There's a new South African in town (right) and I can't remember his name but he's handsome and I spotted out and about with Aly (left) not once, but twice this week.
Sub-arctic temperatures in New York City have brought the heavily-furred hood and scarf look into the bars and clubs. Sidenote: coatcheck only costs $2 and is run by the charmer that is Ned.
If at first you don't succeed at upside down pole gymnastics, dust yourself off and try again.
Early bird Mike Vassi, with adverts for Eastern Bloc's three-year anniversary party. Which reminds me - Good Times' two-year birthday is right around the corner. Ideas for anniversary performances? Chicken costume volunteers?
Some is already rockin' the boat and workin' the middle.
Dude on the right can stroke it for me, stroke it for me anytime he'd like.
Jason (center, with the ginger beard) is already quitting New York for a few months in New Zealand. Say it ain't so Jason! Your drug is a heartbreaker.
Cheers, beers and queers.
Living for Gary's Justify My Love tie-dyedness. Have you noticed that EVERYONE in these pics sort of has on the same dark frames? Spooky.
Brendan (right) was living for the Aaliyah party, while his horizontal friend was mostly concerned with getting on his back and rocking back, back, forth and forth.
Windy night, huh?
Shaquanda and her makeshift wig, begging for a Dutty Wine set so she could bend her back and lift her head up.
Kurt, Sampson and Valdez (from left), all looking Extra Smooth.
The handsomeness that is Peter (left), who had to be reassured that my downstairs Cruising party at this Saturday's Bootleg (with Junior Vasquez upstairs!) at Santos' Party House will indeed be fun for the whole darn fam. Promise.
Gray hoodie gays, which is kind of like a outfit color gang akin to the bloods and the crips. But for gays.
He needs a resolution. And another drink, stat.
Jason (left, with friends), singing along to the baby's WAH in Are You that Somebody.
Rolling Stones tongue-out impression. And speaking of Brits and tonuges, next week is Britpop! night in honor of my friend Chris Miller's homecoming to New York. Come lick him.
Thank the Mexican stars that Gerardo (right) is back in town since he ups the hotness factor by like, 200.
Charles (left) and Michael, who are both truly one in a million. Wait. Maybe that makes them two in a million. But they're both very very special. Love ya babes.
David (right) and friend, demonstrating that Italians clearly do it better.
Shane (left), squeezing a new squeeze perhaps? Or maybe its his squeeze of the evening.
Someone get that lady a drink NOW!
Martin (left), prowling on the man-meat that is Christopher S.
Nick and Nick, probably around the time that Aaliyah turned into Ciara night because I couldn't stop playing Promise, the most amazing track ever recorded at like, 55 bpm.
If your girl only knew...how much I love when Greg G. (right) comes and parties with us.
Moustache? Check. Leather coat? Check. Longish hair under a knit cap? Check. It's offical - winter in Brooklyn is in effect.
What's his name Shane and where can we find one of our own?
Red tshirt clan, battling it out with the Gay Hoodie Gays (or GHG, as I like to call him) since back in the day.
Danny, bringing gym shorts and sweatpants back into formal eveningwear.
Demonstrating that age clearly ain't nothin' but a numba.
Number one Soul Train dance master Enrique, getting the crowd going to the tune of a little Bjork here, a little Royksopp there.
Haaaaaayyyyyyy!
Chris got Chilean take-out that night but next week is all about Marmite sandwiches and Britpop. See you there.
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