Whoa, what an ego it takes to host your b'day party on the singular best weather day New York has all year. A day so perfect, the air so clear, the sky so blue, the calm of the city palpable -- and you chuck it all to duck into a pitch-black club. Maybe this is one definition of circuit addiction.

We got to Roxy around noon, and climbed the stairs, holding onto each other, and the boys in front of us, all of us blinded from the sudden shift from day to night, like a total eclipse. Security was similar to what one finds at airports these days, complete with plastic containers for the contents of one's pockets. There was a huge sign overhead which said something about apologizing to Roxy's patrons and that the searches were for the clubgoers' own security.

At noon, the club was not crowded. Junior had commandeered the far end of the floor, as is his wont when at the Roxy, but he hadn't yet completed smudging his Grand Poobah booth with sage and candles and incense (though a print of his head, swollen to Lincoln Memorial-size proportions, covered the back wall). So, while Junior decorated his suite, Billy Carroll was at the helm, in the usual deejay booth, the one reserved for those not celebrating birthdays.

We went upstairs, to what was once called the Crystal Room, and out onto that little lounge which overlooks the bar and the floor beyond. And that's where we were seated when the curtain went up, when the Wizard stepped behind the tables. It was actually rather thrilling, to hear the applause as Billy Carroll stopped playing. You knew what was coming next. And it was appropriately dramatic. And I had the sudden sense that what we were doing was analogous to sitting in a B'way theatre for a Sunday matinee of a musical, the overture about to commence. Junior brought in this very dramatic music which was perfectly balanced by the lights which had the effect of a sheer scrim whirling outward like a spinning top. A scrim which reached all the way out to the corners of the dance floor as it swirled -- and it was pretty impressive, and the go-go boys were on the boxes, two of them working perfectly in sync -- and truth be told, it was exactly the opening number you wanted for a party which was keeping you from experiencing the best weather day of the New York year.

The crowd got bigger as the hours passed. At two p.m., there was Inda Matrix (which is surely her given name) who sang BodyFly, and she worked it, and the boys cheered, and her producers/managers were ecstatic (we were standing next to them) shouting, "They loved her. They loved her."

More boys, more shirtless boys, so that now the crowd was tipping away from Junior's heterogeneous mix into more of a circuit crowd. Earlier, we'd been talking about how Junior's crowd is so diverse -- which, to us, means that it must be about the music, for what else would cause this eclectic group to gather (and give up the best weather day New York had to offer all year -- did I mention this already?).

The music worked for us; it kept us moving. Maybe because we haven't been out since Pride, we didn't recognize a lot of the music. Which is best for us. Neither of us enjoy moving to stuff we moved to last year in Montreal (and, in fact, when Dark Beat came on, we both had to suddenly pee).

Then RKM, and probably someone else, but we missed it because we were slurping orange slices over by the back bar and getting busy, and suddenly, there was an explosion, and by the time we got back around to the stage, whoever blew up was already vapors.

Then it was four, and the floor was packed, in a good way. "It's not as good as Pride," we heard someone complaining. Well, of course not: it's Junior's b'day, not the birthday of an entire community, fool.

It was a good party, and when we left after four, we were comfortable leaving, even though we both had the sense that the best part of the party was still to come. Probably the optimum hours for this party would've been between two p.m. and seven p.m.

Junior's b'day party used to be one of the two markers in this town for the end of the season. His b'day used to feel to us like the end of Summer Camp: NYC, for those who had stayed in Gotham for the sweltering season, and there was a kind of celebration about making it together. This year, because Junior didn't play in town all summer, the party's energy felt a little more disparate. We hadn't spent a summer making memories together.

Interestingly, the other end-of-summer marker used to be Wigstock, held during Labor Day weekend, and which ended in 2001, but this year returned to Tompkins Square Park in an abbreviated two-hour version. It was this past Saturday, and the usual suspects trotted and stalked and cantered across the stage (Lypsinka who got the loudest cheer, and Kevin Aviance who worked his new number, and Flotilla and Murray Hill and Sweetie and Bob, and of course, Lady Bunny, who hosted (with her usual rapier wit). But the stand-out, for us, was a performer we'd never seen before, from Escuelita, the incredibly energized Sugarpie Cocoa. This girl -- and she's no wispy thing -- was a revelation of dance and fierceness and energy, as she unleashed a veritable electrical storm onstage. What a face, what a body, and what stage presence. She had us hysterical with laughter -- and pride. She was, for us, the spirit of Wigstock, and on a larger scale, the spirit of the gay community: GET UP AND DO WHAT YOU DO, NO APOLOGIES NECESSARY.

It seemed the motto of the weekend, and hopefully the summer, and we had fun.