My Thousand Dollar Night

After a night of traipsing through the LES trying to find a bar that wasn't seedy or with a queue around the block, my fellow Australian Gene and I were treated to a VIP night of pure indulgence.

It turns out that my new housemate not only has a gorgeous apartment and a lovely disposition, but also some pretty important compadres. An influential friend of hers took us out to Home, a club with a guest list which includes such luminaries as Rachel Hunter, Tara Reid, Jeremy Piven, Rosario Dawson, Cynthia Nixon and P Diddy/Puff Daddy/Poop Diddly amongst others. Whilst no celebrities made an appearance during our visit, you could be forgiven for thinking that we were the celebrities. Our high-flying man, having used his pull to help open the club, ensured that we were ushered through the velvet rope ahead of 200 waiting clubbers before being escorted to a VIP table worth $1000 a night. We were then brought $250 bottles of champagne by eager-to-please hostesses. We also got private tours through to the connected club, Guesthouse, as well as VIP entry to most of the other bars on the street.
It was quite a night.

My only quibble would be with the unavoidable spectacle of drunk Americans dancing. Sweet God in heaven, where is the class? It would seem that the general modus operandi for dancefloor courtship involves a girl being dry-humped from behind, whilst being pressed against the front of another gyrating girl with a man similarly attached to her backside. And bonus points to the man who lifts a girl up so that her legs are wrapped around his head and her crotch is mashed against his face. I mean really, this sort of behaviour would guarantee instant removal from (almost) any club in Australia. Does this make us prudish?
Or do we perhaps have more refinement than we give ourselves credit for?