The United States Of Inebriation

Alibis are not necessarily required to get smashed but lately a thick funk hovers over my head. All the more reason to commune with trusty buddies and abuse alcohol in such a rate that would make AA hotlines rattle.

I'm kidding over the exaggeration, of course.

Monday night Mapplethorpe and Saville decided to have impromptu get-together at Mapplethorpe's house. We were joined by Holden, a senior designer for a hip publishing firm who tagged along at Mapplethorpe's behest. I was glum over the fact that my so-called life is becoming a redundant series of blah-ness. So inebriation is in order.

We discovered later that Mapplethorpe's domestic front is having a few crimps. In fact his beloved wifey and their little princess (our godchild) stormed off to his in-laws a few days ago. Red horse+lemon wedges kept us company till three in the morning. I got off Shaw Boulevard and staggered a few blocks, dodging the amused glances of call center folks chain smoking outside the buildings. “Fuck you and your fried lungs!” I muttered laughing under my breath. For some cosmic miracle I got to my flat's lobby in one piece, giving the guard on duty a knowing grin. He courteously opened the elevator for me. Neat dude.

Wednesday night I gargled white wine at our friend Helios' business expansion opening at The Fort. I was with Mapplethorpe, Saville, Nicodemus, Nicodemus' intern and his equally-cute sibling, and later we were joined by my best friend Aoki, who leapfrogged from their office's product launch, dragging along her funky marketing assistant.

Later that night Mapplethorpe, being a spoiled brat that he is, demanded we come with him to Sorrenti's birthday bash at a swanky hotel's bar in Makati. Saville and I, having already had our beer and wine fix declined but he threw a fit so we relented like headless idiots.

The bar was fogged with dense smoke puffing from the twanged lips of sophisticated cats and trendy dorks. Cool acquaintances and casual friends mingle with a dubious bevy of foreign models, the bored fashion pack, creative types, advertising folks, publishing hacks and assorted society page royalettes and wannabes.

“Glad you made it, bastardos!” Sorrenti threw us big hugs.

We zeroed in towards the bar like preprogrammed missiles.

Rushing to the washroom I bumped into a Japanese-Brazilian model we have collaborated with long ago. We swapped quick updates. He looked like his head is hovering somewhere in Pluto and his eyes were indicating he took something that would make Robert Downey beam. What a waste. This guy used to be a stunner and now he looked like a wreck. He asked me to keep in touch. I was tempted to suggest rehab.

While Mapplethorpe was introducing me to a booker of Brazilian models someone slapped my back and when I turned, my beaming protégée, Beirut, shoved a swirling glass of Hennessy on the rocks upon my face. Ugh. I hate cognac. I've always found cognac to be the favored drink of anyone hitting midlife crisis and contemplating on buying a Ferrari and a mistress.

“Son of a gun!” I hugged him. “What are you doing here?!”

“I'm now working for an affiliate firm owned by Sorrenti!” he shot back.

“Are you going to Embassy tomorrow?” Mapplethorpe piped in.

“What's at Embassy tomorrow?” Beirut and I chorused.

“Nicodemus is inviting us to some trendy gig.”

I rolled my eyes. Beirut laughed.

“He said he reserved a table” Mapplethorpe droned on, unperturbed, ignoring my retinal calisthenics.

Heaven help my liver.