No sign of Dick Cheney, but The Magazine's Chris Palmer is having "big time" fun on the D.C. All-Star scene.

For the first couple of days at NBA All-Star Weekend, basketball takes a back seat to the party circuit. Actually, basketball is just plain kicked to the curb. And so far the place to be was at KG's And 1 release party at the D.C. club Platinum.

Much smaller than the hotel ballroom affairs, an event like this makes it easy to bump into some of best hoopsters in the world. First off, the guest of honor, KG, was decked out in a slick black suit that said "I'm the man, but you already knew that." Da Kid didn't feel the need to confine himself to Platinum's VIP lounge as he walked the room and gave KG-sized hugs and handshakes.

Glenn Robinson stepped into the place with one of his boys, dressed in a huge black leather jacket and dark sunglasses dispite the fact that it was way after midnight. The Big Dog made a couple laps and finally settled in when the house DJ started spinning old-school hip-hop. By the time Elton Brand got there, flanked by Khalid El-Amin, things were in full swing. "Jamal ain't coming," Elton yells in my ear about his teammate Jamal Crawford. That's too bad, because I had been trying to convince the Bulls rook that he needed to see the spectacle for himself to believe it.

But there was at least one rookie in the house, and he ended up being the hit of the night with partygoers. When the 6-9, 270-pound behemoth walked in the door wearing a jean jacket and an all-star freebie hat, I was stumped. Who was this guy that casual fans couldn't wait to meet and greet? Turned out to be surprise appearance by Marc Jackson from Golden State, who posed for pictures with fans almost from the time he got there until he left.

It was also good to see a lot of local street ballers in the house, from NYC's jumping jack Main Event, to D.C.'s 6-7 ballhandling wiz, Prime Objective. The fellas didn't really get recognized by anyone except me, but being the hoopaholic that I am, nobody with game escapes my radar.

Throughout the club, And 1displayed pairs of sneakers from its 2001 lineup. A slick low-top street ball number caught my eye. Those shoes would have gone home with me if they hadn't been a size 6 -- which, I came to discover, they all were. They must have known I was coming.

About two in the morning, I'm outta there. The club wasn't letting anyone else in, either. The rejects included Dirk Nowitzki and his boss Mark Cuban, who looked sharp in a double-breasted gray suit that probably cost more than the club. "Hey Cube [actually, it was more like Mr. Cuban], what's going on," I say to the billionaire.

"Nothing much, bro," he says, giving me a hug. I check to make sure I haven't wrinkled his suit. "You know how to get to Magic's party?" I give him directions but he decides it's too far and heads off on foot for a nearer nightspot. I just stand there, my evening complete, wondering if Dallas could use any help in the backcourt.