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Ramone's gabba-gabba-grave. It's a nice drive to Hillside Cemetery, although only made irrelevant by that night's Atlantic Records event to celebrate the upcoming Led Zeppelin live DVD compilation. The party is a typical display of savvy media coverage, with young hipsters devouring free cheese and ignoring the old man sitting in a corner. On the other hand, I don't have the nerve to ask Ahmet Ertegun why they aren't serving red snapper.

The music legend has better things to talk about, anyway, finally addressing the crowd, reminding them who he is, and commenting on the headaches of launching a band that wouldn't do television appearances, release singles or put their name on albums. By anti-corporate standards, Led Zeppelin seems to have been more punk rock than the Ramones.

The screened Zep footage is fairly amazing, but I'm more impressed by the following night, when Remote?the irritating club that books way too many parties?finds a practical use for its Cafe Flesh-Meets-Cartoon Network vision of wall-to-wall video cameras and monitors. Nobody wants to miss a thing at this gathering to celebrate the latest edition of The Lesbian Sex Book, a project that naturally leads to curiosity over Sapphic innovations of the past decade.

Co-author/updater Rachel Kramer Bussel avoids salacious details, and even skips comment on the Hitachi Magic Wand. However, she notes, "I think I've made the book more accessible for the women I hang out with." Fortunately, Bussel hangs out with a lot of gorgeous young twilight lovers, all celebrating the sex guide by playing to Remote's multiple cameras with lots of kissing and flashing. Breasts come cheap to these kinds of women?except for one unlucky lady who buys lots of raffle tickets for the chance to grope Bussel's impressive bust.

At the risk of sounding like every third sentence in Maxim, it's a very pleasant evening. Thankfully, the management at Remote wisely turns off the feed on the monitors outside the club, or the place would be packed like Coney Island on the fourth of July. The night certainly feels like a holiday for the lucky few heterosexual males in the room.

This celebration of personal freedom, along with the next day's liberation of Iraq, only gets me in the mood for a patriotic display of firepower. However, the Bowery Ballroom informs me that the Rocket from the Crypt show won't include the band's traditional pyrotechnics. I don't see how any concert in a crowded nightclub is complete without fire, so it's off to defy the weather and Osama Bin L-Train by heading to Arlene Grocery for "Bettie Rocks."

The evening is billed as an "evening of homage to the quintessential stripper icon." This means that the crowd is packed with Bettie Page look-alikes showing homage to Clairol Black. In other words, the crowd looks like any Manhattan rockabilly concert from the past ten years.

And while the femme-fronted rock bands and (yes, of course) burlesque acts aren't memorable, it's a pleasant surprise to see nu-boy-band Pop*Star*Kids on stage. Lead singer Andee even defies the night's motif by dressing like important NYC rock figure Jane Child.

It's even nicer to head out and see that the rain has washed away the night's pro-dictator protesters, most of whom?in best creepy Signs fashion?already seemed averse to any kind of shower. The likely sole exception is Janeane Garofalo, who's probably still in the midst of a Lenny Bruce-style tirade she began four days earlier at Pianos, reading an essay against the war in Iraq. Or maybe she was reading the transcript from her appearance on FOX & Friends. You know, some kind of important historical document.