The music for the evening was overwhelmingly dubstep with some older

dance jams from Daft Punk and Justice mixed in, but this crowd didn't

move -- aside from one guy in a white wife-beater, who might have been

wearing Electric Daisy Carnival lifts in his shoes. Everyone else spent

the first few hours of the party standing around checking themselves out

in the mirrored walls like they were in the middle of a bad, pervy

prom. The line at the bathrooms remained omnipresent, and plenty of

leering and ogling was as well, mainly courtesy of the aforementioned older attendees.
The other common activity was that at least half of the assembled

partiers were sectioned into small groups, seated like wallflowers on

the padded benches along one side, bent over a cocktail at the bar, and

still not dancing. A far more wholesome New Year's Eve unfolded on the

TV screen above the bar, as Lady Gaga in Catwoman mode entranced the

Times Square masses. Would the fans of a site with a serious

misanthropic streak be doomed to follow suit?

At about ten minutes before midnight, Moore began setting up his DJ

gear, and things showed a glimmer of life. The crowd moved closer to the

stage, and several young women eventually stepped up. "Can someone

do a countdown?" Moore screamed at the crowd. "Count down before I blow

my brains out." And a bottle of champagne was passed around onstage as a

few people called out the last half of a countdown. "It's 20-fucking-12!" Moore proclaimed once the music kicked in, and a wave of grinding finally

spread onstage.

Critic's Notebook

Random detail: One girl in a black dress slipped on a puddle of

champagne and took a pretty nasty spill off the stage, but she appeared

to be all right.

Overheard: "I spent six months in Kuwait, and it was more fun than this." "There really are no 'fives' in here."

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By the way: Sources say that all the folks kept their clothes on aside from two young women, who finally showed some skin after Moore begged for a while. 

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