S. Lo’s at Top, but It’s Wrong Game

I’ve had only one guiding principle in life, and here it is:

It’s always important to look your best.

So when S. Lo saw the story on the sizzling new A-list Hollywood bar that keeps out the riffraff, your man-about-town couldn’t get there fast enough.

“I’m looking for personal style; sophistication but playfulness,” owner Amanda Scheer Demme told The Times in describing Teddy’s at the Roosevelt Hotel, which follows her sensationally exclusive Tropicana Bar at the same hotel.

“It doesn’t really matter how old you are, doesn’t really matter what you do for a living,” Demme elaborated in explaining who gets in and who doesn’t. “You have to be at the top of your game in your own way, whatever that may be.”

Top of your game? It sounded like a personal invitation to S. Lo.

And so, while most of Los Angeles slept, I cruised under the bright lights of Hollywood Boulevard, eager to frolic in a playfully sophisticated way.

The clock struck midnight -- party time in my world -- as I parked near Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and headed across the boulevard. Ahead of me, a cluster of maybe 15 people waited on the sidewalk, craning to be noticed by ushers. You have to feel sorry for people like that, the second-string hobbits who flock to the rope but never get a chance to swing.

I’m guessing the paparazzi didn’t see me coming, because none of them popped a flash. I sauntered in among the crowd and waited to be noticed in my black Levi’s, maroon shirt and casual brown suede jacket, an understated ensemble that says, “Hello, I’m here, I need no introduction.”

The usher, a prim pug wearing what looked like a “Star Trek” costume, for crying out loud, must have been nearsighted. He gave the crowd the once-over, missed the obvious, and slid back into the joint leaving S. Lo out in the cold.

“What gives?” I asked two young women.

“We’re not famous,” said one.

Speak for yourself, sweetheart.

Most of the crowd was a tad younger than S. Lo. OK, more than a tad. I looked like the chaperon on the bus that brought them here. But style has no age, as the owner of Teddy’s pointed out.

Some of the youngsters were dressed up, some dressed down. The exception was a couple of middle-aged blokes who looked like they’d taken in one too many Aerosmith concerts. I wished I’d worn jeans that were either tighter or baggier, because the scene didn’t appear to be relaxed-fit.

A different usher appeared, sized us up, and disappeared.

Maybe it was my Rockports.

“You might get in if you had three young babes on your arm,” one of the paparazzi said.

I closed in on the two young women I’d spoken to earlier, but they discreetly moved away. Either they thought I’d hurt their chances of getting in, or they thought I was a pervert.

Three young guys from Australia approached and asked if I had any pointers.

“You’ve got to be on top of your game,” I said.

They suggested we hire a paparazzo and have him photograph us as we strode confidently up to the rope. It wasn’t a bad idea, but they opted instead to go around back and see if they could sneak in.

The door to the hottest night life in town suddenly opened and an allegedly famous person exited. The paparazzi followed him down the street, showering the guy with light. Before I could ask who it was, another young caballero appeared out of nowhere and the paparazzi closed on him fast.

“Who was it?” I asked.

“Brandon Davis,” I was told.

I nodded and then asked:

“Who’s Brandon Davis?”

I was told he was dating someone on “The O.C.”

That’s his claim to fame? Give me a break. If that was the definition of a man on top of his game, maybe I was at the wrong bar.

The ushers reappeared, scanned the crowd and looked right through me again.

“I’m with David Heath,” one young woman pleaded, offering up an unanswered prayer to the gatekeepers. Whoever David Heath is.

A guy pulled up in a chauffeur-driven Rolls; he got in.

Guy pulled up in a limo a block long; he got in.

P. Diddy was already inside, a paparazzo told me. And Penelope Cruz.

A man who’d been at the rope longer than I had introduced himself.

“I’m S. Lo,” I said, to no recognition from him. “I don’t think these nitwits know who I am.”

Suddenly, a flutter and a stir. Out of nowhere, a young man appeared, and the ushers couldn’t raise the velvet rope fast enough to let him in.

“Steve-O, could we roll with you?” one of his drooling fans called out.

Hey, I’m the original Steve-O. Who was this guy? Given all the talk of style and sophistication, he had to be a real Hollywood player. In the Times story, a fashion consultant had said of Teddy’s, “It’s classy and it’s always a high caliber of people.”

“So who’s Steve-O?” I asked a paparazzo.

“He was in ‘Jackass,’ ” he said. “Not the movie, but ‘Jackass’ the TV show.”

I’ve never needed a drink so badly.

Philip Seymour Hoffman showed up, and it was Open Sesame. Straight through the chutes, he went, riding fame’s vapor trail. Truman Capote on the heels of Mr. Jackass in the celluloid city.

I thought my luck might change if I switched Walk of Fame stars, so I moved from Irving Thalberg to Julio Iglesias. I even tried Hugh Hefner’s star for a while.

“If you don’t have a reservation,” an usher told the crowd, “we can’t help you out tonight.”

Nobody left. It was clear that people without reservations were getting in.

“Can’t a guy get a drink around here?” I asked an usher.

He shook his head.

“I’m S. Lo,” I said, and he turned away.

Just then the three Australian kids tumbled out the front door of the hotel, 86’d by bouncers. Before I could ask them about the playful sophistication inside, they zipped away in a cab.

OK, so maybe the S. Lo image needs some freshening up. An eye patch, torn jeans, neck tattoo, shaved head, bevy of bimbos. The city is crawling with image consultants who get people ready for their close-ups, and one of them’s got to have the answer.

Keep a seat warm for me, Teddy’s, because I’ll be back.

I was Steve-O before that Jackass bellied up to his first bar.

Reach the columnist at steve.lopez@latimes.com and read previous columns at www.latimes.com/lopez.