Our brothers, boyfriends of our older sisters, uncles, and cousins were coming back from Vietnam in body bags from a conflict that no one believed in. A wave of solidarity swept the nation where high school and college students were boycotting their schools in support of the Moratorium to end the senseless war that innocent young men were being drafted into. The youth culture of America at that time was deeply, politically aware and committed to ending the war. This image is all sorts of shades of future yikes.Ĭindy and I met years earlier at Englewood Cliffs Middle School on a historic day, The Moratorium to End the War in Vietnam in Washington on November 15, 1969. The photo went around the world and if you look closely, that’s my shit-eating grin in the background. She was married to Senator John Warner at the time and was doing anything not to spend time with him in friggen Virginia. There’s a photo of La Liz on her fortieth birthday party held at Studio, clad in a skin-tight, purple sequence number that Halston sausaged her heaviest-of-all-time, porky body into. On any given night we would be dancing with Liza, smoking cigarettes with Andy Warhol, eating birthday cake with Liz Taylor. We were fixtures on the scene and part of an exclusive group of loyal followers of “It Boy” fashion designer, Stephen Burrows, called The Burrowettes. We were proud of our stamina and our unofficial official titles: Studio 54 Club Kids. Next stop: Euphoria.Ĭindy and I were best friends and, more specifically, drug buddies. In my left pocket was a vial of cocaine and in my right were four Quaaludes. My left hand was in the pocket of my skintight, black 501 Levi’s as we were whisked through the VIP entrance, bypassing the cash register. Being in with the “in crowd” was a fait accompli, considering where I had come from. Like that first dose of opiate, or first time losing my virginity. Being ogled with jealousy by strangers triggered a strange sensation for me and, each time I stepped through the looking glass, it felt like reliving my very first minute of fame all over again. Once through the velvet ropes, bright lights rained down on us under the theater marquis so the onlookers could get a glimpse of who was getting in, seeing that most were not going to be one of the fortunate few.
We bulldozed through the pack of never-wases, bound for the Promised Land. Or perhaps such foundations of human relationship would make good questions for the Jeopardy category: Things You CAN live without, especially when getting into Studio 54 with the Beautiful People was at stake. Steve Rubell, the club’s Quaalude-addicted owner, was notorious for-among many other things-splitting couples up, letting one in and not the other, which led to several divorces and many ruined friendships.
#THE MINUTES STUDIO 54 PLUS#
Not everyone was allowed entry with their plus one. Marc noticed me in my silver Lurex, ribbed-knit, turtleneck sweater sporting a hint of black eyeliner and nodded to the bouncer that I was good to go as well. She reached over the people’s heads and grabbed the bouncer’s hand, and with her other hand then my arm. Marc motioned to the bouncer to help her maneuver the throng on hopefuls. She wore a black patent leather trench coat, collar up, and 5 inch Charles Jourdan stilettos. She had piercing, luminous green eyes, and cheekbones that could cut you. It was hard not to notice Cindy because she was tall, ravishing, and blonde-with the latest Coupe Sauvage hair cut by Didier. “Marc!” she called over the hundreds of pleading pleaders being noticed at once. Cindy and I maneuvered through the chaotic throng of disco devotees wearing our new groovy outfits purchased at Screaming Mimi’s on Upper Broadway earlier in the day. He hovered over the swarm of bees-the wanna-bees, that is-heat-seeking for the lucky few that would be granted entrée through the pearly gates of what we all considered heaven here on earth. The infamous Marc Benneke was the doorman, standing on a drainpipe under the black deco marquis, swathed head-to-toe in Aryan arrogance, emotionless, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
I knew this to be true because only the most beautiful and interesting people sashayed passed the velvet ropes of Studio 54 in New York City-circa 1977. Though it’s still not clear when or how, but at some point, I began running with the Beautiful People (BPs). It was “the only” time, and for sure, the best years of my life.
In the photo: Bethann, Halston, Bianca, Liza, Andy, Putassa.
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