I bought cute things to wear and special underwear and everything.

You had to be doing way better in the undies department than the leggy blonde in the white minidress a few feet from us. The dress was backless and she was wearing a black bra, with the tag showing.

I have Felipe's card in my bag, and need to email him a thank-you for the velvet rope obligingness, and also for providing us with the comfy couch in the VIP corner.

I now have to write this damned book. Last night - amusing, yes - did hammer it home: hiphop, by and large, really does make me want to gouge my own ears out with a fish fork.

The club was fascinating, in a Memory Lane way: total meat market. If that had been Madison Square Garden for the Stones in the seventies, half the chicks there would have been there for the specific purpose of bumping bellies with the band, and they'd have ended up with the roadies, most likely.

And there would have been one or two little lamb chops I would have personally strongarmed away from my sweetie. The more things change...

Oh, line of the evening: "I just wanna give a shoutout to all the white girls here tonight!"

ita and I were both speechless.

Oh, and ita was about a zillion times hotter than any of the chicks out there on the dance floor. I also actually danced a not very stately measure with one of Felipe's guys, conclusively proving to myself that toujours gai, there is indeed a dance in the old dame yet - and what's more, I did it in my Jimmy Choos.

An interesting evening. Bottom line, I soaked the vibe and the tier structure of the meat market aspect in, along with the noise levels and ridiculous prices on champagne (yes they had Cristal for $850 a bottle), and can now write this bit.

Other bottom line: I am devoutly thankful I don't have to make a habit of it.

ah, the sacrifices you make for your art!

I now have to write this damned book. Last night - amusing, yes - did hammer it home: hiphop, by and large, really does make me want to gouge my own ears out with a fish fork.

Oh dear.

I heard Cristal was now out of favor with the club scene, according to something I saw on the NYT website.

ita was about a zillion times hotter than any of the chicks out there on the dance floor

Very unsurprising.

hiphop, by and large, really does make me want to gouge my own ears out with a fish fork

Oh dear. That's not ideal, is it?

Oh dear. That's not ideal, is it?

Not ideal, no, but actually manageable. The book isn't about hiphop, except peripherally; it does provide the soundtrack and some of the scenery, and also explains or exemplifies how some of the male attitudes toward women are perpetuated. The important thing in there is the women, and those attitudes. There's also going to be major crossover with the world of pro sports, especially basketball, which of course would be the one pro sport that leaves me daintily stifling yawns.

Still, I'm a writer. What's more, I'm a writer who writes about music. I can do this. I can even (hopefully) do it well.

Connie, yep, Cristal is out of favour. The idiot in charge of their PR or something made a snooty derogatory comment about the rappers fixating on Cristal, and a couple of people, including Jay-Z, went ballistic, and then there were frantic efforts to downplay, and it was all very whatever.

I'm sticking with prosecco.

Oh, while I was doing the thirty-second boogie with Felipe's guy, a Moment: we put our heads together for a moment, and he nodded toward a group of white girls in white dresses (including the chick with the black bra and the sensational ass), and said into my ear: "You ever see the Brady Bunch movie? Those chicks all look like they're doing the Marcia Brady dance."

deb, I hope this is all going into the making of doc (or literary equivalent).

This is all going into "Yo Mama Don't Dance", the series of realtime articles I want to do about doing this series. We're thinking a Rolling Stone or Vanity Fair pitch.

Excellent.

Advertising? Hmmm. After the club deal:

Workin' It

There's a gaggle of lovelies, cheekbones carefully accentuated, lips outlined, eyes hungry.

Their bags are oversized; mostly, there are little telltale initials locked together, Gucci, Louis Vuitton. A few of the girls carry the black fabric bag with the coveted Prada triangle on it. Higher status, maybe.

They're out on the dance floor, swaying together, labeled with the lords of couture, drunk and yearning for someone to take them home, sweep them away, screw them blind, change their world.

Juicy and ripe, hard-edged and focused. Versace, Prada, Chanel: For Sale.

Everyone knows exactly what they're selling. And that includes them.