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 clubgoers. For some, the home away from home visit has been successful, dancing and drinking the night away with friends they came with, or even maybe 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 were 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 and having a good time, because after initially bitching about paying a cover 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,” she jokes, “I’ve been standing here at the door for an eternity.”