Come Unto Marquee as Ye Are—or Pretend to Be

"I like real celebrities. I just don't like pseudo celebrities," said the absurdly attractive guy next to me as we both looked around the club at the zoo of people dressed in goofy get-ups intended to create the impression that they're famous—or at least a somebody.

Smug writer-type in "Smooth Criminal" charcoal pinstriped suit and fedora.

Check!

Spray-tanned, 6'5" Zoolander mimbo sporting cheekbones that could slice salami, rugged leather vest, rosary beads (huh?), and disconcertingly dorky blowout-bandana combo.

Check!!

Scott Weiland wannabe with ashen complexion, black liquid liner, Sex Pistols-inspired career aspirations and serious meth hangover.

Check!!!

Hhhmmmm...an intriguing, if slightly scary, point of view. If nothing else, he'd obviously spent time contemplating the real vs. pseudo celebrity divide. (Rumor has it this subject is actually on the agenda at the World Economic Forum in January.)

"Fame doesn't impress me," I replied, "only talent."

The funniest thing about "exclusive" NYC nightclubs is that everyone does their best to look and dress like they're VIPs but, in reality, the crowd is 99% comprised of regular working stiffs whose closest proximity to celebrity is, like most people's, a subscription to Us magazine, an RSS feed from perezhilton.com, and a penchant for The Soup.

Alas, this microcosm of posers and aspiring socialites creates a self-perpetuating society fueled by superficiality and a raging collective case of internal audience syndrome. In plain English, beautiful people who want to look and act famous—and who think they deserve to be—enjoy being around other beautiful people who look and act famous. Hence, the entire scene becomes a symbiotic ego-feeding frenzy.

That said (as I gracefully dismount my high horse—and stick the landing!), the superficial appeal of a strikingly handsome young buck is rarely lost on yours truly.

"You are ridiculously good looking," I said to the 27-year-old Jesse Metcalfe look-alike a moment later. "In fact, you're so attractive it's painfully funny. Did you know your smile actually makes a 'Ding!' sound, accompanied by a blinding cartoon spark? So tell me...are you a real or fake celebrity?"

"No, I'm not famous—yet," he laughed. "I'm just a democrat."

I'll let you in on a little secret here: Special K and I are both democrats. (Actually, we are both registered as independents, but are democrats for all current intents and purposes).

Thanks to Special K's recent chance encounter with a cute new friend named Steve, which involved, in no particular order, truffled goat cheese, a tripod, a movie script, and pineapple upside-down cake—we found ourselves at an Obama fundraiser at Marquee that united male models, debut film screenings, "I only sleep with democrats" T-shirts, and a whole slew of very strange bedfellows—all in one room. Hey, why not...what Obama and NYC hath joined together, let no man put asunder.

The highlight of the evening was arguably a rousing performance by an Ashlee Simpson look-alike draped in an over-sized man's dress shirt with a giant print of Obama's face on the back, who was also wearing shiny black leggings (just like mine! Sweet Jesus!) and leather booties, and debuting her "original" song about Obama. It was allegedly in English, and presumably pro-The Big O (i.e."Obama—you rock! McCain—you suck!!"), although I was too distracted by her incessant hair-flipping and accompanying dry ice clouds to discern the lyrics.

"Can you imagine the Obamas standing here, watching this performance?" Special K chuckled. "Barack would be so... proud. And disturbed. And deeply bewildered."

Meanwhile, one dude, a self-described "struggling artist," was commenting (embarrassingly) on people's credit cards at the bar. (Him, to girl buying drink: "Wow, I like your platinum card!" Us, eavesdropping: "Oh, good Lord.") He told us he "studied film independently for four years." Not studied indie film...studied film independently. Hhhhmmmm...wonder if that entails renting movies from Netflix for four years straight. Not a bad gig...sign us up!

"Special K and I have nicknames for some of these characters," I said to Faux Jesse, who seemed refreshingly (and disproportionately) smart and witty. I motioned to Zoolander, who was dropping Magnum on the crowd left and right like Halloween candy.

"That's Zoolander. He gets dressed with the help of a customized computer program, complete with a rotating, 3-D model of himself that allows him to preview his prospective outfits. Tonight he selected purposefully pre-ripped, light-wash Dolce & Gabbana Jeans (#4), rugged gray-brown Rick Owens leather vest (#8), and navy blue 2.5-inch-wide folded bandanna (#11) to create 'Douchebag Look #18.' After he hits the "Mission Accomplished, You Handsome Devil!" button, his computerized self winks at him and gives him two big thumbs up."

FAUX JESSE: [Nods and smiles.] Ding!!

"See that model chick behind him with the serenely blank expression, waist-length dark hair, $400 "hippy" skirt, and a cotton braid around her forehead? That's Joan Baez. If we had a cowbell with us, Special K and I would run up to her, banging away, and proclaim, 'You're not trying hard enough! Need more Baez! More Baez!' "

FAUX JESSE: Ding-da-ding-ding!!!

"Ooh—and that tall model guy with the slimy hair who just walked by. Meet Greasy Thursday. Special K and I were imagining him staring into his bathroom cabinet (measuring 10' x 10', conservatively), surveying a truckload of hair product, and then deliberately selecting Greasy Thursday Gel (GTG)...because, well, it's fuckin' Thursday!"

After Faux Jesse and his sweet, adorable older sister (who was similarly unimpressed by the scene) left, Special K and I retreated to the ladies' room to hang with Bev the Bathroom Attendant, which was, not surprisingly, infinitely more entertaining than most of the crowd at the bar. Mints! Perfume!! Hair products galore!!! Tampons!!!! Why hadn't we spent more time in here before?

I began to rave dance with the lollipops from the candy jar while Special K transformed into Tinkerbell with an industrial-size can of Acqua Net as her magic wand, ceremoniously dusting all the fair maidens who came and went.