Nurse's Lounge: Diddy's Pre-Inauguration Gala

I used to love H.E.R..  Any Hip Hop heads in the house?  When I was growing up, rap music 

was like a special friend.  I watched the videos, learned the lyrics and read the magazines.  I saw the odd concert here and there, and even found myself rubbing shoulders with some of the up-and-comers in the Toronto scene.  That was then.  Now, the Hip Hop animal has evolved into a beast of burden. ..for me anyway.  The commercialism surrounding the craft saps so much of the creativity and diversity and that leads me to tonight.

I got to Washington D.C. today.  I’m here for the Obama inauguration on Tuesday, but I have a few days to kill.  I want to experience as much as possible.  The Capitol Region is booming with events.  Before I left Toronto, a few American friends suggested that I get tickets for at least one dress up event.  My travel partners and I weren’t keen on forking out more than $300 a piece on some of the inauguration balls that caught our attentions, so instead, we opted for Diddy. 

The “Gala” event was held at LOVE, one of Washington’s largest and most celebrated night clubs.  It’s a beautiful venue, so I pulled out a hot little backless Benedicto number, that I scored from the designer Juliana Corona when I hosted the runway show for her Spring ’08 line in Yorkville. I love a good excuse to get all decked out.  This my lovelies, was not a good excuse.

The crowd was beautiful.  I love seeing my people dressed to the nines and hitting the town.  We entered the club. Checked coats, and ascended the stairs and hit the dancefloor.  The party was hosted by the Orginal Bad Boy, Sean “P Diddy”  Combs.  He graced the VIP with friends, pass holders and Stevie Wonder.  When I saw Stevie, I was hopeful for a change of pace, maybe some Soul and R&B for more authentic Gala vibe.  Instead we were in for a ceaseless playlist of late nineties to modern day hip hop hosted by Angie Ange and The Cuban Cigar Smoker from DC’s 93.9 FM. 

Stevie Wonder addressing the crowd

Let me get right to it.  The party was ok-ish.  The music wasn’t my style.  I needed some relief from the monotony of it all.  There were a couple of reggae sets that felt like Christmas to me, even though the DJ didn’t have a clue how to mix OUR stuff. 

My four inch heels had an even worse time than I did.  There were so many folks there.  My poor purple pumps were tried and tested every time I got shoved, pushed, or even stepped on.  Then, when my toes were about tell off my 4 inch stilettos, I chose  to go the non-violent route by finding the closest wall lean on and take a break.  Just as I found the perfect spot, a couple of guys got into a fist fight right next to me.  Next thing I know, a bottle breaks, I fall to the floor and above me are two  200 pound black men.   My shoes – “Where the heck are my shoes?”

Somewhere in the mix, a pair of beautiful raspberry pumps were suffocating and crying for mercy.  Thankfully, after coming to my defence my big brother hurled a swift right hook to the thug who pile-drove me, dove in for the shoes...and we bolted.  Diddy, Stevie, beautiful people, smell ya later!