Medici is, as every uptown scenester knows, just exclusive enough to be called exclusive, but not exclusive enough that a pretty big rack or a pretty big wallet won't get you in. We know because, well, we've been there, and we are not classy broads, despite what you may have been led to believe. This didn't seem to matter to the sea of middle-aged advertising execs, building contractors and PR guys who practically lined up to buy us very dirty martinis. By the end of the night, we were grinding with Uncle John over in the VIP section, the velvet rope disappearing before our very eyes. Bleary-eyed and hungover, we woke up the next morning with several business cards stuffed in our purse and the number of an Indiana Pacer point guard added to our cell. And we haven't had to pay for dinner since.