Visual Aesthetics

I said I wasn't going to write about this. I changed my mind. A few weeks back, a good friend and well-known DJ who shall remain unnamed, asked me to host his weeknight party at a Manhattan venue. Sure, no problem. I'm honored.

I send the invite to a bunch of close friends. A bunch of people RSVP to say they're coming thru. I compile said list and send it to my boy, who will pass it along to the venue.  Perfect.

I'm on the way to the club for midnight the evening of the party when my BBM blows up. It's one of my girls saying she and a friend of ours are at the venue. She was let in. Our friend was not.

"She's on my list," I insist. And she is. I double and triple check the lists for any event I do. I typed her name myself.

"Yeah, no," my girl says. "Hurry. She's about to leave."

Said woman who won't be allowed in is kind of a big deal professionally. But that's not why she was invited (and that's why I won't throw out her title here.) She was invited because she is my friend.

I'm ten minutes from the venue when my phone rings. It's my publicist. She arrived, ran into the friend who couldn't get in and tried to talk to the doorman on her behalf only to discover that she couldn't get in either. The doorman refuses to speak to her and says he'll deal with me when I arrive.

I tell her, "hold tight. I'll be there in five."

When I walk up, my publicist is arguing with the doorman, a black guy in a well tailored suit. He recognizes me (I was there every other week at that point), asks me to step behind the rope so we can talk. He opens it, then closes it, leaving my publicist on the other side.

"There's no need to talk to me," I tell him. "My publicist is who you speak to." This is why I have one, so I can focus on the business of being happy and hosting and popping bottles not dealing with behind the scenes headaches.

He won't let my publicist behind the rope, much less into the club. He lifts the rope, walks us to the curb. And though we're both standing there, he only addresses me.

"I tore your guest list up," he begins. "I—"

"I'm sorry. You did what?! Why?" I counter.