If it is true that White Party is, as CareResource promotes it, the “Crown Jewel” of the circuit, then, as with any good piece of jewelry, credit must be given to the setting. In the relatively short amount of time that South Beach has figured in the national imagination, the little spit of sand has become the Ibiza of the States. People from all over the globe flock to South Beach to party, and while it’s true that we gays no longer dominate the party scene the way we once did, and yes, there are those who continually say that South Beach is over and done with, nonetheless, there are two times a year when the gays once again take over the Beach and when the blocks from Ocean to Washington, from 1st to Lincoln Road, are a feast of eye candy.

Thanksgiving is all about family, and most of us have more than one, and therefore, it’s nice to combine the two: you come down to eat with the ‘rents and then party with your sisters. And this year, CareResource expanded their repertoire beyond the usual dance party events, and seeing as Mom fell into a k-hole the last time we took her to Vizcaya (she’s very empathetic to what emanates from those around her), we decided this year to opt for something a little more sedate, such as Big Band Night on Friday at the Raleigh Hotel, scene of the fabled Esther Williams swimming pool.

We were concerned about the impact of Wilma upon our little sandbar, and particularly the oasis that Andre Balazs has created behind the Raleigh, but under candlelight and lanterns, nothing seemed amiss, and the Miami Philharmonic played big band songs from the Forties and Fifties and later the movie was Busby Berkeley’s “The Gang’s All Here” with Carmen Miranda dancing with a thousand lifesize bananas in endless tumescence --while all around us boy couples and girl couples cuddled on chaises, drinking mojitos, below a beautiful starry night as the palm fronds flapped in the breeze. New York has never seemed so distant.

On Sunday, we were at the Women’s Fundraising Brunch at Vix, the restaurant at the Hotel Victor overlooking Ocean when we heard that the evening’s event at Metroplis had been de-sanctioned by CareResource. And this news followed the day before’s news that the Pool Party had been cancelled. We just rolled our eyes and sipped from our Bloodys. In the six years we’ve been coming to White Party, there’s always been high dudgeon drama. Maybe that’s what happens when you have a circuit event on Thanksgiving weekend – because what family doesn’t have drama over turkey dinner? You have to have a sense of humor when your sisters start slinging gravy.
So we put Mom and Beau in their car and sent them on their way – to the other side of Florida – and we got ready to party. We had tickets for Noche Blanca at Crobar with Tony Moran and Deborah Cox. We love our Tony and we love our Deborah. And now, with the de-sanctionification of Metropolis, it was looking like everyone on the sandbar was going to be there, too.

A cab up Washington, and past the velvet ropes, and into Crobar and up the stairs to the mezzanine— It’s just after midnight and the floor is already crowded, a mass of perfect torsos lightly bronzed by the sun which has shone every day of this White Party week, all dancing under a flurry of multi-colored and oversized aquatic life floating above and up and all around them. As for Tony— In a season of hurricanes, Tony comes on like a gale force wind. He’s the admiral of this ark which has blown in from distant shores, blown in through the back wall where once there was a silver screen in this theatre now called Crobar, and there he remains, at the ship’s helm, captain of the night. There’s his name hanging from the rafters, in clown font, alongside Deborah Cox’s name, and everyone’s feeling him, and everyone’s there. There’s Manny Lehman, with a blond Los Angeleno in tow (you can tell, you can just tell), and also Ric Sena, and there’s Matthew Rush, and Carson Kressley, who’s wearing a t-shirt that reads SORRY GIRLS, I ONLY DATE MODELS (Carson, please – lose the shirt). And we’re standing on the upper deck, feeling it sweep over us, the momentum which happens in this club called Crobar which has such incredible energy stored from all the years it’s served as a pleasure palace, and now Tony is mashing up “Movin’ Up” and making it into a whole new mixture, a compote of his own which goes on for nearly twenty minutes, so that you can’t help but think again about why it’s so good to let go of your troubles on the floor, just as Steve Kammon advocates in his article in this season’s Circuit Noize. How it’s right to let your troubles go and all the drama they provoke and just get it out, let it go.

And we’re watching our brethren and sistren and thinking how the circuit is such a cool community. So cool, so good. So dependable and so responsible, looking out for each other. There go the MedEvent boyz in their red t-shirts. They go two-by-two, up the stairs and around the railings, peering over, making sure, just looking out for trouble, trying to keep trouble at bay.

And, of course, there’s always the closeted and rotund Republican congressmen who troll the floor, their hands as numerous as cephalopod as they try and cop a feel. Most boyz swatting them like mosquitoes. And the little boy with the news cap and shorts who might be the source for Circuit Noize’s mascot, we saw him last in Montreal, at the airport, and also, the buck-toothed drag diva, a tower of wedding cake white with Madonna cone breasts, and speaking of Madonna, Tony’s working his way through “Hung Up” and now there’s no room on the floor, and we’re looking over the balcony, when a security force in black passes by, encircling a small woman. “That’s her,” I say, and we follow down the stairs, and it’s a little bit later when Tony starts “Things Just Ain’t the Same” and the crowd pushes forward – and then, there she is, Miss Deborah Cox. She just comes out and starts right in, and there’s no break in the party. We’re all still dancing like before as she segues from “Things” into “Easy as Life,” and now, it’s different. Now, there’s electricity. Everyone’s singing along. Captain Tony is singing, and his posse of boys behind the booth are singing, and Manny with his visor cap is singing and and everyone around us is singing, for everyone knows the words, “All I have to do is forget how much I love him. All I have to do is put my longing to one side. Tell myself that love’s an ever-changing situation.........”

It’s easy. It’s so easy to have fun. It’s so easy to be here -- and then, all of a sudden, we see him. “Get a load of that,” Robert says. “There’s one half.”

And I look where he’s looking, over onto the go-go box, and yes, there he is, the bf of our It Boy. One half of our It Boy Couple. It’s him, the bf, his arm pumping the air, looking better than ever. Abs polished like marble, the bf has been working hard on his abs. Ready for his close-up, no doubt about it.

”He must be nearby,” says Robert. For our It Boy is never far from his bf. We know his habits. We know how he’s always in vicinity of his bf. Never out of sight. Always near enough to blow a kiss. Sometimes talking to his posse, but always within earshot. “I don’t see him,” says Robert.

And neither do I. And Deborah Cox is singing “All I have to do is forget how much I love him. All I have to do is put my longing to one side.”

For six years, we’ve watched our It Boy. We’ve watched him grow from a fresh-faced collegian into a full-fledged circuit boy. He was our first. South Beach was where we joined the circuit. We spotted him on the beach in khaki cut-offs. He was with his first boyfriend. And we photographed him that year in all his fresh-faced innocence. And we watched as his star soared, as he was adopted by the Nurse and her posse, and then out to LA, and back East again. His photographs everywhere. On the cover of the Pride rags one June. In the store windows.

And then he got this new bf, the one who’s here tonight, and for three years, they’ve been together. So sweet together. So good. So where is He now, our It Boy? His bf is with someone else, someone cute, no question, but he’s not our It Boy. And we watch the bf, with his big white smile, he’s making the rounds. And we’re thinking, So that’s how it is now.

And meanwhile, the bartenders are tossing napkins by the pile high into the air, and there’s a confetti bomb blast, and Tony’s pumping at 120 miles an hour, a Cat 3 all his own. Hurricane Tony blasting through the sandbar, the best storm we’ve had all year.

It’s a helluva good party and we stay almost until the end. And then we stand where the bar takes the corner and look at it all from a distance, this party, this community, and we say a little thanks for all it is. Then we walk home along the beach. With arms outstretched, the air brushing our skin, we’re the only ones walking the beach. This is why people love Fire Island in the summer and Los Angeles all year and why we love South Beach at Thanksgiving. Thanks be to the beach and the circuit which congregates there each year. Thanks be to CareResource for taking care of our community. Thanks be to each other.