"It's time to bring it, Kara," I say to the radiant Kara Walker, who needs no prodding, as we freak across the dance floor together on the 45th story of a building overlooking Ground Zero, her metallic silver vest and long black gown flowing from side to side. This isn't exactly where one might expect to find the award-winning art legend. She is flanked on all sides by drag queens in furry fleshtones and assless gear. Nearby, James Franco chats with abstract artist Mark Bradford, while Debbie Harry, the words "Art Sells" displayed across her chest, shares a (probably dirty) joke with filmmaker John Waters, who hosted last night's New Museum Spring (Un)Gala.

A quick scan of the room: Anna Sui, Patricia Field, Gabi from threeASFOUR, Kembra Pfahler, Inez and Vinoodh, Agyness Deyn (radiant in her day-glo sequined Sprouse jacket), and Marc Jacobs all in black with a splash of color from his Sprouse Vuitton leggings. The scene was fittingly neon-hot as the downtown all-stars came out in full force for the opening party for the Stephen Sprouse exhibit at Deitch Projects last night. The show, a mix of his eternally cool punk fashions, towering neon rock ’n’ roll paintings, and a spectacular tableaux of Polaroids, could have held our attention all night.

Last night a DJ saved my life. Marky Ramone, my old friend, was kind enough to display his considerable skills at a party BlackBook threw me at Aspen Social. (Be sure to check out the video.) There were many reasons to be cheerful. First of all, I'm very comfortable with BlackBook. I have been treated like gold and, although the decision to leave JoonBug was difficult, I am very convinced it was the right move. When I asked Marky to deejay, it was because I didn’t want to forget where I came from and wanted him there spinning music that I love in a place my partner Marc Dizon and I created for our friend, Greg Brier. It was a two-and-a-half month build-out after a couple of months of prep -- about half the minimum time usually allocated for such a gig. I’m exhausted and need to thank all the craftsmen and artists who made it possible. Marky pointed out to my beautiful young girlfriend that he's known me for 30 years. I pointed to young Vance Brooking and Mey Bun, budding nightlife stars and funsters, that I was thin like them back then, around a buck thirty-five, and had my hair. Mey said I still got the hair, but I explained how the illusion works.

In the booming, bustling world of urban nightlife, things are neither silent nor still, nor necessarily what they seem. Here, when most people have begun cashing in on their eight hours of rest, we hit the streets with our most beloved, insatiable crew of revelers—from deejays and drag queens to one very poised 92-year-old single gal—to experience the debauchery and decadence of the world after dark.

A devastating virus brought the whole moment to a tragic, unforgettable end. But the legacy that is Robert Mapplethorpe extends far beyond the censorship, headlines—and S&M. As a new generation views his subversive, formalistic Polaroid portraits in an ongoing exhibition at the Whitney Museum of American Art, Nick Haramis catches up with some of the late icon’s equally illustrious subjects, supporters, chroniclers and partners in crime in an oral history submitted to set the record (mostly) straight.

Taken at a glance, the anthurium looks fragile, as if its rawboned stem might collapse under the weight of the fleshy spike engulfed by heavy leaves which sits atop the entire thing like a crown. Robert Mapplethorpe’s camera, however, not only captures the delicacy of the flower, but also draws attention to its pulsing, yannic throb, which, along with its neoclassical beauty, elevates the near-wilting object into a work of art. It’s a still life, but there’s nothing still about it. And, despite initial appearances to the contrary, it isn’t all that far from his more recognizable photographs, the shocking ones, all of which strive for unparalleled aesthetic splendor.

It's no secret that celebrity interviews can often be challenging, to say the least. (Just ask writer George Gurley, who chronicles his foibles in a recent BlackBook cover story on Christina Ricci.) And so, it makes sense that celebrities are turning to the Warholian style face-to-face conversations, in which they discuss their work and lives with other artists (or themselves. Thank you, Mr. Waits). Just released is an interview between actress-musician Scarlett Johansson and former Blondie icon Debbie Harry, courtesy of the MySpace "Artist on Artist" series.

Once upon a time, in the mid-'90s, chicks with dicks, leather-clad fairy princesses, and never-been-kissed Drew Barrymore headed over to Manhattan's Don Hill's for its weekly SqueezeBox! party. It was a haven for outsiders who defied the stereotypes associated with sexuality. For better or worse, feather boas and Celine Dion covers were replaced by drag queen rockers. Everyone and everything was welcome. Debbie Harry (pictured left, with Roger Harry) performed there. It was there that John Cameron Mitchell gave birth to Hedwig's angry inch. Then, during Rudy Giuliani's determined effort to sanitize the city, the big, bad mayor blew this house of sin down. Now, seven years after its final bow, directors Zach Shaffer and Steve Saporito return to the debauched underground with their new documentary, SqueezeBox!, which premiered on Friday at the Tribeca Film Festival.