The 9th or 10th Annual Night Before New Years Eve Party was – as always – a raging success, with famous friends dropping in from all corners of the globe.

Hosted for the second year at Grace, NBNYE's low-key early hours featured much of the usual gang: No Ass O'Barkeep, Fatty McNinja, Pretentious Folky Bitch, Pussy Galore* and My Lovely Wife*, whose flapper couture was the hit of the evening. PG, as I'm sure you remember, hosted the infamous NBNYE2K, which found me enjoying the comforts of her Park Slope bathroom for a good portion of the night. Tip for beginners: Never try to play catchup with a half-soused Irish lesbian.

As the Ten O'Clock hour passed, the crowd rolled in, including PithyPants* – just back from 6 months of living in London, it's not a big deal – and Wiley's Dawg (pseudonym changed by request from "Wiley's Dog"), Doctor Juice and Riss*, Kid Rock Lady*, Long Tall Yahtzee* (whose claim to "have a girlfriend" was not substantiated by the woman in question), Well-Lighted Turnip* and Half of Destro's Face* in from California, as well as friends – and friends of friends – from such far-flung locales as Chicago, France, and Williamsburg. Vaughn Filmy brought his DVCam along, searching for footage on New Year's resolutions. Even WhoScarf* (better pseudonym to come) showed up after an early-evening nap. Lies Told: None significant.

ShankyLocust, accompanied by his GourmetGal*, breezed in a full three hours after the fete got going, as is his wont.

Late night fun was in the cards: after the party cleared out, VF and I stuck around to keep NAO'B company as he closed, cutting a rug with another TriBeCa bartender to the tune of The Squirrel Nut Zippers' "Suits Are Picking Up the Bill."

Bar Roundup: Grace
Alcohol of Choice: Scotch
Signature Tune: An NBNYE standard, " Fairytale of New York" by The Pogues.
Chagrined: One of ShankyLocust's favorite party games is to put conflicting personalities in a room together and watch the sparks fly; imagine his disappointment when AchyCampaigner*, KegsIncident* and I passed a few minutes chatting amicably.
Final Analysis: With such a top-notch guest list, how could NBNYE2002 be quantified as anything but "classic"? The only thing missing was the people who didn't show up.

*new pseudonym

Proposal of the year award goes to Doctor Juice*, who lured his bride-to-be to a local movie theater and popped the question onscreen after the end credits rolled. The stunt bought the couple some local ink, and word is newsman Tom Brokaw visited the site and was enchanted. The question on everyone's lips: "Where do I find a guy like DJ?" DJ's take: "I never have to do anything romantic ever again." Nuptials to follow in Summer '04.

*new pseudonym

I have invited several experts to analyze the DreamLog. First out of the gate is Silvana from DreamLoverInc.com, who criticizes the non-narrative structure of my subconcious in his analysis of DreamLog #4:

"Your dream was a bit hard to follow. Strangely enough, most dreams have an organization. They are either simple images or they are stories with a beginning (a problem or situation), climax and an end.

The obvious symbolism of phones ringing is a desire for communication. Usually it is the desire of the unconscious to communicate with the conscious. The phone wrings and you question if it is laundry day? It could be that a phone call from the unconscious means that you may need to do some psychic laundry... You had three suits that apparently needed cleaning. The number three suggests that there is something important going on in the psyche -- it is considered an active or process number. Odd numbers generally represent the masculine. Clothing usually represents our persona. So, the phone rings, you think of cleaning and what needs to be cleaned are your suits. The suits may be symbolic of a particular persona that you project and that part of you may be "under construction" of some kind.

The rest of this dream is a bit strange and I don't know what to say about it. You did not experience the action first hand, but were seeing it on TV. Something may be playing itself out in front of you, but you may not have any power over it. The action may be taking place and you have nothing to say about it. A woman, a man and a dead lover??

Anyway, I can't seriously interpret this dream. I don't know anything about you and the way that you wrote the dream is not that conducive to interpretation. A simpler, more of a narrative type of a description would lend itself better to interpretation."

Note to self: Apparently, masculine personna needs work. Cut hair? Feign interest in football? Or would another visit to Urge do the trick? Perhaps on naked go-go boy night?

An eight o'clock Sunday morning doorbell ring usually means JoHos, but this AM produced instead The Winner* – freshly deplaned from Oregon – accompanied by his brother Not S'Dumb, and Shelly Blonde*. A bagel store stop and two sides of the park later, we're tucking away breakfast at the S'Dumb/Blonde residence. The Winner produced a pocketful of bones, encouraging the group to perpetrate a postprandial round of Hot Dice.
Hot Dice strategy tip from The Winner: "Sometimes, the easy dog eats the lair."

*new pseudonym

On this, of all days, lets us spare a moment to think of the children in troubled areas like Israel and Palistine, who will have no Christmas this year.

We are waiting for Dennis as people fill the theater, including two very fat boys. All of the white people sing along with the folk singer performing on a side stage. No one else enjoys him. When the Latino pop star starts his act, the stage slides forward to cover the audience in the pit. We are above, in the conveyer belt seats, and so are whisked past the pop star rollercoaster-style, higher and higher until we are in the dark and far backstage. A technician shows us the door that leads downstairs. After a series of hallways, we watch the pop star from the wings. Trying again, we emerge at the stage door. The fan waiting with her two children rushes over, but I close the door behind me. All of the doorknobs are orange, a peculiar shape. We start back to find our seats, but I am naked after our conveyer belt journey. My friend gives me my boxers: colorful, patterned. I look for a place to change. The sign on the bathroom door says "bipeds only." To the side of the main bathroom, a smaller white-tiled area has showers with toilets beneath them. The men under orange tarps in the middle of the main room wake up as I urinate; slowly, body parts appear as the tarps deflate, a leg, another. Muscular men file in to bathe; I am in need of exercise. They discuss something as I turn on the shower. Two short bursts of water.

Still recovering from a night on the town at semi-fashionable one-syllable bars.

Started the evening at the Second Ave F Station, meeting Buffy's Little Helper for a stroll up to Urge – a red-hued lounge in a defunct funeral parlor – to attend a surprise party for Lesbian Glasses*. The bash, organized by LG's Girlfriend (recently seen in Episode 43 of The Sopranos), included special guest Club Soda in Pigtails*. Under flatscreen TVs displaying graphics not much better than those produced by iTunes, we were pleasantly surprised to run into Wiley's Dog* (requested pseudonym: Little Gay Boy) and another college associate.

Then, headed uptown via Brooklyn with BLH to meet Shanky Locust (who was, for the record, in rare form) for a get-together at a swank 15th Street pad, but by the fun was over by the time we arrived. Instead, led by three of SL's brand-new friends, we slid over to Park, a cavernous gathering place decked out in a BDSM meets Ikea motif. Up in the VIP penthouse, where there's vodka on every table and live fish behind the bar, we eschewed the dancing scene to chat with strangers. Lies told: Name: Brain (yes, Brain); Alma Mater: Marymount College, New Hampshire; Profession: "I consult managers." Sadly, the hot tub was closed.

Coaching in the taxi by SL and a command performance by BLH got us into Sway, which, according to citysearch, "admits only the most beautiful, well-dressed and self-aware downtown fashionistas." A quick tour revealed that the fashionista we were there to meet had long since gone to bed, so a trek past the Holland Tunnel took us to Grace, the old standby, where No Ass O'Barkeep kept us going until the wee hours.

Bar Roundup: Urge, Park, Sway, Grace
Alcohol of choice: Scotch
Slapdown of the night: Pursued by a persistent Westchester, NY-born lad with an affected British lilt – "Yeah, I live in London, it's not a big deal" – WD made a valiant effort to brush the boy off friendly-wise, but when confronted with the statement "I'd like to take you home with me," was forced to reply, "That's not going to happen." (WD: "He might have had a chance if not for the stupid accent.")
Without a clue: Two hours into the evening at Urge, CSiP, having been served by a well-built, well dressed bartender, surrounded by a fashionably male crowd, with naked men on her drink tickets and table tents promising hot go-go boys, was shocked when we pointed out that this was a gay bar.
Final Analysis: A "solid" evening, mostly due to good company throughout, but by no means "epic".

*new pseudonym

The phone rings. "Is it laundry day already?" I ask an empty closet. Three lumpy suits are folded over hangers.

On TV, a woman is seducing a bulky man in a room which smells like her dead lover. Intermittent flashbacks punctuate her account of the last time she saw him; Her lover was angry, he stood in front of a roll-top desk and yelled. The bulky man asks questions. He might be a detective.

The phone has stopped ringing. Did I miss the landlord's call? I look in my dresser for jeans.

The peeping toms over at Gawker have set up a site for the sole purpose of keeping an eye on New York celebrities such as myself. Though I have so far managed to evade their surveillance in the main blog, they've nailed me down in the links section on the right. The onus of fame burns ever sweet.

UPDATE (12.23.02): Sadly, didn't manage to stay out of the main blog for long.

A lunchtime fortune cookie yielded the following prophecy:

But which dream? Does fate decree that I will end up at a friend's house with no pants on? Am I soon to be intimidated by albino rabbits? Will I attempt to convince a friend that we are dating? Or is it an enigmatic message from RouletteGirl, who is working on a show which contains a scene that takes place in a fortune cookie factory? (italics mine)

In an informal barside poll, both NoAss O'Barkeep and RouletteGirl felt that Ninja McFatty's pseudonym should be Fatty McNinja. And so it will be, herewith.

Just got back from an evening on the town at Galapagos, a rather unique little pub on North 6th Street in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. The main feature of this watering hole: water. The front of the bar area has been flooded, perhaps with brackish stagnant stink-water from the nearby East River. The New York Times describes this as 'a truly sublime reflecting pool.'

Among the entertainment: Tiny Ninja Theater (see previous Dreamlog) and burlesque entertainer The World Famous *BOB*, with whom I have much in common. What, you may ask? Well, as her name suggests, we're both famous (although I have yet to achieve the level of fame at which I will be upgraded to the all-caps with stars nomenclature), we both enjoy making martinis (although I prefer dry and she mixes dirty), and we can both do interesting things with a banana.

One small difference: she has slightly larger breasts.

A sharp-eyed Daily News photog catches me off-guard – at the tender age of 17 months – in a contemplative mood and a fashionable shirt. What brilliance was I in the process of creating? Sadly, lost in the sands of time.

• clipping: New York Daily News, 10/24/75

At a newly-married friend-couple's house, I awake from a nap and quickly attempt to blog the following:

DreamLog

Backstage at a new, large-scale Tiny Ninja Theater show, I notice a small child dressed in yellow running repeatedly onto the stage. The star of the show has to carry him off, interrupting the performance. At the child's third attempt, I waylay him and ask him why he keeps doing it. He explains in baby talk that he just wants to create his own Tiny Ninja scene for the online contest. I lead the child and parent off toward the box office, where they can access a computer. Earlier, I get out of the subway with my wife, en route to a dinner at my high school principal's house, which is, for some reason, midtown. As it turns out, an ex-girlfriend will be in attendance. My wife is not well pleased.

One of the sad prices of fame is constant hounding by the paparazzi. Even at the tender age of two months, the fourth estate had already closed in.

• clipping: Augusta Chronicle, 5/27/74

Many celebrities are kind enough to share of themselves in the form of an autobiography. I shall endeavor to be no less magnanimous. To begin, I present these recently uncovered documents relating to my birth.

Notables:
• Yes, the name on my birth certificate is "Baby Boy Van Gieson"
• Shaky, all-caps style of collection letter makes it all the more intimidating
• Spinal column leakage appears to affect spelling ability
• In the mid-70s, "psychic damage" was worth a mere $200

relevant documents

Yeats: I envy those men who become mythological while still living.

Wilde: I think a man should invent his own myth.

It would be irresponsible of me to publicize on this website the deep, dark secrets of my famous friends. It would be even more irresponsible, however – perhaps criminally so – not to share all of the hilarious details of our exciting lives. In order to tread the delicate line between simple, harmless betrayal of trust and nasty, actionable libel, I have decided to create clever pseudonyms for my nearest and/or dearest, so I can report accurately while maintaining a certain level of decorum and deniability.

A short list, to begin: Smelly BigHead, Shanky Locust, TubbySlutty, Ninja McFatty, RouletteGirl, Buffy's Little Helper, NoAss O'Barkeep, Pretentious Folky Bitch, Not S'Dumb, and Vaughn Filmy, you know who you are. Or do you? Maybe it's someone else. Think about that before calling your lawyer. Also, think about the fact that I know where you live. If it really is you, which it may not be.

For those not listed here, I'll get to you eventually, probably when you do something embarrassing.

We were sneaking into somewhere through an abandoned ice cream shoppe (we had done this before), which involved climbing down a tube into an underground space with 4-foot high ceilings. I went first, and was followed by a young child who wasn't part of our group. As we explored the area, I saw that in order to reach our goal we would have to pass a darkened area with albino rabbits and cats running around, which seemed at the time to be quite intimidating, perhaps because of the dramatic lighting. None of the rest of the group had come down yet, and I noticed that the child was unconscious. Gas leak! I thought, and grabbed the child and started to attempt to escape up the tube. Later on, at some sort of reunion, a college acquaintance stood on my bag to talk to me and cracked the screen of my PowerBook. He seemed somewhat larger than he used to be, and blocked my view of the stage. When the show started, this proved to be a benefit.

For those in need of further evidence that I am famous: walked into a local bar earlier this evening and was immediately recognized and given royal treatment by the bartender. Some may say this accommodation owes less to fame than to the fact that I lived with him for two years in college. To these naysayers I reply: that sort of negative thinking is what's keeping you from your true fame.

In last night's dream, some friends and I tried to convince another friend that I was dating her, for some reason. Then, we did something else. It's all very vague.

Excellent tidings!
1.) The lucrative book deal.
2.) Recent appearances by friends, colleagues, and people with whom I share a longstanding and somewhat amusing animosity in The New Yorker's Talk of the Town.
and, perhaps most importantly
3.) A website named after me.

It is difficult to escape the conclusion that I am famous.

I have chosen not to fight it. Generous to a fault, it is clear to me that it is my obligation -- nay, my duty -- to chronicle for prosperity every moment of my inevitable rise to even greater heights of fame. As a close friend said recently after I emailed him for the first time in four years, "jonathanvangieson.com. Sheesh. Who woke up and made you president, hah?" To him I reply: no one woke up. How true that is.

And so it begins. This Weblog -- or "Blog" in common parlance -- will stand for the ages. Each inspirational moment of my famous life, each clandestine meeting with my famous friends, each night of debauchery, each drug-induced alcoholic stupor, each embarrassing arrest, will be accurately reported here. It is my fond hope that the young will be able to turn to this text as a guidebook to life. Or, at very least, a manual.