Swelter 30

Descending to clubs on Saturday night, somewhat less exalted circumstances. A sustaining dinner at 411, good rare steak and a platter of rich desserts, necessary complex fuel for a marathon run with a cub reporter from South Florida magazine, researching an article on getting into clubs. The depressing masses piling outside Bash, hurtling names onto the portals, one desperate soul insisting that he'd just watched a boxing match with Versace. Warsaw yet again, "Opus" promoter Michael Capponi pulling out of the club that night and setting up temporary headquarters at Les Bains, the usual irreconcilable creative differences. The evening taking a retro turn at Starfish, a 21st birthday treat for cook Scott Simon coming in the form of a dead-ahead stripper of the old school, something of an Ann-Margret type gone astray. Miss Sex lighting matches on her nipples and lap dancing, Simon looking as if someone had just proposed a discount lobotomy, his tormentor dangling the comforting fantasy that all of us pine for: "Hey, don't worry. It's only a movie.

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