In one evening I saw or was in the room with JAMES IHA, THE STROKES, DAVID CROSS, MICHAEL STIPE, and NICK ZINNER and—unlucky you—I lived to tell the tale. All that was missing was some MOBY and CARLOS D and the East Village would’ve imploded last Saturday night.

The occasion: Gawker gal JESSICA COEN celebrated her 21st (not really) birthday at Fontana’s—and LIZ VAP, MICK ROCK‘s right-hand lady, and JASON BARON, of Dark Room/Annex fame, had a private co–birthday bash at the Annex during the newly revamped party Tiswas 2.0.

At Fontana’s—where she had been since 9:30—Miss Coen was still making sense at 1 a.m., even after so many hours and drinks. She was surrounded by bloggers galore, including her bossman NICK DENTON, ANDREW KRUCOFF, and former Black Tablers WILL LEITCH and AJ DAULERIO. Coen had added people like ANDERSON COOPER and David Cross to the invite e-mail list as a lark and Cross, perhaps wanting to prove that he was indeed the Real David CrossTM, actually showed up and gave her a book. Aw.

After that, I headed to the Annex, where DOM ROCKET and MICK ROCK spun VELVET UNDERGROUND tunes, actress JENA MALONE danced in the V.I.P. area, and Nick Zinner not-celebrity-DJ’d. (Speaking of which, a person who shall remain nameless for reasons that will soon become clear told me that, while getting a colonic, they listened to yours truly talk about celebrity DJs on NPR. They added: “I shit you not.” I can’t think of anything more appropriate to be doing while listening to me talk about celebrity DJs. I hope you read this column while sitting on the can, too.) Downstairs I missed the ruckus that happened when MICHAEL STIPE—there with chef MARIO BATALI—sat atop one of the booths and the bouncers yelled at him. The duo laughed. Then left.

Wednesday night I hit up the book party for newly-exited-from-Spin author MARC SPITZ at the Slipper Room. Don’t cry for him, Argentina; Too Much, Too Late is his second novel and his third book, and he just handed in another one. On hand were his lady friend writer LIZZIE GOODMAN, Rolling Stone‘s eternally optimistic ROB SHEFFIELD, lovely proprietors THE HABACKERS, the Post‘s MAUREEN CALLAHAN, ULTRAGRRRL, Siberia’s TRACY WESTMORELAND, and Iha. I was sitting with AL GORE‘s and TOM SYKES‘s book editor at Rodale, LEIGH HABER, the New York Observer‘s GEORGE GURLEY, and Page Six’s CHRIS WILSON, who was doing the whole column himself for the week since his two colleagues PAULA FROELICH and RICHARD JOHNSON were on vacation.

I dragged Spitz and Goodman to the Strokes’ private after-party at Corner Billiards following the band’s Hammerstein Ballroom show, and we were greeted at the door by the gorgeous WORLD FAMOUS *BOB* and her world-famous boobs. “I’m sorry,” I told her after I had given her a hug with my head conveniently at breast level, “but I can’t stop staring at your chest.” “That’s all right, bunny. The day you stop, I start to worry.”

Inside, the band played pool and hung out with Cross (again), Vice magazine’s SHANE SMITH, JOHNNY KNOXVILLE, and more enticingly, their famous main squeezes: ALBERT HAMMOND JR.‘s girlfriend, KATE MOSS–look-alike CATHERINE PIERCE of THE PIERCES; JULIAN CASABLANCAS‘s wife, JULIET JOSLIN (of Wiz Kid Management); and FABRIZIO MORETTI‘s lady DREW BARRYMORE. (I couldn’t get up the nerve to tell her I heart her, but *BOB* gushed to Ms. Barrymore how she was her favorite modern actress; Drew asked *BOB* who her favorite old-time actress was. Not surprisingly, it’s MARILYN MONROE.) It was an uneventful night (rock stars, they are so boring), save for when the ladies’ room resembled that MÖTLEY CRÜE song, Smokin’.

R.I.P. skateboarding legend and Kids star HAROLD HUNTER, who died two weeks ago of a heart attack.