Maybe the residents of East 1st Street weren’t kidding when they said their block was noisy — one of them writes in to inform us, “When I left the house on Sunday morning around 6 a.m. my street was blocked on both ends by police tape. There were a bunch of police cars in front of Boucarou. I asked the guys at the gas station what was up and they said 4 or 5 shots were fired a couple of hours before and that a young Hispanic man was shot. I’m not sure if the shots killed him.”
More on this as it develops, but in other news of club violence, Edge reports that two weekends ago, gay singer Geo Vaughn asked three men for directions to Mr. Black’s new Flatiron location only to be attacked by them as they called him anti-gay slurs.
And on a whole different level, the Daily News, after exposing the horrors of West 27th Street, visits the meatpacking district and finds the nightlife equivalent of Federico Garcia Lorca’s poem, “Landscape of a Vomiting Multitude.” Apparently the neighborhood “hosts an assortment of less savory sorts each weekend: Drunks. Cokeheads. Dealers.” Proof? One reporter was solicited three times within two hours!
Random lines from the story:
Reporters watched a pair of twentysomething club girls vomit in tandem; a man urinate as he weaved along Washington St.; another man so blitzed he appeared paralyzed on W. 13th St.
Drug dealers openly offered free samples — “party favors” — and drug casualties mumbled incoherently in the now-trendy neighborhood.
Only the landscape changed. The seedy elements shifted seamlessly to their new home on the downtown side of 14th St., hardly missing a techno beat.
The streets around clubs like Tenjune and Fusion offer revelry on a Roman scale: dealers openly competing for customers, stumbling drunks staggering between oncoming cabs and limousines, drugged-up zombies barely able to function.
A twentysomething brunette in a short black dress threw up on the stairs of a building on Little W. 12th St. - twice. Her friend did the same on the sidewalk nearby.
A wasted couple staggered along the same block a bit later, the woman falling flat on her backside several times as her boyfriend steered her toward a cab.
String these together and they sound kind of like “Howl,” proving that the greatest minds of our generation party in the meatpacking district. Cool!