to what our industry does when something goes terribly wrong. I reported earlier in the week on the death of 17 year old Nicole Johns, daughter of an American ambassador, child socialite. As the trail leading up to her death from the 25th floor of a skyscraper in Herald Square led us through her footsteps back to the velvet rope at Tenjune, the city and the blogging world began to buzz about who let her in, who let her drink, who gave her her fake, and who, just who in the world could get this child so drunk in New York City.
The steam from the subway grate filters up, casting eerie shadows on 23rd Street, the light plays tricks on figures of the night, collapsing into alleyways jutting east and west across 6th Avenue. The unmistakable sirens in the distance precipitate danger, a danger known only to those who know the streets, who know the faces, those who find time irreplaceable and yet, entirely mundane. To look back on the ghosts of twenty years ago, a pulsating image haunts the minutes approaching midnight as the gothic façade of a blackened church on the corner of 20th Street and 6th Avenue fades into perspective.
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