Revolutions don't always happen in capitals. Sometimes they happen around a swimming pool, involve far too many wandering hands, and are over before anyone remembers who was supposed to be in charge.

Turns out the strongest mind-altering substance of the evening wasn't a pill. It was behind the DJ booth. where Alicedea and Elay delivered a night that hit considerably harder.

Some clubs have flat dancefloors. At Hi Life gravity is optional, the music isn't and cameras don't enjoy strobe lights as much as people do.

Being an A-list celebrity is exhausting. Thankfully, my staff was recently reshuffled after a series of logistical mishaps. Even arriving fashionably late has its limits.

I was remarkably busy being seen this weekend. Between Lux Mortem and NITE, Cleopatra would've asked me for fashion advice.

Apparently ultraviolet lighting is good for the ego. Either that, or this really is my color. Probably both. Here's what happened under the purple lights at Sonance.

The Boiler Room was packed and the music relentless. Even if I had wanted to, leaving simply wasn't an option. The only thing left to do was to surrender.

Nobody came to pick me up, no trains, someone stole my Jimmy Choos and everyone moved to a floor I've never seen before. Welcome home, I guess.

This was supposed to fix me. Instead, I was send to a rehab asylum with corrupt staff, drugs around every corner, and some very intense treatment methods.

I thought I was meeting my friends for drinks, I expected cocktails. I got an intervention, a detox schedule, and a rehab facility whose brochure clearly oversold the experience.

I still need to tell you about VICE, where they'd changed the lighting again last weekend. I asked them to never change it back. No promises were made.

Four hours of ecstasy, blurred eyes, missing time, and one camera pushed beyond its limits. These are all the memories I have left of Tuesday…

NEXUS\ VOID turns one this month and it's as hardcore as advertised. I really needed all the synthetic help I had to keep up.

Before Monday could ruin everything, I said goodbye to the weekend in Sanctum’s Grotto. Nice place, but it came at the expense of a perfectly good pair of boots.

You're always late, Tuesdays are always slow and here’s your fix. My girl Peanut opens a new club with Nikki and Invad3r testing the sound system live for the first time.

My hotness study got peer reviewed at The Continental. I went for the science, obviously, and came home with several findings I still haven't looked at.

Apparently you still had questions. Opie sat me down for an interview and for once I was the one answering them instead of telling the story.

Suddenly everyone says they’re hot, and the only cure is pool parties? I’m not buying it, so I figured it was worth doing some scientific research.

A night in London gave me beautiful architecture, handsome financiers and enough financial metaphors to make breakfast slightly awkward.

Saturday became my chance to make up for missed plans, and it led me to some of my favorite dancefloors. Blue, smoky, loud and the challenge I needed.