Behind the velvet rope

You know it's been a good Saturday night when you start out catching up with old friends in the Village and end up partying like a rock star in the Meatpacking District with people you don't really know.

Somehow I envisioned myself falling into bed before 1 AM. The night started out innocently enough. A friend from college was in town with his wife (who I'd never met) and there was a little reunion with "the boys." Good food, good drinks, great company, good times.

Later, I was en route to my apartment when I got a call. Redirected the poor cabbie (he had to swerve to switch lanes!), made a pitstop at Union Square and went on to Lotus. Inside, we end up in the VIP section, behind the velvet rope. Didn't know anybody except the friend of a friend who invited us. The table, one grand just to reserve it, was laden with mixers and glasses and Grey Goose and ice. Every time the bottles reached the 1/4 mark, a waiter swooped in and replaced them. I'm not sure what they're paying bankers these days, but clearly it's enough for them to drop several grand a night at a club. But, as a guest, who's complaining? The music was good, we were out of reach of the crowd of sweaty bodies, and we found ourselves dancing on the couches. It's a wonder the heels of my pink mules didn't rip holes in the upholstery.

[Random sociological observation (no claims to universal applicability): it seems the more money people spend, the less sophisticated they need to behave..]

And I've decided the only cure to the morning after a rock star night is lots of fluffy french toast, eggs, and a dose of the most intense movie available -- one that stretches your nerves taut and gets rid of that hazy feeling in about 5 seconds. Go see "Crash" if you haven't already. It's totally worth it.