{bazima.com}

He -- we'll call him Keanu -- found me by way of a newspaper article that mentioned my website. The last time I saw Keanu was in 1997. He still had a heroin habit then, remainders from the last days at Bennington. But here we were sitting in the dark and cushy downstairs bar at the Gramercy Park Hotel. We simply talked from the early evening until three in the morning, only getting up from the couch to pee.

It struck me that he seemed taller, which was unlikely, and that we might just be the same kids we were then, only now we're kids pretending to be adults. He has his own business now. He's a Media Architect. I have no idea what that means but whatever it means he does, he does it well. He has celeb clients and a house in the Hollywood Hills with coyotes running around his back area. But I remember when it seemed to everyone as though he didn't know anything about anything (which wasn't actually true) and he wore a hippy skirt -- the same one -- every day.

When I walked into the party with Boo, Dan greeted me with the mother of all hugs. Must have been seventy people who showed up for Dan's party. The beer was in the bathtub, Swedes were snorting cocaine, and Drunk Girl was playing air piano. Boo corraled The Jewish Girls into doing shots with him, Dan cut a rug to Jay-Z's "Big Pimpin'," and I ended up on the couch, shamelessly making out like a teenager with a boy with a British accent. Boo kept calling him Harry Potter.

We ran into the gorgeous Hedda Lettuce after the screening of the campy campness of "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane." (Rocky Horror moment: Joan Crawford says to Bette Davis, "You wouldn't be able to do such awful things to me if I wasn't in this wheelchair." Boo, sitting to the right of me, said, "Here it comes..." and the whole audience, me and Boo included, stole Davis' line right on cue: "But you AHH in that chair, Blanche! You AHH!") We drank apple martinis while Hedda got soused and sang songs from "Saturday Night Fever" without really knowing all of the lyrics.

I was already drunk by the time I got to the Diesel Party. Probably the reason I didn't seem to mind the hipster masses too much. That and the free alcohol. Then I was back at the Gramercy Park Hotel but this time in the upstairs bar, not the downstairs one, with their twelve dollar drinks that tasted like Windex. And then I went home with Harry Potter and I totally shagged him.

Dan and I had fish and chips and talked about penises and throwing theme parties and also how he'd met this guy named Stephen at The Phoenix and thought that Stephen should be a drag queen because he had the perfect face for it, and then Dan realized that Stephen was also Hedda Lettuce.

There was this thing at the Chelsea Hotel where designers from all over decorated hotel rooms with their stuff and you could go and hang out in all these different rooms. I'd never been inside the Chelsea. The vibe was palpable; the energy of things that were born there, the extraordinary history soaked into the walls, the ghosts of Dylan Thomas and Nancy Spungen. The way New York used to be lives there. The most wonderful orange chair shaped like a Barbapoppa was three thousand dollars.

This guy who lived across the hall from me during our freshman year at Bennington just found me on Friendster. He always wore all black. Black shirts buttoned up all the way to the top button, and a black hat. He listened to Depeche Mode and Ministry and Erasure and New Order. He used the word "beautiful" to describe nearly everything, just like Drew Barrymore. His Friendster profile says: "I love Shostakovich the way I love my synthesizers."