Scores

  It was a memorable afternoon when our public relations consultant strolled into the Scores executive offices and announced he had stunning news from Stern. We almost fell off our chairs when a question was posed, “What would you guys think of throwing private parties for Howard at the club? They could start after the radio show wraps for the morning, and would be over before we opened to the public at four. He’s gonna invite celebrity friends and he’ll talk about the parties on the air.”

  Now this was obviously a most difficult and tortured decision to ponder, and after mulling over the proposal for a nanosecond, I yelled, “Tell Howard we’ll throw him parties whenever and as often as he’d like. Free food, free booze, free dancing girls, and no press!”

  And so, yet another unanticipated Scores chapter was born. Every month or so, Scores hosted a “Stern Party Royale.” Forget Les Miserables and Lion King, forget the Yankees and Knicks, forget Radio City Music Hall, a Stern-Scores party was now the hottest ticket in the Big Apple.

  On party days, Howard and his guests would arrive at Scores after the radio show ended and, as we would not be opening to the public for at least four hours, they were accorded unfettered run of the place. Food, drink, and female entertainment were available in obscene quantities. Attendees were strictly limited to a guest list compiled by Howard, and absolutely no gawking strangers were allowed into the fold.

  When Howard arrived for each party, he or one of his staffers would be handed a massive pile of complimentary funny money printed in a special color for use as gratuities. What Howard didn’t know, and what the dancers were sworn to keep secret under pain of dismissal, was that we paid significantly less than usual value on redemption. Yet even at the reduced rate, the parties were outrageously costly, sometimes running as much as thirty thousand dollars.

  On the air, Stern would spin stories in drooling detail about dancers, his guests, and their antics, all of which rapidly became woven into New York urban lore. Guests on the show would compete for invitations to the next scheduled bash, and curiosity about Stern’s fetes gained inquisitive momentum.

  My own curiosity about the Stern extravaganzas finally got the better of me and I arranged to be on the list at a party honoring the birthday of actor and martial arts expert Chuck Norris. While I could have attended without an invitation, I wanted to avoid being accused of gate-crashing.

  When I arrived at the Stern-Norris party, festivities were already underway and a manager guided me over to Howard. The “King,” dressed in a natty old gray sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, immediately pumped my hand, effusive in his expressions of gratitude for the parties already thrown and to-be-thrown. He smiled wryly at me and said, “You know, I’ve met no less than fifty people, now including you, who’ve claimed to be the owner of Scores. How can I be sure you’re the real one?”

  I laughed roundly in response, knowing for a fact he wasn’t kidding. “You and me both, Howard. But you know what? None of those other owners ever help with bills. I always say there are scores of owners of Scores, but only a precious few have equity.”

  “I like that.” Howard laughed. “I’ll have to remember that line.” And remember it he did, as I heard it repeated on the following day’s show.

  With my audience at an end, I walked through the crowded restaurant and President’s Club areas, taking time to say hello to friends and to Stern radio cast regulars—now Scores regulars as well. When I spied the party’s honoree seated on a stool at the bar, I walked over and introduced myself.

  Norris was gracious and disarming. He told me it was his first visit to Scores, that he found it far more impressive than anticipated, and our reputation had blanketed the nation thanks to Howard’s “curious obsession.” After he mentioned the party was not one of his “average” birthday celebrations, we went on to discuss a myriad of subjects. The conversation and “mutual admiration society” ended with an invitation from Norris to visit him in Texas and be an extra on his show, Walker, Texas Ranger.

  The pièce de résistance of every Stern party was a private lesbian stage performance in the club’s main theatre. The procedure for each show was invariable: Howard would be asked to approve the selected cast members and, without a word to anyone, he’d be whisked away into the showroom at the designated time. In a darkened theatrical environment, our entertainers performed with each other in every real and simulated form of imaginable lovemaking.

  I will always remember Howard turning to me at this day’s very private show and whispering, “This is what I imagine heaven would be like.”

  In small measure, I came to know Howard and to respect his off-air personality, finding it had been honestly, even if painfully, portrayed in his film Private Parts. Stripped of his thunderous microphone, Howard was a shy, noble, attentive gentleman, and I have no doubt that his repeatedly expressed gratitude to Scores was heartfelt. And when I was invited on his show to accompany boxers that my company, New Contenders, was promoting in upcoming HBO-TVKO pay-per-view bouts in Atlantic City, Howard was consistently respectful and kind to me, even on the air.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Celebrity Hordes Rock Our World

  Once Stern started spreading awareness of the upscale gentlemen’s club in Manhattan, famous and infamous visitors to our fair city eagerly made it a point to visit and discover firsthand just what all the fuss was about. Unlike Los Angeles or Las Vegas where well-known faces are common fare, stargazing in New York is far less frequent—or even possible. Scores rapidly became the city’s lone nightspot where sharing party space with celebrities from movies, television, politics, and sports was a virtual guarantee. Day after day, the gossip columns in the New York Post and the Daily News reported celebrity sightings at Scores.

  Dennis Rodman, NBA all-star, was one of our first celebrity lap dance addicts. Without regard to season or temperature, Rodman would arrive at the club’s front door garbed in shoulder-to-floor-length fur coats, and his massive presence would invariably send shockwaves throughout the showroom. Patrons would line up to ask for autographs or a handshake. Dennis would frequently complain about his lack of privacy, but always refused to take advantage of the club’s private entrances and party areas to avoid public scrutiny. After a bit, we simply concluded, “the lady doth protest too much,” and ignored his hollow Greta Garbo-ish sounding protestations of “I vant to be alone.”

  Rodman caused headlines internationally when he took a Scores entertainer from Texas, Stacy Yarbrough, to be his bride. Although the union between Rodman and the lady was short-lived, it lasted long enough to become a tale told and repeated in every tabloid in the world.

  Madonna was another of our earliest star-regulars. In the beginning, she would arrive in unspectacular clothing, a scarf covering her hair, and quietly watch NBA basketball games at the main bar. As the years went by and her comfort level grew, she would reserve party space in the President’s Club with the likes of Tupac Shakur or Pamela Anderson, and happily watch Miami Heat games as dancers mingled and entertained both her and her boisterous crowd with table dances.

  Certain celebrities wanted to avoid public attention at all costs. Steven Spielberg wore a large hat pulled down over his head. David Hasselhoff fled the premises in the wake of fan attention, but not before photographer James Edstrom caught a shot of him on the run and sold it worldwide for a reported six-figure reward. Charlie Sheen always called ahead to use the private entrance and hid in the Crow’s Nest. Members of the New York Knicks, especially Patrick Ewing, who sucked down shots of Louis XIII cognac like it was Evian water, always took advantage of the President’s Club’s privacy as the team’s then head coach, Pat Riley, bragged about posting a locker-room memorandum specifically banning his players from Scores.

  Other stars were outgoing and welcomed exchanges with doting fellow patrons. Jon Stewart enjoyed hanging out with staff in the vestibule, as did Mark Wahlberg when he wasn’t acting as escort to Madonna for the evening. Bill Maher regularly held court at the restaurant b
ar as did Yankee pitcher David Cone. Jim Belushi was gracious and playful with everyone. George Clooney held his birthday party in the President’s Club. Mark Messier of the New York Rangers sponsored open parties in the showroom, preferring it to the private areas, never refusing a handshake with or an autograph for a fan. Regis Philbin was ever gregarious and charming, and Donald Trump preferred his parties in the Champagne Lounge. Actor Ethan Hawke, so enthusiastic about his Scores experience, willingly posed for photos with dancers. Colin Farrell, a favorite of our entertainers, usually arrived around thirty minutes before closing and stayed after-hours. One adventurous morning, he treated twenty-five dancers and staffers to breakfast. Gene Simmons, never drinking or smoking, just wagged his infamous tongue at everyone. Whenever one of her songs played, Christina Aguilera would mount the stage and start dancing.

  One evening I was walking the club’s main floor when I heard a voice calling urgently behind me. “Hey, Kenny Cole. Kenny Cole, wait up! How the hell have you been?”

  My insides shivered as I assumed the only person who could possibly be calling after me was New York County District Attorney Robert Morgenthau. Resolving to finally straighten out this mortifying misidentification issue owed squarely to Mario Cuomo, I turned back with a smile.

  To my astonishment, I found myself facing none other than a laughing John F. Kennedy, Jr., wearing a crewneck sweater, jeans, and a black beret. “I can’t believe you remembered that story,” I sputtered at him.

  “It was a memorable aspect of an otherwise forgettable dinner.”

  I grabbed Kennedy, exchanged handshakes and hugs, and gave him the complete “super-duper” tour. He couldn’t get enough of the history and high jinks that had preceded the club’s opening, and seemed fascinated by the financial profit streams.

  In 1994, when the New York Rangers won the Stanley Cup after a championship drought of fifty-four years, Mark Messier brought the Cup to Scores for a team celebration. At the team’s insistence, we filled the trophy with champagne and every customer, dancer, and staff member was invited to step up and sip from the iconic symbol as if it were the Holy Grail.

  When the bombastic festivities finally died down and the club began emptying, I noticed that while Messier and the other Rangers had departed, the Stanley Cup in all its majesty was sitting alone atop the bar. Not believing my eyes, I stood with the Cup and pondered the audacity of my potential morning conversation with executives at Madison Square Garden. “Hi, this is Michael Blutrich, owner of Scores, you know, the strip bar. Listen, some of your folks left the Stanley Cup here last night. We can keep it for a while, or if you prefer, you can arrange to send someone over to get it.”

  My imagined conversation never came to be. About thirty minutes later, Messier poked his head through the front door. “Did I leave a large cup here?” he inquired with a nervous smile.

  “I’m not sure,” I returned. “We can go to the lost-and-found basket and check.”

  Messier almost fainted and I relented and told him the truth.

  For some inexplicable reason, Scores took on the role of official watering hole to troubled and broken hearted celebrities.

  John Wayne Bobbitt, at the height of his infamy, was a guest at the club and found himself rip-roaring drunk. At the unforgivable urging of some of our more perverse dancers, he climbed one of the solo pedestals and whipped out his wife-damaged manhood for all to bear witness.

  After finishing a book tour, David Smith, husband of Susan Smith, the mother convicted of murdering their two sons, sat for hour after hour ordering lap dances from a multitude of alternating dancers.

  While the tabloids and gossip columnists hungrily devoured internationally acclaimed actor Hugh Grant for his never-to-be-forgotten episode with Divine Brown, he hid at Scores, taking cover from more career damage.

  In rare visits to Scores, Jerry Seinfeld was spotted drinking sullenly following the announcement of the end of his relationship with Shoshanna Lonstein. On one of those nights, Michael “Kramer” Richards was happily partying and performing in the Champagne Lounge.

  On the night before his arrest in Los Angeles for domestic battery, Christian Slater passed the hours before his red-eye flight at the club. He appeared troubled and distant, repeatedly refusing offers for complimentary entertainment.

  Lindsay Lohan partied hearty in the club’s inner sanctum after rehab, only to be discovered passed out in the wee hours of the morning.

  Bobby Brown had to be severely reminded of the club’s “no-touch” policies after an entertainer complained he’d harshly bitten her nipple.

  On the day Dwight Gooden received a suspension from baseball for cocaine use, he drowned his sadness with a dose of comfort from the gals of Scores.

  Russell Crowe earned a dubious reputation at the club for mistreating a waiter for trying to pour his champagne, and by wrestling with a dancer in an unsuccessful effort to rip off her thong.

  Kate Moss loved the sexually charged ambiance of the club and, without warning, left her table, climbed a vacant solo pedestal, and showed off the vixen in her soul with an erotic series of gyrating pole-dance moves.

  Kid Rock sought and was granted permission to conduct his first MTV interview at Scores.

  Marc Anthony was so enamored with one of the club’s entertainers, he grabbed a microphone and performed an impromptu rendition of “Ladies Night.”

  Leonardo DiCaprio began frequenting Scores with Mark Wahlberg when they were filming The Basketball Diaries in Brooklyn. Once introduced, Leonardo returned to the club often, with a varying posse. The first time I met Leonardo, I was taken by two physical attributes: his surprising six-foot stature and his piercing eyes.

  Sylvester Stallone selected and filmed Scores, with our consent, for the opening scene of his movie, Cop Land. Using both the club’s main showroom and exterior entrance, including the logo on our entrance awning, the decision turned out to be quite popular with patrons. Both Andrew and his mother were recruited as extras in a fleeting opening scene, although it required a frame-by-frame slowing of the disc to identify them.

  Scores was contacted by Demi Moore’s representatives. They informed us the actress had signed to portray a stripper in an upcoming film, Striptease. With no experience in the “art” of stripping or lap dancing, Moore sought and received permission to visit the club: to observe, practice, and learn the trade from our dancers.

  On her first night, wearing a turtleneck sweater, a long-sleeved shirt, and black pants and shoes (hardly “stripper-in-training” attire), she simply watched, seeming to absorb the flavor of the place as she signed autographs. As time passed, and her level of comfort mushroomed, she became very chatty and friendly with a host of dancers and staff.

  As her time at the club was drawing to its close, Demi started talking about actually performing on the floor to gain an authentic “feel” for striptease. After walking the floor, Demi decided what she was willing to do and where and when she was willing to do it. On the selected night, she approached a solo pedestal in the main showroom, donning a black curly wig and round black-rimmed glasses. She danced topless for about fifteen minutes and descended the stage exhilarated, her heart plainly pumping wildly.

  Chuck Zito is an actor, stuntman, and a noted executive member of the Hells Angels. I first met him in Los Angeles as a customer at my restaurant-club, Alzado’s. On his visits to New York, he’d become a Scores aficionado as well. Zito was also responsible for the most famous and publicized fight that ever took place within our boundaries.

  One night, Zito was enjoying Scores with a trio of friends: actors Jean-Claude Van Damme, Mickey Rourke, and journalist A. J. Benza. According to the managers on duty that night, and published accounts, the group was drinking heavily when a verbal exchange broke out. Purportedly, Van Damme, Rourke, and Benza had harsh words for Zito, obviously confusing his real-life toughness with their own brand of Hollywood screen macho.

  When neither group would back down, they secured the Crow’s Nes
t for a private parlay and, when the smoke cleared, Van Damme was out cold on the carpet.

  The next morning, the front page of every New York newspaper, as well as local television news, carried the story of the knockout of the screen martial-arts expert as its lead story. The ever-sensationalized New York Post ran the banner headline, “Jean-Claude Van Slammed.” Unlike most nightspots, where acts of violence send customers running away in fear, the Van Damme fight caused a month-long spike in our door income.

  On one cold, snowy New York winter night, when few patrons had chosen to brave the weather for our entertainment, I found myself shooting the breeze with 100 temporarily idle dancers. With nothing else to do, we decided to take a poll of certain amusing and never-before-confronted questions. I’ll share the results of our night’s polling, and in all fairness, it should be noted our results were not scientific and represented only the opinions of women polled:

  Most Pleasant Celebrity Jim Belushi

  Most Unpleasant Celebrity Tom Arnold

  Most Stoned Celebrity Dennis Rodman

  Cheapest Celebrity Too Numerous to List

  Most Generous Celebrity Howard Stern

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Breasts on Trial in Manhattan

  1993

  After postponing our latex pasty trial at the liquor authority for as long as possible, Scores’ day of legal reckoning arrived. We were about to find out whether our latex nipple-painting procedure was going to pass statutory “opaque” muster.

  As our trial date approached, I was astounded by the tactics the state government decided to adopt. There would be no challenge to our lap dancing in violation of the “six feet away and/or eighteen inches in the air” regulation; nor was there to be a challenge to the opaqueness of our latex nipple paint. Instead, the government’s charges were reduced to a claim that, on the night in question, our dancers performed bare-breasted. In other words, the case was only that our entertainers performed without their nipples painted with latex.