Nightlife is Bourrée

Writer Bourée Lam is substituting for Johannes Pong this week, who is on vacation. Johannes notes, “Bourrée means DRUNK in French. She tells me it’s a ‘dance,’ but oh well.”

No betch, this isn’t the story of how I met your mother. This is how I met you. I’m thinking this was sometime circa 2008, when I first started my job at your unnamed rival magazine. I was having an awesome night out at Cliq when leggings were still in. It was when Enzo and Kid Fresh first started the Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy parties. I look at the photos that night and it’s embarrassing—me in an all-black catsuit-like thingee with knee high gray boots, and my counterpart in flannel shirt with a jean miniskirt. LeTina was our nightlife writer and though we had never met you, we were supposed to hate you (but actually we didn’t, she was a closet fag hag and would have loved to add you to her collection).

So we were hanging out with Clayton Hauck of everyoneisfamous.com after I stole him from some guys hitting on him. It must be annoying to be a semi-famous party photographer because everyone thinks you’re awesome and you think they look like shit because they’re so drunk. I’d met him years ago in Chi-town and we hopped up to the DJ booth to hang out and be cam-whores.

We were having such a good time when some dude with a fedora walks in. He heads to the stage and we’re dancing on it, he wants to put his big Gucci man-bag behind the booth and we’re like, there’s too much dancing going on here for your man-bag mister. And he’s all like, oh no bitches. So he’s walking over to the bouncer and telling him to kick us off stage because we’re “disruptive.” And really, we were just being fun party girls so we’re all like, no you didn’t! The next thing we know the mean (and big) bouncer we weren’t friendly with was actually kicking us off stage. We were pissed as hell.

Anyway, me and LeTina get man-handled off stage and I’m too drunk to let this go. I was conveniently holding a tall glass of ice hydration and I stomped over to throw it at the dude who threw us off stage, who was now dancing like a gay man (sans man-bag) in the middle of the Cliq dancefloor. And out of nowhere, Alleric (sp??), the club owner, is flying over like “Noooooooooo” and catches my throw midway, landing the drink on the floor and splashing some girls in trucker hats.

“What the fuck Alleric?” I said.