You're gin-soaked, and have nowhere else to go.

It's a Sunday night, it's 3:00, you're not ready to go home, and Gael just threw up in your pocket.

Where else to go?

Ted's.

So you've been rejected from Prive and you don't feel like making the trek up to the Delano where you know you can get in, unless Dennis Rodman is having a party there, in which case who wants to go, because, honestly, who wants to be seen with him these days, with his stupid bedazzled hats and his Ed Hardy shirts and his white pants?

You can fight it all you want, but you'll eventually surrender to their pool tables, and their built-in-ice pitchers of beer.

Because, after all... even Wet Willies is closed.

And Gael probably didn't throw up in your pocket -- it was probably you. Or that hooker.