In the past several days, your humble narrator has had quite an exciting life. On Thursday, I went to an actual press screening for the movie "Battle of Algiers." As a sort of member of the press, no less. It was quite a thrill.

There I was with all the members of the Critical Class, doing what I usually do when in situations like this- wondering how long it'll take before somebody finds me out and makes me leave.

All the critics knew each other and before the movie began, wandered up to each other and amicably chatted. "Oh, I did this screening Tuesday, another screening Wednesday, but I had two today and couldn't make it to both, so I had to miss the Brazilian Silent Movie Festival." Such is the hard-knock life of the movieus criticii.

As one would expect when dealing with such noted authorities on what is good, the snottiness was high. "Lost in Translation" had an obvious plot twist that made it merely "meh" worthy (what plot twist? Doesn't a movie need a plot to have a plot twist? Have I told you how much I love the movie, though?). And when after the screening of a preview for a new, undubbed version of Godzilla, the PR flack mentioned the release date, snickers were drawn when one of the critics shouted out that he already had a video of it. And then there was the fresh-faced, just out of school looking critic in front of me who told another critic that he didn't watch "Seinfeld" because after seeing it a few times, got "bored of it really fast." And this guy is a critic? Seriously. Blasphemer.

And then on Friday, at the fallow age of 35, your humble narrator finally did something not many other people can claim to have done- went to a party for a modeling agency. Yes, there was yours truly, the people who I went with, at a party thrown exclusively for twenty or thirty models from a particular San Francisco modeling agency. Does life get any sweeter?

It was exactly how you would imagine it being. It was held in some super-swanky new bar in North Beach, all neon lights, sake (ski is tres chic these days), DJ's and anime on the TV screens. We got there early enough to get a good table for the show, but quickly discovered that all of the great tables were reserved for the models. Of course. How could they not have tables at a club, they're models after all. Models never have to look for tables. Besides, how could they do what they're meant to do- be looked at- if they're not in a particular section where everyone could look at them? There weren't many people there when we got there either, because, it was early and models are never early. Besides us, there were a few gawker guys, decked out in either expensive suits and chains or decked out in trucker hats and shag haircuts. The waitress had impeccably done breast implants, which she let everyone know by bending way over whenever she'd take your order ("here's a tip. Wait, let me give you some more money for your tip. No, actually, here's all my money, for you, for being such a GREAT waitress!").

And then, finally, towards eleven or so, they came- the models. They, of course, all came together, dropped off in by the limo or Model School Bus. It was like they were being let out for a couple of hours before they return to the Modeling School never to be let out until the next photo shoot. There were tens of them, slinkly dressed twigs with (very small) breasts, shag haircuts and bare midriffs. As they entered, the DJ kicked up the table and they went to their respective tables, and either hang out and gossip amongst themselves or to be adored by the guys in trucker hats. The woman in the group I was with was getting increasingly irritated as she noticed that the guys in the group would be in the middle of conversation with her then slowly stare off at the latest bit of eye candy that walked by. A little later on, she went to the bathroom and got assaulted by at least three or four of the models who saw her thick mane of curly, mangy, unruly hair who all wanted to know what she could be doing to her because it's fabulous.

We left soon afterwards for warmer climes- dive bars, women who weren't models, Jagermeister, fellow kickball players, and Van Halen. Cause, actually, when it came down to it, the party with all the models kind of sucked.

Either way, I am so cool.