So, I warned you that I'd be whipping this horse, but as far as I can remember this is the first time I’ve gotten an IMDB listing. Yes, I’m talking about the Limelight documentary again, and since I was one of the players at the now defunct club, I am a player now. That statement has so many layers, so I'm just going to ponder it. Celebrity lawyer Benjamin Brafman attended the premiere and was applauded loudly when his name appeared during the credits. He got Peter Gatien off. Gee—I hope I didn't spoil the ending.

It’s 6:40 on a damp evening in New York when Mark Foster, Mark Pontius, and Cubbie Fink arrive at LexBar, a posh lounge in the St. Giles – The Court hotel frequented by a certain gaggle of raven haired sisters whose names all start with K. The three young men are known collectively as Foster the People, an LA-based indie rock band that rose to prominence last summer with “Pumped Up Kicks,” an addictive party anthem about a guy looking to blast away at some fancily-shod kids with his dad’s six-shooter.

The twins Derek and Daniel Koch of meatpacking’s MPD just celebrated their birthdays. I can’t remember which one is older, but when I talked to the Baskin twins the other day they told me that the twin with the bigger head is usually the eldest. You figure it out. A little while back, I highlighted the Koch dynamic duo as "the next big thing" in clubland, and I’m still thinking it's true. Some disagreed, but it’s easy to talk about people doing it well in the present, and quite another to recognize the tools that will mean success down the road.

Circumstances beyond my control prevented me from attending the 2011 Jameson Bartenders Ball, which was held just a hop, skip, and a jump away from my abode, at the Knitting Factory in beloved Brooklyn (like me, the Knitting Factory used to have a home in downtown Manhattan). The idea of a Bartenders Ball has been around for a while. The RSVP for this event had a short application that asked which venue you worked at. They were keeping it real, keeping it industry.

At the end of the Oscar-winning flick The Bridge on the River Kwai (which won 1957's Best Picture of Year award), a British officer stands on a hill and repeats “Madness!” while making a funny face. I can relate to him. Fashion Week is madness, and as much as it’s usually a "must avoid" for me, I am swept up in it like flotsam on the River Kwai. So many events, so many friends in town, and the weather is giving me a bit of spring fever—yes, even at my age. Madness! I was swept to The Box for it’s 4th anniversary. The dapper, debonair door principal (and all around nice guy), Giza (Gizaselimi), kindly invited me down, and as I have always depended on the kindness of gentlemen, I decided to go.

This is an unbelievably frantic Friday. Good news or bad news first? Lets do bad. Yesterday, the governing powers swooped in and shuttered Santos’ Party House. I spoke to sources within and they spoke of a couple of marijuana buys and an undercover being offered cocaine in a bathroom. These events, according to my mouthpiece, happened a few months ago. The police have been sitting on the Nuisance Abatement Order for a bit, I guess waiting for the most damaging time to serve it. Like I noted before, Halloween is an important revenue source for clubs. Santos’ is not a wealthy club. They make their money on admissions. Their crowd isn’t a monied bottle crew, it’s a couple of drinks—if that—kind of place. They have eked out a living, sometimes barely surviving. They can’t afford to be closed, and their staff is hurting without jobs in this rough economy. Santos’ attracts many events that cater to people of color, and I can’t help but wonder if the recent spate of late-night violence happening around town has not led to a racially motivated crackdown. From my experience, there are few color-blind cops.

I’m late writing today because I have been trying to clone myself all morning. I am getting so busy as a DJ that I may have to give up my pottery or my vegan cooking classes. Tonight I am double-booked by people who must be tone deaf. First off, I will DJ a birthday bash for my pal Greg “The Smile” Brier, who is also celebrating the 2-year anniversary of his restaurant/joint Aspen Social Club. This Times Square affair starts at 5pm for the locals and goes real late for the loyalists who love the joint. My name is listed on the invite along with other DJs, but appears 3x bigger than the rest, who are absolutely 10x better than me at making music. But I am pretty, and sometimes that will get you through the night. Shoot, it got my ex’s through years.

Those who say nightlife is dead invariably point to the lack of artistic types running joints. For example, we interviewed Rudolf Piper last week from his nightlife empire hideout in Brazil, and remembered his joint, Danceteria. It was a joint where creativity trumped the chase of money. Danceteria was arguably one of the best joints ever, but it owes a great deal to two spots that preceded it. The Mudd Club and Club 57 were places run and inhabited by the creative types who have mostly abandoned today’s club culture. Born out of the punk chaos of the late 70’s and early 80’s, they were hosts to what I refer to as the “lost generation" of clubs. AIDS devastated this scene, taking the best and scaring the rest. For me, they was my Wonder Bread years, the years when I was just starting to go out in earnest. I was a moth addicted to the light they were casting, and I gleaned life lessons from wunderkinds Joey Arias and the late Klaus Nomi, who took the time to corrupt me to happiness. On Thursday, October 28th, a reunion will be held at The Delancey. Everyone will be there. While “special guests” are still to be announced, the confirmed performers are a who’s who of the era: Ann Magnuson, Richard Lloyd, Tina Peel, Sic F*cks, Marilyn, Bush Tetras, Walter Steding, Comateens, and Phoebe Legere. The list of MCs and DJs is lengthy as well.

My internet is finally working and none too soon. Not only am I stranger in a strange land in Williamsburg, but I was cut off from my 5,000 Facebook friends and all the other hoopla on the worldwide web during my move. My Droid helped, but it’s still just a souped-up phone. Recently, I received a call from my pal, the actress Dani Baum, who tried to keep talking through a mouth full of laughter after asking me if I was in Manhattan. (I guess I’ll have to get used to that.) I was having tea and crumpets at a coffee joint, and was hard pressed to understand her inane babbling. She begged me to go to The Bowery Poetry Club for Bingo, and my Amanda said, “Why not?” Dani got us two seats up front, and I was warmly greeted by my old friends Murray Hill and Linda Simpson. It was a full-circle, gender-bending spectacle, which had the downtown-cool audience thoroughly engaged. The bingo leaders relentlessly amused, abused, and used every old one-liner ever to keep the crowd in stitches. Murray told me it’s this way every week, and that they are also doing Le Poisson Rouge on Saturdays at 7:30pm. They had gag prizes like nun candles and mud shark inflatable sledge hammers, but they also had a very swanky $204 cash prize and an I Heart Brooklyn pin-up calendar for the final round.

It's a Thursday night and I'm uptown at Lavo surveying the scene: there's Irina Shayk; hoards of other models that I can't really see because Irina Shayk's image has just been permanently etched into my retina; decent looking women; not-so-decent-looking women, who sleep with promoters and staff to prove they can be useful. For every ten of these women, there's one graying, dapper, monied man, to whom they cling. I'm in the corner guzzling drinks and contemplating why every man with half (an empty) brain doesn't feel compelled to drop whatever else he's got going on to do this "daddy" routine. Then memory takes me back to one man who did. I've seen Ricardo Garcia at just about every event I've gone to in the last three years. In the early days, he'd have to leave relatively early - 2am - to be fresh for the next day's work investing something into something else. He was always either just drunk enough to approach every girl in the room, or just nice enough. Camera in hand, he'd ask to take everyone's picture—usually pretty girls in droves—and aim to find them on Facebook the next day in order to tag them. Oldest game in the book, I'd say, but he was shrewdly doing it to build up his connections in the nightlife arena. Now he's a full-time nighttime kind of guy, running an events and branding company, all thanks to this early "daddy" routine. Smart guy. Here's what his nightlife looks like, now that he doesn't have finance stuff to worry about.