And then Saint Celia herself, in a shimmery silver dress and a gravity-defying blond wig, playfully teasing fellow female legend Charytin. "If I look great, he looks better." The audience pouring out of the balconies to dance in the aisles, like faithful supplicants answering the call of an evangelist, Cruz spiraling off into pure scatting, "Celia, Celia, Celia...cuidado que te pica."

Bitten, smitten, plowing back into clubs, awash in the one-nighter syndrome. "Girls in the Night" presenting an exhibition of the female anatomy at Atmospheres on Lincoln Road. "Filet of Soul," a new members-only night at The Music Room. Paragon doing a new straight night, debuting January 15. The Avenue A production of "Bliss at Hell," hand-painted topless models, co-host Michael Capponi on the turntables outside, playing vintage songs from the Doors and Led Zeppelin. Taking in the passing parade with old friends Alan Treister and Jim Hodes, mourning the glory days of the Seventies, Treister crashing into the Nineties with two models refusing to pose for a photo with him: "Yeah, but, who's Alan?" The women finally relenting when we somehow passed him off as Thomas Kramer's comptroller.

That whole Hell/Heaven/Christmas party thing, winding down with some rather thoughtful bedtime reading materials. A "Queer Beach Coalition" anti-Kramer flyer adorned with a sad angel ("Get the hell off the Beach...") vying with a classic Miami Beach-style greeting from our friends at Avenue A: "Believing in neither heaven or hell, means time now is most precious. Hell makes Bliss. May you all be blessed with joy and inundated happiness in this holiday season.

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