But it’s supposed to be the best night to go, since it’s crowded and they have hot go-go boys writhing above the crowd. The place was full of mostly hot messes, but there were a few normal guys from the neighborhood and beyond (also a few gay-friendly straight couples), and the DJ wasn’t half bad. Not a patch on the guy who spins at Faultline for their Sunday beer bust, who mixes old and new tunes with panache and wit and is worth going to listen to for his set alone, but pretty good.

I was sweated on by passing dancers, which was a bit disturbing, but we saw a few friends and acquaintances, so I think I’ll give it another shot. Especially if I pick up a couple more “no cover with this” flyers.

Chelsea was her typical gorgeous self.

We shuffled through the crowd to the patio. The dancers were lackluster, but if they were on heroin, I’ll apologize. The music was great, running through a mix of 90s grunge hits that made me nod my head and smile. Dennis was just happy to have a few drinks in him, and also to witness the rebirth of the first West Hollywood bar he went to.

Alistair, peach-colored shirt preppily collar-flipped, chatted up the gays, laying on the Scottish charm.

Johnny showed up and we made a quick stop at Steak Depot for a snack and to do a little iPhoning.

And Dennis wants to give up these spontaneous soirees for NYC?! All right, I don’t blame him. And I need a buddy in New York so I can visit more often.