BMW sponsored 24/7 Nocturnal Navigator’s Awards night last Wednesday and it felt like a premature ejaculation: it was quickly over before you can fully relish its orgasmic pleasure.
I didn’t plan to be there but my annoyingly relentless demiglamourpuss friend PoshyKat bullied me into going with her.
“I’m in a meeting,” I dismissed her invitation. “In fact I’ll be in a meeting till later.”
“Oh come on!” (I can imagine her rolling her eyeballs). “Be my date! I’m actually in the corner of Makati Avenue! Go down na, I’ll pick you up in the Paseo entrance! Won’t stay long in the event myself!”
Let me tell you something about PoshyKat: The word NO is irrelevant as far as she’s concerned.
So I went. To shut her up. Only to want to kick myself later.
Nothing spectacular happened: A snorefest performance by Michelle Branch/Vanessa Carlton wannabe Julianna and handful awards handed out in variety of faux accents I was beginning to suspect I was shoved into Phonetics Class for Illegal Migrants. The usual suspects won, which extracted a loud yawn from a bored guy behind us. A funky/soul performance by SinoSikat was upstaged by Cool Vodka tonics as the highlight of the event for me.
Having exchanged pleasant hellos to acquaintances and random quasifriends present we loitered a bit. We shook our heads every time waiters heave a tray of hors d'oeuvres in our faces. Then we swigged our final cocktail and split, abandoning the post-awards party in the BMW Pavilion.
Congratulations to the winners! Special Merit should be bestowed to 24/7 for pioneering the recognition of various Manila nightlife habitués and establishments who, despite the lack of mind-blowing production/awards show, reminds us to be thankful that we are superiorly advanced in nocturnal verve than, say, antiseptic Singapore!
“Wanna drop by RockCandy’s French Wednesdays?” I ask PoshyKat as we navigated our way out of The Fort.
“Only if they serve Cristal.”
After PoshyKat disgorged me in Greenbelt I called my plucky assistant to bring my laptop/bag so I won’t go back to the office to meet Nicodemus, Beowulf and some friends in Embassy.
Upon hitting the bar area they drank a brain-spinning, tourette-inducing assortment of intoxicants while I stuck to beer and a couple of vodka and grenadine. The VIP room’s loaded with gorgeous folks tonight compared to slow Wednesdays in the past.
I was latching my sight on a gorgeous chick on a sea-green little dress who was dancing in sexy abandon. Beguiling. Until her screamy friends emerged from the main hall and started swirling her about in drunken wailfest that I ditched the brewing urge to chat her up.
“I love your shirt!” a foreigner grabbed my shoulders which prompted me to turn around.
(Translation: Hey, wanna fuck?)
“Thanks!” I replied, spewing a casual smile.
(Translation: Fuck off!)
“Where did you buy it?” he went on.
(Translation: Hey, really, seriously, wanna fuck?)
“It’s not from the store. It’s made to measure by a friend who designs clothes.”
(Translation: Hey, no, but let’s improve the chances after my tenth tequila shot.)
He slinked off and focused his hunt for another prospect, a more eager, consensual victim. I later bumped into him in the main hall grinding to hiphop beats . He flashed a shit-eating grin. I nodded and smiled and headed to the bar for another bottle of beer.
Nicodemus and the rest of our retinue were raging drunk. I got drunk but my faculties strangely sober. It’s amazing how my mind still insist on being sober while I marinade myself with alcohol.
A strange thing occurred to me while dancing with the gang and occasional strangers who happen to intrude. Why are we so determined to max out our youthful privileges? Why do we need this frenzied gimmick to assert our childish need for validation?
Before I get philosophical on anyone’s ass I took another swig of lame beer. I oscillated around frantic bodies squirming and yelling amidst thumping beats that camouflage the creeping sadness in everyone’s ecstatic face.