Burn Rabbit, Burn
I know jack shit.
I’ve blamed drugs. I’ve blamed alcohol. I’ve blamed anal. I’ve blamed the fact that it’s usually three in the morning. At some point you have to accept another possibility: maybe I’m just an idiot every now and then.
And that’s perfectly manageable when the biggest mystery of the evening is whether we remembered the condom or where exactly my panties disappeared to. Those are problems with a fairly limited blast radius. It becomes slightly more concerning when it involves things that actually matter. Like a night out at Valmoor.
Once again, I completely misunderstood the invitation. The theme was Burn It All. Naturally I figured that meant what everyone at a nightclub means when they yell “Burn It Down!” five minutes after arriving, somewhere between “BAM!” and “Get Naked!” Apparently not.
Apparently it literally meant fire. Flames. Embers. Infernos. A themed night. Who knew?
Fortunately I wasn’t the only person who missed the deeper meaning of the memo, and I’ve long relied on the strategy that if you show up looking good enough, or hot for that matter, people assume you knew what you were doing all along. It has worked for me far more often than I deserve to. I love my life.
No, the bigger surprise came moments later. If you’ve followed this space for a while, you’ve probably seen me ramble endlessly about nightlife. Where to go, which clubs are alive, how the nights unfold. I like pretending I’m somewhere near the center of it all and some of you seem to believe that. So imagine me walking into the Red Rabbit on another Thursday, hearing one of the strongest sets I’ve heard in ages, looking up at the booth, and realizing I have absolutely no idea who the DJ is.
Not a clue.
Meanwhile, judging by the ease with which she worked that room, DJ Nina has clearly been making the rounds for quite some time. It was strangely humbling. And exciting.
Turns out I didn’t need to understand the invitation after all.
DJ Nina burned the place down just fine without my help.
By the time she was done, I needed a recovery drink and half an hour at Sonance just to remember my own name.
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This post is not sponsored or paid for in any way. I was also not blackmailed or tortured to write it.
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