Radar is dead and buried. But it died with its sunglasses on and the radio playing. Last night, at the brand new club Citrine, the magazine went out in one final Southern Comfort-soaked blast.
The death was the result of a high impact collision. The economy right now is an American tragedy, much like Elvis popping one too many handfuls of pills and dying, bloated, on his throne, or James Dean flying around a hairpin turn much too fast. New York is littered with the twisted debris. But when they pulled Radar from the wreck it still had on its shades.
After AMI, owner of the Star and the the National Enquirer, bought Radaronline and gutted it, all that's left is a zombie corpse staggering down the highway, muttering nonsense about Paris Hilton. And, just as when people will say "Oh, that's not him," after they think they've caught a glimpse of Elvis in a Dairy Queen somewhere, they may think they've seen Radar, but it won't be the real thing.
Citrine filled up early for what Radar Photo Director Greg Garry had predicted "promises to be the most attended, media heavy funeral since Jackie-O kicked the bucket." The party was meant to be Radar's Halloween party and christening of the new club, and, even after Radar folded last week, an event was never in doubt. Never one to miss a good shin-dig, Radar rechristened the bash "RIP Radar." Besides the last cover girl, the very dour Shannen Dougherty, just about anyone who ever had anything to do with the magazine or website paid their final respects. Sure Radar has been reanimated before, but this third blow feels like the end. Thanks to synchronicity, NYC even provided a crew pouring blacktop just steps from the red carpet, providing a physical grave for Radar's carcass. As workmen smoothed the asphalt over, steam filled the cold air and those waiting by the velvet rope covered their faces with scarves in reaction to the acrid smell.
The truck pulled away and some of the editors posed in front of the club along with founder and editor in chief Maer Roshan. They appeared variously shell shocked, delirious, punch drunk (or actually drunk) and glum. Often all at once.
At the Radar offices last Friday, after the plug was pulled and as staffers emptied their desks, someone had wiped away some of the plans for the future on a dry-erase board hanging on the wall (the next issue was a week away from printing, according to Roshan). Scrawled in the now-empty space was, "Radar RIP. We love you. (Don't ever change.)"
