NOBODY REALLY minds that Stolichnaya campaign which supposedly reflects the ...

Wow, they're actually awake past midnight. Maybe even during a weeknight. Shouldn't that stop being a big deal after you're, like, ten years old?

In fact, staying up all night is the responsible choice for many smart New Yorkers once the miserable summer months set in?a turning usually marked when the daytime subways get miserably crowded with tourists for the July 4th weekend. That's when sleep becomes a 9 to 5 occupation. This unofficial Lowlife Savings Time even gets corporate sponsorship this year, as the Loews 42nd Street briefly turns into an all-night grindhouse to accommodate preview screenings of Terminator 3: Rise of the Geeks' Inseams.

The filmmakers cash in pretty good, but the mothers who bring their kids would've made a good windfall for the Department of Social Services. And here's the best news out of the current media hype on Schwarzenegger's latest: "I'm not sure where Arnold gets his political instincts," says Ted Kennedy, adding, "People often say that for Kennedys, it's in the water."

That's a funnier Chappaquiddick joke than most of us could come up with to mark the July 4th weekend. Speaking of instincts, a scientific study published last week reported that people who stay up all night could be predisposed with "clock genes." Meanwhile, another study revealed that some genetic combinations mean some all-night party people have less freedom of choice to not use drugs.

Happy Dependence Day to all kinds of rationalizing cretins. But I don't know about any of this kind of thing, since the Motherfucker party is certainly not known for any kind of drug use. It's simply Ground Zero for the big summer cold season.

I also don't know much about "sexy, glamorous, and chic" dress codes, since I don't own anything from the Siegfried & Roy Collection. Once you get inside Motherfucker, though, you're reminded that Pete Yorn still sets the stride for today's young dandies. The only person who really has to be sexy, glamorous and chic to get you into this place is Alexander Hamilton.

The night's held at Eugene, too, so there aren't even enough nooks and crannies for the inevitable public sex that marks a successful night at Motherfucker. I, however, am strictly here for the Fever, whose fine nervous rhythms will sadly soon be wasted on a small national tour opening for Hot Hot Heat, whose own new new-wave hype is more like Golden Earring without any sense of soul.

Unfortunately, you can't expect the Fever to play all night when they're only pushing the fine five-song Pink On Pink EP. I should just be grateful that they open with what sounds like the theme to Brian De Palma's Sisters. But then I'm stuck for the next four hours listening to the greatest hits of years when most of the Motherfuckers were born. You can't complain about nostalgia, though, since Motherfucker always promises dancing to past decades. It would just be nice if certain deejays invested in some new 80s collections.

Don't take hope from the occasional AOR hit, either. These places are all the same. Techno always gets hauled out sometime after 3:30. Scratch some ironic head-banging to AC/DC, find a disco.

But things could be worse. I could be in the Hamptons. And it's nice to finally wander out into a dawning July 4th in Manhattan, which is exactly the kind of city where Carolyn Bessette could marry into money and still be benefiting from a cover-up while articles reveal her to be a cokehead spouse-beater. God bless America.