"No, ah..." Waverly says, then realizes something and adds, "Oh, that was you? You looked great."

"Uh-huh," I say, somewhat dubiously.

"But I saw you at the Calvin Klein show, baby, and-"

"I wasn't at the Calvin Klein show, baby, and have you noticed that whole wall is the color of pesto, which is, like, a no-no, baby?"

"De rigueur," says the impeccably-put-together young thing behind her.

"Victor," Waverly says. "This is Ruby. She's a bowl designer. She makes bowls out of things like rice."

"A bowl designer? Wow."

"She makes bowls out of things like rice," Waverly says again, staring.

"Bowls made from rice? Wow." I stare back. "Did you hear me say,`wow'?"

Mope-rocker wanders over to the dance floor and looks up at the dozen or so disco balls, trancing out.

"What's the story with goblin boy?"

"Felix used to work at the Gap," Waverly says, inhaling, exhaling. "Then he designed sets for `The Real World' in Bali."

"Don't mention that show to me," I say, gritting my teeth.

"Sorry, darling, it's so early. But please be nice to Felix-he's just out of rehab."

"What-he OD'd on stucco?"

"He's friends with Blowpop and Pickle and he just designed Connie Chung's, Jeff Zucker's, Isabella Rossellini's and Sarah Jessica Parker's, er, closets."

"Cool, cool." I nod approvingly.

"Last month he went and f**ked his ex-boyfriend-Jackson-in the Bonneville salt flats and just three days ago they found Jackson's skull in a swamp, so, you know, let's be careful."

"Uh-huh. My god it's freezing in here."

"I see orange flowers, I see bamboo, I see Spanish doormen, I hear Steely Dan, I see Fellini." Waverly suddenly gasps, exhaling again, tapping her cigarette. "I see the '70s, baby, and I am wet."

"Baby, you're ashing on my club," I say, very upset.

"Now what about Felix's idea for a juice bar?"

"Felix is thinking about where he's going to score his next animal tranquilizer." I drop my cigarette carefully into the half-empty Snapple bottle JD holds out. "Plus-oh god, baby, I don't want to have to fret over a juice bar that serves only-what-oh god-juice? Do you know how many things I have to worry about? Spare me."

"So nix the juice bar?" Waverly asks, taking notes.

"Oh please," I moan. "Let's sell submarine sandwiches, let's sell pizza, let's sell f**king nachos," I sigh. "You and Felix are being muy muy drippy."

"Baby, you are so right," Waverly says, mock-wiping sweat from her forehead. "We need to get our shit together."

"Waverly, listen to me. The new trend is no trend."

"No trend's a new trend?" she asks.

"No, no trend is the new trend," I say impatiently.

"In is out?" Waverly asks.

I smack JD on the shoulder. "See, she gets it."

"Look-goose bumps," JD says, holding out an arm.

"Lemons, lemons everywhere, Victor," Waverly says, twirling around.

"And Uncle Heshy is not invited, right, baby?"

"Sweet dreams are made of this, huh, Victor?" JD says, watching vacantly as Waverly twirls around the room.

"Do you think we were followed here?" I ask, lighting another cigarette, watching Waverly.

"If you have to ask that question, don't you think that opening this behind Damien's back is not, like, such a good idea?"

"Nonresponsive answer. I move to strike," I say, glaring at him. "Your idea of hip is missing the boat, buddy."

"I just don't think it's hip to have your legs broken," JD says warily. "Over a club? Have you ever heard the phrase `Resist the impulse'?"

"Damien Nutchs Ross is a nonhuman primate," I sigh. "And your POV should be: sleeping person zzzzz."

"Why do you even want to open another club?"

"My own club."

"Let me guess. Bingo! Instant friends?" JD shivers, his breath steaming.

"Oh spare me. I see all this and think money-in-the-bank, you little mo."

"A guy needs a hobby, huh?"

"And you need some more Prozac to curb your homo-ness."

"And you need a major injection of reality."

"And you need coolin', baby, I'm not foolin'."