I loved Clockenflap. It was like Rockit, but with fabulous toilets. I got there at sunset, even though Kulu had been telling me to go in the afternoon and jam with him on the mic. Hey, I’m Nightlife, I couldn’t wake up. My favorite lesbian Mandy had her crazy dyke birthday party the night before at the exquisite Lei Dou (“Here” in Cantonese). I don’t have enough poetic vocabulary to express my love for that place. I had wanted to feature it in Open Bar for weeks, but they didn’t want any coverage, as they wanted to postpone the inevitable invasion of hoi polloi. I want to share my secrets, but ah well, that just means more months of elitist partying at the discreet venue for us. Back to Clockenflap: the Young Knives were thoroughly entertaining. Who would’ve thought dorkiness would be so sexy? Jockenstrap indeed. The Robot collective simply does not disappoint. It’s supposed to be a prototype of an annual event but it’s already a success in my column. I’m not picky. I am a city boy, I was born, bred, and will die in pollution. Sitting on the Cyberport lawn underneath the open sky is pure luxury. Add live music, a vodka cranberry, a Thai fish cake picnic, half of the people you know, and voila: a most pleasurable and victorious event. Even if you are a cynical, degenerate city-slicker and open spaces freak you out, there are still glittery towering buildings all around to ease your agoraphobia, which is a totally ghetto disorder anyway. The next Monday, I went to see Delta Goodrem at the MO Bar. I had no idea that old, rich people could be that loud. RUDE. These two Australian ladies – excuse me, emus – were bellowing away for five songs straight until I lost it and had to stare down the old one with my signature dagger look. It hit bull’s eye, and she gingerly scampered away to socialize defiantly in another corner. Bitch, please. Shut the fuck up. If you want to mingle loudly, just go up to Zuma and scream as thunderously as you want. By no means am I a sound-Nazi, you can chat all you want at a rock concert or a shitty bar in Wan Chai, but it was a strictly by-invite-only artist showcase in a small intimate venue, not a “Please come to MO Bar for free drinks and meet-and-greet” event. I’m not even a fan of the young Australian reincarnation of Celine Dion (and Dion’s not even dead yet), but I don’t disrespect a singer who is trying to reach us all with her art. I couldn’t care less about Delta’s music, but I was courteous enough to keep my fat trap shut in case someone around me did.