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Clubbing: A woman standing in front of me wasn’t wearing underwear. I could tell.

On my way to club Prive after midnight, I passed a young couple with a baby stroller on the sidewalk, then a woman walking her 1-year-old through Planet Hollywood. What was the time stamp in Vegas? Formula o’clock?

Prive was packed. The line was no smaller than during the fat days of Vegas. Maybe, clubbers looked a tad more low rent than before.

A tattooed punk wannabe was looking lonely, lost and confused — but trying to wear the right distressed jeans and African plates in his earlobes. He was actually trying to get into Prive, the nightclub, instead of what I imagine is his usual Saturday night, pretending to write bad poetry inspired by gothic vampire anime.

A Michael Jackson impersonator walked by him rapidly. Yes, that wannabe punk-with-flappy-earlobes was beneath being regarded by an impersonator of the world's most famous acquitted accused child molester and plastic surgery victim. These are the days of our crimes.

A woman standing in front of me wasn't wearing underwear. I could tell.

This other girl was wearing a highly unattractive top situation where you could see three shoulder straps from A) her bra, B) her top and C) some mysterious third garment, causing an unholy alliance of brown, white and pink straps all struggling against the weight of her gargantuan bosoms. If those straps could talk, they'd tell you they're devising a plan to strangle her rather than die ignoble deaths of slow unraveling.

Two women in little black dresses drank champagne out of flutes. They kept pinch-pulling the bottoms of their hems, to keep wrinkles to a minimum. Another woman with bosoms of great fluff kept pulling up on her strapless pink top, to keep those dogs from peeking through the transom and barking or, depending on their motives, panting.

Men are always less interesting to look at. They wore tucked shirts, untucked dress-work shirts, loafers, sneakers, suspenders, bald heads with beards, black and white shoes that would work only with spats, dress suits, and the Vegas quiche of black shoes, jeans and black untucked collars.

Things people were saying: “Is this a cougar party?” And “stick together.” And “Isn't it way past your bedtime?” And one guy said to another: “Her [uh-oh!] was hanging out and you STILL didn't get any.”

When I left, I counted a 20-to-4 women-to-men ratio. Where were all the dudes?
 

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