A night that began with a quiet and scrumptious Whole Foods BBQ was turned on its ear by a bombardment of text messages about the goings-on at theGansevoort rooftop. The nice weather enticed me to the party, which my friends call “woof.” I asked if that was the real name for the party — after all, I am a nightlife correspondent, and accuracy should be part of my agenda. I asked my friend again, who avoided eye contact and said, “When it’s good they call it ‘woof, woof’,” or sometimes “woof, roof’.” Maybe Sundays are not for answers. The roof was packed, although everybody told me it was a weak night. Apologetic promoters told me that “it’s usually more packed” and that celebrities abound. “Last week, Leonardo DiCaprio and Willem Dafoe were here, but this week we only have Lance Bass.”
We had started our night at the gay party downstairs at Ono but were constantly whisking ourselves up to the “woof roof.” We didn’t see Lance — maybe because we were going up while he was going down — oops, did I say that? The “woof roof” was great despite the promoters’ insistence that it wasn’t. There were people throwing napkins in the air, hot girls doing limbos in front of bongos (does that make the bimbos?), dancers on platforms, some guy who could really whistle on top of the bar, scenesters, models, and a beautiful view. My crowd was mostly lesbians and gay men, and we headed out before we were discovered.
We made our way to The Standard as one member of our party insisted that the third-floor bar was amazing. The Standard is anything but standard design-wise. I love it. The elevator took us up to the third floor, but a very helpful bellhop (do they still call them that?) told us there was no bar on the third floor, and there had never been one. This devastated our friend, who swore she had the time of her life there. Her Twilight Zone or Punk’d explanation wasn’t holding water with us. Some of our crowd headed off to Mix, because apparently hanging out with straight women and men can be a strain. They had joined us after partying at Stiletto with Queen Latifah, who they said was “very smart.” We then went to Hiro, where we were greeted by Connie and whisked to Erich Conrad’s well-appointed table. Amanda Lepore looked resplendent in a summer dress, and a promoter in a Weird Al Yankovic wig entertained us. Honey Dijon was wrecking the crowd, and I was thrown back to a simpler, sweet, bygone day. “Exactly,” said Erich Conrad, who I congratulated for being at Hiro forever. Erich is good at what he does. He has had this party going since 2003 — that’s like a century and a half in club years, but this still pales in comparison to his long-running B Bar Tuesday party. Beige has been going on for about 14 years; Erich insists he started it when he was 16.
After that, we headed over to Vandam at Greenhouse, where door dutchess Cynthia Powell greeted us. Suzanne gave me a big hello and asked me if it was a “slow night elsewhere as well?” I thought Vandam was brilliant, but apparently it’s often better. Johnny Dynell was playing a set that was decidedly more electro than the pounding sexy house beats Honey had offered at Hiro. I went up to pay respects to “daddy” and surveyed the room from that DJ booth’s great height. Vandam is wonderful, and I congratulated Kenny Kenny on his success. The crowd at Hiro is different than that of Vandam. Hiro is a very sexy, mostly gay crowd, while Vandam is more mixed and fashionable. The crowd at Vandam is dancing while it walks. At Hiro they are cruising. Sunday is my new Monday — the best night to go out. The summer weekends bring out the warrior party, set and the three gay nights I visited are more fun than what I’m seeing during the week. Sundays are not really part of the summer weekend, nor are they really a weeknight — and they are anything but a weak night.