SLAP!

I cannot wait for The Beatrice Inn too close. I hope they turn it into a tire shop. Good riddance to you, den of iniquity- keeper of the anti-cruise.

For non-New Yorker’s, The Beatrice is a speakeasy, in the non-linear hipster sense of the word. Meaning, it’s a speakeasy in the same way that a Nathan’s hot dog and a side of canned beans can be described, on a menu, as an english breakfast in parts of Williamsburg. Meaning, it’s not a f*cking speakeasy. It’s a nightclub- one where minor celebrities and hipsters with trust funds tap out their spiritual resources on coke and Japanese DJ’s. It’s what a person who hangs out at Mars Bar would call a gnat on the ass of the city.

Itching to bump into a Vogue editor on a pills bender, or that Sikh who is in all the Wes Anderson movies? They’ve got you covered.

(p.s. Vanity Fair, bar Lit used to be the place you could smoke downstairs, get in questionable arguments, and make out with Spanish girls, but it’s nice to know fashion designers hang out there these days. F*@K!)

The only good thing about this recession is slowly but surely New York is being plucked free of businesses that cater exclusively to the most annoying person in the room. There will be no more Avenue C hookah bars, no more bad coffee shop ideas around every corner, no more cocktail bars that serve $20 martini spritzers, no more cavernous rock clubs featuring the music of John Legend, no more giant faux-ethnic gastropubs whose claim to fame is a runner-up on Top Chef.

And yes - YES – no more Beatrice f*cking Inn. We’re calling this one the reverse-Bickle kids: “Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets.”

~Good Day