To paraphrase the late Ol’ Dirty Bastard, me and Mariah Gary go back like the baby Jesus and his mother Mary. Having met Mariah in the late-early oughts when he was but a shy and terribly, painfully awkward housefly in braces – a veritable wallflower among wallflowers, to thoroughly mix my metaphors — I’ve since taken him under my velvety-soft wing all these many years and coached him, prodded him, probed him into the breathtaking cicada he is today.

I kid out of love. What I mean to say is that Gary is a kindred spirit I’ve had the great pleasure of knowing since my second year in Philadelphia, and observed as he’s indefatigably worked to make his mark on the local cultural landscape. As for DJ Deejay, his crowd-pleasing party anthems have flooded dance floors and set hips shaking all over the city.

How exciting, then, to mark my first foray out of Thursday Night and into the weekend proper with a new party hosted by Gary and Deejay, several blocks west of the Gayborhood, in the savage and uncharted wilderness of Rittenhouse. This Friday night party, originally slated to feature a setlist of Madonna vs. Britney, instead opened up the floodgates and expanded the tent to give us a head-to-head-to-header not attempted since that VH1 Divas concert back in 1998. Mariah! Mary J! Whitney! Winehouse! Names, names, names, darling.

I descend on 17th and Chancellor (Stir) at 10:30 looking either ridiculously ferocious or ferociously ridiculous, in a pin-striped fedora and a pair of oversized silver-colored frames that would make even Sir Elton John revolve in his hairpiece. In a word, Diva. Mariah Gary, to his credit, has upped the style ante through the keen addition of a flimsy genuine old-school necktie and a furry something-or-other clipped to his lapel.

“A diva needs a mink stole so I went to Super Thrifty and got Sasha Fierce here,’ he deadpans.

After taking a moment to immortalize Gary, Sasha, and local songwriter Bill Budd, on whatever it is you immortalize digital media upon (circuits, right?), I make a beeline for the dance floor. Oh! But first, a little trip to the WC. I reach for the open door and OOPS THERE’S SOMEONE IN THERE. Ever the ham, I let out a shriek as though I have seen the face of my own death and take a flying leap away from the door. The bathroom’s bearish occupant emerges, arches an eyebrow at me, and remarks, “It may be indecent, honey, but it’s not scary.’

Finally making my way to the dance floor, I spot PhillyGayCalendar’s own Timaree Schmidt, all bare skin and sequins, turning the beat around with a girlfriend. They’re two among only a handful of folks on the dance-floor. Tonight’s “Divas’ party just so happens to fall on the same night as local party institution Making Time, featuring Philly’s own Spank Rock, and so DJ Deejay is a little concerned about tonight’s turnout.

He needn’t worry. The crowd trickles in slowly but steadily, and while the attendance is relatively light compared to the sweaty shoulder-to-shoulder turnouts to which Deejay is accustomed, it feels about right for Stir, which is decidedly more loungy than clubby.

I take a few moments to mash up the lime in my G&T and chat up Sgt. Sass’s own DeShawn Seymore, mostly grilling him about his arm candy, and then SHE comes through the speakers — Miss Mary J Blige, singing my junior high jam, “Real Love.’ Young Travis, 22 if a day, is perplexed at my open-mouthed muppet smile.

“I’ve never heard this song before,’ he says.

I’m now open-mouthed incredulous.

“No, seriously, who is this? I’ve never heard it.’

As I sputter indignantly through my dentures, Travis’ companion Michael leans over and whispers “He’s five. Don’t sweat it.’ I realize now that it is indeed a very good thing DJ Deejay has broadened the scope of the Madonna/Britney night to include the founding mothers (and fathers) of Diva, because otherwise these poor children might never know of the brave pioneering souls like Mary who paved the way for today’s Beyonces and Gagas. I consider throttling little Travis with my cane and ordering him to get the hell off my lawn, but instead I turn tail and head across the floor. These orthopedic shoes may have been made for walking, but this old codger is determined to make ‘em dance, too.