Not so long ago, someone here on CPI (S(y) perhaps) said something about how Black and Blue was the mountaintop of the circuit. And that seemed an apt metaphor, given all the press and hype it's received in its thirteen years -- and so that's how we approached it last year: as if we were climbing the Everest of circuit events. And that's how Black and Blue 2002 was for us: over the top.

And it was also mentioned that once you climb the mountain and see the view, maybe you don't need to climb it again.

But no -- we had to check it out again, just to make sure. And even though we knew the perspective was going to be different, and especially once we started receiving the emails about the change of venue from the main stadium to the loading docks, and though we know that nothing is as good as the first time, we still went into training mode (yoga, salads, yoga, gym) for the month prior to arrival in Montreal.

And the first person we run into at the airport is Chris Geary (www.chrisgeary.com) -- looking substantially more muscular than in his days of wandering the beach during Winter Party with his camera. So you see, there is value in returning to a place you've seen but once before.

Montreal, this year, was even more beautiful to us, thanks to an Indian summer in full blaze. The city never looked better -- in its own slightly tatty way. Victoria Square, not far from the Hotel St. Paul (www.hotelstpaul.com) where we stay, has been completely redone, and being at the St. Paul again was a kind of homecoming. It's nice to feel at home in your hotel for a week like this one.

So we wandered the old Quarter the first night, making our way to St. Catherine, and ultimately to Sky Bar, and then Jock Ball at Stereo where Joe G. was playing. Stereo has been upgraded since last year's BandB, and there's a much nicer crowd flow now and the sound system seemed well-tweaked. But it was a first night crowd, not overwhelming crowded, and while Joe played well enough, it wasn't the night to go overboard. We met a photog from some gay rag and it was his first time, and he seemed completely underwhelmed by the whole BandB experience -- while we were thinking, Uh,huh, you haven't seen anything yet.

Friday the sun blazed, and we trekked up Mont Royal, with all the other dutiful tourists, cameras in hand. Lovely, now let's get down from here. Back to St. Catherine where the boys were coming home from work for a long party weekend. Sky Bar again. Boys from all over. New faces, new bartenders. That Montreal pleasantness. A kind of no-maintenance attitude. There's a kind of Thunderdome/Blade Runner fashion sensibility about the city, and all the boys, and girls, seem to wear a kind of apocalyptic fashion, all riddled with stains and holes and chains, and then a pair of new jeans, or a black leather jacket cut just so. They know how to dress, and in that way, they seem way more European than North American.

Leather Ball on Friday night was at Medley, again, which was a venue that appealed to us last year for its ramshackle qualities and its seedy charm -- but this year, the mezzanine was closed, entirely, alleviating any chance of decent sight lines of the crowd -- which was hardly a crowd. Uh, oh, I remember thinking. Alex Lauterstein was doing what he could, but after Inda Matrix did her number, solo, there seemed to be a decided lack of energy, and we sat at the bar, counting the minutes before we could escape to Abel at Stereo.

And there it was that the weekend turned around for me. Almost as soon as we walked in, it felt as if we were in the hands of a master. Someone who understood what needed to be done -- and did it. The crowd at five a.m. was there, and getting bigger by the minute, and by the time Abel whipped out "That Sound" (thought of you, Joe Caro -- and toasted to Philly), that was it: we were all off and running. For the next three hours, Abel made it letmehaveitable -- which was exactly what all of us wanted. Oh, what bliss to be in the hands of someone who knows how to direct you to the right places. Hit me there, and there, and thank you so much. We were dancing to our main man, at Black and Blue, in Montreal, with hundreds of sweet and hot boys, and men, and girls, in a club that knew how to care for its patrons, with hospitality and politeness, and no attitude was present, and no senes of menace,and really, what more does one need from a night like that?

It was a joy, and when we left, I thought, Well, if nothing else happens this weekend, I definitely got what I came for.

Oh, but Saturday was another sunny day, and so we walked the river, with scores of other happy boys. And Sky Barred again. And then off to dinner at Holder (right next door to the St. Paul), which was not unlike Balthazar here in Gotham, a grand Parisian brasserie, and it was the dinner for Black and Blue, and so the majority of tables were men turning it out, eating well. Getting ready for Manny.

Metropolis, Saturday night: as someone else said, it's the centerpiece of the weekend. It's Saturday night, for one thing, and the night for all the locals to party, and when we arrived at one a.m., the joint was rocking, so much so that standing on the first balcony, just above the floor, the balcony was rocking so much that I looked around for the exits, just on the off-chance that this balcony might crash to the floor. The energy was off the meter. Manny was in a box to the left of the stage, and the crowd never left the floor. The boys on the boxes were indescribably delicious. Riveting to watch. Maybe they work at Campus or Stock; maybe this was their night off. There was so much eye candy, and so many happy boys, and so much smiling and yelling and screaming and hands in the air and sex on the floor and grinding and bumping and general delirium. It was Rome in the best of times; it was Athens, it was Paris, it was Berlin. It was Montreal: Military Ball 2003, and Manny turned it out and took the boys where they wanted to go.

Sunday, we rested. Not. Not a chance. We did the brunch thing at Mike's which came with the Bronze pass -- and how pleasant it was to eat again. Food. Eggs. Oh, yeah, I remember. And then, we shopped, and fell victim to consumer madness, buying into the Montreal fashion scene, in a wickedly stoned moment, and then minutes later, Ooops, what have we done? Should we take these coats back? Let's go drown our guilt in beer. We sat in three bars, soaking up the sun which was pouring across the intersection where Sky Bar, European Cafe, and Milo all corner. Then we felt better, and wore our new coats home.

The Main Event. So we knew we weren't climbing the same mountain. We knew we'd been banished to the loading docks. We got out of the metro -- and walked. And walked. Where are we going? Crowds of people are wandering with us. Finally we get to an entrance. Everything moves quickly. There's no line to speak of for coat check or ticket punching and the security check is mild enough. We pass the chill-out area -- which is the main stadium -- and we stand for a moment of silence, dedicated to last year's incredible carnival, that run-away-with-the-circus event which was BandB 2002 --and then we head to where we're going this year.

It's a long rectangular room. Maybe five football fields. The stage across the front is maybe seventy yards long. The right side of the room, about two football fields, is divided by white scrims the size of stage curtains. There are white benches painted with the word NU, the theme of this year. We wander the VIP which overlooks the floor: already the floor is packed, and it's barely one a.m. We watch the lights -- which already look exemplary. Rows and rows of color painting the crowd, and then these confetti-colored lights which dot the crowd impressionistically. Effective.

The opening show starts. "Are U Ready?" The crowd is definitely ready. A roar fills the room when the words appear behind the stage. A kind of head-exploding character in white lycra, with steroid lumps all over his body, emerges -- and then dozens of dancers line the front of the stage. The expectation soars.

But then, that's it. There's a little strip, and a lot of dancing, and that's it. Nothing more. And this is the pattern for the shows throughout the night. So..... I get it. It's not about the shows this time. It's not about production values, in spite of what the promoters told us. We're not at the loading docks because of better productions. Or at least not because we're going to get better shows. No. There's nothing like last year's Sun rising from the floor, or the Heavenly Angels flying across the stadium roof, or even the Dancing Couples -- and certainly NOTHING like the opening number during which the Buddha soared and the Empress walked and they met halfway while the videos of the world's people flickered around them and the dancers from Thunderdome writhed on the trusses. No. Nothing like that.

Okay, so we can deal. It's a different party. It's a new mountain. Fine. We dance. James Andersen gets the crowd moving. "Appreciate". Paulette works. And dances on the stage. She's got fans all over. Then Tedd Patterson -- and his foghorn. We're on the far side by then, watching the children in their trances, and thank goodness, because the foghorn becomes a nightmare.

What's fun, however, is the number of people. The amazing number of people. So many people. So many different kinds of people. It's wonderful to dance with so many people who are non-judgmental. How rare it is that straight people come to our party, to party with us, next to us. What a pleasant switch from all the times we've had to attend wedding parties, and frat parties, and keg parties, and pig roasts -- in their name. Hallelujah, they're finally at our party -- and learning how we do it. Thank you very much.

So we dance with them, and smile at them. It takes a long time to move around the floor. The floor is so crowded. There are sections where the gay boys are packed impossibly close together. In some places, at some times, it seems as if the floor is semi-segregated. As if there's a straight section and a gay section, which is something that last year's circular arrangement seemed to minimize -- this kind of segregation.

Then Mark Anthony comes on, thundering forward, and the crowd goes crazy. They've been waiting for him. He doesn't let them down. It's easy to understand how he's their Junior or Victor or Abel. He's their hometown boy -- and deservedly so. He knows what needs to happen, and all that has yet to happen, and he corrects the situation.

We leave around ten a.m. We ride the train back to our hotel with all the locals who have to work on the holiday. It's a little disorienting -- but it's not really a walk of shame. Montreal is too tolerant for anyone to cast a stone.

As for the Recovery Party on Monday, well, it doesn't seem to be the event it once might have been. It doesn't seem to have the energy that people spoke about it having. The crowd on the floor, both years we've been, has been much less than on Saturday night, and while Escape worked his music, there were times when it seemed the whole night was something of an effort. We were all still trying to make it happen -- but we were definitely on our way down the mountain.

And now we're back in Gotham, with two new coats, and one coat that got stained by a lap dancer at Stock, the name of Nick, and no, we don't mind at all, not really. That's the thing about Montreal: just when you think you might not want to do it all again, you see something you hadn't noticed before. So yeah, it wasn't the same as the year before, but then nothing ever is.

One other thing: the Palais des Congres is also finished, and looking smashing. Right downtown. Very near the St. Paul. All those colored squares on its exterior. And each time we passed it, all weekend, we kept thinking, Hmmm, that's where Main Event is next year. Hmmmm.

It's on the agenda.