You've spent hours sweltering on the sidewalk, climbing on a chair, hopping on a table, jumping up and down. At last you've made eye contact with the door gorilla/bouncer. As the crimson velvet ropes part, you thank the nightlife gods that your Versace suit is black. Better to mask the sweat stains dampening your armpits. Fork over twenty bucks, stroll through the doors, you're in. Swagger to the VIP room, where your buddy said he'd meet you. But which VIP room? There are three. You check out the front ground-floor area, where the artfully arranged couches artfully show no sign of him. You head to the back of the club, home of two more VIP rooms. He's not in the ground-level area, but actor Samuel L. Jackson, South Park creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone, and comedians Chris Rock and David Alan Grier are nonchalantly hanging out there. Soon you spot your friend on the second floor, high above the hoi polloi. He's smiling, sipping champagne, talking to, gulp, comely models/gorgeous actresses: Daisy Fuentes, Fran Drescher, Jennifer Lopez, all tilting back their heads while laughing at his jokes. The stocky sentry at the foot of the stairs eyes you suspiciously. He knows you're a no one. You protest: You are someone. Plus your friend upstairs is expecting you. Bouncer knows the drill: Everyone's someone. And everyone's friend is up in the VIP room. You offer him a Jackson, a Grant, even a Franklin. He doesn't flinch. You see, you may have the cash. You just don't have the cachet.