Our Deputy Editor wasn’t in all week, because apparently her kneecap almost fell off, probably because she was so fierce (and numbed by alcohol) that she was resolute enough to stand the whole night at Birch’s Brutal House afterparty. She was then hospitalized and is now currently having a cybernetic leg being grafted to her. Let’s pray that her ligaments will heal, and that she won’t be even fiercer, like the Terminator.
She is still a workaholic and kicking all our asses on Messenger, though. And she threatened to break ALL OUR kneecaps if we didn’t finish our work according to the schedule.
Could there have been more stuff happening last week? I don’t even have room to talk about the weekend.
Monday – Wyclef Jean at MO Bar. Everyone thought it would be a shitty show but the former Fugee had so much energy and was all over the bar. No, he wasn’t drinking himself stupid - he was actually dancing all over the bar. He took some banker wanker’s necktie and tied it to his forehead. HOT. And who’da thought this Haitian brotha would sing Men at Work and “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”? Oh, all my friends are attention-whores because they all went on stage and shook their booties. Yeah, I’m talking about you, Nirwan and Becks. And why were you wearing my hat?
Wednesday – Banksy exhibition. I love his art. Last time I was in Paris, I bought a whole stack of on-sale books with photos of his work, and I lugged them all back. I gave them all out, and I don’t remember whom I lent my copy to, but that was my favorite book from last year. Somehow, his guerilla graffiti loses its defiant mojo when it’s framed with a price tag.
Thursday – I forsook my regular Vedanta class and went Cantopop fabulous. Tina got backstage passes to Unexpected Shirley Kwan, the diva’s, uh, unexpected concert. She’s one of the last diva bitches (I totally mean that as a compliment) left in our town of personality-less pop. She sang a Tibetan chant laced with electronica for the opening (ooh, political). And then she sang ”Cucurucucu Paloma” in Spanish and futuristic latex. Better than Caetano Veloso’s version, and certainly better than Madonna’s atrocious Spanish lesson. Ugh.