Why I Don't Do Clubs

It's raining; it's always raining when you're outside in line in January and trying to get into a crowded New York club. And it's high school all over again because suddenly there are Cool Kids and Not-Cool Kids, only--just like in high school--the difference seems arbitrary.

A cab pulls up. A girl gets out. She's pretty. She's with a guy. Suit. Tie. A banker maybe. A millionaire maybe. They flounce to the front of the line.

Gus or Joe or Tito or whatever the 6'8" former Britney Spears body guard behind the velvet rope is named this week, moves aside. Armande or Noel or Salvo or Angel or whatever the 115 pound Marc Jacobs-encrusted weakling with the clipboard and the earpiece is called this week consults his list, and then he moves aside too.

And just like that, the doors open. A brief, booming measure of bass blares out from inside, reminding those in line of all the fun we're not having. And with a flash of silver stiletto and Brooks Brothers navy, the man and woman--the two, the lucky, The Chosen--are in.

Those of us left in line nod inwardly for a moment. She was pretty, after all. And he did look like a millionaire.

But then the pelting, shitty rain brings us back to our freezing cold senses. Because--wait a minute!--I'm pretty too. And the guy I'm in line with doesn't just look like a millionaire, he is one.