After sunset, tens of thousands of New Yorkers and visitors to the big city feel a lemming-like urge to go nightclubbing. The way is usually beset by obstacles and hazards: doormen dressed like admirals, headwaiters with manners like Gestapo agents, blonde Mata Haris of the checkroom, silk ropes, and other frustrated pilgrims awaiting admission. But the lemmings are not discouraged; they bribe, push and plead for the privilege of paying $8 to $125 a couple for dining, drinking blended rye at saucer-sized tables, breathing smoke and carbon monoxide and getting their eardrums...
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