On the roofdeck at 230 Fifth Avenue last night, a man was taking pictures of La Toya Jackson with an iPad. "I saw Spike Lee take Obama's pic with that thing!" said a photographer. Apart from press, the crowd tended towards rejected Real Housewives. (One partygoer named Cheri aspired toward both a singing career and a gay sidekick.) READ MORE

Yes this interview with Alan Stillman really is the best thing ever. It is about the end of the era of house parties and how people began to meet each other in bars! And it is sort of important to remember that it was not long since "good girls" didn't go to bars, and before that, you know, they were kept entirely out of bars. And so he founded T.G.I. Friday's.

Waikiki 2000

Resurface: The living room of my friend Devin's Waikiki apartment was full of light from a noonday sky. Looking around the room, fully dressed on the couch, I saw my boyfriend on the air-mattress below. I was awash in a feeling of peace right up until I vomited a purple-red gusher.

Remembered: On a rock formation off of Diamond Head that jutted into the Pacific we sat surrounded by water and warm ocean breezes while we waited both for the New Year's fireworks and for our ecstasy to hit. The lightweight in the group, I was feeling it already as two children approached us asking immediately, "Is the world ending?" After the fireworks and the communing with nature, the subsequent trip to the local gay bars seemed tawdrily mediocre, so I drank heavily and popped even more ecstasy.

Remembered (sort of): Janet Jackson's entourage was immense, so whether she was at the after-hours club or not was debatable. My mind too busy dancing around lights and looking at music and weaving lovepoems to gods of another realm to be pestered by her presence.

Recounted: While sitting on the floor of the club bathroom, peeling paint off the urinal wall, my boyfriend implored me to leave, to which I replied, "Relax. It's not a sex thing." Later, Devin confronted me saying I was not acting like myself, so I pointed to a raver and told him, "At least I'm not playing with a fucking glowstick," which put him at ease.

Kristianstad 2001

[Redacted]

Las Vegas 2004

Resurface: At an afterhours club in a strip-mall, it suddenly occurred to me where I heard that sound before. My new Razr had the coolest ringtone, this sort of wistful cry of nostalgia and hope, and my boyfriend, who had stayed in, was calling. Noting the 8:30 a.m. time, I wondered how I would be able to get back to The Tropicana, check out, meet Dad for breakfast, and make my 11 a.m. flight.

Remembered: A gay German couple befriended me at Krave. In honor of our new friendship, JÃ¥ger shots were purchased. Locals recommended the afterhours and upon seeing that it was merely a closed restaurant in a stripmall, my flight instinct kicked in, but something edged me inside and straight to the bar.

Remembered (sort of): My wrap-around Romeo Gigli glasses were being admired by a local girl. They ended up missing that night, despite me keeping an eye on anyone with decent glasses-as they were, in my mind, potential suspects.

Recounted: Apparently it wasn't the first call the boyfriend had made, as I would answer and say that I couldn't hear him over the music. He would implore me to come back to the hotel. He would remind me of breakfast plans and the flight. He would remind me that I was in Vegas because of Dad's diagnosis of cancer.

Bonus: Dad was eventually met that morning, and he let me know months later that he could tell I'd been out all night and that he could barely hold back his laughter. My next visit, after he'd moved back home to Evansville, was the last time we'd ever see each other, and he let me know that he'd never seen me so vulnerable as he had in Vegas-not since I was a kid. And he understood. I loved that man.

Puerto Vallarta 2005

Resurface: The bedroom of my hotel room was quiet except for a phone that just wouldn't stop ringing: "Señor. La policía llamó sobre su amigo."

Remembered: After a very long flight, my boyfriend and I hit the town, making friends with a group of Guadalajara boys (with perfectly sculpted noses) who were very generous with the tequila shots.

Remembered (sort of): At a dance club, the boyfriend was determined to find cocaine, asking around in a sort of embarrassing manner.

Recounted: The boyfriend was offered coke, but the transaction had to occur down the street in an alley. He was robbed of all his money and cards. And clothes. Traumatized and drunk and naked, he broke into someone's condo and passed out. He was arrested for trespassing. Somehow it was my fault.

Bonus: This sort of counts as two as it is really just an intro to a longer multi-day drug binge and blackout from which I resurfaced while riding in the back of a bulletproof SUV on the outskirts of town with a drag queen, a club promoter and a stripper who also happened to be one of the city's biggest dealers. The next day I noted that everybody in town greeted me by name and with a smile. And I was fluent in Spanish. And, well, some things you save for a book deal.

Bronx 2006

Resurface: My plea to the driver was urgent, "Where am I and what time is it?" We were heading down Second Avenue on a Friday morning. Eventually I saw a Crunch Gym and told the driver to let me out. All I knew is that I had to be stronger. I just had to be stronger. An hour later I stared into a mirror, doing seated shoulder presses and fixating on the bruises on my arms and wrists. The dumbbells fell hard on the floor as I choked back a sob.

Remembered: My friend Chuck was tending bar in Hell's Kitchen. That my signature drink was not its signature opaque brown and was instead translucent was less a source of concern and more proof of our friendship. While I knew the Johnny was hitting me hard, it was my plan to just switch over to simple Diet Coke, but then came a smoking hot Dominican guy and his offer to share a coke that was not Diet in the bathroom. When he suggested we get more, it seemed like a good idea so we left the bar.

Remembered (sort of): No one realized that this blue-eyed guy with a red beard understood Spanish, but in this restaurant-turned-cocaine-speakeasy, the words were clear to me. "Who is this guy?" "He's with me." "Don't worry." "One more." "He shouldn't be here."

Recounted: There was no one to tell me what really happened the rest of that night, just a vague memory of being in trouble and of needing help and of my arms being held and of a gun. A look online at my checking account the next day sort of explained the situation. Eight withdrawals, all within minutes of each other added up to a half-month's pay.

Bonus: When I arrived home, my boyfriend (the same one that had been bailed out months before) didn't believe my story at first until I emotionally collapsed. Even then, his reaction would measure into our breakup a month later.