At first glance, there was nothing unusual brewing outside Pacha the recent Friday night David Guetta held a few thousand clubgoers in the palm of his hand. The lines customarily snaked down 46th Street in both directions, which meant my companion that evening and I needed to run the guest list gauntlet to avoid an hour-long entrance that had all the visible movement of grass growing. We made it inside without distress, although a subsequent line of people waiting inside to be confirmed could have tipped us off to the spectacle unfolding behind the final set of doors that remained our final barrier to entry.