Earlier this week, a dark cloud settled over the East Village. Specifically, East 1st Street, where economist Nouriel Roubini makes his home and where until recently, models and other hot women alike could seek refuge in his rooftop hot tub, which he’d added to the property several years back, and which could accommodate ten. It was the site of many good times: New Year’s Eve parties. Get-togethers to toast Wall Street 2: Money Never Sleeps. Monday nights when he just wanted to get wet with nine of his closest friends. But now, thanks to a meddlesome neighbor, hellbent on ruining Dr. Doom’s good time, and, sure, the fact that he never got any of the required permits to install the otherwise-illegal party deck, it looked like the good times were over. A friend familiar with the matter told the Post Roubini would “probably just move the hot tub inside” but wouldn’t that be an enormous letdown? A small consolation for those used to al fresco fun?
Still one couldn’t blame the doctor if he decided reinstating his adult-themed water park was more trouble than it was worth. And yet to do so would be to turn his back on his true self: a collector of postmodern vagina art; a lover of life; a man who once told the Financial Times a dreams of his is to one day be known as the maestro of fucking.