Last Friday, I went to a birthday bash at this huge Indian compound in Kowloon Tong. Apparently, “everyone” was talking about the bash all last week. Blame Facebook. Nothing’s private anymore. That’s why the birthday girl just texted me and asked me to leave her family name out. Dammit. I had namedropped like there was no tomorrow and peppered the name all over the column, because everybody likes to read that socialite shit, right? Well I just had to go and delete twenty-six mentions of them in the following paragraphs. It’s just that her family is sensitive. The thing I don’t understand is... how come other lifestyle magazines can print their full names in every fucking issue but I can’t? Hmph!
Last year, the birthday girl had a Mexican theme—my friend Tina went as Frida Kahlo, unibrow and all, and I wore my lucky poncho and grabbed all the candy on the floor of their yard after some incredibly violent girl opened a can of whoop-ass on the piñata. This year, there was no dress code but the birthday girl had provided lots of party hats and masks and fake pearls, which she made everyone put on. I had arrived fashionably late (implausible!) and was wondering why all the ladies wore such cheap jewelry to a birthday party at the Kowloon Tong palace...
Under the sassy orders of Jacqui MacLennan, the fiercest Mistress of Ceremonies I’ve ever seen, even the most reluctant of manly Indian men were forced to play musical chairs, according to the wishes of the birthday girl. Twenty of us danced around chairs to cheesy dance tunes, and I swear I haven’t had that intensity of fun in a long while. I was most surprised that the child that I had been years ago was still alive, and I had made contact. If you bother to penetrate the many crusted layers of accumulated bullshit around you, the child within you will ecstatically. Even when I lost (last seven or eight), I was filled with this indescribable detonation of joy. I believe that’s what Jesus Christ meant when he said, “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 18:3. It’s interesting to see just who is soft enough to break into spontaneous song and dance and screams and giggles, and who can’t because they’re still hard, even with God knows how many shots of tequila.
In the end, two white girls won. Go figure. They took their heels off and got into the groove with Madonna. It was a tie. Around one o’ clock, some pretty drunk people were deciding to head back over to Central for a bit of Volar or D-i. I felt no need. I believe the birthday girl and I had as much fun as we physically could have already.
The next day, our fierce Deputy Editor had her birthday at where we’ve already deemed to be the most fabulous bar lounge in Kowloon, Room One at Miramar Hotel. Which, by the time you read this column, will have a totally different name to go with their scintillating new look. Of course, I have hints on what the cool new appellation will be, but I am under oath not to disclose it until they announce it themselves. Ugh, that’s twice in this column where my tongue has been shackled. Nightlife hates being restrained. In bed I don’t mind, but not in my column.