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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.

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