We got home last night, back to Manhattan after a week on the sand bar -- and since then, I've gone through the archives of all the chatter we've missed on CPI since we've been gone. It was a real vacation -- in that we only took a Blackberry and not a laptop, and never even read a newspaper. All week, though, we did wonder what the word was on CPI. One thing about CPI, and one thing we're grateful for, is the way it allows all of us to vent and critique and gossip and blather -- and I have to say that I think a circuit week without the resultant post-mortem on CPI is kind of like seeing a movie all alone.

In reading all the reviews already posted, and the preliminary reviews, I was struck by how much the IDEA of South Beach comes into play. It seems to me that many of us have this intense kind of relationship to South Beach. Some of us seem to think it will never be as good as it was, and that it was a paradise then, but not now. And some of us love it for what it is now, and some of us think it sucks the big one. South Beach seems to provoke such a polarity of opinion.

I, for one, know that the first time I saw South Beach -- and it was years after so many had discovered it -- I felt an immediate kinship. I think a lot of gay people feel that way, and maybe especially those who remember South Beach in the days when you could sunbathe on Ocean Drive (should you desire). The days when it "belonged" to the gay world. Well, it ain't like that anymore.

And yes, it's colder in November than it is in March. And yes, White Party doesn't have the buzz that WinterParty has (which maybe has something to do with the difference between autumn and spring, and the fact that in spring, there are hormonal/pheromonal bonuses that autumn/winter does not provide).

But there's always the ocean, and there's all that beach, and there are so many beautiful Brazilians and Venezuelans and Italians and Africans and just so many pretty people in general. Beauty's in the air.

We spent Thanksgiving with friends. Everyone cooked a favorite dish from their homeland. It was like a UN buffet. I listened to some guys who'd lived on the beach for 12 years talk about all the changes. One guy remembered being stuffed into the trunk of his car by crack addicts. I listened to them talk about leaving. I swear, the only other place I know which makes people talk so much about leaving is Manhattan. Maybe something about South Beach makes people feel like they're slacking off. Then there was another guy who'd just moved to the Beach -- from New York. He said, "You should spend as much time as possible here; it's good for the soul." He seemed beatific about his decision to be in South Beach.

Okay, so none of us were thrilled with the Seaquarium. This was our third year at this party -- and each one has been much less than the one before. The first was the gold one. Last year was maybe bronze. This year would not have made the qualifying trials for circuit parties. Still, saying that, I have to say that the person in charge of the lights did an incredible job. There were these pinwheels of lights which played on the trees which were blowing fiercely -- and it was as if we were all underwater and the trees were rainbows of algae and sea life. Sitting there, in the middle of the lawn, where there were about twenty-five overstuffed couches arranged like an outdoor lounge (think Delano on a budget) and watching the lights on the trees, and looking up at the constellations, and being there with your friends, and lots of cuties and hotties, well, okay, maybe it wasn't all that bad.

David Knapp played a set that mirrored the lights' kaleidoscopic impact, and though Tony Moran had to pump it up from nothing after Ms. Cox's long set, he managed to make it happen for those of us still around.

Frankly, though, the best thing about Friday were the hours spent at 12th Street beach. It was packed that day and the sun was hot in those last hours before the arctic front rolled in. And while the locals considered the ocean too chilly, it didn't keep lots of boys from frolicking in the salt water. Two snaps and ten points and props to the beach.
 
Saturday we shopped for white while everyone else wore scarves and hats to the beach. We wandered by Muscle Beach -- chatted through the fence. It seemed like a good time. But sometimes, it's nice not to do all the parties. This year, for the first time in four, we didn't buy passes -- and it felt right for us. Maybe, as someone suggested, there's just too much organized activity during this circuit week. Maybe people run the risk of overlooking some of the rest, the best, of South Beach.

Saturday night at Maze turned out to be exactly the kind of Saturday night revels that we wanted it to be. It's been our experience that Saturday night parties during these circuit weeks have a special kind of energy -- due to the addition of all the locals who love a good Saturday night party. So you have the real Saturday night crew and then the addition of all the hotties who just arrived. Peter ripped through the night and kept a most seriously good-looking hottie trampy luscious crowd of boys, and girls, moving until five a.m. And it was the kind of crowd where people were dancing more or less in the same area for hours at a time -- because who wanted to move when the beat was working so well. Loved that party. Loved Peter's work. And especially loved that crowd. It reminded me of an Abel party at Salvation on Saturday night, from a few years' back.

Then it was Sunday. Sunday at Vizcaya. This year, there was a community outreach program designed to get the locals to Vizcaya. They could buy a pass for less than the cover price of Vizcaya and get into two other parties during the weekend. It worked. There were loads of people who had never been to Vizcaya before. We went to a little pre-crack at some local friends -- and we were the only two who had ever been to Vizcaya's White Party before. All of them were psyched. All of them were dressed in white. Full white. All of them got into the whole thing. They were pumped and primed. And their energy was a joy to be around.

So that was definitely a key lesson: if you're feeling the least bit cynical or jaded about being a circuit queen, then find a newbie. It's a jumpstart for your appreciation about all the circuit is.

What's not to love about wandering Vizcaya during White Party? It's a step back into another era. All that white makes you behave differently. You feel a new kind of elegance. You feel divinely decadent. You look good. Everyone looks good. Photos, photos. So many photos. And the Fab Five were a fine addition -- providing a scintilla of excitement each time they passed by. Something about celebrity rubbing off onto all of us. We all feel it. And their energy was infectious too -- none of that "been there, done this better before" stuff. They got right into the right mood.

So yeah, it was our fourth Vizcaya, but it's still a swell affair. I loved seeing all those newbies in tow with us having such a great time. This one woman, another New Yorker, who was so hot in her J.Lo get-up, she cornered the director and said, "I want this party to go on all night."

They went on to Tracy -- while we went back to the sand bar, and Victor. Crobar was packed with Victor's boys. Okay, so maybe there was about six more inches of room on the dance floor than last year, or during March's WinterParty. But hello? There was so much energy. We got there just before one a.m. He was cranking along. It was fine. We were there. Then, all of a sudden, it was like "Is everybody in? Is everybody in? Is everybody in?" Some kind of Alan T. voice -- and then, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM. I mean, it was like three explosions in a row -- and the room exploded and we were all off and running for the next four hours.

I ask you, what is not to like about this? I couldn't stop dancing. I was just where I wanted to be. In South Beach, at Crobar, with Victor and all those who love him. Works for me.

That's where we left it. At five a.m. on Monday morn. And yes, those who know us know that Abel is our man -- but we couldn't. Not anymore. It was good where we were. We left it there.

And besides, we wanted two more days of just South Beach. Not South Beach circuit week -- but plain old South Beach. The sand bar which makes gay people crazy with frustration and lust and happiness and joy and irritation and-- Maybe it's a little like New York that way, and maybe that's why it's fine with us.

Thanks to all the people who came to share in White Party and all the things we love about South Beach, and thanks especially to Care Resource, and the volunteers, and yes, definitely, thanks to the deejays who make us move. It's lovely to recover when you've had such fun.