The deal is, if you sit down and read about Barthes and semiotics and structuralism for four hours, you can go out and partay after. Especially ’cause you’re meeting Schmio and her new red hat and Tom at Frank’s on Second Avenue, which you didn’t know till that evening was called Frank’s, but which you love because it’s small and always tasty and once upon a time you and T. stopped in for some wine and a mushroom. Then after some garlic-olive oil-anchovy spaghetti action, y’alls can somehow hop, skip, and jump over the still-growing barricades of snow piled up along the street and fall into Lit, where the U-Bolts are rocking, but I mean ROCKING, the house, and where a tall, skinny dude working a blond mohawk-mullet combi and a studded belt can’t stop shaking his, um, thang. Dance, dance, laugh, sit, laugh, dance, finally move from the thumping divey-ness of Lit to the oh-so-fabulous Soho House, which turns out, after you get past the guest-list lady, to not be so over-the-toply fabulous after all, and really quite chill and comfortable, with delish chocolate-brown interiors. When you see Daryl Hannah poking her head into the room, remember you really want to get “Splash” on DVD. Somehow, some hours later, find yourself pulling up to your apartment in a cab at five in the morning. It’s still snowing, quiet, silver flakes glinting in the streetlamps, trees outlined in white, your cheeks are rosy from that last Bellini, fall into bed, flannel, down, soft, warm, mmmyes.