If you spend all your time browsing the web's vast array of entertainment websites—something we never, ever do—then you've no doubt encountered many a recent mention of two very handsome young men with affinities for form-fitting suits. Justin Timberlake and Ryan Gosling, who were surely pals back in their Micky Mouse Club days, have been rivals of sorts this week on the movie promotion carousel, shifting into charm overdrive to promote Friends with Benefits and Crazy, Stupid, Love respectively. So who does it better?

Sunday afternoon are reserved for walking puppies, picking tomatoes, pruning rose bushes, and hugs and tugs with my gal. The last place I want to be is in a club. But this Sunday might be different, as Junior Vasquez, the top DJ of his generation and easily one of the top 5 of any era, is celebrating his birthday. Club Love will be the playground of choice for an event that starts at 11am and goes on through the evening. He has headlined Sound Factory, Twilo, Tunnel, Limelight, Palladium, Roxy, Exit, Discotheque, Bassline, Cielo, Pacha, and joints all over the world. His residencies at Sound Factory, Twilo, and Tunnel drew thousands upon thousands. Although there were often promoters attached, the product was sound, attitude, and power from a legend. He was always impossible to predict. When I would walk down the block from my joint to be part of it back in the day, I would always stop and shake hands with everyone at the door. I would ask, “How is he tonight?” The door staff would excite me or warn me. He was a moody dude. He took crowds on journeys, emotional trips of escapism, sexuality, and pride. There was anger, frustration, and dominance in all his sets. He could be very, very rude. He was undeniable. Junior Vasquez was our icon, our leader, our conscience, our deity.

Free-flowing vodka and heavy beats led to some fairly candid confessions at the mega-rappers hip-hop inaugural ball at DC's Love club last night. Pictured is Remia Hamilton, makeup artist extraordinaire of Georgetown, who hates everything that rap is associated with (“drugs, crime, exploitation”) but “showed up anyway to celebrate the new President.” Attorney and mother Teresa Mann “doesn’t give a shit about any of ‘em [Puff Daddy, Young Jeezy, and T.I]” but drove all the way from Atlanta, Georgia, to plot her seduction of the 44th POTUS. “It only takes one look,” she explained, though she has nothing but respect for First Lady Michelle. “She looks like us, she talks like us, she has the same degrees we do. I love her.”

Barack Obama’s security detail is an Orange County cheerleading squad next to the linebacker thuggery that shields America’s top rappers from the unwashed. Getting into Young Jeezy’s Inaugural Ball at Washington’s Club Love last night was like watching a rap video in reverse: first came the flashing cop cars, then the gangstas roughing you up, followed by B-roll of floor-humping throngs, and finishing off with a beautiful honey taking your drink order in iambic pentameter -- fade to black and a slow needle scratch.

At a time in the magazine industry when cutbacks and closings are a dime a dozen, the launch of a new glossy seems a precarious step -- even if the publisher in question is Condé Nast. But such is the case with not-yet-launched fashion rag Love, which Katie Grand (formerly of Pop in the UK) is slated to helm. Soon-to-be sister publication WWD released the names of Grand’s future cohorts today (the list is laden with seasoned media mavens), adding that Condé Nast UK has described the publication as “edgy” and “high end,” and that it will hit newsstands “in a larger size than most monthly magazines.” Think a hipper W perhaps, à la V.

You’re old enough to dance the night away.