Sigh, another late closing of the mag. This late Friday finishing-work shit really hampers my joie de vivre and wide-ranging social life. Because now I can’t schedule formal dinners with my French friends to usher in the bon weekend. Eating for the French is not a private act. It’s a public show, involving the appropriate decorum, the polished conversation (read: public debate), the sommelier walking over with his counsel. It’s a play, it’s drama, it’s Lila. But it’s no fun when you’re unfashionably more-than-an-hour late to a nice, sit-down dinner with courses. Because etiquette’s just not that enjoyable when you have to play catch up. Your champagne’s flat, you’re attempting to stuff the appetizer into your bouche as gracefully as possible while everyone’s already palate-cleansing with the sorbet, and the Burgundy’s already been brought out for the red meat. So I had to cancel dinner with the French and called up some Cantonese bitches I knew were supping at Tung Po with British tourists. It was almost 10 when I got out of the cab in North Point. Man, is that dai pai dong thumpin’ or what? I went in, and there’s Xtina blasting. Actually, it was much better that a refined sit-down dinner because I got to unleash my stress and scream obscenities at the top of my voice and nobody told me to shut the fuck up. You really can’t do that at a French restaurant. One of the matronly proprietresses came over, wrestled one of our dining companions affectionately and forced her to drink her glass of whiskey. Fun! Then we went to Rachel Barr. You’ve never heard of it because it’s a private lounge. It’s my fabulous Jimmy Choo–obsessed friend Rachel Barr’s flat in Happy Valley. She is the hostess with the mostest. I bartended, and the G&T’s that I concocted were stellar with star-shaped ice cubes. However, my attempt to make a “black cow” with Bailey’s and soda coagulated into this rancid, puke-like mixture. The texture was not fit for human consumption, so I had to excuse myself and pour it into the toilet and not let anybody see my failed attempt. “Touch My Body” came on the iPod and I just had to writhe on Rachel’s bed like the Mariah video. A mock-pillow fight ensued in slow mo. Then Rachel showed us how to lunge to house music. Hit that. Rachel Barr was rocking. I can’t wait for her to marry a nice Mr. Clubb and open Rachel Clubb. By two-ish, the tourists had to retire, and one drunkenly invited us back to their hotel room. Brits, puh-lease. Are you really tourists from London? It’s Friday night at 2am, and going back to your hotel room to clear up the mini bar is so NOT London, nor is it my idea of Nightlife. I think the straight, manly one (the other’s gay) is in reality a delicate flower. For he went to Yumla last weekend and was offered tequila shots, but he poured the shot down my friend Judy’s leg instead of swallowing it LIKE A MAN, so she was like, “HELLO did you just pour your drink down my leg while pretending to down it?!?” Embarrassing? Rather. But never you mind, you’re leaving our territory this evening anyway. Bon voyage.