From yesterday's Daily News:
The venerable neighborhood, long-ago habitat of butchers in bloodstained aprons, hosts an assortment of less savory sorts each weekend: Drunks. Cokeheads. Dealers.
"I hate it," said Johanna Lindsay, who's lived there for eight years. "It's gotten cool, and not in a good way."
The no-holds-barred party, as witnessed by Daily News reporters, knows few boundaries. One reporter was solicited by three dealers within two hours on a Saturday night.
Reporters watched a pair of twentysomething club girls vomit in tandem; a man urinate as he weaved along Washington St.; another man so blitzed he appeared paralyzed on W. 13th St.