BlackBook Magazine

"Moscow Mule?" asks the waiter, as he proudly displays a sticky-sweet tray populated by an assortment of cocktails named after Russian donkeys. "Mule?" we italicize. He might as well have offered me a Burger Meat-tini. Still, thirsty, we drink. This is the last time our friend will come bearing gifts. You see, the private dinner to celebrate the launch of Unruly Heir at Bloomingdale's quickly devolved into a spectacle of starving socialites, double kisses, and take-out from the Cuban spot next to Thor.

Like so many nights before, the ever innocent “after work cocktail” slides into pre-show tequila shots with a band, crashing an awards ceremony, and the notion of staying in and getting caught up with Gossip Girl is somehow replaced by the thump of bass and the clink of glasses. GG will have to wait. Last night I came to the Highline Ballroom to do what we writers call "work." I was interviewing the buzzy band Bitter:Sweet, whose albums have been securing a lot of airtime on shows like Grey’s Anatomy, not to mention the theme song for Lipstick Jungle. I’m instructed prior to the interview that I cannot actually stay for the show, as it’s a “private engagement.” I take it in stride, drinking a bottle of water as I sit through Bitter:Sweet’s sound check, which is quite entertaining in itself.

In Miami, check our new listings for existing venues like Level 25 (hot rooftop bar atop the Conrad hotel) and David's Cafe II (celeb haunt for cheap Cuban fare in South Beach). For full Miami listings, see our nightlife guide and restaurant guide.

I've been to many red carpet events. I've participated in many a tragic photo op. I've also seen my share of reality TV crews, who trail their subjects, hoping for something "real" (in under five takes). But last night, while sitting outside the Waverly Inn, I witnessed my first ever paparazzi maelstrom. It wasn't gradual as one might expect. Salman Rushdie strolled out with friends, relatively unbothered by the four or five photographers straddling the periphery of the restaurant. Stylist Rachel Zoe stepped out for some air, and a few pictures were taken—nothing big. Upon leaving, Charlie Rose smiled at the invasive camera guys, who almost seemed to bow down in deference. One of the more plucky members of the group asked him to pose for a picture. He did. All was well as I sipped on a glass of white wine, happy with the warm spring breeze. And then Fergie walked out.

The Eyebeam Art and Technology Center, West 21st Street, around 10 p.m. A benefit honoring Craig Newmark, founder of craigslist for his “non-conformist success and commitment to social activism.” We shared a glance across the bar, about 15 minutes after the Walkmen took the stage. You smiled at me and did that thing where you tie the stem of a maraschino cherry into a knot with your tongue. I was distracted when the android duck that was rolling about taking Polaroids of everyone, bumped into my foot.

In New York, see new bar listings for The Gutter (eight lanes of retro-bowling heaven, plus booze) and Ten Bells (romantic wine bar named for pub where Jack the Ripper found his victims). For full New York listings, see our nightlife guide.

Despite summer in NYC being akin to taking up residence in a (really expensive) frying pan, there is the glorious consolation of being able to light up a fag while imbibing your frozen whateverberry margarita. So we welcome new outdoor partying spaces with the religious fervor of a Catholic welcoming the Pope (more, actually). Highbar, the super-fab new nightspot opening in May from Greg Brier of Aspen and Amalia, looks set to draw a flash crowd to the distinctly unflashy environs of Hell’s Kitchen (which, despite noble attempts, never actually became the new LES).

"So... did you get a pen in the gift bag?" we ask, wondering if we missed out on serious swag at Sunday night's Montblanc-sponsored after-party for Julian Schnabel's latest documentary, Berlin. "No, but the girl at the door checked my name off her list with one." Relief.

There we were, perched atop the balcony inside the Highline Ballroom waiting for Yelle to take the stage—which didn’t happen until 1:30 a.m.—when our friend picked out a bleach-blonde dancer amidst the mass and said, “Isn’t that Sia?”

"I want to be associated with not doing what people want me to do," said Sabina Sciubba, the seductive Italian-German lead singer of Brazilian Girls, as she flicks a lighter on stage at Studio B during Friday's party for the club's new rooftop level. Her multilingual, electro-lounge performance, along with a gamine outfit of red tights under a see-through tutu, an Obama T-shirt, and white plastic sunglasses, literally brought down the upstairs crowd.