"You've got to have a ticket or a wristband," says a wall of a man with a wire sticking out of his ear.

I begin to explain: "Oh, I'm on the list and—"

"You've got to have a ticket or a wristband," says the wall, bearing down on me. It points a massive appendage at a woman with a lockbox.

"But—"

"You've got to have a ticket or a wristband." The wall is about ready to come toppling down.

"Okay. I'll be right—"

"You've got to have a—"

"I know, I know."

The woman with the lockbox looks me up and down, but mostly down. "The guest list is closed."

"But I'm already on the guest list," I plead.

"The guest list is closed." She coughs.

I shudder, finding myself engaged in yet another battle of wits; one I'm no doubt going to lose. "I'm a member of the press and—"

"The guest list is closed."

"Ugh," I moan. Why is this so hard? I look to Bonnie and she offers a smile. We can't turn back now. We've come this far and everything I need to learn about style is inside, just beyond this small army of automatons. "How much is this going to cost me?"

"Twenty dollars," she says.

"Okay," I sigh, making for my wallet.

"Each." Crap. There goes my drinking money.

Forty dollars later, Bonnie and I find ourselves beyond the wall.