Another cloudy spring night, another in the seeming endless line of shmoozy Manhattan parties. (”But we have to keep going to them!” New Yorkers always say. “That’s why we live here, right?”) Spotting a few familiar faces, I head for a nearby banquette, where S and T lounge in front of half-empty martinis, looking bored with it all. They’re loyal Party Friends, all smiles and double kisses at this or that social gathering – though we all know that, beyond tonight’s dress or this week’s awful weather, we have next to nothing to say to each other.

“M! How are you? It’s been forever,” S says warmly. Cue the double kisses. She smells like the kind of perfume I sniff then replace at Saks counters as soon as I see the price.

“I’m doing well!” I reply, squeezing into the seat next to them. “Just got back from LA, actually. Went to see a friend who moved out there.”

She makes a face as if I’ve just described my most recent bowel movement in exaggerated detail. “She moved there on purpose?! I’m sorry, that place is dire. The air is SO disgusting. I can barely breathe the second I get off the plane.” She arches her elegant but slightly mottled neck, taking a deep drag on her Marlboro Light.

T glances in our direction and promptly decides we’re more interesting than the discussion of split ends he’s been following from a pack of aspiring models at the table next door. “What are we talking about? LA?” He shrugs, his European-cut blazer clinging to his slight shoulders. “Nice place to spend a weekend, wouldn’t want to live there.”

I grin – And so we’ve officially launched into the preeminent topic of Manhattanite conversation: Why this city is superior to its doppelganger on the West coast.

“Live? How about wouldn’t want to visit,” S scoffs.

T reaches for a cigarette – the fact that smoking is illegal in bars has never seemed to trouble him. “Lots of tan, good looking girls. Of course, they’re all hairstylists or makeup artists who won’t shut up about their bit parts in B movies.”

“And everyone’s so shallow!” S exclaims, rooting around in her this-season Fendi bag. Locating her Treo, she begins vigorously thumbing buttons, taking care not to catch her lacquered nails on the keypad. “Oh my God, T, N just texted me. She’s at Gramercy. She says Bruce Willis just tried to grope her on the way to the bathroom.”

“Tell her to come here!” T cries, gesturing widely. Conversations with these two always seem to turn to those who aren’t present, and the best way to get them here. Once the chosen friends arrive, they move on to the next friend who’s somewhere else.

“So you really think LA has no value? That somehow the people here are so superior?” I ask, deliberately baiting them and knowing they won’t care.

S ignores me, still Treo-ing with zeal. T flashes a wicked grin. “Oh, darling, you’re cute. The only real difference is the weather. At the end of the day, it’s all the same crap.”