The sun hung low in the late summer sky and the air outside the Sherry Netherland was ripe with dung.  Yep- this is midtown, at the southeast tip of Central Park, where the hotels are posh, the street clogged with limousines, and the horse drawn carriages park.  

After almost wandering into the wrong building, I clomped through the front door and was promptly met by staff.  "Yes, sir.  Can I help you, sir?"  Though I was wearing a snappy Italian Cashmere jacket, he still seemed to be able to spot me- interloper, Ohio boy.

I defiantly noted that I was there for the private wine party- "the Sofia Coppola gathering," I added, with a whiff of guff and a stroke of my cashmere.  He pointed to my right and down I went, through a tunnel or stairs with red shiny walls and into the Doubles, the basement club, with walls and carpet the same red and mirrors on the ceiling.

Before I knew it, the near empty room was jammed with young hipsters, most looking like they were unbathed, hung over, and had dressed themselves in Salvation Army's best.  So it is with young wealth.  And me feeling grotesquely overdressed in my Italian jacket.