the driver, so convinced that our destination was 19 w 17th, not 17 w 19th, refused to take any other direction and dispatched us with a "17th, 19th, whatever, get out" shrug. the two block walk was quite pleasant as it was a gorgeous evening out.

upon our arrival, the lycra-topped, low-rise-jean-wearing door wraiths thumbed through list after list scanning for our names. clearly unable to find them, we were waved inside nonetheless to our endless amusement.

score one for the people-watching, which was absolutely priceless. the go-go dancers seemed to be occupying a parallel dance dimension, as not one recognizable movement was to the music the rest of us were listening to, scads of contemporary hiphop.

behind a heavy curtain was a loungey space and back bar, quickly and scathingly dubbed the "vip area". ensconcing ourselves on the plush leopard print couches, we promply began to take the piss in earnest. sometimes people make it so easy. i mean, we took a bridge to get there, but at least we didn't look like it.

like clockwork, i turned to find a painfully thin bleach blond perched much too close to me, leaning in to bum a cigarette. once i proffered my pack, she demurred, uttering "oh, menthol. you're not a new yorker, are you?"

stunned, i stifled my first response of "actually, i smoke menthols so people won't bum cigarettes" and instead politely replied "no, i'm not". she informed me she had been in new york 12 years and i informed her that i had been in new york for 12 days. she then proceeded to ramble on about how fabulous new york was and how if you could make it here, etc. why is it that this breed always assumes new or non-new yorkers are some sort of rube when it comes to the city?

almost on cue, she cooed "you're so beautiful. are you gay?" to which i nodded. a litany of chelsea fag haunts that i just shouldn't miss spilled from her heavily glossed lips. again, i held off on my initial impulse to sputter "i'm sorry, i'm not a chelsea queen", simply politely nodding to her suggestions. oh, and she was wearing a floral print cotton pantsuit with a halter top. yeah.

eventually, she shoved off, only to return with her peasant blouse-wearing male companion (ok, on chicks in spring this might have been hot, but he just looked like he stepped out of a ren fair), intent on ensuring that my peeps knew where to "take me", you know, for a good time. this winner proceeded to nonchalantly grab my cigarettes, pilfer one, light it with MY lighter and as he began to puff away, grinned and said "oh, thanks for the cigarette." classy.

well, then there was some more dancing, some more chatting, some more smoking and some more drinking before we put this trainwreck to bed. ah, new york.