 |
|
|
|
VGG to Skybar: Suck Eggs!
"I would never want to be a member of a club that would have me as a
member."
—Groucho Marx
"Yeah, but it'd be nice to have the option."
—Alan Benson
by Alan Benson
Ladies and gentlemen of the Internet, I have called you here today to discuss a
most pressing threat to the land. A threat that promises to split families, tear
friendships asunder, to separate me from a drink. That threat, ladies and
gentlemen, is the Skybar.
(Note to non-Los Angelenos: This is full of L.A. references and place names, but
if you hang on, at the end I talk about nerds some.)
Now to those of you who are unfamiliar with the Skybar, allow me to explain. The
Skybar is a chi-chi watering hole for froofy, beautiful people to congregate and
craft schemes for keeping the non-froofy, non-beautiful people down. It's located
on Sunset Boulevard inside a little white box that grows like a boil on the ass
of a big white building with two large, brown, utterly inexplicable doors to
nowhere in front of it.
At least, I think it's located there. That could just be the entrance to an
enormous elevator that whisks Skybarflies up to the top of the big building,
allowing them to sneer rich and popularly at all the lowly pedestrians. Or maybe
it's the access way to a long escalator that leads the patrons down into the
bowels of the earth to be closer to their dark lord.
The point is that I don't know for sure. I have never been able to get into the
Skybar, nor has anyone I know. The closest I've found is a friend of a friend who
sat, sweating, outside in line until just before last call, at which point he
gave up.
See, that's the appeal of the Skybar--it's incredibly hard to get in. Every
weekend, dozens of people wait patiently outside, hoping against hope that
somehow the bouncer will have mercy on them and allow them to sip at the sweet
spring of Skybar snobbery.
Meanwhile, there's a constant flow in and out of beautiful, famous people; people
who merely have to glance at the bouncer to gain admission. There's nothing more
degrading than standing at the end of a line (or being the entire line, for that
matter) while the scum of the earth gain access without so much as pausing.
And why are they excused from the sting of bouncer rejection? Why, because they
are fashionable. Because they wear the latest in fashion, perfume, shoes, and
attitude. Because the clothes they wear are so hip they were just a pile of
thread hours ago when you were licking the last nubbins of chicken skin off your
El Pollo Loco two-piece dinner.
Because, in a nutshell, they are rich, or famous, or beautiful, or (on a slow
night) women. Or, god forbid, a rich, famous, beautiful woman, the 400-pound
gorilla of the social scene. (Q. Where does a rich, famous, beautiful woman
party? A. Anywhere she wants to.)
As someone who is neither a) rich; b) famous; c) beautiful; or d) a woman, I have
to say that this situation stinks. Don't the rich, famous, beautiful people get
all the perks already? Why should they get to dominate this place, too?
(That's not to say that, if I was able to get in the place, I would actually go.
I hate fancy-schmancy bars; I much prefer spending my drinking dollar sucking
down gin in places where the only light comes from a juke box. When I have to go
to fancy bars, within minutes I'm fidgeting, clenching and unclenching my left
fist, biting my lower lip, and wondering aloud about our projected length of stay
and probable departure time. But just because I wouldn't go doesn't give them the
right to keep me out.)
I actually tried to rectify the situation earlier tonight (Monday, December 1). I
decided I would crash the place, walk right in, belly up to the bar, and order
whatever overpriced, watered-down swill they served.
It was only fitting, as I had inadvertantly donned my traditional bar-going
attire--battered grey sweatshirt, jeans, and bright red Chucks (no, I'm not
brain-damaged; it's comfortable). So I squared my shoulders, gasped in pain,
massaged my now-screaming, meant-to-be-rounded shoulders and headed off to the
Skybar.
I had high hopes for my mission. I figured that on Monday, the bouncers were
probably a bit more lenient, so I might actually stand a chance of getting
in--even dressed as I was. Hey, it's Monday, they need the business, right?
Well, maybe not. The Skybar is apparently closed on Mondays; somehow, they sensed
my clever plan and preemptively foiled it. And so now I must turn to you, my
websurfing brothers and sisters.
It is time for nerd action on a massive scale. I propose that every nerd, every
geek, every un-beautiful, un-rich, un-famous person in Los Angeles participate in
a two-part attack on the Skybar.
Prong one: We crowd the entranceway with geeks. If several thousand nerds show up
on the Skybar's doorstep every weekend, we will soon bump out the average,
might-get-in-if-the-crowds-thin-out-too-much patron. After a while, the bouncers
will be running scared. Without average people to choose from, they might slip
and allow geeks, nerds, greebers, and lame-os in. That's when prong two hits
them.
Prong two: Any nerd that broaches the inner sanctum must work hard to ensure
that, next time, they will be able to get in without waiting. Kiss up to the
bartender, payoff a waitress, compliment one of the herd of vacuous
pseudo-celebrities L.A. is full of, do anything it takes. That way, next time you
come, you can bring a couple of friends along with you. Soon, it'll be hard to
tell the patrons from the attendees at your average Star Trek convention. Check
and mate, Mr. Skybar.
And finally, after the nerdification of the Skybar, anyone, anyone will be
able to drink in peace there. Except me. I hate froo-froo bars like that. Plus,
it's full of nerds. Ech.
back to the VGG archive
|
|
|
|
