CLUBS: “I’m famous, bitches -- at BOOTIE!"

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Club BOOTIE is a San Francisco club treasure -- as our fabulous young intern Justin Juul was to find out last weekend. Read below of his wondrous adventures with the queens of monthly mash-up nightlife -- even if he didn't cross-dress like I told him to. Hmph. -- Marke B.

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What Justin didn't wear

I have danced exactly five times in my life. Once, at a rave in Los Angeles, the designer drugs took control of my body and simply refused to let go. I cut a goddamn rug that night, dancing for hours, oblivious to dirty glances from the jungle-kid/breakers on a mission to ridicule those with comparatively bad moves. The other time was at a rave in the Inland Empire when my illegal substance cocktail made it impossible for me to sit still. I climbed up on a speaker and shook myself rotten for six hours straight. It was glorious. Then there was that other time at an outdoor rave in the high desert when... you get the picture.

These days are different. Since cleaning up and ditching the totally awesome “underground” rave scene to return to school, I have not been able to work up enough courage to shake and jive until last Saturday at Club BOOTIE, San Francisco’s original mash-up monthly at the DNA lounge. Thank you Adrian and The Mysterious D. Thank you for reminding me that somewhere beneath my socially awkward exterior lies a motherfucking dance machine.

When I stepped onto the floor last night, I tried to fade into the background like I normally do. I didn’t even want to dance, really. The “Sizzling Garlic Crab” and “Surf –n-Turf” vapors still clung to my body from the 10 hour shift at my restaurant day-job and my legs were week from running around getting ketchup for European yuppies –- not dancing material. But then I heard it. The godfather of glam rap was speaking, and his words were taking on new meaning thanks to the music that accompanied them. “Allow me to re-introduce my self.” Jay-Z said as the budoomp-boomp of Soft Cell’s “Tainted Love” began its loop. He may have been simply announcing his presence to the crowd, but what Jay Hovah really meant was, “Justin Juul, get ready to dance mother-fucker!” My elbow suddenly started twitching as my rubbery legs found the rhythm and began to shake. Holy shit –I was dancing!
I had to dance, man, DJ BC was ripping shit up.

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He finds his mojo! (Is that DJ Earworm dancing next to him?)

After Soft Cell vs. Jay-Z came Snoop Dogg vs. Olivia Newton John and John Travolta. Beyonce vs. The Breeders came next, followed by Run DMC vs. The Cure and Johnny Cash vs. Wu-Tang Clan. I danced like a madman until the sweat dripped down my face and I had to stop –skeet skeet skeet!

As soon as I stepped down from my go-go podium I was approached by a certain San Francisco legend known as Princess Kennedy. “Will you please take a picture with me?” she asked. “I’m going away to college in a week and I want to show all the squares in Utah what a real dancer looks like.” How could I decline?

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Princess and the pea

After a quick photo session I made my way to the bar where the main man herself, DJ Adrian, was waiting patiently. “Is your name Justin?” she asked. “You’re Marke’s intern at The Guardian, right? Oh my god, I’ve wanted to meet you for so long. Can I get a picture with you?”

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DJ Adrian and the unmysterious J.

My night went on and on in this fashion until my mouth ached from smiling. OK, I’m lying. When I was done dancing I went on a mission to meet famous people so I could get some good flicks for this blog. DJ Adrian and Ms. Kennedy merely humored my starfucking tendencies.

After satisfying my photo requirements I headed over to Crepes a Go-Go to get a Swiss cheese, mushroom, and crystal hot-sauce crepe. It was the ultimate culinary mash-up –- France vs. America vs. The Fiery Deep South Condiment. As I sat on the curb eating my French burrito, I wondered what exactly about Club BOOTIE had inspired me to forget my neuroses and bust a move.

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Crepe a go-go: still dancin'!

Mash-ups will bring out the dance machine in anyone, I believe. They are the anecdote to social anxiety disorder -- too silly for anyone to take seriously and too catchy and danceable for people to ignore. When you hear one of your favorite new wave songs mixed with late-nineties gangsta rap lyrics you just gotta move, man. Thanks again BOOTIE. The Fucking-Awesome Intern shall return.

*Note to reader. Marke wouldn’t let me cover BOOTIE until I swore up and down that I’d cross-dress. He said all the interns get a cross-dressing assignment at some point and that if I wanted to keep my “job,” I had better play along. “How can you expect to get total coverage at a mash-up club if you don’t mash up your gender roles?” he said. Well Mr. Marke Bieshke, I was reading through my intern-packet this morning and I didn’t see anything about cross-dressing. WTF? Here’s your picture, you intern abuser. I hope you’re happy.

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All pics by Justin's amazingly patient girlfriend.

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