Hollywood Club Line
Don’t ask me. I waited outside The Tropicana Bar on Hollywood Boulevard for four hours one night. Literally. Four. Finally I got up to the velvet rope and was told “Sorry, private party,” as Paris Hilton and her cast of merry strumpets trampled me on their way to the VIP room. Two hours later and I still wasn’t in, but ‘Boater Number 4′ from Season Two of “So You Think You Can Fish” just parted the red velvet rope.
Any time I express even the slightest reservation about going to a club of this ilk, a chorus of uninformed optimists cheer, “You’re a hot chick! You’ll have no problem! They’ll roll out the red carpet.” For all of you who labor under this delusion, I can assure you from personal experience that I will, in fact, have a problem.
Four hours waiting outside a club. I know. Tragic. But before you judge me, I was being paid to be there for a tabloid magazine. Usually, when I throw down this card the same cheerleaders offer the following advice “Just tell them that at the door! They would love the publicity!” Wrong again. In Los Angeles, the media is held in much the same regard as pedophiles, and in most cases, being a pedophile doesn’t open any doors. A-list clubs in Los Angeles have door policies tighter than Miss June’s ass, but I think she’s had liposuction. Paparazzi, autograph hounds, and C-listers wait on the outside looking in, their desperate breath steaming up the windows like Ralphie lusting after the Red Rider BB gun.
Inside super models mingle with Oscar winners who dirty dance with tabloid tweens in the throws of Jim Belushi-style meltdowns. It’s a magical kingdom even Walt Disney could not have imagined. It’s the nation’s top tier of homecoming queens and high school quarterbacks that would never, ever, let you sit at their lunch table. They wouldn’t let you in their club then and they won’t let you in their club now.
It’s 2009 in Los Angeles and I find myself uniquely positioned. Through my travels I’ve acquired a certain bilingualism that has allowed me to communicate with both dimensions. My native tongue is reject, and it is among them that I feel most at home. However my reasonably symmetrical earth suit has allowed me to dance deftly between hemispheres, and report my findings back to the other earthlings. I’m a mole.
I’m inside the club now…stay tuned.
Copyright ©2010 Suzy McCoppin. All Rights Reserved.
Don’t you remember what we did when we you were in New York. We were out one night, I think headed to lucky Strike, and we walked by SPY, which was just starting to get its line. We stopped briefly, acted indifferent, then continued to walk by.
They called after us to see if we wanted to come in, and didi so again when we walked by a couple of hours later. In my experience, it comes down to treating them like getting in is not that important (and it really isn’t), that you’ve got a fun enough life without them, and they’ll finally think you’re cool and interesting that THEY want YOU…!
.kac.