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Spring 2012: A terrible mistake was made and a dork got behind the velvet rope. Here is her story:

Remember back in elementary school when the gym teacher would make kids pick their teams for kick ball, and Darwinism would play itself out right before your very eyes? The fittest would survive, usually the tall, blonde and blue. It had a vaguely Holocaustic flair in fact, and in quieter moments, you could hear Adolph and Charles snickering from their graves. In my case, the captains would whittle down the choices until only me and the kid with the metal knee brace were left. Then they would argue over which team would be forced to have me as a player, systematically ticking off my defects like trial attorney’s bickering before a Judge.

“We had to have her last time.”

“She’s worthless and weak.”

“She sucks.” (Generally considered a detriment in kick ball, but an asset in Tinsel Town.)

The same thing happened to me when I moved to Los Angeles and tried to get into the Chateau Marmont-the A-list asylum with a door list policy tighter than Miss June’s ass.

I’d heard about this legendary lair from Lindsay Lohan. Or should I say, because of Lindsay Lohan. But Chloe, the Balenciaga bag-bearing bitch who lived next door also frequented the fabled hotel on a hill. She always made sure everyone knew she had been at the best party the night before and that they weren’t invited.

“Where did you go last night?”

“Chateau.”

“Neat! Where is it?”

“Why do you wanna know?”

“Because it sounds fun.”

“It’s really hard to get in.”

“Well, I’m not gonna try to go or anything. I just wondered where it is.”

“It’s on Sunset. Duh.”

Duh.

Now all I needed was an outfit. With just the right mixture of Forever 21, Nine West, Express, and a smidgen of bedazzling, I would render an outfit fit for Chateau. Surely they would roll out the red carpet for me- I was the Michigan State Fair’s Spaghetti Eating Champion three years in a row, after all. Turns out they don’t take too kindly to carbo- loading at the Chateau Marmont.

The phrase “walk of shame” is usually reserved for the walk home. But I did the walk of shame virtually every night from Pinches Tacos discounted $10 parking lot all the way up to The Chateau Marmont. The gatekeepers would see me coming, teetering on my tacky heels. They knew they were going to reject me. I knew they were going to reject me. But they couldn’t yell it down the street, now, could they?  So we’d watch each other awkwardly until I got to the door.

“Sorry. Private party,” as Kate Bosworth air kissed her way past me.  Two hours later and I still wasn’t in, but Boater Number 4 from Season Two of “So You Think You Can Fish” just parted the red velvet rope.

In a few weeks, I would grow really accustomed to hearing “Sorry, private party.” They should have left a recording of it on the doorstep just for me, like Ferris Bueller did for Mr. Rooney.

I came to learn that getting into The Chateau, or any of Hollywood’s ‘It’ clubs, is comparable to getting an under 5 on ‘CSI Miami.’ It’s all about who you know. If you’re lucky, one of the denizens of nightlife will “discover” you and say “You! You’re fabulous! You must come to my party.” Paparazzi, autograph hounds, and people from the Valley wait on the outside looking in, their desperate breath steaming up the windows like a fat girl outside a Krispy Krème.

Inside super models mingle with Oscar winners who dirty dance with tabloid tweens in the throws of Jim Belushi-style meltdowns. It’s a magical kingdom even Walt Disney could not have imagined. It’s the nation’s top tier of homecoming queens and high school quarterbacks that would never, ever, let you sit at their lunch table. They wouldn’t let you in their club then and they won’t let you in their club now.

Unless of course you can manage any of the following:

1) Be Famous: Snooki can get into Teddy’s and I can’t. Occasionally a door guy will employ the new –inmate- in- cell- block- D strategy, desecrating a big shot, thus establishing a name for himself.  Like when Hyde rejected Tara Ried. That shit was all over cyber space and the ‘it’ lounge of ’09 was born. Point being, not all celebs are created equal.

2) Know the DJ, Promoter, or Door Guy: It helps if you went to their Bar Mitzvah back in the day.

3) Be Confident: Attitude is everything. If you walk up like you belong there, the gatekeepers will often agree. But if you walk up apologetically, like I do, like no one wants you on their team or in their club, you’re going to wind up sitting in your car in the parking lot of Pinches Tacos with a forty of Pacifico.

4) Be Rich: In the land of La, being cool is preferable to being rich, but everyone has a price.  (see: poppin’ bottles in the clu),

5) Have Mad Flava: Yes, surprise, surprise. My years in the “scene” have taught me it’s better to be a 7 in Zac Posen than a 10 in Bebe. For example, the The Olsen Twins can get in anywhere, but the Czechoslovakian Hawaiian Tropic model/Cheesecake Factory hostess is kickin’ it at the, well, at The Cheesecake Factory. In Sherman Oaks.

6) Be a Fox: Surprisingly low on the list, but an asset nevertheless. On a good night, especially if she gets off her shift at TCF early, Svetlana might get in. Especially if Michael Bay or Brett Ratner get there at the same time she does.

7) Attach yourself to a healthy host: Like I did. I got my “big break” in the form of Linsday Lohan’s lawyer, a 34-year-old Manhattan transfer with roughly the appearance and disposition of the Tasmanian Devil. Yet, strangely, he ran with Tinsel Town’s elite.  Every clique, you see, no matter how exclusive, has a member that just barely made it in. Taz was that person. He would, in turn, extend his tentacles below the rim of high society and pick up the occasional virus, who he’d invite in to infect the blood stream of fabulosity. I would be that virus.  And I’m in the blood stream. That’s right, Kardash, I’m sitting right next to you, and my shit is contagious.

If you don’t possess any of the aforementioned traits, you can always get into The Standard. (see: smell of wine and cheap perfume)