The Gaslight skirts the edge of the Meatpacking District, and the bro overflow is savage. The Gaslight's quaint mix of antique store/coffee shop decor caters to a West Village crowd, but is confusingly incongruent with the bodies imbibing there, offending characters that include B&T types and dudes who consider Usher "real hip-hop." Even if Usher is your thing and you're in the mood to be a "dirty, dirty dancer," your occupied elbow room impedes the busting of any real moves. Combine that with potent $16 cocktails and men who wear their heterosexuality like outdated tribal ink, and you have a heady mix of douche-fueled aggression. Cue the "accidental" shoving.