This week’s nightlife crazy award goes to the lovely narcoleptic boy I saw in Chelsea. The young lad managed to sleep through the night undisturbed, despite his bed being the rowdy, center floor table of Cain. The music wailed at deafening megawatts while drunken revelers celebrated Friday’s long anticipated arrival with stomps and cheers. Neither this, nor the bountiful leaps of the young man in red and white sneakers beside his head, woke our Rip Van Winkle.

Napping boy was evicted onto the 27^th street sidewalk around the same time my roommate and I voluntarily left. He was still half-asleep and seemed ready to spoon with the nearby dumpster. Having drank, danced, and hovered over his snoozing body for the past two hours at the adjacent table, I felt a kinship toward the fellow and tried to halt the trash can spooning process and help him into a cab.

Every time my roommate and I prompted the boy with questions like, “Where do you live?” and “Can you say your address?” he would only slur back crudities and bark that he wanted to be left alone. He consistently mumbled something about “calling Jim” and in clumsy slumber, immediately dropped his cell phone the moment he located it. Even after we retrieved and returned his phone, Rip Van Winkle continued to rudely shun our assistance. At this point, we gave up and scurried into a taxi ourselves, hoping this “Jim” character wasn’t an utter deadbeat and might eventually come to his friend’s rescue.

If you saw a sweet blonde boy sleeping with a trashcan on 27^th street this weekend, you now know the whole story.

Against better judgment, Saturday night I consumed bourbon-gin-tequila-gin in that order. Why you make ask? No particular reason. It’s in fact nights when nothing special’s going on that one allows alcohol itself to be the centerfold activity. I landed at a restaurant/bar on 6^th street and Avenue A named ‘Via Delle Zoccolette’ which specializes in Venetian cuisine, seafood, and locking patrons inside at 4 AM for after hours until dawn. The theme of the evening was ‘lingerie party.’ As my male friend noted however, like most lingerie parties, the only ones who took the lingerie part seriously were gay men and women who should in fact, never be out in public in lingerie. Ah well.

This didn’t put a damper on the evening. For an Italian clubhouse the crowd was quite eclectic with Moroccans, Jersey girls, folks decked out in S&M gear and best of all – a magician. Surveying the thinning crowd at 4 AM…

We noticed a lone Guido passed out in the restaurant corner:

To which we proclaimed, “Well, a party’s not really a party without someone passed out in a corner.” I nodded my alcohol-abused brain in silent agreement, accepting the universal truth of this statement. It later got me thinking a party’s also not really a party without:

A drum / sax player

A lost credit card, jacket or earring

A body so sticky from champagne / liquor spillage that you’ve become adhesive

Feet so sore that heels get discarded

At least one Red Hot Chili Peppers song

Waking up with mystifying bruises

That one person who falls off the Go-Go dancing platform

Throwing ice

Someone passed out in the corner

A random girl in too-tight clothes dancing on an elevated area

Those three tools wearing sunglasses at night

An acute sense that you should’ve left twenty minutes ago

A brawl

Two enraged security guards

Someone who thinks they know you constantly whispering in your ear

Insanely slippery floors

A patron trying to take control of the DJ booth

Feel free to add on.

Tomorrow: Craziness at Mansion.

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com

Party foul! Friday night hotspot club 1Oak’s elegant downstairs bathrooms flooded. Staffers tried to keep the mess under control as quickly as possible with wet vacs but for ladies who didn’t want their $500 shoes destroyed wading to the toilet, the one bathroom upstairs was the only source of relief. Since it was a rainy night, people weren’t leaving the club to party elsewhere, so the crowds continued to amass. And if the potty problem wasn’t big enough, later the cops and fire marshal showed up, noting the party was exaggeratedly over capacity.

The next day, I found myself outside 1Oak and saw a rowdy patron literally catapulted onto the sidewalk. He flew like a human cannon ball from one bouncer’s arms to another’s as he flailed wildly causing a ruckus and screaming something about his Amex card inside. Doorman Ben had to put his hands on the man’s shoulders and soothe his mad sputtering, “What’s your name, sir? Tell me your name, sir?” Soon the Wild One was calmed and breathing heavily like a post-tantrum child. Talk about people skills! That’s why door people in New York make a well-deserved fortune.

So despite a weekend of hullabaloo activity, yesterday’s Blackbook party at 1Oak went off without a hitch. The door was tranquil, the crowd was gorgeous, the bar was open – what more could anyone need? As we positioned ourselves on a banquet to people-watch, my friend Safari whispered, ‘this whole place feels like a London club tonight. Look at these girls! All Bohemian chic.’ And she was right. There were many vintage dresses, bangs, large bags, sunglasses and lots and lots of tights. The music jolted from Spice Girls to Madonna to 80ies classics to rock without anyone seeming to care. Spirits were bright and my only compliant is that they closed the open bar four minutes before schedule (yes, we were those cheap-ass people who were counting.)

My prediction is that after what I imagine is a fire marshal warning, 1Oak’s already Fort Knox doors are going to get even tighter. For anyone who can manage, this locale is absolutely worth checking out. Not only did they spend the equivalent of small nation’s treasury on decor, it has a swanky, fun vibe and dangerously comfortable banquettes. The black and white checkered floor lends an air of elegance; the expensive-looking wooden walls are engraved with romantic script. A fireplace crackles and luminous paintings of blank-faced children and horses span the inner room.

If Kiss & Fly and Goldbar gave birth to a very lavish hybrid space it would look something like this. Or in my words:

“If clubs could metamorphosize into men, I’d want to date 1Oak.”

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com