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Miraculously, I don’t find myself that shunned either-I am still offered free drink tickets, and no, I don’t use them on Metamucil or prune juice. I’m basically the Dame Judi Dench of nightlife.) And my fellow mature partiers, like promoter Susanne Bartsch, trans diva Amanda Lepore, and performer Joey Arias, are still among the most vital people on the scene, embraced by way-younger clubgoers who recognize their artistry and accomplishment. (I regularly get nominated for the Glam Award for Best Nightlife Writer/Blogger, and even used to win. I long to be part of the crowd-and have done everything imaginable to try and maintain that position, from staying plugged into club happenings to breaking nightlife stories in my various columns and on social networks. When Walter died, at 85, in 2011, I wrote, “I’m now officially the oldest club kid in New York.”īut I don’t want to be the weird old man evoking disbelieving gawks and mawkish grins. A motor-mouthed Austrian rake who balanced cocktail glasses on his head and relentlessly chased younger women around the Limelight, he was hard to miss-or avoid. At 80, Lippman married a 20-something hottie-in a nightclub, of course-but her notoriety was always on the order of “Look at the old lady go! Isn’t it amazing that she’s breathing, let alone dancing?” A few years later, Walter Monheit became omnipresent as a similar disco novelty act.
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A self-made creation, Sally would captivate the crowd and even lure the photographers away from the movie stars when she looked extra attention-grabbing, boogying in wild prints, shades, and sneakers. Lippman became an oddball celebrity known as “Disco Sally,” cavorting amidst the flashing lights of that ultimate disco, Studio 54. Most notably, a nonpracticing lawyer/widow named Sally Lippman made nocturnal waves in the ’70s-in her 70s. Their advanced age became their identity. Barnum could have drummed up on crystal meth. In the distant past, there were occasional oldies dotting the club crowd, and they even got attention, but mostly as sideshow curiosities that P.T. As a result, the fact that I’m 65 and dancing doesn’t necessarily elicit the same nausea it might have back when 30 equaled death. One-foot-in-the-gravers like me will always be an unwanted reminder of mortality for certain revelers trying to lose themselves in the night, but the new normal is that people can live to 100 and our president is pushing 80. The truth is that nightlife-which draws heavily on hormonal energy-is indeed for the young, though as attitudes change and lives extend, older people have become a bit more welcome in the glitter dome.
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Perhaps this was karma for my having scoffed at 30-somethings daring to party when I was in my early 20s. I was even more stunned that after he brushed me off, he muttered, “Tired old queen!” I was 30. One night in the club-crazed 1980s, I tried to saunter into a nightspot’s private area and was surprised to be rebuffed by the gatekeeper holding the clipboard. Musto in his prime with the beautiful people-some of whom are still alive! Joaquín Aldeguer