It's times like this that I compose posts in my sleep. So, herewith, an account of the first of the past two semifabulous nights. Some of the details might be pure fabrication. Who can tell; it's a dream sequence.** This means that libel and slander laws do not apply.

As you may have heard, Sarahspace was in town, and being from Kentucky, she wanted to drive around in a hot rod drinking whiskey from the still and snorting hillbilly heroin.

She settled for a couple glasses of pinot grigio at some West Village bistro with me, HereIType, Maccers, and Elizabeth. Also at the table were various journalist-cum-writer types who are famous enough that they don't need to be namedropped by some C-list blogger. Plus, they're all, like, *married* and as such face potential ruination should the story of what really went on in those banquettes come to light.

So we'll just do a blind item. I walked into this restaurant and was greeted by HereIType. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a certain six-figure-salaried gossip columnist who favors spats seated at one of the tables. He and I went to school together. We'll call him Jay Gatsby just to keep it simple. Eek, I thought, I can't believe he's here. Hopefully we're not sitting near him!

Of course, she led me directly to said table, where the rest of the party had already been imbibing for quite some time. "Everyone," she announced, "This is Dana." Jay looked at me like a spooked lemur. I smiled icily. I sat down next to him.

Never let anyone disparage my ability to clear a room. Jay frantically waved for the check, collected his girlfriend, and took off like his pants were on fire.

Hereitype, Sarah and Maccers (nearly audibly) swiveled their heads in unison to face me. "So," they chirped. "When did you fuck him?

Do these girls know me or what?

But, and I'm sure this will come as a disappointment and shock to many of you, I didn't fuck *everyone* at school.*** And seriously, spats? Boaters? Seersucker? C'mon, that's like sartorial saltpetre.

Everyone at the table moved their chairs closer to me. "Spill it!" they goaded. I took a sip of wine, hesitated.

And then I told them everything. None of which I'm going to repeat here, naturally. (Except this one bit: He's a closet Canadian. The Shame!)

Clearly, the level of discourse didn't compare to Dorothy Parker and her Algonquin buddies, but still: It's fun dishing the dirt on the dirt-disher.

Oh, and we also talked about dong_resin and how much we want to pull a cootchie train on him.****

(Edited to add: I neglected to mention two other apropos of nothing bits from Tuesday night: HereIType announced to the table: "Dana doesn't eat bread!" as I began to absently munch on slice of brioche from the basket on the table. Everyone looked at me pityingly.

Also, the next day, I emailed my dad to tell him that I'd had drinks with Jay Gatsby. My dad wrote back "Really! He must've been slumming, then.")

*This is probably untrue.
**But doesn't she look just like Laura Palmer?
***Just the ones who had girlfriends.
****He made me say this.