Well there's nothing more embarrassing than being ushered out of a comfortable seat in a beautiful club when you're looking your best. The sting is particularly more painful when there are about a handful of people filling up the place and the doorman was so desperate to get some ladies in that cover was waived. So why is my nose out of joint? Mostly because my more than fabulous stilettos were starting to kill me, and I don't like being reminded of the financial restrictions that is the pang of a writer.

I have two words: bottle service. Yep, apparently as we speak King West is morphing into the Hamptons and Paris Hilton forgot to text message me that one. For the price of two bottles (ranging from $260 upwards) you and your friends can sit with the elite. The urban anthropologist in me watched as one after the other, young twenty-somethings were being herded to "standing room only" while the booths remained vacant.

Asinine? Slightly. The logic seemed to elude me. As the place filled up the booths remained unoccupied. Now I have to ask the obvious: why create a service when there seems to be a lack of clientele? If a venue is attracting those who can only afford to stand, then perhaps having 30% of floor space and 100% of seating for the very few who can afford it doesn't make much sense to me. On a positive note, the drinks that I could afford to buy weren't watered down. And although, the music and atmosphere gain high points, the ever-empty peripheral seating seemed to outweigh the positives and remind me and the rest of the rejected partygoers standing around that perhaps, we just weren't wanted.