It’s 1:10 a.m. in Hollywood.

It’s the Bitching Hour in this club, the last hour that the club is open, the hour in which most patrons are full of alcohol, drugs, testosterone and/or themselves.

The Bitching Hour can either be an eternity or an instant to these club-goers. For some, the home away from home visit has been successful, dancing and drinking the night away with friends they came with or maybe even making a few new friends under the strobe lights.

For others, the mini vacation with a beat is ending too soon, as they check their cell phones in a panic to see that in less than an hour it will be time to vacate without a beat – and without a partner if they don’t start talking to possible hopeful prospects now.

For most, one universal conclusion is clear, even if their thinking is not as it was upon entering the club: It’s the Bitching Hour, and long before the last rounds are bought, the final thoughts have already been thought. The final fantasy for most inside: to get laid.

I’m beginning to wonder if Silver Medal Girl was one of the few whose priority was not getting laid but simply going out to have a good time, because after initially bitching about paying a cover at this late in the night a few minutes ago, she didn’t even seem concerned with actually going in the club. Instead, she’s remained at the door after first contact with me reminding me of things I already know, such as, “People don’t go to clubs in L.A. for the real, they come for the fantasy – and to get laid.”

Tell me something I didn’t know.

“I have to go in now and meet my friend Stevie,” she says. This I didn’t know.

“Now?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’ve been standing here at the door for an eternity,” she jokes.

It had only been a few minutes, but I suppose a few minutes of actual conversation in a club do seem like hours and hours of talking. Talking, that is, in a real conversation not the normal small talk, the prerequisite questions (aka Pree-Rees), such as:

“Do you come here a lot?”

“Where are you from?”

“What do you do?”

If he or she looks young enough: “Where do you go to school?” followed by

“What’s your major?”

These are called the Pre-Rees.

There are a few more, but these are the basics. These are the Pre-Rees that will get most through the ice breaking moments, the awkward silence moments, the just the facts please moments, as well as the if worst comes to worst (or if best comes to worst as the night goes on) moments.

The basic Pre-Rees have basic meanings too. For a select few, those asking the Pre-Ree questions really do want to know the answers because in a time and galaxy far away, this is how one actually got to introduce and further got to know others; actually speaking to them and asking these basic questions.

This old-school way of genuinely wanting to know the answers to these questions by simply asking the person face to face may seem strange without texting or typing the questions and without looking at a photo of them on a screen; but again, this is a select few who prefer this.

For most, however, the Pre-Rees are asked to filter out the Wannabees from the Real. The Wannabees know how to play the game and as the game goes, what their Pree-Ree questions really mean is essentially asking.

“Do you come here a lot?” Meaning: “What can you do for me, besides buy me a drink?”

“Where are you from?” Meaning: “What can you do for me, besides buy me a drink?”

“What do you do?” Meaning: “Alright, I’ve pretended like I care through the first few questions, so really, what can you do for me, besides buy me a drink?”

It usually works like a charm, at least the part where the guy buys the drink.

A little honey does go a long way, but unfortunately for the Wannabees, they normally have to go a long way away from this club to meet any guy who could make them a star.

That would be a few miles away. This is the new Hollywood part of the city, or I should say the old part of the city that has become new to the Wannabees, the Put Ons and various other hipster types with good looks but no fame just yet.