The memoir’s a clever expose of the predatory male attitude that gave all those New York Single Girls so much to complain about back in the 90s. More importantly, the book does the best job yet of burying the NYSG literary movement—although the crowd includes walking-dead types like New York’s Amy Sohn and Bridget Harrison of the New York Post.

Sandy M. Fernandez sadly doesn’t show, despite her recent Salon piece complaining about how Marin is capitalizing on her willingness to sleep with the author. However, Fernandez’s present as the topic of conversation. "What a miserable cunt," opines one publishing dame, and let’s hear it for the sisterhood.

Ms. Sohn has to settle for a coworker calling her an "unprofessional asshole" at the REMOTE party to celebrate the latest issue of (t)here—one of those arts magazines for minimalist types who are baffled by the wordy instructions on their bottles of L’Oreal Studio FX hair gel. But any kind of crowd is welcome after the scant anti-scene preview for the new location of Sin-é.

The legendary music club is coming back at 150 Attorney St. This is a fairly wise choice, since the block is deserted enough to accommodate the Irish tradition of drinking in the gutter. Maybe they’ll even put up signage for the grand opening. As it is, the place is dark and murky enough to go with a nautical theme and be called Jeff Buckley’s Locker.

The latex is bright and shiny at Mistress Evita’s Birthday Extravaganza, which turns gay bar Escuelita into another fetish parlor. The birthday girl is entertained by her fellow sex workers, all anxious to show off their fine dancing and singing skills. These dommes are true artists at heart. Too bad they’re unjustly ignored by the same male establishment that they get to spank for a living.

The leather girls are also happy for this chance to do some networking. Fetishism is the main topic of discussion—mainly, their fetish for money, with much relief that the end of HBO’s Oz doesn’t mean the end of regular visits from one of the show’s surlier cast members.

The next night has me choosing between invitations to—yes, of course—two burlesque shows. It even turns out that both shows are booked at aspiring go-go joint Rififi. We’re stacking these burlesque dames like cordwood.

I decide to go with the show that promises "hot lesbian cowgirl action." Instead, Magic Brian’s Barrel of Monkeys turns out to be an adolescent comedy cabaret with appearances by token babes sporting pasties. Either that, or the girls got lost on the way to yet another show.

But there’s genuine full-frontal nudity to be found later at Adult World—although that’s not a regular event at the Suffolk club, where the usual stripping is reserved for the convenient modular toilets that let clubgoers recreate their joyful minutes spent in the Mile High Club.