I also believed that Studio 54 could live on for at least another fifteen years and that I would make millions. I was paying less than $15,000 per month in rent, which I had negotiated while the boys were serving time. I hadn’t figured the cost of what the drugs were doing to me into the equation. And who could have known that one of the deadliest viruses known to mankind would completely change the New York night-scene within a year?
At that point I was too fucked up and discombobulated to deal with legal issues. I didn’t look out for me. I left everything in the hands of my father, who wanted to cash out his interest in the hotel: his attorney Manny Zimmer, who represented the Executive Hotel partners; and my partner in Studio 54, Stanley Tate, who liked the idea of debt relief and wanted to make the deal fly as well. I assumed they would protect me personally, but they didn’t. I didn’t have an attorney present at the negotiations, representing my interests specifically, which was an irreversible and costly mistake on my part.
My partners were happy because the Executive Hotel was only breaking even, and yet they managed to sell it to Steve, Ian, and their investor for a million dollars more than it was worth, making a handsome profit, having paid so little for it in 1968. Within a year and toward the end of the hotel renovation, the Executive Hotel, now renamed Morgans, would no longer be my home. I was forced to move out of my beautiful duplex that I loved so much.
In retrospect, it was blatantly obvious that Steve and Ian had enlisted the support of everyone around me, including my partners at the Executive Hotel and my father’s chosen attorney. They were continually meeting with my partners to ensure that they could get a deal structured, and the truth is I was always too busy and too stoned to attend. It was not a subtle manipulation, it was easy to spot, but they got away with it because I was no longer “in the game.” The warrior spirit that I’d once had was nowhere to be found. Everyone around me was saying, “Oh, don’t worry about it, you’ll find something else.” Our attorney was urging me to finalize the deal. Steve kept schmoozing me, saying the apartment was easily replaceable, telling me, “Don’t worry, Bianca just got a great condo for four hundred thousand dollars on Central Park West.”
The closing was scheduled in a huge conference room of a major law firm. Everyone was lined up, encouraging me to sign the final documents, but in reality, I didn’t have to. The scene was surreal. Not one person in that room was looking out for me, including myself. I was swimming with sharks, experienced in the hunt for fresh blood. Alone, without my warrior spirit, I didn’t stand a chance against this powerful group of Steve and Ian, their investor Phil Pilevsky, their gang of top-flight attorneys, my partners in the hotel, and our lawyer. They sat there looking at me. They all wanted the deal to close. I hesitated, and then I signed. After the closing, I returned to my penthouse and got fucked up with Angel Dust—I got so high, and felt so good, nothing else mattered. Not a fucking thing.
During the renovations of the hotel, Stanley called for a meeting at Steve and Ian’s new office to address my erratic behavior and the difficulties Studio 54 was now facing as a result of all the new competition in town. This was meant to be a serious meeting, a sort of “come to Jesus” moment, if you will. I took the elevator down from my penthouse to the office, high as a kite on Angel Dust, in shorts, barefoot and babbling.
When Stanley, Steve, and Ian tried to talk to me about options for reinvigorating the club because it wasn’t working as it had during our first two and a half years, I treated them with complete disdain. I remember thinking to myself, “They don’t know what they’re talking about. If they would just leave me alone and let me do it my way, I can get it back on track.” I was delusional and in a steep decline and while Stanley, Steve, Ian, and many others around me could see it—I was in denial. Unbeknownst to me, with Stanley’s encouragement, Steve and Ian started looking around for a buyer for Studio 54.
I resented being told what to do by Stanley during our days together at Studio 54. I complained about him, appreciating none of what he tried to tell me. I was convinced that I was right, and I turned a deaf ear. I realize now that Stanley was a good partner. He put up with my drug-induced lunacy for years, but in the end he helped to sell the club and get me out of the deal with some money to show for it.
Reality finally set in about a year later when I had to move out of the penthouse. While I was happy to be relieved of the debt, the price I paid was the loss of my very comfortable and beautiful home. As it turned out, Steve and Ian did far more with the property as Morgans than we would ever have done with it as the Executive Hotel. Ian created an architectural gem out of a not-so-special 150-room, second-rate hotel. It was a task that our original group of partners at the Executive Hotel never would have pulled off—we didn’t function as a dynamic, cohesive team. Still, when it came time for me to move, I did not go quietly. My recollection of the events leading up to my moving out was not as clear as that of my assistant, Victoria Leacock, as told to Anthony Haden-Guest in his book The Last Party:
“They didn’t have any trouble getting me out,” Mark says. “I had found a new apartment but it wasn’t completely ready. They were saying, ‘You gotta move!’ I said ‘Fuck you. I’ll move when I can move.’”
Victoria Leacock remembers it a bit differently. Rubell and Schrager suddenly just appeared. “I was on the telephone taking names for a guest list,” she said. “It was about eleven in the morning. Steve and Ian must have got in with their own keys.
“Mark came blasting through the bedroom door with a big gun. It was like Li’l Abner. Steve and Ian ran for the elevator. Then they shouted obscenities from the hallway. But they were talking on the telephone later that day.”
Eventually I moved to a nice condo near the club on West Fifty-Sixth Street—but it was depressing compared to my penthouse in the sky. Within six months I rented it out to a Paine Webber executive, and I moved into a bright apartment on Central Park South with an expansive view of the park, which would have made anyone else happy. But by that point, I had completely spiraled into a depression that began six months earlier, when I finally realized that I had to sell Studio 54.
And then AIDS reared its ugly head and took away any joy I still had in life.
Studio 54 became a frightening scene for most of the people who worked and partied there.
Carefree, fun-filled nights were replaced by fear, anticipating the next piece of bad news.
At first, no one understood what was going on, as there was so little information available. People were afraid to go out because we didn’t know how the sickness was spreading. We asked, “Is it safe to touch other people, breathe the same air? Does it spread like a cold, or only through body fluids?” No answers. People were scared to sit on any toilet seat other than their own. Michael Johnson, cofounder of SIR, recently told me that he and Hamptons Magazine publisher Randy Schindler wore leather gloves for a time—afraid to touch anyone or anything. For the people stricken by AIDS, there were no answers. They were dazed and confused, not knowing what was making them so sick. It was a horrible time and seemed like forever before the medical community jumped in. I was devastated. AIDS had become a full-blown epidemic, and it surrounded me. I was going to more funerals than parties. So many people from my crowd were getting sick, and not getting better. They were dying. For a while the word on the street was that the epidemic in New York had been spread by some of our bartenders, beautiful boys, who desired both men and women. People were afraid to come out and business declined. Quaaludes were banned. The sexual freedom we all enjoyed abruptly ended. The regulars at Studio were now regulars at meetings in basements of local churches reciting the serenity prayer, going to rehab, or gathering at the funerals of friends. It was gut-wrenching to see people who only a year earlier had been strong, healthy, and vibrant now looking like the walking dead. The light and joy went out of everything.
It was my job to make sure we were always on the cutting edge of
New York nightlife—but by 1984, I’d lost my focus. Besides making numerous mistakes in handling personnel, promoters, and patrons, I found myself getting into arguments, brought on by my overwhelming sense of paranoia caused by my out-of-control coke habit and alcohol consumption. I foolishly let our super-talented general manager Michael Overington quit over inconsequential issues and a small raise he was asking for. He was scooped up the next day by Steve and Ian, who were clearheaded and knew how to use his talents effectively at Palladium. Luckily we had a real talent waiting in the wings, our assistant manager, David Miskit, who stepped in and filled the void. I became so disconnected from it all that I didn’t bother showing up at Studio 54 on some evenings, instead, telling staff and promoters to call me at home and I would deal with any problems over the phone. For the first time, the unthinkable occurred. I lay in bed thinking about life without Studio 54. I wanted out.
My years running Studio 54 were the wildest—a magic carpet ride—a never-ending party and quest for the mother of all highs. But the highs and lows of the ride had taken their toll on me. I was about to call it quits at Studio, and then one day someone introduced me to nitrous oxide and BOOM…the best high ever. I wanted to be back in the game again.
I was ready to return to the party at Studio 54.
Nitrous oxide is a form of laughing gas. It can easily be obtained in head shops all over the country in small whipped cream cartridges, called Whippets, and is commonly used recreationally. The head shops will often provide the user with a canister that breaks the cartridges, thus allowing the gas to be released. Technically, the use of nitrous oxide in this way is illegal, yet it is easily available despite its association with benzodiazepines. Nitrous oxide provided me with a euphoric feeling like nothing I had ever experienced before in my life …and I mean nothing.
This is how you play with Whippets.
You break the cartridge…inhale the gas…SOAR for twenty seconds…and then it’s OVER and the minute it’s over…you do it AGAIN…
BREAK the cartridge…INHALE…SOAR…it’s OVER…
AGAIN…
BREAK…INHALE…SOAR…
AGAIN…
BREAK…INHALE…SOAR…
How fucked up is that?
Once I was introduced to nitrous oxide Whippets, I couldn’t stop. But I couldn’t go outside either. So I didn’t. I was happy to stay home with my new friends the Whippets. The pleasure they gave me paled next to anything or anyone.
The canister and cartridges were cumbersome, noisy, and obvious. I couldn’t put them around my neck or hang them from my belt like a vial of coke. No matter how I packed them, the clanging of the cans made so much noise. The only thing that would have worked was to tightly pack them in an attaché case, but I would have looked fucking ridiculous with an attaché case attached to me—taking it everywhere. I became tired of everything—even my nightly adventures with celebrities became a grind. Nothing else made me happy or was worthy of my time but the Whippets. They were so much fun and so pleasurable, but the effect was so short-lived that one quickly becomes a candidate for addiction, creating a psychological dependency like no other. You forget who you are, which contributes to the deterioration of your personality. Nitrous oxide will suck you in, fuck you up, and take you down.
I lost all interest in Studio 54.
Luckily for me, momentum kept Studio 54 going until Stanley Tate and I were able to make a deal with a buyer, at which time it was still the most famous club in the world, and one of the most successful in New York. I was sad when the Studio 54 sale documents were signed. I had truly loved the experience of owning and operating the most famous club in the world and partying every night with the rich and famous. But at the same time I was relieved. I no longer had the pressure of creating an event every night to keep Studio 54 operating at the highest level. I was reminded of something Steve Rubell had said during one of my visits with him in the New York Federal prison: “I hate it here, but I’m happy I don’t have the strain of entertaining every night.”
We sold Studio 54 to Frank Cashman, a know-it-all type who against my advice started to commercialize the club, destroying the successful business within one year. He advertised on the radio, ruining any chance of attracting celebrities, and refused to offer complimentary drinks to the few remaining VIPs. It was over. More than a year after the sale, Cashman defaulted on the last year or so of payments. I considered stepping back in, but the price of the required insurance for one year was well over $1 million because of numerous pending insurance claims, including one by basketball star David Thompson who was suing Studio 54 for $10 million claiming he was pushed down the stairs there one night. Steve Steckel from security had this to say recently, “One of the tech-crew guys, I don’t remember his name but he was short, about five foot three, didn’t like it when he saw Dave Thompson grab Penny’s ass as she was walking up the stairs.” Penny worked in coat check. He confronted the six-foot-four Thompson, a scuffle ensued, and Thompson fell down the stairs. Who pushed who—I don’t know.
Between the sale of Studio 54 and several hotels that I owned an interest in, I had enough money and, by rights, I should have been happy. But I wasn’t. I missed being the Lord of the Night. The world I’d created in my penthouse by day, and at Studio 54 by night, was gone. All I wanted to do was stay in bed all day, watch TV, feel sorry for myself, and wonder where it all went wrong.
I no longer had an endless array of women available to me. So I called Sara, who had been one of my live-in assistants a year earlier at Studio 54. She was an extremely sexy woman, and she enjoyed participating in the occasional ménage à trois that I put together, so I hired her once again and moved her into my guest room on Central Park South. She’d pick up groceries, prepare meals, and walk Oliver. Sara became my enabler, making sure that my beloved Whippets were always on hand to hang out with. I was living in Oblivion, USA and wanted to keep it that way.
Sara liked to walk around practically naked and we had sex often in one form or another—and while the sex was good, when you’re as depressed as I was, nothing penetrates the depression. In other words, there was no satisfaction to be had. But I didn’t stop trying, I wouldn’t give up. When I got bored of sex with just Sara, she’d invite her friend Susan over, and the three of us would make it together. Susan would give me hour-long blow jobs while I fondled Sara and caressed her large breasts, drinking vodka and sniffing amyl nitrate simultaneously. Sometimes Susan would mount me—when my dick cooperated—and gyrate while Sara sat on my face, fondling Susan’s breasts. This was extremely pleasurable, and then it was over. My dick stopped working—turned on me—just like the drugs.
One day, some months later in the spring of 1985, while lying in bed with the blinds drawn to block out the sunshine and the view of Central Park, Laurie Lister, my former girlfriend, showed up at my apartment demanding to know why I had dropped out of sight. She marched into my bedroom and was horrified by what she saw. She immediately started rummaging through my drawers and found all kinds of drug paraphernalia, including boxes of empty Whippets. You’d think that I would have objected to her barging in on me like that—but I didn’t. I just lay there. I was totally out of it.
Laurie was irate, waving her arms in the air and yelling, “This has got to stop! You’re ruining your life! I’m calling Bob.”
Laurie called Bob Millman. Bob came over and together they took control. Bob declared, “You have to go to rehab at the Betty Ford Center.”
I was reluctant at first; I just wanted to remain in bed in my semiconscious, self-pitying state. This was years before the days of social celebrity rehab centers that are considered fashionable today. However, I realized that Laurie and Bob were concerned because they both cared so much about me, so I started to think seriously about rehab. I had recently broken my front tooth trying to get high off a nitrous oxide canister and brushing my teeth at the same time. Can you imagine? I wouldn’t put t
he Whippets aside long enough to brush my teeth. I looked ridiculous. Half of my front tooth was missing. When I was forced to leave my apartment to go to the dentist, I discovered I’d gained twenty pounds from the inactivity and I could no longer fit into most of my clothes. In theory, I agreed that I had to do something about my condition before I deteriorated further. I’d heard that Betty Ford had done wonders for many entertainers from the LA scene, and for Liza Minnelli, whose drinking and drugging I knew firsthand to be out of control until she finally went to Betty Ford.
So I got a temporary cap on my front tooth, bought some clothes that were a few sizes larger, and boarded a plane headed to Betty Ford in Palm Springs. I was hoping to save my life.
Chapter Twenty-Eight:
The Betty Ford Effect
The instruction packet for Betty Ford specifically advises patients not to drink on the plane en route to rehab. But the thought of not getting high or having a drink for the rest of my life—if I made it through the program successfully—made me determined to indulge myself one last time with a pick-me-up before breakfast. So I dropped the two Quaaludes that Laurie hadn’t found when she ransacked my apartment, and ordered a Bloody Mary. And then I ordered three more. By the time I landed in sunny Palm Springs in April of 1985, I was smashed.
Staff members met me at the airport and brought me to the check-in area at Administration, where I walked straight to the couch and passed out. A few hours later, I woke up with a hangover, craving some sort of stimulant, but there was nothing to be found. My belongings were searched for drugs, and then I was shown to my room, given some detox medication which made me nauseous, and eventually went back to sleep.
The first three days were disorienting and difficult. I desperately wanted something to jumpstart me. Depriving my body of all the chemical substances that kept me in an altered state for the past four years sent my system into shock. I wanted out, I wanted a drink, I wanted a woman in my bed—and I wanted it now!
Inside Studio 54 Page 27