I’m a VIP. Or so I’m told. I get invited to all sorts of openings, charity events, and other soirées. I’m given wristbands that get me into the “real” party; I’m often given free drinks when I walk up to a bar; and yes, I’m the guy you hate who walks to the front of a line, shakes a few hands, and strolls right into the place that you’ve been waiting all night to get into. I’d fucking hate me too. I sound like a first-class, egotistical, social-climbing asshole.
So do I even try to argue the point, or should I just accept my “socialite chooch” label and go sit quietly in the VIP lounge? Let me at least try to explain.
Tonight I’m at the hottest party in New England, the grand opening of a new casino. This star-studded event is a see-and-be-seen gathering that has drawn movie stars, musicians, world-class DJs, professional athletes, piles of neck-snappingly-hot women, and — oh yeah — a select group of influential media folk. That, apparently, is me.
So basically I get to go to this super-cool party because someone, somewhere has determined that what I think matters. Really? When did this happen? I’ve been giving my opinion about shit for years and nobody seemed to care before. For as long as I can remember, I told people Mel Gibson is creepy and mustaches would make a comeback, and no one listened. (Mark my words: Burt Reynolds will rise again!)
Most of my Saturday night is spent in the casino’s hot new nightclub. The place is amazing: a two-level, exotic tribute to nightlife, with long, elaborate bars, plush sofas, and more cool people than you’d find at a Fonzie convention.
So what the hell am I doing here? I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m just not that cool. (If nothing else, that Fonzie reference proves it.) Shit, I’m so out of touch that other publications in this city have even reported on how uncool I really am. So why am I here? I’m here because it’s my job to be here. That’s it. To be honest, I’d rather be home on my sofa. Some people get to be beer tasters; some people get to be astronauts; me, I get to be a professional nightlife shit stain. (And I thought my high school guidance counselor was wrong when she predicted I’d probably spend my life hanging out in bars. Well done, Mrs. Kennedy, well done.)
The end of my night is spent wandering around the second floor, which has been designated the ultra-VIP hangout. I shake hands with those I know and I’m introduced to those I don’t. As is usually the case with me, I start to lose both steam and interest as the event reaches its apex, so I say my goodbyes, finish my drink, and make my way toward the exit. As I walk down the stairs past the now-throbbing dance floor and into the sea of people who lack either the credentials or the tits to get upstairs, I’m cornered by two beautiful and socially motivated young women looking to negotiate a trip to higher ground. “Why do you want to go up there?” I ask them. “Do you think they’re having more fun than you are?” I pause for a moment and gesture to a couple nearly fucking each other on the dance floor next to us. “Looks like they’re having fun,” I say. “If I were you, I’d stay down here. But hey, do what you want. That’s just my opinion.”
