Last night's audition

Just as the Village and the Lower East Side lie below Midtown, a class of waifish twentysomething New York hipsters lies below the fashionable fortysomething Manhattan gentry. These hipsters go out any night of the week - but not until after midnight - get spectacularly drunk, and do freaky New York things, all in the hopes of being seen. It's just like that FLL or Tijuana spring break crap, except the kids are much paler and better dressed, and instead of screaming and lifting their tank tops for Girls Gone Wild, they stare sultrily into the camera and have a nipple slip for blogs like Last Night's Party and the Cobrasnake.

Now, you know that my underfunded friends and I usually opt for a houseparty in Brooklyn or dollar PBRs in dive bars. But believe me that is not representative of the (white, middle-class) New York scene. It is all one big society page entry waiting to happen. And last night, I found myself in the midst of it.

It was for a friend's birthday party, and it took place in a former full-service massage parlour that had been shut down, only to reopen a week later (with minimal renos) as a club. There was a DJ, there was bubble wrap, and there was supposed to be an open bar from 11:30 until midnight. I ordered a G&T, you know because I was really thirsty and wanted something refreshing, and the guy charged me. Said the open bar only applied to vodka. I snorted.

Now, this wasn't the most happening party in the city, and I did have fun with my friends, but I realized, as we drank in a white-tiled sauna and listened to recycled New Order and watched people make out and occasionally had our picture snapped unrequitedly by a blog photographer, what this scene looks like live. When I was your age we had a word for this: tryhard. Wait, maybe it was two words.