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Sometimes I like to go celebrity hunting just for the hell of it. I don't try to talk to them or anything, just laugh at them, or, at the very least, study the animals in their own natural habitat. (At where else? Chic bars with long lines, with music serving as wallpaper, and blonde bimbolinas serving whoever, whatever, wherever.)

Three times this week, Chloë Sevigny and I were in clubbing tandem. I braved the unwashed masses—(otherwise known as indie rockers) last Thursday for the Clinic show at the Bowery Ballroom, but was upset to find out that opening act The Rapture—who apparently channel PiL and early '80s musique—weren't there for that particular gig. Bah! Should have gone to the Tuesday show, because I would've sighted arbiter-of-all-things-cool Miss Chloë cloaked in a gigantic hood, described by one friend as "druid-esque." Instead, I endured bad indie rock (oxymoron? double negative?) and a creepy, green-lit stage full of limeys wearing surgical scrubs pumping out a (mercifully) short set of '60s-inspired garage rock. Also: Indie rockers are rude and smelly! Has anyone else noticed this?

I also missed Sevigny at a crushed-to-the-gills underground party somewhere on Canal Street Saturday night. She might've been standing right next to me, but it was so dark and crowded, it was impossible to make out much besides a curly-haired hippie guy who stamped on my companion's foot. (This is the result of pushing clubs into the city's illegal underbelly—fire hazards abound!) I did make out Thomasof Wicked /A.R.E Weaponssitting on top of a speaker near the bar, nodding his head to the beats, and Chez Music's Neil Aline and Freeskool's Sean B. standing against a wall with grins on their faces. After some chick splashed beer on my face, I called it a night.

There was so much celebrity karma this week, and I wasn't even trying. At Luxx on Saturday night, I spotted fashion designer Alexander McQueen, who was not at all pasty and gaunt like I thought he would be but tanned, muscled, and wearing a white sleeveness V-neck T-shirt and jeans. With sunglasses. Inside.

How to Tell a Party Is Really Bad, Rule #530: When you see the editor of the magazine of said event dancing the night away at anotherparty, which is what Daniel Shumate of Flyer magazine was doing at Luxx Saturday. Apparently, the Flyer fete at Boylan Studios wasn't as shit-hot as the guide itself, and so when Shumate couldn't get a friend into his own party, he bailed for Brooklyn. Cheers!

It was bold-faced-name heaven on Monday night at the Tribeca Grand, where we stopped after the Detailsmag party for Manitoat the Screening Room. (Note: Hunky lead Frankie G. is sure to be the next supastar; he's already got a gig opposite Ed Norton.)

At the Grand, we were given snotty 'tude by the bouncers, who let in a dorky guy in a dorky suit with a forgettable GF on his arm, while me and two lovely ladies were given the third degree, but ultimately let in. Right away, we spotted the ugly dude in N'Sync, the one my friend describes as having "inexcusably bad hair," with dreds and various colors weaved in. The dreds are gone, but Chris Kirkpatrick was especially frumpy, wearing a ski cap and sporting a goatee. That didn't prevent a gaggle of girls from cooing over him in the VIP area, where they gorged on caviar and champagne. Could it be the money, the money, or the money that makes him so very attractive to the ladies?

Later in the evening, Marky Mark, I mean, the distinguished actor Mark Wahlberg, paid a visit doing his best Russell Crowe imitation—looking scruffy with grown-out hair and a baseball hat. What's with these celebs, who have more money than god, and a zoo of personal assistants, yet can't figure out how to dress properly? I want glamour from my cultural icons, dammit. Hip-hop impresario Russell Simmons at least looked the part—dashing and dapper in a blue jacket and a nice pair of white sneaks. His wife, Kimora Lee, played the princess role well, too.

Finally, finally, finally sighted C.S! After Matter:/Formproducer Elan "Don't call me a promoter!" Akerman stood me up (yes, you punk!) at the Park on Tuesday, I hooked up with one of his partners, Ariel, and we played a game of Spot the Celebrity, in which whoever spots the most, wins. (I won.) While sucking down our free drinks, we drooled over Virgin Suicides director Sofia Coppola, who looked lovely in black pants and a white shirt, then realized that the tall, handsome gentleman striding across the room was Tim Robbins (Susan Sarandon taps that ass!). We made eyes, or pretended to, with Rosie Perez (she's short enough that I can look right in 'em) and saw Patricia Arquette throw her hat into the celebrity karaoke fest and sing (wail?) Janis Joplin's " Piece of My Heart," and then there she was: Chloë! Blonde, curly-haired, looking a little sleepy-eyed, and possibly drunk. Cute white top, stylish pants, as always. And thankfully, not a druid-esque hood in sight.

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