Overrated? Pointless? Bitch, you betta get used to seeing Lady Gaga’s Lower East Side fuckery because she is here to STAY. And teens, she’s your gen’s Madonna, so start loving her long long. So I was on Pottinger getting the last items of my ensemble for the Channel V Going Gaga Party at FINDS. Some girls were trying on a headband, whining, “Isn’t it too much... lashes, wig AND headband?” WTF? That’s the point—you’re dressing up as Lady Gaga, not as yourself on your lame-ass hen night. Appalled, I grabbed two headbands and two false lashes, paid, and left. My own personal Haus of Gaga for the evening, Julia (on makeup), advised, “Yeah we should overlap two or three lashes for the drama.” Maloy (goldsmith) mused, “Those headbands will look amazing together.” She started love-glue-gunning, then did my sleeves, gloves and wig. After four hours of arts-n-crafts, with my face being the canvas, we all agreed that we shall do dress up nights more often. Just for the hell of it. Simply going out for drinks gets tediously dull, no? I would have gladly stayed in, but art has to be shared for maximum significance, so I catwalked into FINDS at 11pm. It was major Rocky Horror amateur drag queen night. Besides the veteran vamps Chiquitta, Fabiola and Coco Pop, and two white girls who painstakingly fashioned impressive spectacles, fans and gladiator shoulder pads from playing cards, everyone else were just bitches in blonde wigs. One woman wore a red, curly clown wig. My mate Ryan screamed, “WRONG, Ronald!” No, this isn’t your niece’s birthday party at McDonald’s, dahling. Our dark Features Editor, who also takes the art of dressing up earnestly (she was a self-made Cleopatra last Hallow’s) agreed, “Come ON, you can’t expect to win with that shet.” No, we’re not mixing up cynical bitchiness with insight and sophistication—those contestants were trolls. I decided not to join the competition—to save them from the disgrace of competing with my glamour. But of course I just had to do it for The Fame, so I stepped up onto the stage in my new heels, where VJ Dom and Lisa S were trying their best to be thoughtful with the She-Hulks and Project Runway rejects. Miss S cried out, “Oh My God you look like Lady Gaga!” I guess nobody else did. Nobody had thought of their look weeks in advance, nor spent three hours on hair and makeup. Dom offered to hold my Givenchy for me while I threw fierce shapes to “Poker Face” on stage. What a gentleman. I found him even more chivalrous when he pretended to make out with some tranny fug who looked like a Jedi Knight. In my heart, my Haus of Gaga and I had won. I was Beautiful, Dirty, Rich. So I just went out to the balcony when they did the final rounds and sipped drinks from a straw while my makeup melted, luxuriating in the fact that I was going to interview Gaga up close and personal in two days. Saturday was the mass pilgrimage to mum mum Macau. The PR from Universal texted us to remind us to book our seats on the ferries because the pier was packed with travelers in wigs already. At 7pm, in the shitty basement of the Venetian sat The Gaga. Starstruck, I put on my best Poker Face. A Filipina journo asked her, “Lady Gaga, you said on MTV that your show tonight will be gay... just how gay will it be?” Lady Gaga replied, “Oh it’s gonna be FUCKIN GAY.” I decided not to ruin my night, so I skipped Stephanie Yung’s performance and went up to yoga pal Victor’s suite, dropped off my notebook and drank some leftover champagne. When I came back to the Cotai Strip, her art house film parody opening video was playing. “Who Shot Candy Warhol.” Brilliant. And then she materialized. The crowd went feral. Brad and Vic turned around and saw me wiping tears of ecstatic joy. “He’s crying!” they exclaimed. Yes, my heart chakra completely opened by Gaga. When she took out her Disco Stick, I fainted. I finally understood the authority a royal scepter could convey. She rocked hardcore. People who say she can’t sing obviously never had the fortune to hear her perform live. And damn, in terms of pure entertainment, she honestly topped every pop diva performance I’d ever seen. The whole show was more like a party than a concert. “I love you China. There’s just so many of you!” she told us. Gaga also had an important message for us in the developing third world: “Fuck Money.” But then she remarked later, in a coat of transparent plastic bubbles, “What do I know? I’m just a bitch in bubbles.” Everyone was in heat from Gaga’s performance; then things got hotter when we got out to the pool, with fire dancers and the sweltering Macanese air. After endless vodka and bubbly, people started to Just Dance, strip and enter the pool, including Gaga’s hot drummerboy. Some people were taken away in wheelchairs. I thought they were geniuses who came in the crippled Gaga look from her “Paparazzi” video, but apparently they had just slipped by the pool and had to be wheeled off to the hospital. Some K_nt picked me up and threw me in the water fully clothed. Which was cool, because I was boiling in my sequined tights by then. Thanks Kent, I Like It Rough. I’m sure y’all who were there would agree that it was the BEST hot mess of a night ever. Eh, Eh. There’s Nothing Else I Can Say!