I got to thinking last night: A model friend is like an expensive handbag in nightlife. Now mind you, at this point “thinking” was fueled by one too many tequila shots and stale pizza crust I ripped away from a passing stranger; but alas, I think I was on to something. People in nightlife tote around models like they have hair made of silk and vaginas made of gold. One of my promoter friends told me his boss sends him text messages daily that say, “Models. Models. Models… Go! Go! Go!” to pump him up for a night’s work of promoting at a hot new spot. These promoters make livings off lining their couches with leggy fresh meat straight off the farm, and keeping their tummies full of free dinners they don’t eat and vodka they don’t need.

Needless to say, I’ve seen it all- but I’ve always been someone more on the outside looking in. I was never unpopular, but I was also never the “Lauren Conrad”. I have always made friends based on the “real” because I get uncomfortable around Chelsea Cool Kid and Johnny Popular. Suddenly, everyone’s wearing the latest Dior collection and I’m the girl in the Red Sox hat and worn out chucks. Being a DJ, of course I have my share of fabulous acquaintances, posh outfits and puke-inducing fake moments blah blah, but I know anyone who knows me would say I keep it real- and most friends I have I keep for a lifetime. However, like any New Yorker knows, there is so much fabulosity that we hear about but never really touch, and sometimes it’s fun to get our hands dirty and let our Lauren Conrad fab flag fly! The Waverly Place, Butter Mondays, Bungalow 8, Rose Bar, Beatrice, Hamptons house parties and so on. I have been to all of these, but I have found there is always one ingredient that is key to “getting in”…. The model friend.

I didn’t really put two in two together until last night- I thought I just ended up at these places by luck, chance, blowing the doorguy (joking!)… but alas, I was so very wrong- the key to unlocking the door to every fab place in this city is rolling with Pippi LongLegs.

Last night was my first social night off in months. As a DJ, I work most nights and usually roll up, drink a redbull, play my set, have a friendly cocktail, say my hellos, say my goodbyes and get the fuck out of there. On night’s off I am usually so ‘night-clubbed out’ that all I want to do is stay home and read “Twilight” and eat Ben and Jerry’s out of the carton. It’s as glamorous as it sounds people…. Anyways, my mom told me I’m never going to meet anyone (new friends, a nice guy etc.) sitting at home picking my toe jam and drooling over Triple Caramel Chunk, so needless to say I finally decided to put a night off to good use.

I put away my ripped jeans and band tshirts and went and got my hair blown out and bought the pre-requisite slutty little black dress. I strapped on 4 inch heels, some peppy pink lipstick and did my best runway walk over to the Soho Grand to meet some fabulous PR friends that I hadn’t seen in years. When I got there she informed me that the model army would soon be joining and we would be headed to Rose Bar. I keep it real folks- I was excited to go to Rose Bar. I’ve been before but last time they took out a restraining order when I tried to sit on Robert Pattinson’s lap… kidding. Ok, so anyways, the models showed up and they were glitzed and glammed, hungry and ready to feed on the celebrities and people who starfuck them at the one and only Rose Bar. This place is tighter than a virgin on prom night. If you roll up there and you are not a model, a cute friend with a model, a celebrity, a trust fund baby, or an Arabian prince with tons of oil money, then your ass is as good as the cigarette ashes floating off Leonardo’s Camel Light.

Needless to say, we strolled right in. I’d like to think I played a huge part in that and that the doorbitch has my picture hanging in her locker, “Oh Lindsay Luv she’s my favorite DJ!!”, but alas, I probably was part of the model army’s cattle being ushered through after Pippi flashed her mega-watt grin. Lol (BTW do you ever think in Text talk- sometimes I say LOL instead of laughing- this scares me) anyways, back on track… so suddenly we are inside. Half the army makes a run to the bathroom and I am left at a table with a full glass of champagne that seems to have floated into my hand. I give it a gulp and realize tonight’s champagne is tomorrow’s hangover, but I don’t know what else to do to loosen up. Oh well, a few drinks in and I’m thinking I am the Heidi Fleiss of this bitch until I remember this is like a Cinderella moment, and next time they may not let the shorty in with one glass slipper and no Agnes Deyn in sight…..

And then, suddenly, as the excitement wears off and I’m missing my Tivo…. I realize the doorguy used to work at Lotus!!! We go WAY back! We hug hug/kiss kiss and have the mutual respect for one another that have been here for years and seen all the 19somethings flit in and out of nightlife and rehab. We’re still here and working our shit, and that’s something to be proud of- not getting into some club with a large population of poseurs. We realize we’ve seen many that just couldn’t hack it and end up back on that farm in Iowa- so in the end, we are not models, but we certainly are role models.

Suddenly I realize that while Pippi LongLegs model girl may have unlocked the key to every door in the city, I have un-locked the key to happiness and success: Stay true to yourself, stay true to your friends, stay true to your work, and when you least expect it- the doorman at the top spot is the same dude from seven years ago you knew when he had acne and worked the door at a shitty divebar, and you had bad hair and were wearing legwarmers over stilettos- and NOTHING beats that kind of connection. The door opens now for me…. but the question is: is it worth it?