12:00amBEIGE
@ B Bar

"Fashion bottoms," sniffed a black-suited movie executive, scanning the Prada'd masses at "Beige." As the late shift of diners picked over their rigatoni in the main room, "Big Spender" floated out of the speakers by the bar as the velvet mafia and the female models who simply adore them traded air-kisses, swapped business cards, and sipped daiquiris. Sandy Gallin chatted with a smiling Jann Wenner; victorious Eagle Scout James Dale entertained a table of male-model types as nearby revelers tried to look nonchalant. By midnight, the throng was spilling out onto the patio, where a David Spade look-alike was holding court with an entourage that included a David Barton devotee wearing a leather jacket without a shirt underneath. "Dangerous," agreed a handful of Chelsea boys sitting below a mural of a mountain lake. 40 East 4th Street (212-475-2220)
S.B.

WEDNESDAY

8:45pmPANTY PARTY
@ Baby Jupiter

The easiest way for a musician to get exposure is to perform in women's underwear, which explains why singer-songwriters of both sexes have been stripping off their outer layers at the ascap-sponsored "Panty Party" on the third Wednesday of every month. "It's very liberating," said Crown Jewels bassist John Conte, looking fetching in a teal-blue Victoria's Secret slip. "Although it is a bit annoying getting my butt pinched." Maybe so -- but if Cyndi Lauper backup vocalist Deborah Marlowe hadn't noticed John was wearing the same slip she owns, they might not have exchanged phone numbers. "You can pretty much say anything to a guy wearing a spaghetti-strap chemise," said Marlowe, who, like most of the creative professionals quietly schmoozing on vintage couches, was dressed in jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved T-shirt. But although the "Panty Party" is a social scene, some people, like management consultant Tom Stabb, actually listen to the music. "I'm much less likely to start talking if the person onstage is nearly naked." 170
Orchard Street (212-982-2229)
JENNIFER WOLFF

10:00pm
CANTEEN

Canteen is making a bid to become the new Moomba, the "It" boîte for "Page Six" regulars and the celebrity-watchers who live to eat at the same restaurants they do. At 10 p.m. on a recent Wednesday, Kal Ruttenstein air-kissed the hostess while Jeffrey Jah navigated through the banquettes, punching buttons on his cell phone. Spectator seating was at the elevated bar, where expensive cocktails were being spilled on equally expensive tight leather pants. Nearby, a Joe Pesci type in pressed stone-washed denim sipped single-malt Scotch and repeated his winning mantra -- "A hundred shares, I tell you, a hundred shares." Near the glass doors, a group of model-actress-whatevers huddled to themselves and cast dirty looks at their would-be suitors. Balancing a Fendi baguette, a Motorola StarTac, and a glass of Merlot, one of the women argued with the goateed manager that she and her friends were VIP enough for preferred placement on the dining-room floor. The manager gave them the standard "fifteen minutes," then thought better of it and barked at the busboy to clear the single empty table in the corner. 42 Mercer Street (212-431-7676)
M.E.

12:00am
ICE BAR

Located on Manhattan's final frontier, just a block and a cocktail away from the Hudson River, the Ice Bar could well be the loneliest bar on earth. And on a recent Wednesday evening, the scene inside could well have been taken from a Jim Jarmusch film. The white glass and metal bar was empty save for a young bartender with spiky hair and a willful attitude and a chatty Swedish business executive who later took control of the D.J. booth tucked opposite the bar. In the back of the all-white room, a pair of European ravers and few more gregarious Swedes parked themselves on white vinyl couches, washing down pumpkin seeds with bottles of Bass. Only an American seemed snow-blinded by the igloo effect, laughing out loud that the Ice Bar serves a tepid margarita. Others didn't even seem to notice; a neighborhood woman walked in, perched on a bar stool, and proceeded to sort through her junk mail. 528 Canal Street (212-226-2602)
M.E.

1:00amDANCE RITUAL
@ Vinyl

Just how seriously do partygoers at "Dance Ritual" take their moves? Let's put it this way: When a guy in a blue velour track top opened a small package of white powder, everyone knew it was talc to sprinkle on the floor and get more glide in his stride. Nearby, roving circles of Latinos in baggy jeans and Japanese B-boys with hip-hop headbands took turns showing off break-dancing tricks. Such focus is inspired by resident D.J. "Little" Louie Vega, who spins inventive house bursting with samba rhythms and gospel vocals. For the blissed-out regulars who return week after week, his music is transcendent enough to take their minds off booze (Vinyl doesn't have a liquor license) -- and even sex. By 1 a.m., a musclebound Chelsea boy was swinging around the pole in the center of the room, but most partyers were too focused on their feet to pay much attention. 6 Hubert Street (212-343-1379)
DANIEL SHUMATE

THURSDAY

9:45pm
HOGS & HEIFERS

"Normally, I hang out downtown," said Bob Casey, a New York stagehand. Like just about every other patron at the uptown Hogs & Heifers, Casey traveled from another neighborhood to hear live country music just south of Spanish Harlem. The uptown "Hogs Lite" is festooned with a colorful array of brassieres just like its downtown cousin, but the crowd actually displays some maturity. "I like it because people come here to actually listen to music and men don't hit on me," said the very hit-on-able Tania Drinnon, an Upper West Side paralegal in jeans and a midriff-bearing top. Several other patrons were decked out in urban cowgear (Stetson hats, pointy-toed boots, and motorcycle jackets), which only makes sense given the mounted animal heads on the wall. "I'd never know I wasn't in Texas," said Ken Neville, a Website developer who was raised in Austin. "There are 100 bars like this where I grew up." 1843 First Avenue, near 95th Street (212-722-8635)
J.W.

11:00pmBASEMENT BHANGRA
@ S.O.B.'s

The monthly "Basement Bhangra" party draws everyone from adventurous NYU students to Indian and Pakistani socialites, but turbaned Sikh men still dominate the dance floor -- especially when the traditional dhol drumbeats kick in to the Bollywood disco. One recent Thursday, a muscular Sikh in a black turban and a matching Armani T-shirt even stepped onto the stage and leaped onto the broad shoulders of another. "I wear the turban all week," said the man on the bottom, "except when I dance here." Resident D.J.'s Rekha and Joy have cultivated that kind of dedication by spinning tracks from subcontinental stars like Bally Sagoo, who mix traditional Punjabi beats with hip-hop grooves (they also import live bands occasionally). Sometimes, the women, clad in a mix of black leather and bright saris, almost get lost in the whirlwind of break-dancing testosterone, but they never go far. "The boys always try to take over the dance floor," said a woman who's been a "Basement Bhangra" regular for almost two years, "but I just grab another woman and we shove them out of the way." 204 Varick Street (212-243-4940)
L.H.