Czar was flooded with intoxicating art, people and drinks Saturday for the Heart Show. A DJ spun in every room. Hair models mixed with the crowd, smearing body paint on all they touched. Roman centurions and Greek goddesses styled by Tribeca Salon struggled to stay secured in their togas. A few Derby Darlins skated around the dance floor in neon afros, pulling business cards from bras. Dance groups and musical performers like Bronze wandered around wearing outfits that they'd probably never find a more appropriate setting for. Jay Giroux drew eyes to his canvas with a live painting. Ladies in sparkly clothes danced above the crowd on a catwalk. In a word, the place was happening.

  

The problem was that neither Emma's nor my name appeared on any of the four door lists being circulated. By my calculations this makes us, at best, F-listers, which might have been a painful realization if my ego wasn't the size of Mount Rushmore. Situations like this usually occur when my boss speaks to one of several event organizers who have a broad philosophy of who gets into a show for free. These good natured organizers often forget to relay such key information as our names to the infinitely more scrupulous door keepers who deal with jerks like me every five minutes, all claiming they're on the list. If only I were talented enough to draw the can of Aqua Net carefully holstered in my man purse and expertly swirl Emma's hair into a coiffure resembling what I imagine Prince's pubic hair to look like, then we'd have no problem passing as stylist and model. But, like any good F-lister, we stood our ground on the unfortunate side of the velvet ropes until two event organizers escorted us in, having mistaken us for serious CL photographers and journalists.

This article appears in Mar 5-11, 2008.