Those of you who want to read about my enlightening New Year’s Eve dinner in which I saw both God and TI on the same night, can do so here.

Next, we went to the Gansevoort, where a $300 ticket will get you a premium shelf open bar, a theoretical view of fireworks, and witness to TI’s last concert before he’s carted off to prison. Thanks to a friend of a friend, we weren’t paying. Otherwise, our New Year’s Eve would probably be spent in the fun house at Chucky Cheese.

Miami is relatively easy for New Yorker to adjust to, mainly because all the hot hotels and bars are exactly the same as they are in New York. Anything you hadn’t heard of, you’d for sure seen in LA.

Examples: The Mondrian, The Standard, Mansion etc.

So spending New Year’s at the Miami Gansevoort was oddly comforting, familiar, and annoying.

Since it was New Year’s Eve and my friends and I were being comped, I decided to give my hippie look of flats and no makeup a break for a night. I begrudgingly donned a designer cocktail dress and stilettos. Big mistake.

The outdoor venue was freezing.

Okay, maybe freezing that overstatement, but it was 70° and nighttime on an open air roof right on the water. The chilling ocean breeze was forceful and relentless. It wasn’t even at the point that I wanted to make nice with some guy at the bar for the sole purpose of forcing him to give me his blazer. It was at the point that I wanted to jump around the party incased in a sleeping bag.

Like all New Year’s parties, the open bar was swamped, making the best solution to double fist all night. If any of us ever had access to the bar and were fortunate enough to get a bartender’s attention, we’d order up the wazoo, or as my drunk girlfriend instructed a bartender as she opened her palms and flashed ten fingers at him:

“Give me eight drinks! I need eight drinks!”

Unfortunately, the executive corporate types behind this party were no dummies. They must have had some sort of pep talk with the bar staff in advance, instructing them to make all mixed drinks as weak as possible. In an attempt to be a good time, I drank an amount of gin and tonic that would usually have me doing Steve Martin impressions, but instead left me stone cold sober. By the time we all switched to only drinking champagne (because how could they dilute that?) I’d already given up on being inebriated.

The bathroom situation was brutal and if there were fireworks, I only saw what looked like two falsely lit sparklers in the sky set off by disoriented teenagers. Getting into the auditorium to witness TI’s last performance was like taking part in a stampede straight out of one of those nature videos about animal migration. But that’s okay. These are the kind of things I’ve come to expect from New Year’s Eve. That’s why I navigated myself into bed by one thirty.

The real point here is to pump you up since I’m sure your New Year’s Eve was better than mine. I have a Holiday ‘attitude problem’ which leaves me jealous and fascinated by people who don’t suffer this disease. Nevertheless, I’m convinced 2009 is going to the best year ever, regardless of how we partied into it. Leave your stories below.

Those of you who want to do a quick catch up on my Miami trip can do so in installments one (the plane ride) and two (rowdy dinner).

The first nightlife venue we frequented is a place called Rok Bar. As we mingled with the crowd of Rok Bar sidewalk hopefuls waiting to get in, I start chit-chatting with these Brazilian guys we know from New York, one of whom quotably stated: “I came to Miami to relax my problems.”

Me too, man. Me too.

It remains a huge mystery to me why warm places like Florida and the Hamptons don’t have open air clubs. I won’t digress into that rant, let’s just say if I’d wanted to choke on second hand smoke in an overly air conditioned cave I could’ve done so without dropping four hundred dollars for a plane ticket. Rok Bar was disappointingly indoors, yet its décor put New York clubs to shame.

To me, Rok Bar seemed like one giant art instillation. In fact, had you taken me to Rok Bar empty, under different circumstances, and then told me it was actually an experimental floor in the MoMa I probably would’ve believed you.

The ceiling flashes psychedelic waves of purple and black. Deep triangular pockets plunge into the wall with 3D Goth faces digitally flashing in alternating shapes. The best way to describe it is a flat kaleidoscope wall - on crack. Titanic rock posters adorned the wall behind the bar, stretching all the way up to the very high ceilings. The suspiciously good-looking DJ spun perched at the top of a spiral staircase, grooving with the crowd like something straight out of a music video.

Seeing the DJ several floors above made me realize that this place felt uniquely Miami because of the high ceilings. New York’s more into underground caverns, bat-like places where people above six foot have to duck. Miami seemed to party upwards on the vertical as opposed to being suppressed into the horizontal. All energy shot UP. The people jumping up and down probably had something to do with this.

Jumping turned to leaping when a song I’d never heard before, but everyone else clearly had, shot through the speakers. Apparently, this is some sort of Miami tribal theme song.

“Drink all day. Play all night. Let’s get it poppin’. I’m in Miami, bitch”

People went nuts!

Observe…and what’s smash? Some drug I evidently haven’t heard about yet? Watch and enjoy:

Having friends in town often means you’re required to take them out, baller-style. As I escorted a good friend of mine around Manhattan in a merry-go-round whirl of old and new hot spots, I found myself increasingly bored with the ‘scene’ and decided to Live Twitter my night as a result. Those of you who don’t already follow me on Twitter and want to can do so here.

Here’s a rough sketch of what I was going through.

10:31pm Back in da CITY

In the trunk of a car service driving through Manhattan. Time to rage

Now at Southside. The great news about my going out outfit is that I’m elasto waist pants

Talking in Circles, band, must look up

I want to start wearing hats / I’m finally starting to get why girls dig guys in bands

The promoter I’m with seems really open to fat girls being a part of his entourage. Maybe NYC is changing for the better

1:42am Why is it that the 40y olds at clubs are always the crazies jumping up and down?

Spinning imaginary DJ tables in the air while dancing – not cool

Let’s pause here for a moment to elaborate that if you’re sober enough in a club to send somewhat coherent texts into Twitter, everyone else’s dance moves begin looking pretty ridiculous. Guys, don’t spin imaginary DJ tables as a dance move. It really only works if you’re an actual DJ.

Anyway, at this point in my Twitter-fest I was at a locale I’ve been meaning to write about for sometime, a new club called Southside. It’s in Goldbar zone (Nolita), has hosted bands like MGMT, is apparently uber exclusive and had an amazing Halloween party. They also have a kick-ass website.

Well, my disappointment was immense. I believe I’ve written before about how nothing in New York is really ‘new.’ Southside falls into this category with a rude clunk. Ever heard of underground Bar Martignetti? The swanky spot bellow Bella’s on Broome Street? Someone inserted a disco ball, hired an expert re-brander, and now formerly chill Bar Martignetti is red rope-level club Southside. It’s New York magic.

This fern wallpaper might be new, but I wouldn’t put any money on it.

It’s hard to take such a highly reputed club seriously after you realize it’s just a disco ball-ified space you’d been to one hundred times before to enjoy a casual beer. No one else seemed bothered, as people were raging.

I was always a fan of the Bar Martignetti feel: the checkered floors, the paintings, nooks and crannies. This brasserie style didn’t translate into an ambiance where jumping up and down to Jay-Z seemed like a good idea to me. But what do I know? It seemed to work for everybody else.

The remainder of my Twittered night:

“Is English your native language? Tell the truth.” I’m live twittering my night if that’s yet to become obvious.

I think this is in reference to someone who was talking to us who we couldn’t understand.

2:07am In the trunk of an SUV again. Ppl take down ur Christmas trees!!! It’s over

My best friend and the guy with us are talking about law school.. Laaaaaame

New York from the perspective of a backwards SUV trunk is somewhat different

I feel like cabs are tailgating us

I think from a backwards perspective, this would always seem like the case…

FYI Sam Adams Light is disgusting

It’s amazing to me that a rapper became famous off the word ‘lollipop’ alone

Three guesses at what song was playing here.

3:24am Lesbians in animal print. Recipe for disaster.

Fade out. The coherency ends.

Moral: if you want to see something new, or are just looking for some kind of innovative deisgn or surprise, Southside is the wrong place to be.

I have a question for inhabitants of the universe: It’s not even Halloween, therefore why is everyone freaking out about New Years?

Yes, the New Years madness has begun. The question’s being tossed around left and right, leaving me dizzy and about to fall over. Those of us who don’t work in finance can finagle a nice chunk of time off for the Holidays. So the pressure’s on to do something FUN. And unless you’re what I call a ‘ski-Nazi’ (someone who enjoys the feeling of their extremities morphing into icicles as they hurdle down a mountain at life-threatening speed), chances are you want to go someplace warm, preferably with a great party scene.

Here are my New Years vacation destination requirements:

1. Warmth, by ‘warmth’ I mean tropical level heat

2. A beach with a ‘swimable’ water, by swimable I mean no scary waves, no fish, actually minimal marine life of any kind, and a transparent ocean so I can be certain there are no sharks

3. A great party scene that isn’t too immature, by ‘too immature’ I mean I don’t want there to be frat boys and rowdy college kids puking in the pristine ocean I just described

4. That it be in the realm of affordability, by ‘affordability’ I mean as cheap as possible without resorting to pitching camp on the beach.

So what options does that leave us with?

Last year, I ventured all the way to Uruguay to understand what the deal was with global hotspot Punta del Este. It was too great an experience to ever be properly repeated, so I’m determined to find something new. The brainstorm sheet:

1. Mexico
The pros: It’s close, cheap and will have a lot of young people wanting to socialize.
The cons: I’ve heard the waves can be scary and it will have a lot of young people wanting to socialize.

2. Costa Rica
The pros: It’s more exotic than Mexico and has a rainforest with monkeys and Toucans hanging out around you. It’s supposed to be mega-cool nature-wise.
The cons: It’s more of a family outdoor adventure vacation destination. I’m assuming the rainforest also has crazy bugs.

3. Fortaleza, Brazil
The pros: Similar vibe to Punta, but in the Northern part of Brazil. International with a mix of Europeans. Safe with immaculate beaches and a party scene.
The cons: The flight alone will bankrupt you.

4. Miami
The pros: Theoretically cheap and no passport required.
The cons: It’s everyone from New York, just with less clothing.

5. The Caribbean:
The pros: Weather-wise and water-wise it fits the bill perfectly.
The cons: I think it’s honeymooners only.

Feel free to add on or correct me. Suggestions welcome. Oh, and before you even think about stressing, enjoy Halloween.

Case files closed on the Kiss & Fly cone saga (sort of.) I finally decided to have a serious chat with the bathroom attendant and almost tripped into the sink when she revealed that she ASKED someone to put a cone / cone(s) on the toilet.

“The toilet is not broken,” she emphasized in our chaotic interview. “The door is broken. You can’t close that door.” She pointed to the wooden panel that would seal off that bathroom, currently open and held in place by a trash can.

As per usual, it was too loud and sweaty with too many girls retouching make-up to prolong such an absurd conversation in an attempt to clarify. The gist of her rationale seemed to be that women had been trying to use that bathroom, but couldn’t close or lock the door. My questions:

a) Since when is privacy valued in a club setting? A place where girls share stalls and friends guard friends’ bathroom doors anyway?

b) Why can’t they get the door fixed? Geez. That would be even easier and less gross than repairing a toilet.

A new mystery revolves around this crazy vodka called Snow Queen. Can someone enlighten me about this beverage? In the dark, cradled in a bucket of ice, it looks suspiciously like Grey Goose. I guessed Snow Queen was some generic vodka Kiss & Fly economically chose to pawn off on promoter tables. It tastes frighteningly like nothing (allowing for unconscious mass-consumption) and gave me the worst hangover of my life. So I did some research and found that Snow Queen vodka’s the new quality product from Kazakhstan. According to their website and wiki, it’s also won some awards.

Side question: Who bestows liquor awards? I’m assuming a panel of judges who get to drink all day? That’s a great job.

So now I don’t know if Snow Queen vodka is super classy or super trashy. Is it the new Grey Goose or is it distilled from the tears and old bathwater of Kazakhstani senior citizens? Anyone who’s a liquor expert, fill us all in.

On a separate yet related Kiss & Fly note, this Go-Go girls’ outfit isn’t really working for me. I think the Kiss & Fly dancers had a much better things going for them when the feathers were on their chest instead of their rump.

Promoters: the species of social leeches endlessly harassing us for our free time. I love writing about these New York party organizers because I find their tactics (mass text messaging, Evites, mass emails, personalized emails, facebook harassment, casual texts, guilt-trip texts, phone solicitation) endlessly fascinating. I thought I’d seen it all. I thought no promoter text message could have the power to shock me.

I was wrong.

I wrote a past article about fromoters (deluded friends who harbor the illusion they’re a hot city promoter, doing this dirty job voluntarily, sans pay). I’d like to introduce another category: The no-moter. This is the promoter you’ve said no to a thousand times. The promoter you perhaps never even went out with in the first place. Who you perhaps don’t even know! How they even have your number remains an enigma. Yet they text you daily anyway.

I’m doing a [insert famous sports team] celebrity event tonight with [insert semi-celebrity name] and [insert a rapper’s name] performing at [Marquee / Tenjune] with [insert DJ you’ve never heard of] from San Tropez. Say my name@door, tons of bottlezz. Are you coming?

You’d think after sending a target messages like this for 367 days with no response EVER, the promoter might remove the prey from their phone’s intricate mailing system and save everyone the AT&T charge of ten cents. But no. Promoter lists are kind of like a tramp stamp. They’re with you for life. And don’t bother texting the no-moter about getting yourself removed from his mailing, because not even he knows how to remove you. His phone’s hooked up to computers which are hooked up to interns which are hooked up to facebook which relay some technical code which births crazy digital mailing lists that only an IT guy from India could understand. Finding a needle in a haystack while drunk and blindfolded would take less time than locating your name in this jumbled promotional spamming method.

I’d like to preface the following incident by reiterating that no-motors are not bad people.

They’re just people you don’t know. I, like many, happen to have very close friends who promote. My loyalties are therefore tied. The ‘no’ answer (or rather non-response) isn’t because I think I’m too good to go out with you, I just have a prior allegiance to people I actually know.

In an iPhone mishap in which I meant to call a friend of mine we’ll call Tim, I accidently called no-motor Tim. It took a solid five minutes of me positing ‘why does your voice sound so different?’ and ‘why do you keep harping about Pink Elephant?’ until I realized I wasn’t talking to my friend Tim, but Tim the promoter I never go out with. I explained to no-motor Tim in the nicest was possible that I’d actually contacted him by mistake, yet he still interpreted my phone call as me finally coming around and craving to go out with him that night.

I’ve only met no-motor Tim a handful of times, but he seems to take the constant rejection of promoter existence more personally than his younger, hotter promoter counterparts. While I’d definitely be open to going out with him, partying doesn’t pay me. My two jobs pay me. So I need to be energized and lucid which translates to only go out occasionally. And when you’re going out occasionally, chances are you’re going to want to spend it with your friends.

Despite my best efforts at clarification, no-motor Tim insisted that I was making an appearance at his party that night, which of course I didn’t because I had plans with my friend Tim, the person I’d actually meant to call. No-motor Tim consequently got angry.

The promotional text I got the next day:

MB, I heard from a girl that you gained weight. I’m deleting you from my phone list. I’m sorry. Clubs want me with skinny girls only.

Woah! Low blow!

Will he actually delete me from whatever jumbled promotional spamming method he uses?

At this point, I could only be so lucky.

When I go to a nightclub, especially a Hamptons nightclub, I’m not expecting refinement. I’m not anticipating costumer service or comfort or access to the bathroom. I’m pretty much prepared to be trapped in a body lock between those two crazy Swedish girls prostituting themselves, inhaling the stench of cigarettes, fresh vomit and weed. Often, consequently, I’m not even expecting to have a good time.

Even with these impressively low expectations, I found myself shocked by this.

This is the ripped and holey banquet couch at Dune which patrons pay upwards of 2K to sit at, stand on, or apparently, violate. This photo captures what I find paradoxical and intriguing about the Hamptons.

How can a theoretically elite and successful club, complete with celebrity sightings, promotional events and outrageous prices, get away with decorum like this?

If this couch, subpar to a McDonald’s booth, was presented to a bottle service group in the city, they’d immediately go elsewhere. In the Hamptons, the bottle service group literally and figuratively jumps on it, accepting the grimy booth as just another part of the preposterous Hamptons financial defilement package we submit ourselves to weekend after weekend, without really knowing why.

I’ve written before about how Hamptons wackiness often inspires a Zen-like attitude, an acceptance of ‘loss of control.’ And I think this passive acceptance crosses over into every element of summering on Long Island.

A thirteen dollar bagel? Well, the next bagel shop is ten miles away and perhaps more expensive, especially if we include the gas money to get there.

A thirty dollar cab ride home (per head!)? Well, I’m drunk, unable to drive, and in the wilderness.

A germ-laden couch with holes in it for 2K? Well, we just valet-ed the car and escorting a rowdy drunken group to an alternate location would require the patience of a kindergarten teacher or a Taser.

The entire Hamptons setup traps tourists seeking prestige and relief from city humidity into accepting prices and quality they’d otherwise scoff at. It traps them into paying off a doorman, when in New York they’d cab it over to the club around the corner. Into partying on a banquet they normally wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole. Into accepting customer service they’d normally be phoning the better business bureau about. And consequently partying like orangutans with all city manners, conventions, and standards tossed out the window. Hence what keeps the Hamptons simultaneously dirty and fun.

Driving in a Hamptons-style overloaded car, we were cruising between Fourth of July parties when the entire backseat shrilly screamed “Breaaak!”

No, a deer or rodent hadn’t scurried under our tires.

No, a tree wasn’t tumbling onto our windshield.

Our GPS had navigated us though a South Hamptons back road that was lined with cars as far as the inebriated eye could see. Music blared at a level so high we could hear it within our own music-blaring car. Girls dressed to the nines hiked from their far parked vehicles to the mansion that was evidently hosting a raging event.

In a usually smooth bout of communication, we alerted our other three cars of friends that we’d be ‘breaking for this party.’ In a miraculous moment that only Fourth of July intoxication could provide, everyone somehow agreed and we all parked, staggering out of automobiles in the pursuit of party.

“Hey, is this Jamie’s party?” our ringleader asked a clearly bedraggled set of exiting participants. This is a name he pulled out of his ass, but it got us the desired response.

“No it’s Rob Cook’s,” they responded wearily (and helpfully.)

DING! DING! DING! DING! DING!

We now possessed the host’s name. Our friends worried as we approached the noisy house: What would we find on the other side? How would we fit in?

“Maybe it’s a wedding. We can’t crash a wedding.”

“Maybe it’s a charity event. We’ll be like the only ones not in tuxes.”

Wrong and Wrong.

We entered with ease – no checkpoints, no hired security wielding lists. The glamorous manor was wisely locked up, yet the path to the backyard remained unguarded. We pushed through the hanging open wooden fence and admired what looked like the movie set for one of those teen comedies like “She’s All That.” Sprawling grass. Kegs. Naked kids in the pool. A loner puking in a bush. The token black guy wearing a baseball hat on the deck in a DJ booth. A self-serve bar stock piled with Mountain Dew.

For some reason, it took chillin on the lawn and a few more drinks for us to fully become aware about where we’d landed. As we further analyzed the music selection, lack of décor, and scattering of late-blooming teenagers, it finally dawned on us that we’d crashed a high school party.

A young man not far enough into puberty for shaving to be mandatory approached me suspiciously and asked, “Who are you here for?”

“James,” I sung quickly, my dyslexic mind easily switching up the names I’d heard out front.

“You mean George?” he corrected.

“Yeah-huh. George,” I nodded, attempting to recover as my heel fell into a sink hole in the grass.

He walked away unconvinced.

After trying to remember how to pump a keg and high-fiving a kid in Speedos that looked like Ron Jeremy, we decided to go before serious suspicious started to arise.

Standing at the opposite fence, good-naturedly waving to the incapacitated revelers staggering out, a wiry lad, presumably George, repeated Miss Manners-style; “Thank you for coming. Thank you for coming!”

We piled back into our cars and headed to our true destination: a more tranquil event hosted by forty-year-olds, but all of our party spirits had been profoundly touched by George. Ah, to be young and utilizing your parents’ empty South Hampton villa. High school immaturity, much like a contagious disease, fevered within us for the remainder of the night.

Unreal!

Remember Dirt Nasty’s comedic video, posted last week, which pokes fun at everything eighties? The vid took Youtube junkies by storm, but now seems to be influencing real life fashion decisions.

I, for one, didn’t know whether to scream in delight or horror when I saw this young gentleman at Hampton’s Dune Saturday night wearing the gold chain a.k.a. Donkey Rope that Dirt Nasty wears and continuously references in his rap lyrics. Who wants to holler, “’I’m radical, T-shirt say party animal,” first? [Note chain similarity!]

Did our Dune dude wear the chain to the club as a joke? As a Simon Rex homage? As a reference to the video? Or is that really just what he considers a classy look to pick up broads on Long Island?

Who knows!

Also under the category of crazy, I felt it appropriate to exhibit this delightful photo. I’m deeming it the ultimate share house lifestyle photo of the month, complete with ‘guy passed out on couch.’

It’s never pretty the day after.

An additional plus about the fair weather aside from the obvious sun, spring hook-ups and sudden bouts of personal optimism, is the emergence of a new kind of party – the daytime party, which I’ve written about briefly here. Somehow, once a bathing suit is considered appropriate 24-hour clothing, it also becomes acceptable to start drinking all. day. long.

Let’s think about this.

In December, if a group of friends sat indoors around a television consuming alcohol from 12pm onward in a weekend long frenzy, moving from innocuous beer to wine to mojitos to deadly vodka shots all before dark, they’d be labeled as reclusive, depressed alcoholics. Yet switch December for June, put everyone around a swimming pool instead of a TV, throw some beef patties on a nearby griddle, and suddenly this kind of behavior is not only acceptable but encouraged. The scene no longer resembles a crybaby musical, but rather healthy, stylish adults making the most of the nice weather.

These bacchanalian events are usually enabled by the seemingly-innocent concept of a barbeque. Note that no one ever says, “Why don’t you come over and get sloshed with me tomorrow afternoon?” They say, “Why don’t you come over to my barbeque tomorrow afternoon?” which essentially means the same thing. Observe that daytime summer drinkers avoid the word “party,” lest it make them sound like the addict they truly are. Admitting you’re “partying” during the day is deemed immature and over-the-top. Yet there’s nothing wrong with friends getting together to eat. The fact that your friends group is in the hundreds and crates of alcohol have been purchased in bulk for the occasion is incidental. People need a beverage with their burger, right?

Hence why even hardcore winter drinkers will feel their liver convulse through the crash course that is the sunny barbeque months. And by barbeque I do mean party. If we define a party as a social gathering for pleasure or amusement, usually with music and drinking, what goes on summer afternoons poolside fits this description to a tee. And if you’re in a place like the Hamptons for example, the festivities continue into the clubs all night long. Instead of arriving at a club with three or four drinks in your system like you might in the city, you arrive with twenty-three drinks in your system with the insane expectation to consume the same amount of club alcohol. This helps explain why I’ve seen the most wasted partiers of my life in the Hamptons.

How to survive this seductive summer debauchery?

I’d say hold off on drinking until you’ve eaten at least something from the grill. Stick with light beer or sparkling wine for as long as possible. I’d also recommend not mixing your poisons, so going from champagne to wine to tequila-infused mojitos to beer to rum-infused mojitos to vodka, as I did Sunday afternoon, probably isn’t the best idea if you want to be functional at any point in the next 48-hours. Most importantly, hide your car keys in a flower bush and don’t try anything too crazy off the diving board. By August our communal tolerance will have gone up and the sinful summer barbeque won’t cause such wreckage…hopefully.