My Japanese designer friend Mieko, with whom I’ve stumbled out of clubs in Manhattan and Paris, had her birthday last week. Everyone had to wear five colors or more. Phfffsshh, five only? That’s me on a gloomy day. We went to W52, and had limoncello shots, then at Sliver next door, I was offered a “Lucia Number Two,” named after my bootilicious dancer friend Lucia (to whom I once humiliatingly lost my weave to during a dance battle). It was a ridiculously fun Studio 54 party, with stupid disco from Lucas Luraka and way too much bubbly, which resulted in me calling my witch friend Maloy the next day saying I simply couldn’t leave my bed for the 5pm ferry to Macau for queen bitch of electrosmut, Peaches. “Let’s just take the 6pm one with McNuggets,” I suggested. My alcoholic friends Mr. Maloney and Miss Fung told me that they were clutching the sick bags on the boat over as well.
At the Venetian, some regrettable woman, who clearly didn’t schedule her social life properly, complained to the hotel (who really has NOTHING to do with organizing the show) that she wanted her money back because she had been there since 5pm and Peaches hadn’t gone on yet, and that there was no proper seating. Well, whaddya expect? Peaches ain’t the HK Sinfonietta. You want Peaches to perform at 5:15 sharp? HellloooO? Ever heard of Crappy Opening Bands? The COB right before Peaches that night was a vile local band that just banged on their keyboards and yelled in German. How progressive and artistic. NOT. It was Scheiß. Everyone was comatose, except for the children in front who were on ketamine. Yeah some girl got carried out. I guess she got it wrong and overdosed on horse tranq. Bitch, please. It’s a Sunday party at the Venetian, not a Sunday party at the veterinarian.
But the moment Peaches came on, BAM! All woke up. She just transmogrified the whole torpid crowd into a Hot Fierce Mess. Third track, she dove into the crowd. “Jesus walks on water; Peaches walks on you,” she droned in her authoritative magnetic tone. She ran off the stage and climbed onto the bar. Everyone screamed and rushed toward the other end of the hall. It was like, playing tag with a demigod. I can smugly say that I was between her crotch and touched her inner thigh. My filthy friends wanted to smell my hands afterward. She reached down and tried to grab my utility cap. Peaches, please. Nobody touches my hat, not even you, sugar. Then she got all the brainwashed idiots with a penis take off their T-shirts. Classic.
As I’m writing this, Peaches is in Singapore, and our Fierce Deputy Editor, who’s at our Singapore office right now, just might go see her show. I hope she terrorizes the shit out of sterile Singapore. I meant Peaches, not our Fierce Dep Ed!
Last Friday, we went to Diesel’s “SEX SELLS—unfortunately, we sell jeans” SS/10 denim campaign. It was a lot of fun, with free lip-smacking Absolut vodka and mouth-watering hot dogs—piping hot, bursting at the seams, juicy and succulent, coated in unctuous mayonnaise. No perverts, I’m not referring to the buff, topless models walking around. Yes, ’furters, with cute diced fresh cucumbers and pickles as relish. The cougars Liza, iNTi and I went inside their live peep show (their Queen’s Road Central windows) posed with the topless models, then kicked them out, and posed as models ourselves. I hope we increased the sales, Diesel!