United States Of Baldness

Rather a bizarre thought occurred to me: is there a cosmic crochet going on? Because I detect a peculiar pattern which leads me to my not-so-earthshaking doubt: is hairlessness hip again? Significantly, why are we seeing a lot of Will de Vaughn and Geoff Rodriguez popping everywhere like lustfully chewable erotic mushrooms?

Thursday night we returned to Piedra to support Twinkle Ferraren for the ongoing Fabric series, some glamour chain of events running the gamut of local designers and their hordes of party retinue. My mad stylemeister friends usually go there frequently but because I officially laid all claims to the title of Social Malingerer and devote huge chunks of energy to ongoing creative collaborations I skipped the past few Thursdays except for that of the launch night.

Saturday, for lack of better things to do, we hit Warehouse 135 and this is where my odd theory ripened. Both the Piedra and Warehouse gig were populated by Will de Vaughn and Geoff Rodriguez and hordes of Mr. Clean wannabes. I spotted at least nine bald edibles particularly that dude wearing black Levi’s and a smart striped black brown and pale yellow dress shirt and if you happen to be reading this blog consider this an invitation to hormonal fencing. Kidding. Even the Warehouse DJ was bald, wearing a black shirt with “Knob Tweaker” stamped on it. Mmmmm.

Baldness is doing a rampage. Bald people are hot, so hot my crotch was doing an internal calisthenics. No, not really. But you get the drift.

We downed a potent assortment of intoxicants, danced like demented lizards and swapped flirty squints with similarly inebriated random strangers.

Then there’s this slender babe in lime green dress who was so gorgeous she should come with a fire hazard caution slapped on her forehead. I was itching to sidle up and prod her to dance with me but she’s perpetually surrounded by a swarm of her protective boring female friends and despite my state of drunkenness I resigned to the age old rule of not approaching a flock of chicks. Unless, of course you are deeply masochistic, and would want your cock trampled by irate stilettos, then by all means stir the hornets nest.

I’m not wholly sure but I think it was Luke Jickain free-styling nearby with his date, a cute girl who looked routinely bored she should have stayed home and violated a broomstick instead of looking like an uptight twat. They were slithering with the other guy who appears to be their friend. The guy is wearing striped shirt and dark pants and dark (grey?) tie. He’s tall, slim but not skinny, and has a cute face like he just leapt out of a Bel Ami video, skid through Hedi Slimane’s runway and now slinking to the thumps of house music in Warehouse. He has a choirboy’s face and I was thinking: Hmmmmmm what a clean wall to vandalize!

My bionic peripheral vision also locked on a sleek, gorgeous morena with sexy squinty eyes, fawn-like neck, a knee-weakening smile and cleavage that would call to mind the St. Andrea’s fault line. In another corner a hunky cute guy in powder blue shirt bobs his head like a crazed woodpecker who just inhaled a line of narcotics. He’s pretty much fuckable but he also comes across as someone who is smart which lends him the aura of desirability.

Subsequently I caught sight of another cute dude who has the combined appeal of a college boy and a young corporate upstart. He’s sporting a carefully disheveled hair, black denim, brown cotton jacket with nude stitches and a brown shirt with the number eight graffiti in it. Surely a prime contender for Pederast Boss Bait trophy.

Yet with most of Manila’s stunning Saturday night crowd colonizing Warehouse 135, the invasion of glossy and stubble heads upped the ante in the arousal department. It seemed like a casting call for Caligula. If Caligula has a razor.