Last week was my birthday week. I had scheduled a two-hour “Time Ritual” at the Landmark Oriental spa because our dark features editor instructed all of editorial to try out spa treatments that week. And then our fierce deputy editor suggested that I accept the InterContinental’s lunch invitation to check out their newly renovated poolside, spa cabanas and everything. Yes, the universe is sweet to me. The hardest decision I had to make for the day was to choose between the garoupa or the mushroom risotto for the main. And I opted for the vegetarian risotto since it was Shivaratri (Shiva’s Night) the next day. It was a lovely alfresco lunch under the sun, with the splendid sea breeze and splendid company. Not a bad way to start your birthday. Then the Landmark Oriental Spa for three hours. Completely empty, it was like my own private nude Disneyland. I had a Swedish massage, which was relaxing, but um, it really felt like nothing as I had just recently had the BEST hardcore intense full body and foot massage in Taichung (overlooking a waterfall). In the evening, I went to my surprise birthday dinner party. I didn't even need to feign ignorance – my only instructions were, “Be at SoHo by 8:45!” It turned out to be an 11-course contemporary Indian banquet at Babek, and my party made me chant pre-dinner mantras out loud, whereupon the Nepali and Indian staff rolled their eyes. No, they just smiled. And I was utterly titillated because the theme of the party was “Johannes.” Apparently, my look is now iconic. More ego-fanning for me here. Everyone had dressed up as ME, with a hat, scarf, and a cut-out printout of my face as a mask – it was held up with two ice lolly sticks, yet maintained structural integrity. Thank you Angela and Tina for your arts-n-crafts! And thank God nobody mentioned my age. Ended up at Volume, where I had so many glasses of free bubbly (thanks Evan dahling) I was peeing champagne the next morning. On Friday, after opening a bottle of red from Tunisia in the office, my very classy editorial team took me to... the Pickled Pelican for a casual belated. It was fun! I’ve never been to a place like that before. Free shrimp cocktail, free shots and freer office gossip, can’t complain. Thank you, team! Then we headed to the Dior Homme party at Felix, an out of the ordinary venue for a fashion show and party. The restaurant/club was transformed into a sea of black and white suits. And gay men. Since Fall/Winter 01-02, there has been no choice for the gay socialite but to become a manwhore for Dior. And it’s all thanks to the creative force of Hedi Slimane, who decided to delve into the exploration of the male sex during the last few seasons. Oh, I think that was the first time I used the word “sex” in my column. Usually it’s just my regular lexicon of “ego,” “karma” and “bitch, please.” Which brings me to... Bitch, please. What is up with not dancing after the fashion show nowadays? At Dior, there was this most kickass electro being played by an electrifying she-jay named Mimi Xu aka Misty Rabbit from Paris (who looks like a cross between Pizzicato 5’s Nomiya Maki and Bai Ling; check her collective’s sound at myspace.com/kuskusmusic). She even had Madonna urge us to “Get Into The Groove,” boy you’ve got to prove. But nobody, except a fabulous half-dozen, really danced. Are people too cool to dance now? Or too insecure? Too sober? Was there not enough free champagne? Hong Kong Island dealers refusing to come over to TST? All those fitted monochrome suits thought they were stallions, but in reality, they were behaving like geldings. Google it. Oh forget it, I’ll tell you what it means – no balls.
