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It Just Isn't Fair

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VVIPs went to a Harvey Weinstein party at the terribly, terribly private SoHo House temporary location in West Hollywood. (The SoHo House is a members-only London club with a New York location. Clubs are the new biospheres. Soon, the SoHo House will open permanently in L.A. and, according to the Image section of the Los Angeles Times, the initial membership will be limited to between 500 and 1,000 people. What's next? Cloisters?)

So people went to Prince's house. People went to whatever Madonna threw together. They went where their good friend Clooney told them he'd be, later. No, after later. Later than later. Even on Monday afternoon, we imagine people are still being driven to even more private parties, parties we haven't even read about on Nikki Finke's blog. Now they're at pretend parties, and you still are not invited.

There's a grab for the gift bags now at Elton, a little after midnight. It's the endo, Friendo -- even though Amy Adams just got here, followed not too far behind by Amy Ryan.

The bag contains a tin of chocolates, a candle, a Chopard pen, some Patricia Wexler line filler for lips and eyes, and some C.O. Bigelow body wash. You'd think it was filled with Sid Mammon, judging by the crush. We head for the hedge-lined tunnel marked "EXIT."

Ross the Intern, that nelly roving reporter from "The Tonight Show," is out here, really scrounging, kinda cute in his tuxedo with the frilly '70s-prom shirt. They wouldn't let him in the front door, so he's working the valet line, "and I'm stunned they haven't arrested me." People are more interested in Ross than they are all those "Bourne Ultimatum" sound guys, who are leaving with actual Oscar statuettes.

It's that sort of night. Even the sheriff's deputy seems bored. "I usually work Vanity Fair."

Brother, you said it.

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