The controversy over the Gotham's idea of independence in film might still be raging on, but the Gotham's have declared their party independence with an official after party going up against indieWIRE and Kodak's usual soiree. Adding another layer of intrigue the indieWIRE event honors the stunning success of the online mag's 10 years. Will the New York indie community eschew the elite, ticket holders-only, event at an undisclosed location in support of a traditional, populist favorite? Or will the allure of the velvet rope win out? Current polling has the official party drawing a strong celebrity and exec contingent with the Kodak/indieWIRE party pulling in a wider community of support. Only the night will tell.

Geeking out with members of the Magnolia Pictures team (and friends), I went to the 12:01 AM screening of Casino Royale last night. I have to join the chorus of praise for Daniel Craig, who does a fantastic job as 007. Granted, I stopped seeing the Brosnan Bonds after Goldeneye (a movie I used to thank monthly for spawning such a legendary video game) because they just seemed like clichéd action movies with a tuxedo (Note: the new movie has fantastic action choreography). In retrospect, I think part of my utter dislike of those movies is Brosnan himself, the ultra-smooth, uber-Bond, who looks and acts like he could do anything so well, he almost comes off as a smug sociopath. Craig on the other hand has a demeanor so cragged, so thuggish (almost the younger brother of Marv from Sin City) and yet strangely charismatic that when he dons the tuxedo and grabs a martini, the brute underneath adds a necessary level of depth to make the character both super heroic yet relatable.

Enough psychobabble though. There are some hilariously bad moments (the shower scene) and try not to laugh to hard at the peanut gallery during the poker games... and yes, sadly Bond plays Texas Hold 'em.

Returning from AFM (where sketchy European businessmen meet sketchy LA producers) yesterday I made it back to NYC in time to swing over to the big democratic celebration for Clinton, Cuomo, Spitzer and Patterson at the Sheraton (not short on sketch, but much better at hiding it). Obviously it was a good night to be there with the big D wave rolling across the country. Also, I might very well have witnessed the first speech in Hillary's presidential campaign - though I still would have a major problem voting for her. It was a massive event that took place in the upstairs ballroom, although when I arrived I got trapped in a crowd and was nearly pushed into an elevator to go a mysterious party on the 49th floor. I asked people throughout the night if they new what was going on up there. Blank stares or shrugged shoulders were the usual response. I also avoided being one of those people on bleachers who wave placards as the candidates make their way up to the stage to give a speech. I might have been excited, but I'm not the sort of person who exudes enthusiasm.

Last night one of the owners of Cain had his birthday party at the club. Outside an aramada of club kids braved the rain to try to talk their way in. Many of the women in their ultra short skirts had their jackets yanked above their heads transforming like some sort of weird sexual beast that surrealist would have come up with. The anger was palpable among the throngs - "I'm cool. I know so and so. Why the hell aren't you letting me in?" It never occured to these people that this was a guy's party so, you know what, he should be able to only let people in he wants. Yeah, there are always the folks who knows bouncers and doormen, but seriously, is the sense of entitlement out their so great that people really think they deserve to be at someone's birthday party? Sometime's you're not invited. Live with it.

Last night I swung by IFC's party for ...So Goes the Nation at the IFC Center, which unfortunately I hadn't been to in quite a while. Amusingly, the celebration also happened to coincide with a special Terry Gilliam screening and signing that resulted in a line of devoted fans snaking through the restaurant. However, nothing stopped the flow of good drinks and even better mini-burgers. This under-the-radar event is typical of the First Take team, trading in the balls to the walls bashes of IFC Films for the intimate grace of an exlusive soiree. Can't wait for the next one!

Variety reports that A & E is bringing back Messieurs Feldman and Haim in a new reality TV show focusing on their lives as grown ups. I think I need to go home and set my TiVo right now.

Every festival I find there's one person who I seem to be on the same schedule as: running into them at the most obscure restaurants, parties, or just on the street. Last Sundance that person was Corey Feldman in all his black-clad glory (and sporting his new bride). At one event he was even standing in the corner looking more bored that a my parents in "Dream a Little Dream 2." You ask me if you're parties boring to a Corey, you better close it up right then.

Too busy prepping for the debut of Sidetrack's Kurt Cobain About a Son I missed the premiere celebration for Paper Dolls, which opened last night at the Film Forum. The doc follows a group of transvestite Filipino drag queens that spend their days as caregivers to elderly Jews in Israel. Yeah, I know it almost sounds like a talk show parody from the days of UHF. It's not. Deftly intermixing human drama with political conflict, the film is at its root a very human story of people and the families they create. I've been a supporter and fan of the doc since I first saw a rough assembly over a year and a half ago, and it's great to see it opening theatrically. Now I wish I hadn't missed the party!

Earlier this week I hit up the Yo Mamma wrap party at Libations. For those indieWire readers familiar with the show (and trust me, the crossover audience is very limited) MTV describes it as "A no-holds barred competition that pits toughest trash-talkers against one another." The event was (of course) influenced by its host Wilmer Valderrama's hard partying ways. DJ Reach spun late into the night with Wilmer himself rapping along, mic in one hand, bottle of Petron in the other. The music started with hip-hop but went 80's and even a little of Nirvana got thrown in. Circling the DJ booth like a group of Indians in a B-western, an array of barely dressed, nubile women danced, jumped, and hollered to win the "attention" of the former Fez. On occasion one was allowed back to dance with him only to be quickly removed by his bodyguard and wander back to the dance floor, utter disappointment dripping from their over-made up faces. But I'll throw these women props for their resilience cause soon they were back outside the DJ booth, shaking whatever assets they had. Variety just reported that Wilmer is producing a new film based on the NY party world, and I have to say I can't think of a better pairing: the man not only knows how to party, unlike most he knows how to host a party.

I'm no fan of St. Patrick's day, and I pretty vocal about it. I'm all for celebrating heritage; just don't let that heritage be obscured by drunken frat boys acting out a poor man's mardi gras. But I am thankful for St. Patrick's day '06, because last night I caught the final show of The Pogues four day return to NYC after a fifteen year absence. And it was a hell of show from the first moments when Shane McGowan stumbled out onto the stage looking drunk enough to be barred from most drinking establishments. Despite a failed attempt to balance his beer on his head, cursing the audience, introducing Old Main Drag as Sunny Side of the Street, and disappearing after every second song off-stage (to drink more, puke, nap, piss, who knows), he rocked through two hours and three encores of greatest hits and kept the crowd loud and raucous. When Spider Stacey asked for requests, the audience responded less coherently than some of McGowan's hopelessly confusing introductions, and the mosh pit that broke out during Fairytale of New York made me wonder if some folks were actually paying attention to the songs. It was loud, it was crazy, and it was one of the best concerts I've seen in a long time.

In an all blogger night I have ventured to the white stone citadel that is the penthouse club in honor of the jaker. By definition a strip club, though to call it that might be a lie... Aside from the bored looking half naked lady on the stage, there is only see of businessmen anxiously trying to snag one of the few (by my count five) roving women. For thirty dollars, one could buy a lot of things, a bachelor party at the penthouse club, however, should be at the bottom of the list.

At the accuser's engagement party, where a fun time seems to include ayathollah hand puppets, Jews shoving pork down each other's throats, and pretty much any type of religious insensitivity both imaginable and not. I wager that the cartoon rioters would be a tad upset. But then that would be the goal of the accuser - to upset the religions of the world by making fun of their hypocracy. That or drinking lots of vodka. I am not quite sure.

To my one (or if I'm lucky two) faithful reader(s)- I apologize for my absence. I am sure I was easily forgotten.

Anyway, dry your tears, update your blog trackers, cause I'm coming back to you live from the new club boudoir. Yes, the former site of britney's notorious drunken binges has a new owner, and despite the lack of undergarments on the walls (I'm not sure about the people yet) I do somewhat feel like I am in a gigantic boudior crowded with gyrating, faceless people. The lion, the witch and the wardrobe by way of fifty cent... And AC/DC? Grading clubs I leave up to the professionals. I can only judge based on... Well, some things are better left unsaid.

Trying to take advantage of the disposable camera's Kodak provides at their Gotham Awards After Party every year, I got the two girls working the bags to let me take my camera early. Proof of why this was probably a mistake on their part follows:

Celluloid Dreams' Charlotte Mickie and Killer Films' Charles Pugliese took a break from the party to pose for my first picture.

IndieWIRE co-founders Eug and the Rabbi hang in the hallway with independent producer Rich Lim

Magnolia's Walker Savage cuts loose with IFC's Ryan Werner and Lizzie Nastro.

The Paste Magazine photographer gets a taste of his own medicine.

Elma Cremin and Marisa Keselica keep the bartenders happy. (And is that the pick?)

I bet right now they are wishing they never let me near a camera.

Some people know how to party better than others.

If not for the steady influx of emails from club promoters, I wouldn't have a had a clue that Thanksgiving Eve was one of the biggest party nights in the city. Whether I decide to go to "The Jive Turkey Ball," "The Birth of Reggaeton: A Reggaeton Extravaganza," or "the 5th Annual Thanksgiving Eve bash," I know I'll be at a "a party like no other" that I'll "never want to leave." I always thought the wednesday before thanksgiving was time for half-drunken, awkward conversations with high-school crushes and former-friends or for the skirmishes with your family that set the stage for the big Thursday dinner showdown. Thank you club promoters for setting me straight.

It's November 1st in NYC and feels like its April 1st. Who says global warming doesn't exist?

It's also the day after Halloween, two days post-Halloween, and four days since I saw the first "slutty" cop on the streets (I wonder who the genius was who came to the realization you can add the word "slutty" to any costume and make it ten times as commercial). Although Saturday was the big night for parties, I decided I shouldn't be a recluse on the big day, so after watching a couple of sundance entries, I costumed up and skedaddled over to the Heidi Klum party at Happy Valley.

Now the man, woman or child who got celebrities to start hosting holiday parties (Heidi's Halloween, Britney's New Year's, Dennis Rodman's Thanksgiving, etc.) surely was a genius. Shove one of 'em in the corner and you'll have a hundred eager celebrity gawkers and stalkers circling the wagons like half-starved coyotes armed with digital cameras. Trying my best to avoid the fray, I hunkered down in the corner with some friends, and watched the circus (speaking of which anyone want to go see the big apple circus while it's in town? anyone?), which wasn't all that impressive. Mostly slutty nurses, slutty cowgirls, slutty soccer players, slutty snow whites, and their men. I did not stay long.

Instead I headed over to the Flavorpill party at Supper Club (which I recommend over the any celebrity sponsored event, not that anyone cares... or is even reading this). There the people were actually interested in people, cameras were flashing at friends, and inspector gadget was wandering around complete with a go-go gadget umbrella.

In my mind that was the best costume I saw, that is until I found myself sitting next to Space Ghost on the subway to work this morning.

Last night I went to the “official” after party for Franz Ferdinand at the Tribeca Grand. Every week one my email accounts overflows with promoters inviting me to the “official” after party for some major Hollywood release. You ask me, the word “official” is akin to a flashing neon “Do Not Enter” sign. It takes a stamp to make something official, but like the biographies of the same name, the un-official ones are where the juicy parts are.

So I hear last night was the great party of the NYFF, and perhaps the greatest party of the year. This incredible I event I speak of? The after party for The Squid and The Whale. Taking place at the Natural History Museum (for all my tourists readers, this is the one with the dinosaurs - yes people do get confused) in the room that holds the aforementioned squid and whale, the party.... well, what actually occurred in this exclusive shindig is a mystery to me, I was in bed, uninvited (yes that does occasionally stop me from showing up) and just plain tired

Monday is "industry" night at Butter followed by late night at Bungalow 8. By "industry" they mean people who turned partying into a job. I still don't know ?they? are.

Of course, cross town the independent filmmakers of the IFP market were partying it up with members of the film industry, except by 11:28 most of said industry had slipped across the street for a quieter cocktail, which only makes me wonder:

Is the market better for creating relationships between filmmakers than between filmmakers and execs? And if so, should the organizers try to figure out how to exploit it?

At many parties this Toronto, it seemed to this guest that the proudest people were not the producers with hot films, agents on the verge of sale or exec's who discovered some new talent; no, that distinction fell to the sprinkling (well sometimes deluge - and I mean deluge in the best sense of the word) of Torontonians who managed through deft maneuvering to either wrangle an invite or slip past the ornery door men. "I'm the only pharmaceutical rep here!" was on often heard boast. Maybe this says something about the social equality in the Canadian mindset or maybe it's just that big of an honor to see Cuba Gooding Jr. party in a cowboy hat. I wish I knew.

Last week I ventured to my first Circuit party. For those unaware the Circuit is "an organization designed to promote and facilitate the meeting of entertainment industry professionals in the New York area" (that's right out of the membership letter - membership cards are on their way soon I've been informed). Events so far have occured at places like Neogaea and Movida with an after party at the Tribeca cinemas. Curiously (or maybe purposely) all three places have balconies from where one could survey the crowd... not that I'm one who likes to stand atop balconies and survey the crowd, but the options there. It's an interesting conceit, tossing out the pretense of films and events to bring together the people who want network, drink and possible get some nookie (yes, i wrote nookie), whether it will work i think depends on one thing: Free Booze. There are too many events out there that provide some sort of drink specials to compete with out it. So circuiter organizers (can we call you inductors?) get to work on those alcohol sponsors.

I don't quite understand the appeal of the velvet rope. On saturday night I ended up at GLO for a friend's going away party (she's going to USC film school so yes, there is a movie connection to this, however slight) and after entering the club we spent a good twenty minutes shoving our past the velvet rope into the VIP section, which was both hotter (as in temperature, not vibe) and more crowded than the rest of the bar.

What's the point of roping off section if it's going to be less comfortable than the main floor? Why not just let the "VIP'S" mingle with the non-VIPS (and honestly, should the term VIP really belong in a club)? I know the velvet ropes make people feel special, but when you get down to it would you go out to have fun or go out to feel special? Actually, never mind... I don't think I want to know the answer to that question.

Today brings the mass exodus where the film world moves to Cannes, and I stay in New York. And, in all honesty, I'm looking forward to it. Navigating another festival right now - for some reason - feels like the last thing in the world I would want to do. No glitz and glamour and beaches for me.

Instead I plan to fall back into my old pattern of spending most of might in a cab careening around Manhattan because I have an inability to say "no" when invited to an event. Saturday was a typical example - it started at an Andisheh Avini opening at the I-20 Gallery in Chelsea. Despite how much I enjoyed the art (I learned much of it sold that night and for good reason) and the Gallery's awe-inspiring roof deck. I spent most of my time examining a Spencer Tunick postcard and arguing over the pros and cons of volunteering for one of his photographs (having your intimate areas closely scrutinized by three drunks was definitely a con). Soon after that I hopped in a cab and was whisked off to Lit on the East Village for an after party where I stayed just long enough to get an "X" on my hand (the "X" making a much better showing of it than me, has however stayed for two days). Saying no to taxi's I hoofed it over for pizza in alphabet city, but soon after grabbed a cab up towards Grammercy for a house party with some of the best folks of the new york film scene. Of course it's never really polite to arrive at someone's house party empty handed, so I spent twenty minutes running around trying to find beer and/or wine (can you believe there are actual delis in manhattan that don't serve booze!?) before heading up. Now the party was intimate and friendly and actually quite nice in its uncrowdedness (is that a word?) and the availability of any food you might have a craving for edamame, doritos, cheese, chocolate, etc (food selection is always appreciated at house parties. I always serve onion dip). Of course I couldn't stay long because I had a friend's birthday party I needed to hit up so back in another cab and off to Gstaad in Chelsea, where my arrival pretty much perfectly coincided with everyone else's exit - something that I'm ashamed to say happens to me all to often. My friend decided the party needed to move to a gay bar (because who doesn't want to try to get some birthday loving on their birthday), and as the party now only consisted of me, I said I would accompany him. Unfortunately, he didn't quite know where the bar was so we got lost twice on our way and nearly ended up accidentally in Discotheque, an not-so-aptly named club where people line up to pay a cover to walk in and find a dj presiding over a nearly empty floor. Soon after we luckily find the bar we were looking for (called "G" for all those wondering) and my night ended leaning against a bar trying to find the only woman in the place as I drank a scotch and soda 5 hours, $40 dollars but only three blocks away from the gallery where everything started.

Tomorrow - Why it's pointless to take your straight friends to gay bars because they monopolize your time talking to you thereby preventing you from getting any.