Do You Know Who I Am?: Battling Imposter Syndrome in Hollywood

Every generation has its celebrity hot spot, a place where the cool kids of the moment gather to pound cocktails and bask in the glow of one another’s notoriety, where paparazzi gather and starstruck fans lurk outside in the hopes of catching a glimpse of their idols.

Andy Warhol and his Factory friends had Studio 54, the Mudd Club, and Area, with a cast of the usual suspects that included Jean-Michel Basquiat, Grace Jones, and Keith Haring. As the disco music of the 1980s evolved into rave in the early 2000s, culture makers turned toward the Haçienda in Manchester, England, and Berghain in Berlin, Germany.

The next big shift came in the mid-to-late 2000s, when Hollywood, with its spray-tan and low-rise denim aesthetic, launched a new group of clubs catering to TMZ’s notables of the day. On any given night, Britney Spears, Ashton Kutcher, Jessica and Ashlee Simpson, Paris Hilton, Lauren Conrad and her costars from MTV’s hit reality show The Hills, and other young celebrities would frequent the trifecta of Hollywood nightlife venues — Hyde, Area, and Les Deux. And I was running the door at one of the three clubs, depending on the night.

I was only fucking sixteen — which is hard to believe now — but the nightclub business was very informal and very handshake based back then. Everyone was paid in cash, and I guess the owners must have just forgotten to ask me my age. Why would they? I was already six feet seven with the facial hair to match and looked about thirty-five years old. Plus I had a solid track record of running nights that catered to all ages at Avalon in Hollywood while booking emerging acts like Lady Gaga and electronic music duo Justice. I carried myself with so much confidence that no one would suspect I was still in high school, doing homework assignments in between handling the door at LA’s most exclusive clubs.

I received a crash course in the art and appeal of nightlife when I was very young thanks to my father; he was a New York City club goer in the 1970s who bartended at Mr. Chow, a Chinese restaurant in Midtown that was the place to be if you were in art, music, or fashion. My father shared stories with me about Studio 54, Limelight, and the Palladium and how — thanks to the famous clientele, inventive interior design, and clever PR — empty spaces had been transformed into epic wonderlands and iconic brands, leaving behind memories that would last long after their doors closed.

Studio 54 was the brainchild of two men: Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager. Together, they built an enigmatic nightlife brand out of nothing, peddling the illusion of cool until it became reality. My father told me how Studio 54 was the place to be seen in New York, mainly because of the mass hypnosis that Rubell and Schrager had instigated. Everyone in the city wanted — and needed — to be on that list, without even knowing why. I’ll tell you why: It was branding, image, manipulation, lies, the embodiment of fake it until you make it.

Rubell and Schrager always made sure there were lines around the block, with people shivering outside in the winter cold for hours, even when the club was empty inside. They weren’t sadists; they were just really good at creating hype. From listening to my father’s stories about Studio 54, I learned how to run a nightclub, how to give people a good time, how