It turned out to be a birth week instead of a birthday. There were two planned events and two surprises and I have had more pieces of cake and Beau Joie Champagne than I can count on my fingers, toes, and other body parts. Tomorrow I will take a rare venture out of town - a car trip to the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art. MASS MoCA (as it is known) is genius. I will not be watching the Super Bowl this weekend since I don't care a lick, but if I was I would surely go to Brooklyn Bowl or maybe The Brooklyn Star. The word "Brooklyn" is key. Manhattan will not see me again until Monday. You see, I legitimately got a little older yesterday and I am feeling it.

Mae West once said, “I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.” The weather has me delirious, confused, and often stir crazy—more than normal, anyway. I'm operating with one arm, as I lost a battle with wet steps. The pain killers the hospital provided are some reward, but I am missing out on things. I am probably going to drift a little today, and I’m probably going to do it in Brooklynese, so if you live in Manhattan, you might not understand. It’s a new language to me, and I struggle sometimes, but I always enjoy it. Here are some happenings and some happeneds around town.

In his decades-old column in last Wednesday’s Village Voice, Michael Musto, the greatest nightlife writer ever, listed his “10 Best NYC Clubs of All Time.” His list was Studio 54, Mudd Club, Area, Danceteria, Jackie 60, Happy Valley, CBGB, The Roxy, The Palladium, and Limelight. He is as right as anybody, as each of us has our own perspective. The list doesn’t go back to joints pre-Michael's viewpoint, like El Morocco or The Cotton Club, and it discounts anything recent with the exception of Happy Valley, which maybe had a moment 5 years ago. My list is pretty close. I would swap out Happy Valley (which was mostly awful), CBGB, and The Roxy in favor of The World, Max’s Kansas City, and Paradise Garage. The others I heartily agree with.

This is not the Droid I’ve been looking for. Today's column is going to be short and sweet, as I've got to get to my nearby phone store and return to the reality of my Blackberry. My Droid has proven to be just like most of my exes: lots of bells and whistles but not really capable of doing what I need done. My Blackberry couldn’t spin like a merry-go-round when I touched its screen. It didn’t have those cute little balloons to highlight my conversations. But it got me where I was going fast and reliably. Sometimes the old, the tried, and the true will get you to heaven better than the new. I’m just saying. My Blackberry didn’t belch “DROID” at me when I turned it on, but neither did it go through two batteries by mid-day. I guess belching and smoke and whistles require power. For me, power is controlling my short temper and not throwing anything against a wall. Am I being too subtle, or are you following me? Now excuse me while I kiss the sky -- tonight, I’ll be heading to Rabbit in the Moon, my pal Rocco Ancarola’s spot on West 8th Street. They will be remembering Jimi Hendrix, who died on September 18th, 1970, at 27.

My Blackberry was screaming at me to get to subMercer, as “everyone was there.” The reopening of the underground spot I call home had me covered in goose bumps. They could have been caused by the cool, cool night, but I love goose bumps no matter what the cause. I was dying to get to subMercer, but it was quite early and I was dining in Brooklyn. Manhattan Inn in Greenpoint is yet another reason there's no way you’re gonna keep me in Manhattan. Fashion Week events were beckoning me from across the East River, but I was in a better place. I think someone should organize a Brooklyn Fashion Week.

I keep hearing about the good ol’ days, and how nightlife sucks and such, and I’ve got to tell you that it’s a whole lot of bunk. From a guy who put quite a bit of the good in them there good ol’ days, I’d say it’s better now than then, and the myths people are floating about what was amazing, are merely drug clouded memories of youth gone wild. Comparing then and now is like comparing Muhammad Ali to Rocky Marciano, or to the heavy weight champ of today, whoever the hell that is? Different eras have different ground rules and different sensibilities. Today’s world is faster and more specific. People seek a purity in their nightlife experience. They seek specific peeps on specific nights. Specific scenes with specific sounds in specific sized-places. They want it rock or hip-hop or mash-up or house or gay or straight—or whatever—and only that. Diversity has become a four-letter word.

Yesterday, club mogul Noah Tepperberg celebrated his birthday at his very own Avenue. I was invited and texted and I promised to go, and had every intention to go. I’m sure they were all there, the lohan/paris/beyonce/ crew and many other dignitaries of the day, and of course, night. Everybody who was anybody must have gone and again, I really wanted to go but it was movie night at McCarren Park and they were featuring Point Break. I opted to watch Keanu, Patrick Swayze, Gary Busey and that sister chick from A League of Their Own instead of all the real life celebrities and movers and shakers that were twittering into my blackberry from Avenue. I sat on the concrete floor of the softball field instead of the plush banquettes of Avenue. I laughed at every line delivered by Keanu. The guy is cornier than Iowa. It was a guffaw-fest as they surfed and skydived, argued and punched each other’s lights out, and shot at each other and then surfed again. The crowd “wooo-hooed” at every turn, the loudest coming near the very end when Keanu, channeling Steve McQueen hard, delivered “Vaya Con Dios.”

The night was to begin at a bowling alley and end at a bowling alley. I had it all planned out. I had a bevy of beauties including my ex, my girlfriend, a client, and some good friends—all in town from someplace else—and it was my job to entertain them. Most of my entourage avoided my DJ set at Lucky Strike Lanes. They missed a good party. It was so much fun, as birthday boy Noel Ashman turned it out. The place was packed with an adult crowd of mixed origins. People were partying and laughing and meeting each other. There is something relaxing about a bowling alley. It’s as American as apple pie, a Chevrolet, or baseball, and it was a much needed oasis from all of the World Cup hoopla. As pins shattered, the gals were jumping up and down and squealing, and the guys were pumping their fists and bellowing macho belches. You can play anything at a bowling alley, as the strikes and spares are the real heroes. I finished my set and turned the DJing over to the more capable Jamie Biden, and chatted up Grandmaster Flash and his crew. Matt de Matt, whose pushing the place to the public, loved the turnout. We talked about his upcoming birthday bash, and a thousand other things he is up to. A pretty actress asked me if I was going to the Hamptons anytime soon, to which I replied “I never go.” She then offered, “How about Hyannis Port? I’m friends with the Kennedys.” I left in a hurry. I didn’t pass go and I didn’t collect my $200. I headed to subMercer for its closing party, but wondered if the Kennedy Fried Chicken in Stuyvesant Town was open late.

I Dj’d over at subMercer last night playing to a smart set that somehow endured my dumb music. I play tracks from the last century with the hope that the crowd actually likes to party like it’s 1999, or ’69. As I mixed George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone” into Them’s “Baby Please Don’t Go,” a record industry exec, who will remain nameless in case he shows up late for work today, told me that over at BB King’s, Prince popped up on stage and covered Sly & The Family Stone’s “Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin).” My friend’s memory was rather weak because his drinks were rather strong, but he said industry folks knew about the star’s impending appearance with Ex-Sly and the Family Stone bassist Larry Graham. They put out music together, and have toured and such, so it was not much of a shock. Anyway it’s on Youtube this morning, so I believe him.

They’re calling it The Hunger, but the friends, family and press that showed up at Grotta Azzurra restaurant last night knew nothing about skipping a meal. The Hunger is a moveable feast that’s parked itself at Grotta for the next few days. Top chef alumni and dearest friend Camille Becerra has teamed up with Sky Group’s Alan Philips and Josh Shames and her unusual suspects including Erickson and Eli to dazzle us with this "pop-up" restaurant concept. Camille has taken over the kitchen and basement dining room located eight feet from the door of Goldbar. The Hunger team plans to move this event to various restaurants in coming weeks.