This Wednesday at Pink Elephant I, Model Behavior, had a run in with not one but TWO douchebag-ettes (Cajun, you’ve inspired me to use this word. To everyone else: Yes, it’s pronounced like the French bread with “douche” in front and it’s the female version of a douchebag.)

Now, perhaps we can label me a douchbagette for frequenting such a pompous, elitist club like Pink Elephant in the first place. My defensive is that as a writer, I need to open myself to all experiences (including the often sickening and cutthroat New York club scene) since such adventures provide me with something to write about. This entry: case and point. And, to be quite frank, New York club-land is a kind of chaos I find myself quite comfortable in. It must be because of all those nights spent at age seventeen in the Hollywood VIP (yeah, in Milan they don’t card).

Anyway, my run in with douchbagette #1 occurred on west 27th street before even entering the establishment. Throngs of people were hurling themselves toward the Pink Elephant entrance, and I, as an admittedly frequent Pink Elephant attendant, knew that this amount of people was not normal – especially for a Wednesday night. I had been made aware that there was a Hamtpons magazine launch party starting at eleven p.m. I had been on the guest list and had planned to attend – not so much because I cared about the magazine party but because I had wanted to get into the club early, enjoy the open bar, and avoid the heinous situation out front which I was in now. Getting there early hadn’t worked out (long story) and the club was perhaps the most crowded I’d ever seen it. This further proves that the word “Hamptons” in any context is like catnip to New Yorkers. Say it and watch them pant and lick their lips. A Hamptons party at Pink Elephant? Everyone wanted in.

In the process of entering a New York club, there are the people who properly line up against the wall of the establishment and the people who go straight to the red rope street side, assuming the bouncer will recognize them/let them in without them having to waste time in any kind of line. I prefer the non-waiting in line tactic, although it can be quite competitive. You only have three minutes tops to get the attention of the person in charge and convince them that you’re worthy of immediate entry before the security bouncer reprimands you for crowding the sidewalk and being a fire hazard. This Wednesday night was so chaotic that there was a bulky line of people against the red rope, hoping for immediate entry. Further complicating the situation, Pink’s usual bouncer, the Aussie Cliff, was not working. Us attention-getter hopefuls didn’t even know who was in charge and me and douchebagette #1 were stepping on each other’s feet. I smiled gracefully and tried to engage her in friendly conversation about what table she had her clearly coked-out investment banker older man friend were going to, since I thought I had overheard him using the same name of entry as us. Douchebagette #1 instead just scowled at me, a rather frightening image since this girl had eyes like a Siamese cat: slitty, slanted, and shining with hate for me and probably every other attractive girl in the planet. She was a competitor this one. Her dress was to die for.
Me and my friend (we’ll call him T) caught a lucky break and were admitted inside along with douchebagette #1, her man, and some others. We were apparently supposed to have some kind of ticket to pass guard number two stationed at the interior entrance of the club. I sweetly explained to him that I’d been inside since eleven and had just ran out to grab my friend T (a blatant lie). After repeating six times that “he was over capacity and couldn’t let me in there,” my unrelenting persistence changed the bouncer’s mind and he let me and T slip through under his thick right arm.

The place was a madhouse. The craziest and fullest I’ve ever seen it. We wandered around searching for our table, a challenging task since is was impossible to move or breathe without being spilled on and the psycho lights were making everyone look different shapes and colors at five second intervals. After texting my Argentinean friend for directions to his table (keep in mind, we’re in a space smaller than many Manhattan apartments) we successfully arrived at his corner. Who was there to greet me? Douchebagette #1.

I smiled at her and moved forward to navigate myself toward the inner part of the table where Argentina, the host, was sitting.

“Sorry, this is our table,” she said. Uuuh, does that mean I’m not allowed in this close proximity of it? And WTF? This is MY friend’s table. I felt validated when Argentina recognized me, burst into a smile, greeted me with cheek kisses and pulled me into the table area.

“It’s a madhouse here,” he said. “So full that they re-sold my table to this guy.” Argentina pointed to Dougebagette #1’s male companion who I’d seen out front.

“So we’re splitting the table and banquette,” Argentina continued. This is my half.” Argentina drew an imaginary line through a section of the corner.

What was this? Kindergarten. Please keep in mind we’re talking about a “table” the size of your average toilet bowl. Lucky us, we were the proud owners of half of it. I had a brief moment of rage because it was so like Pink Elephant to capitalize on their best night ever by ripping EVERYONE off and reselling halves of tables to people out front for three grand each. Someone give me a champagne bucket to throw up in.

T and I danced and attempted to enjoy ourselves on our half of the table banquette, Douchebagette #1 giving me her occasional she-devil Siamese glare. At a certain point, an anonymous white haired, fat man arrived. He had a drink, handed a baggie of coke to Dougebagette #1’s douchey older male companion and left. After Douchebagette #1 realized I saw this not-so-subtle transaction take place she warmed up to me. When I next ventured over to her side of the table on my way to the loo she had the courtesy to say:

“Sorry if I was mean before. There’s just so many people.”

Don’t remember what I responded, but at least she apologized – and especially after seeing the pathetic-ness that was her douchey man, my heart actually went out to her and I hold no hard feelings against her to this day.

In my run in with doucebagette #2 on the other hand, there was no apologizing. This was later in the night when I found myself at the bar with some Italian friends, my favorite of which, Luca, was buying a round of drinks since it was his birthday (wooo!). In my happiness for him/in the thrill of the moment, when he asked what I wanted to drink I joyously replied, “anything.”

Ladies, this is never a good answer. I received some hybrid version of a vodka tonic with a clear mixer that tasted more like gin. Needless to say, I shuddered when I drank it. SO – I did what any logical entrepreneurial girl would do. I spotted a vase of cranberry juice on the far side of the bar and maneuvered myself toward it to add a splash of bearableness to my drink. I thought the cranberry juice was out on the bar waiting for some cocktail waitress to take it to its appropriate table. No one was going to miss a thimble size cup from the liquid. How wrong I was. As I approached and reached for the juice an Asian chick, Douchebagette #2, who one of Luca’s friends was chatting up, physically pushed me away.

Did she mean to push me? I reached for the juice again and succeeded in pouring a splash of cranberry into my drink.

“Hey!” This girl was screaming, dear Lord. “That’s not yours!” she shrieked. Well, yeah. Correct. It wasn’t mine. But what was she implying? That it was hers? It then occurred to me since they were splitting toilet bowl size tables in half, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that the misers at Pink Elephant had decided to sell table service on top of the bar. This way they could say to the hopefuls out front “Bottle service only to get in and your table will be a section of the bar. Two grand.”

And people were doing this!?!?!!?

Further proof of the absurd lengths the word “Hamptons” will drive people to.

“She didn’t take any vodka,” Luca’s friend pointed out to douchebagette #2.

“That’s not hers! It’s not hers!” She exclaimed like a enraged five-year-old. Okay. There was no way this woman bought this ridiculous on-the-bar table service, and sure enough, the Asian gentleman who rightfully owned the bottle and its mixers soon appeared to see what the commotion was about. He smiled and offered me a drink. This didn’t make douchebagette #2 happy at all.

“I have one, thanks. I just stole some of your cranberry because my drink is so strong. I’m so sorry to have upset your friend,” I replied, backing away as fast as possible.

“It’s okay. She’s a little drunk,” he said.

Yeah. Well. This is Pink Elephant at three a.m. We’re all a little drunk, but that doesn’t mean we can act like infants. I got away from that crowd as fast as possible and Luca’s friend and I had our own brief conversation about the absurdity of what had just happened.

Best part: douchebagette #2 gave me a slight but noticeable shove on her way out. And I swear that I’m someone who usually makes friends with women quite easily. It was a Wednesday Hamptons party at Pink. If that’s an excuse for all this behavior, well, I don’t know what to say…