A small group of us met for dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant in the West 30s. I refer to this neighborhood as Manhattan's Sweatshop District, because I don't know what else to call it. The 30s west of Fifth Avenue is a veritable no-man's land of -- yes, sweatshops -- as well as every type of shady business establishment one could imagine: massage parlors, tanning salons, nail salons, electronics "stores" (the kind where you can tell most of the merchandise just happened to "fall off" a truck earlier that day), leather stores that cater to the thug crowd, and the omnipresent "99 cent" stores.

The food was quite good at the restaurant, although since last night I've been experiencing a weird "fluttering" sensation right below my rib cage. It's now Saturday afternoon and so far no Montezuma's Revenge -- but you never know.

After dinner, we proceeded to the nightclub where our work group was assembling for the party. Much to my dismay, I discovered in short order that this nightclub wasn't exactly my ... uh ... cup of tea. While Hip Hop (or whatever they're calling it these days) is fine for said thug crowd, the closest I generally get to that culture is when I write about disputes at these establishments that invariably lead to the discharge of one or more firearms.

Anyway, we get to the velvet rope (I can't believe there would be a need for one, but wonders never cease in this city), and the Head Thug wearing a two-way headset informs my group that *I* am not allowed in because I'm violating the dress code. (I was wearing a nice pair of white tennis shorts, a short-sleeved pea green dress shirt, and a brand-new pair of white tennis shoes.) While arguably inappropriate for venues such as the 21 Club, it's accepted (and even celebrated) attire for most clubs in the Greater Chelsea Area, particularly on a steamy June evening.

So they're not letting me in (an exclusive thug club -- now THAT'S rich), and while admittedly my heart is hardly broken, I still made an effort to brave lack of sleep, a local A train, and light food poisoning to wish our friend good luck in his new West Coast life. But wait! Roger, our co-worker and organizer of this soiree, has thrown a successful bitch-fest enough to get me admitted "Just this once and never again with shorts!" I'm admonished by the Deputy Thug at the door. Once they scan my driver's license (does anyone else see the irony here?) and smudge my wrist with ink, I'm led with the others down a staircase into the "lounge", where a non-stop string of obscenities is pumped at ear-splitting decibels through end table-sized speakers (they call this "music", I was informed via sign language).

After I pay $5 ($4 plus tip) for a club soda in a plastic glass (classy!), I make my way through the darkened lounge, Helen Keller-style, arms outstretched, hoping to run into Anthony ASAP so I can make a quick exit and get my white tennis shorted ass back down below 23rd Street where God Intended it to be.

In the club's defense, they DID start playing real music eventually. They even played Madonna (no doubt as a nod to lily-white guests in the tennis shorts).

Eventually, after wishing my friend Anthony good luck and good fortune, I fled the club and flew as fast as my Puma-clad feet could carry me down to Gym Bar, where all the normal people were.

It's funny. We're all New Yorkers, but man, what a difference 10 blocks makes!