The Old Me

For some time, I thought I’ve already detoxified from my decadent party sins—booze, beats, er..boys. I thought my gimik days have seen their august years. Silly me.

Last weekend, I mounted an elegant dinner bash for our dear boss (Shu’s “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” simply reeked with fabulousity, the poi dancers sent bubbly drools from the djs-slash-cuckoo-titties and Bloomfields, wow, was so swell with their black-framed-glasses-yes-we’re-geeks performance). After the celebration for our venerated Big Guy, we turned my office to a loading station for booze and more booze. Magic’s Mojo would have wanted us (me and my wonderful staff) to check Big Fish at A, but hottie Winner (of 99.5 RT) was leaping out of his skin to tag us to the grand launch party of Manor, the newest club in Eastwood owned by the Emba peeps. Manor won in the final tally.

Over in Eastwood, the queue was, ugh, kilometric. Judging by the busy cash register, I surmise the entrance tick would cause an arm and a leg—lotsa partyphiles were lining up to see and be seen (and who wouldn’t, Manor is touted to be the newest, hippest club in town). But sink this in, children: the magic of, er, clout, is mightier than any wad of cash. So in we went to Manor’s Penthouse and Basement. The crowd was a preppy mix of hets, straight-acting bi’s and fab PLUs (People Like Us). Everyone dressed cool. ‘Twas so fab and hip, I was reeking with young blood from the mostly junior crowd. I felt sooo old, but, whatheck, it’s never too late to parteee!

The night after, I did my usual Malate sojourn, my usual O Bar-Bed-Club Mafia route. Ho-hum, methinks I’m so friggin’ bored with the same old-same old Malate poseurs that I’m in dire need of a new hangout. Any ideas? Sigh.