So Veronica is always registering for these VIP pass things, right? And there's this place supposed to be great opening up in Pleasanton, called AURA. They tout some amazing designer and Chef Gerrick Penn (the actual name, I kid you not), even going so far as to claim that the place will be some kind of thrilling vortex of fashion, music and cuisine.

So I see this place listed in Panama Bay as I'm leaving on my way to camp one morning, only I'm walking to the camp from coffee because I was dropped off early because of car availability and such, so I've got a delicious and healthful blueberry and banana smoothie which I'm sipping judiciously as I read this flyer tacked next to the door. And I'm thinking, "Yeah, sure, if this place is anything like the way they describe it, this would be a cool thing to have in Pleasanton."

So Veronica tells me we somehow got onto the VIP list and we're going and -- get this, o faithful ones -- I'm actually looking forward to it. Most of you are probably already familiar with my deeply rooted loathing for what the kids like to call the 'club scene'. In fact, I remember that when I was in college we called it the 'club scene'. Only it sucked. Which it still does. At AURA.

So we're VIPs and we show up a little later, aiming for the sweet spot after the arrival of the eager Bank of America cust. serv. rep. who is about thirty incessantly chirping pounds overweight miserable and righteous in her fundamentalist Christian Anti-Orgasm Movement , but before the arrival of the Jaded Ultra Hips besmocked in shade-grown fair trade Prada and oozing Liberal Concern for Political Issues like the greasy grey anal leakage my uncle gets from eating those soytato chips.

I think our timing was pretty near perfect. So we get there and inquire of a very handsome early twenties boy with boyish cleanshaven good looks and spiky hair over a black silk or satin button-down shirt that shows off his well-developed pecs without revealing embarrassing nipplewart detail ('Maybe she won't notice; maybe this time I won't come so soon! Maybe someday I'll tell Brent that I like him ...'), who tells us that the VIP line is over there on the right side of the doors.

I'm sorry ... was that, 'The VIP line!?'

There's a fucking LINE?!

I tell it to you as only an American Citizen could, fellow citizens: AURA had a line for people on the VIP list, but people who were paying for admission were being ushered in ahead of us. (Them. I was a dispassionate observer.) What moron wandered out of his third class at Cal State Fuckmook and decided that the way to drum up business was to offer random exclusivity and then retract it in obvious favor of cash?

Wait a moment ... No, can't place that scent ...

So we wait ten minutes and men are ogling Veronica with a dexterity rarely witnessed outside their swank limbo parties, but nobody will look at me! Okay, they'll look at me. But my facial hair seems to deter further investigation. I'm humming a song about hatcheting the kittens when we reach the front of the LINE, and this smiling padded bra with a clearly synthetic fall sporting poorly laquered chopsticks smiles corporately at us and says, "Hi there I'm Denice are you on the list?"

Veronica says, "Veronica."

"I'm sorry, Ronnerfa?"

"Veronica."

"Teutonica."

"No, Veronica. V-E-R--"

"Oh I see here it is, can I see your IDs?"

I bat my eyelids at her and make kissy lips as I show her mine. She smiles: this guy's cute and funny because he's with this beautiful woman. Veronica is asking her a question as she stamps the underside of our right wrists with a nifty Aura symbol, and I'm tweaking my nipples with cries of a constipated turkey vulture. She's still smiling, listening to Veronica as her eyes glance at me. Once. The smile falters. Veronica sees her attention shift and repeats something, drawing Denise's attention back but not before I see a brief and telling flash of deep human alarm illuminate her inner monologue: this man stands over me with a nude disfigured Barbie doll but his eyes are made of pudding! Pudding!!

We're inside and Veronica asks a muscular Asiatic fellow where the VIP lounge is; he points over his right shoulder. We go in and we're stopped by a not-as-muscular Phillipino gentleman who wears a three button suit and tells Veronica that the VIP lounge -- to which we were to have exclusive access along with all of the other VIP dupes -- is been reserved for a private party.

Now, what I wanted right about then was to sit down with a strong drink and numb my ears to the music. I wanted to sneak the occasional cleavage or ass glance, purely for statistical purposes you understand. I wanted to watch tanned corporate assistants' heels break next to the stilt walker whose headdress would perhaps decapitate or at least impale the Oompa-Loompa Go-Go girl as she fell. So I hovered, eyes adjusting to the dark and scanning frantically for a place to sit or the entrance to the part where food might be. Veronica is watching the people. She says, "D'you wanna go somewhere else?"

I look around at the cleanshaven spiky-haired muscle boys in tight shirts and Tanqueray as they eye the highlighted temps who see their eighth-grade history teacher when they glance at me. I wonder aloud, "Do these people vote?"