Well now, that’s what I call a good night.

The Math: about 3 slices of gourmet pizza, 1 woo-woo, 3 glasses of cabernet, 2 chicken drumettes in bbq sauce, a bit of some kinda ginger-sesame chicken nugget thingy, cantaloupe, honeydew, papaya (slightly overripe and perhaps better for use as an ingredient in impromptu organic facials, but since there were maybe 350 other people in the club I was willing to let that opportunity pass), pineapple, orange slices, and kiwis. I think, all in all, it was a fine breakfast, lunch and dinner; low carb, low fat, high fiber, low cal, packed with a raging snotload of phytoflavinoids, vitamins and minerals.

And free.

Followed by a short stroll and a Red Bull.

Free.

Followed by a short car ride and a mystery drink. When Nina asks her favorite bartender to “just make me something special” it’s generally a good idea to say “I’ll have what she’s having,” particularly when it’s going on her tab. And whatever it was, it was nice. Peach Absolut, cranberry, and something else unidentifiable but probably found about halfway down the creme de quelque chose aisle.

Nina actually had to pay for those, which after the roll we’d been on came as a nasty shock. But somehow she found a way to soldier on…

The Venues: The Kingston Hotel, for the second anniversary of its renovations. I was there years ago when it wasn’t so much shabby-genteel as merely, and comfortably, shabby, like your old babysitter who used to be such a cool teenager and is now a blowsy, poorly-coiffed and SUV-bottomed although still nurturing person. In the old days there were two rooms along the South side, huge rooms with televisions in each corner. The night I was there, a hockey game played in one room; in the other, all sets were tuned to the Shopping Channel.

The Shopping Channel was outpulling the Playoffs four to one. The men will go where the chicks are: let this be a lesson to those of you tempted to set up sports bars. Set up Shopping Channel bars instead. Packed every night, especially when Joan Rivers has a sale on that jewelery.

Anyway, they stripped all that out and I’m sure it’s quite nice now although I couldn’t actually make out much of the rooms because of the several hundred people in my way. The patio is nice, though.

Caprice for Illusions, featuring fire dancers, aerial acrobats, terrestrial acrobats, a Japanese club kid/Yo-Yo master, a very sci-fi dancer in white bugeye specs with a denim mini, white wifebeater, Logan’s Run style tinfoil puffy vest, and great billowing fetlocks of silver lame pouring out of the tops of her boots, and a very strange and interesting fellow who played with his balls onstage.

Let me rephrase that.

He juggled irridescent blown glass globes. It was a little bit hippie, but that might just have been the effect of the dreadlocks on the performer and Red Bull on the audience. It looked like this:

Only better, and with a tall, dreadlocked hippie in brown robes. Just add disco ball, smoke machine, lasers, spotlights, gels, and half-wasted glitterati. If you slam down a half-dozen French 75s and make a quick booty call, you should just about put yourself in the right mindset.

Where was I? Oh yes, reading the Wikipedia entry for Logan’s Run when I shoulda been blogging.

The best part, I must admit, no matter how good the performers were, was getting carded at the door.

I am DEFINITELY going back now.

I’ve been of legal drinking age so long that I don’t go to retro nights, because it’s all the same damn music from the first time around, and Duran Duran were just never that good in the first place.

After Caprice, we hit the Gecko Club because Nina figured that, being as how she was deathly ill, what she really needed was above special drink mixed by her favorite bartender. And who was I to argue? Although the Gecko tends to be filled with slightly superannuated Bruce Springsteen characters; not to say they’re accomplished singer/songwriters, not at all. I mean only to imply that their lives peaked at seventeen and they’ve been going downhill ever since without, somehow, ever realizing it.

You’re not getting older, you’re getting blonder and more tanned. Unfortunately, you could not be said to be getting better, Lee-Anne.

Sorry to be the one to tell you.

My, I really am cranky lately, ain’t I? Nobody better pick on me chez moi because the BoJo blog thing isn’t so much a flamewar as an audience standing in the dark, waving sparklers and trying to light up Big Ben.

A flamewar here would be a slightly different story.