You roll up to the door and the bouncer gives you a nod as he lifts the velvet rope. Yeah, your hair does look perfect. You're here to be seen. You don't so much walk as strike a series of poses that eventually get you to the bar. A guy named Milan hands you a menu of $19 martinis, none of them containing gin but they are organic. You spot a group of fellow scenesters in the corner. Three of the four follow you on Twitter. So, there’s that. The bass is thumping and you can't hear yourself breathe. No matter. No one bothers to speak to each other anyway. You feel like an extra on "The Hills.”
One thing is for certain—You are not at Barry O's.