The Faux Identity Story..

Sometimes a re-visitation to the past does absolute wonders in prying us away from certain mores that we’ve subjugated ourselves to. Read as, addiction to trance, alcohol and strict no pickup rules. Like you’ll believe me if I said that..

It’s amazing what boredom drives men and how it gears the creativity of others to actually formulate ( and re-evaluate ) pick up techniques. I’d be perfectly honest, I’m no MacGuiver when it comes to picking people up. We play to our strengths and mine is to shut up.

Disclaimer: No timeline on this. I’ve had to hold this story back.

“DblO tonight…”

TheCaptain had a plan. The execution of which was only for a select attendance of two. I cringed at the impending re-introduction of HipHop back into my aural cavities. It’s a dichotomy for me, Tiesto and Timberlake should never co-exist, but a call of duty to take up the role of a wingman is one I’ve hardly given a pass on.

As soon as I got there, the chilling nostalgia from those regular visits a couple years back and knocking back those $3 shots crept in, followed by my last night there that ended in the police station. I shivered, took a piss then went on to find TheCaptain.

Immediately after entry, we got held up by some stupid ass bitch in line cos she brought out a miniaturized scanned copy of her I/C. Avid fan of the debit mini? Possibly. Liable for handcuffs and coffee sessions at the police station? Definitely.

I pulled TheCaptain back.

Me: “Don’t follow too close. Let them walk up first. We don’t want people thinking we came with them.”

Midway from their ascend up the stairs, TheCaptain pushes me forward.

TheCaptain: “Walk faster, we don’t want people thinking we came with those two behind.”

I turned to see two possible runaway Filipino maids who probably took the wrong turn for Lucky Plaza.

TheCaptain: “The plan tonight is, we’re both overseas students back here after a long time…”

And yes, the game had been set. The rules ambiguously drawn for me but my only job was to stick to the role-play and never break ranks. The plan as TheCaptain explained to me was almost and I stress, ALMOST flawless. The hunting ground, the day of execution and the storylines were not simply accidental co-incidences like winning the jackpot or passing exams, but intricately weaved blueprints. One of which I was interested to see it through.

This was easy. We ran through our selected backgrounds with one another to prevent professional slip ups. I was to be from Australia and TheCaptain was a graduate from Michigan.

Then we took the game to the floor…

TheCaptain eased into a warm-up with a couple by the bar table. Throwing in suspicious accents and compulsory lines to legitimize our pseudo identities. I did my part in looking lost in the appreciation of the club.

Exchange of handshakes between TheCaptain and the guy and I knew there was going to be serious game tonight. Now the problem lay with finding the right targets, or acceptable ones for that matter.

A quick market survey. No ‘’Advertisers’ on the platform. No ‘Auctioners’ by the bar and we’ll be refraining from ‘hard selling’ tonight since no one there was even worth me even dropping my name card over.

TheCaptian quickly found us some prime property. A long stretch of table in front of the which had several groups of girls occupying. TheCaptain gave me a nudge, the universal signal of “check them out” and I knew he was going for it.

From casual sips from the bottle, TheCaptain was quick to move in. Two girls, average looking, young , hardly the nubile nymphs we’d have loved, but for tonight we’re not sizing up the bustlines nor looking for mannequins.

Next thing I know, we’re introducing ourselves in faux accents and playing out our ‘ignorance’ on the essential clubbing hotspots in Singapore. Just to keep up the antics, I threw in several questions to re-validate my overseas student persona.

Me: “How’s Liquid Room?”
Girl: “It’s closed…”
Me: “No shit!”

Me: “What happened to Mohd Sultan? Where did everyone go?”

I had to refrain from throwing in "Sparks" and "Fire" into the fray of has been clubs.

TheCaptain was already giving them a shortcourse introduction of 4 yrs of life at Michigan with such fluidity that he only needed to sing the national anthem backwards to be a bona fide American.

Then the spotlight fell to me..

Girl: “So which University did you study in?”

It took me straight up the ass, full of surprise like syphilis on a Sunday morning. My face mangled with a frown and my mouth still forming an O. A dozen schools ran by my head and I said the first thing that came to my mind..

Me: “I didn’t study there. I was working there..”

Girl: “Oh? What were you working as?”

And that felt like a second jab in my ass. This girl just keeps me speechless. I half considered smashing the jug at her head and making a break from the door but an eternity later, I replied,

Me: “Publications?’

Girl: “Oh.. for which magazine?”

Conversations never felt more uncomfortable and lying never made this difficult.

Me: “Just publications.. “

TheCaptain pulls me to the side.

TC: “Hey sorry ah, forgot to tell you to plan ahead.”
Me: “No shit..”

Shortly, the girls were asking us if we wanted to join them at MoS. We made a quick evaluation. Leaving with them would mean making a commitment for the night or staying behind and start afresh.

I was keen on either. The whole conjured persona thing was getting to me and I ran a list of who I wanted to play next to TheCaptain.

Me: “I wanna be a pilot next!”
TC: “Don’t break game!”
Me: “How ‘bout a divorcee with kids?”
TC: “Stick to the overseas student story…you are going to get us exposed.”

We eventually left with them and I had to spend the next 15mins biting my hand to stop myself from giggling in the taxi.

TheCaptain: “Oh so where’s MoS?”
Girl: “Very nearby.”
TC: “Oh.. is it big? Is it fun?”
Girl2: “Ya it’s very big.”
TC: “Really? I’ve been hearing a lot about it. Never had a chance to go.”

And while TheCaptain continued he’s awe of everything from the proximity of the two clubs to the sheer size of MoS, I continued giggling over the whole charades. All I needed now was a dancing teletubbie to pop up from the backseat to die laughing.

Me: “This is fucking ridiculous. I’m not paying to get in.”
TC: “Don’t break game.. just pay and go it.”

TC: “I want the younger one.”
Me: “Whatever..Then I’ll take the curly hair…”

At first I had to distract Curly hair who was throwing some major cock-blocking moves on TheCaptain, till he got pissed and told me to get my act together. That was before I started paying attention to her rather than the chicks by the bar. And once I made the sacrifice to wing for TheCaptain, Curly quickly forgot about mother-henning and pre-occupied herself with periodically stroking my face.

Everything went on flawlessly. The accents went on. The random ‘this is a nice place’ continued. And I even got her to take me on the mandatory sight seeing round the place. Things fell into place too quickly and effortlessly. This was like beating the para-lympians at the 100m dash.

One hour in, TheCaptain complained about the lack of a challenge. We could have told them we were construction workers at Desker Road and we’d still have scored with them in the sack, but the rules and novelty was only within the campus of the pseudo identity and the ensuing pick up.

The Captain shoots me the ‘I’m bored look’ in between their dirty dancing routines, which I also read as, the “we should have picked hotter chicks” look. Curly was already giving me abrasions from fellating me through the jeans and I was fast tiring from flashing random smiles to mask my absolute boredom with them.

It also certainly didn’t help that while I was enunciating my words under the guise of a slang and vodka, she was saying things like “acerli” (actually) and “eskew me” (excuse me).

Curly: “Am I going back with you?”
Me: “Not tonight..”

I turned to TheCaptain…

Me: “I’m fucking coming as a divorcee with 2 kids the next time. Overseas students are boring..”

Butterfly Is Whole Again

When I lost her over a year ago, my life changed. Call it a drastic re-arrangement to life but I had to step up against reality. I never appreciated her and her being unceremoniously taken from me as a consequence of stupidity and overbearing self-confidence, gave me my one and only emotional collapse for as long as I remembered.

But now she's back.

And I'm complete. Yes, it would mean moderation in many aspects of my lifestyle but simultaneously, she opens a new avenue of opportunity. She will be treasured oh yes and just as losing her again would be inconceivable, the reclamation of her will be a lost cause.

I don't think I've desired anything more in the last year.

My mid-night companion, my calming solace from rush hours and my ticket autarchy. I welcome back the profligacy of joy rides and the rampant romances with late night suppers. I have her back at last..

My drivers license.

How To Die Right

I'm probably trapped in a cyclical ward of induced restlessness. I'm getting older but maturity seems to be slipping from me and my relentless pursuits for temporal and carnal pleasantries still remain the same.

Japanese air crews? Probable loves of my life, just so long as they're Japanese and they're hot. Vodka and champagne? Better if they come by the bottles. Lemon and salt? Preferably off your lips. Humility? Only when I'm sober.

Yes, we're living it. The endless nights at the clubs lining the livers up for the firing squads. The club banter, the beautiful people, the casual flirts and the elaborate teases. And when do these end? Or along the inspirational words of Kurt Cobain, do we burn out or shall we fade away?

We burn out.

Life is full of unpredictabilities. One minute you are fucking a whore and the next minute, you have AIDS. One moment you're practising for a Nazi salute at a Jewish wedding and the next thing you know your head is pinned to the floor with someone's boot in your mouth. No one really knows when life is going to fuck you the wrong way.

If you haven't lived a life less ordinary, the one absolution for such a crime is to die in style. I don't care what your pre-school teachers have taught you, but life is measured in sex, alcohol and number of times you've punched a man in a tele-tubbie suit.

And this is my redemption. My contribution to the hyperbolic straight jacket society we live in. One marketing lecture down and I'm sure it was a good one, I've now penned one for the perennial melancholics and manic depressives.

How To Die

1. In the F1.

For the armchair car enthusiast, nothing beats being killed by flying debris from car wreckage at the F1 Grand Prix. The ideal scenario will be Alonso flipping his car into the stands and if there are intelligent people around you, they will not be running. This is what you should do,

Do not panic or run towards the anticipated site of the landing car. Instead, wait for the car to dip before you move towards it. Do not worry, if the car misses you, there is still a high chance to get hit by flying debris. Look, if you're going to be killed by a car, it might as well be an F1. My mummy didn't raise me to get killed by a Picanto.

But death by F1? Now that's bragging rights.

2. Rave Spots

You're at a rave. The place is obnoxiously packed, the music is mind blowing and you can feel the bass fellating you through your jeans. You're ecstatic. You've had a couple drinks and several jabs to eye from accidental glowsticks. Suddenly, there is a drug bust and attempts for escape escalates into a stampede.

You trip and in the ensuing 30 seconds, you have 300 people stepping on you. Your ribs are crushed and you're spitting blood. Instead of calling for help, you gather your remaining strength to reach for the bag of pills someone had dropped in the chaos.

You can now legitimately say 'shuffling killed me'.

3. Bar Fight

One of the manliest way to die is from a bar fight which erupted over a passive debate of 'which is better, beer or lager'. Bar fights have in the realm of tradition (and Hollywood projection) been associated with the dominance, egos and alot of stupidity.

Nothing beats getting all bloodied and stabbed in the eye with a broken bar stool.

4. Failed Brakes

It's a simple equation. I'll quote me,

No Brakes = More time for the accelerator = Getting around faster

When it comes to traveling, there’s no two ways about it. You either go safe and spend Christmas in the car or you speed. Yes, you’ll be more accident prone, more likely to kill an innocent pedestrian and chipping a nail from all that frantic gear shifting.

BUT, as long as your hair remains in place and you make it there 2mins ahead of everyone else, you’ll know it’s worth it. Cos, your life is only worth 2 mins. Safety and speeding are mutually exclusive, like high heels and champagne, one thing's gonna give.

The 'dying in a car crash from failed brakes' also hides the fact that you were a fucked up driver and it scores with a sympathy chart. You'd have people talking about your sad passing as a result of failed mechanics and you'd be remembered as that 'nice boy' who went to Sunday school. That'll blindside everyone from the fact that you were constantly reckless, killed 4 pedestrians before your car came to stop and dying was probably a consequence of divine intervention.

Your brakes would have successfully taken your place in hell. Now that's a bargain.

5. A night with a psycho

Dating psycho's are the best way to live and the most altruistic way to die. You date a girl. She loves you cos you're smart, funny and charismatic and you love her cos she's hot and she gives good head. One night you confess to her that your conversations with her over the past weeks were solely to her cleavage and that you've a change in heart now that there's Miss D-Cups round the corner.

The next thing you know, you pass out from her neuro-toxic incense candles and you wake up tied to a bed. Before you know it, your kidney is on sale at eBay and some Taiwanese is chewing on your intestines in Kaoshiung cos we Chinese eat everything.

You're dying, but the compendium of your contribution to the exotic cannibal cuisine has earmarked you for legacy. You may be dead, but you can take solace in filling people's stomach.

6. Bungee Jumping

You think you're fearless, adrenaline rushes sustains you and you say stupid things like, "you only live once". The damn rope snaps and your last words will be.

"Cheeee..byeeee..."

So how cool is that.

7. Liver Failure

We all know you don't need a good liver to live, you just need a Pierre Png in your life. Liver failures are relics of two social facts. One, you've lived meaningfully with regular intoxicating treatments at the clubs and two, you're happier than erectile dysfunctional victims.

If there was ever a multiple choice on death modes, selecting alcohol is an insignia of intelligence. Now, would you rather die wth a bottle of whiskey in your hand or getting killed by that Picanto? The latter's seriously not going to make you look good on your death certificate.

8. Being in a relationship

Someone pointed at this girl at Phuture the other night and said she just got married and I said, "Why would anyone want to ruin their life like this?!"

It's a kind of paradox, but it's the wrong that everyone needs to make eventually. This is going to be slow and painful and I've got four words for you,

Welcome.to.the.end

It's Called..

One day I'm going to walk right into a parked car, break my ribs and I'm going straight to hell. The weekend was a blast but I said shit loads of mean and dumb stuff to people and if they were any smarter, they'd have figured I was actually being sacarstic.

Most people talk without realising what they're actually saying. If there was a marketing campaign for vodka, I'd have labelled this as Absolute Bullshit.

The BBBC Night.

With vodka bottles going for $118 all night, I'm erected faster than Michael Jackson at a childcare centre. The only thing that stood between me and what I would safely say the bargain of the month, was CokeWhore doing a math comparison of that against $66 for 3 jugs of vodka redbull.

Then you add one waitress that looked like she moonlights at the library without humour into the equation and you get one Butterfly joke gone wrong.

Waitress: "Get the bottle of Martell, it's $150 only."
Me: "Wahhhh. I want vodka."
Waitress: "Com'on where else can you find a bottle this cheap?!"
Me: "Ok only la.."
Waitress: "I tell you, there is NO WHERE in Singapore that you can find a bottle this cheap!"
Me: "Ya there is.. it's called DFS."

She obviously didn't think I was funny and I doubt beyond that round rimmed glasses, there was anything in her brain to dechiper my retort and like all nerds, she took it as a cue to engage me in a debate.

Waitress: "Hello loh! DFS is not a club loh.."

Talk to the hand. What an idiot. We ignored her and she refused to smile at me all night after that.

I've come to accept the fact that the great denominator in people's curiosity in my lifestyle is sustained by that magical figure of people I've stuffed into my pants. Do not bother asking, not when I have little interest in numbers and when the rule of the thumb is that men generally multiply the true figure by 3. Me answer ever since MissFeb asked me over supper long ago remains,

Me: "Do you count the number of times you've been to MacDonald's?"

Or the usual "who have you slept with?"

Me: "Everyone I've wanted to."

And the recent favourite, "When will you ever settle down?"

Me: "It's called Pregnancy."

My mum didn't think I was very funny either and she threatened to beat me silly with the kitchen table. No one seems to think I'm funny anymore.
-----

H: "Why are you always with a different girl every week?"
Me: "I have issues with attention span."
H: "Why? Every girl too boring for you?"
Me: "It's called CLEAVAGE."

-----

Faith: "I don't know why all these people sign up for expensive spa packages or go for surgery loh, I'm sure there's a cheaper and healthier way to lose weight."
Me: "Duh.. it's called exercising"

-----

And I have a new post, it's called.. How to get yourself killed.

Butterfly and Maturity

I should be packing my bags to catch a flight for the Songkran Festival. Going up with one very hot girl as a travelling companion, a premeditated meeting with another very hot girl to be my tour guide and getting super soaked with water by hordes of hot Thai women. Raise your hand if you shrieked,

"Best.Holiday.Ever"

I know I did, but growing up comes with responsiblity to my work and taking leave to get my ass splashed with water while the work piles, is not an option. Yes, even I can be rational and mature at times. I hate myself.

I'm still here. The partying hasn't changed, my taste in women has and I've allowed maturity to slip from me. At 26, I'm still trapped with the enthusiam of a 19 year old to consistently beat fatigue and liver failure into submission. You'd think that I'd grow up but I haven't. Idiocy and inebriation is still a staple confession for me. It's a cyclical regression.

It also doesn't help that my friends subscribe to that same servitude to drinks and raves. Our predisposition for all things intemperate means that our praxis consist of one part vodka, one part redbull and an entirety of fun. Usually at other people's expense.

Thing is, no one really grows up. Muthu is still taking gymnastics at the clubs, CokeWhore is secretly bulimic, RollerGirl never backs down from drinks and Von is still immersed in the rave culture. My only validation to disengaging reality of growing older and refusing to acknowledge that with age comes maturity, is that almost everyone in my group is older than me.

I've almost forgot what it's like to grow up but some time in this year I'd have to start. I'm going to give monogamy a trial and learn how to spell commitment again. I'm going to learn that it's not always about me and that pregnant ladies do deserve the seat more than me, sometimes. I'm going to reduce the drinks, the fags and start hitting the gym. Ok, I was kidding about the gym part. I haven't turned gay yet.

But till I get myself knocked up, I have alot of misdemeanour to play out and alot of sobriety to kill. Here's one more reason to embrace immaturity,

If you can't read, it's the promo for OSCILLATION. I'm warning you, it's a trance event so don't go in trying to catch Usher dacing on the platform. It's this Saturday, 10pm onwards. The music is going to be INSANELY good. If not, I'll let you buy me a drink. So if you're very free and have no where to go this Sat, don't come, we don't want losers.

I'm kidding and if I don't plug this properly, Kel will kill me for spoiling his event. Everyone, do come. Even if you don't like trance, you can watch me get drunk and if you're very lucky, watch someone smash a bottle on me.

It's at BarBaaBlackChic.

Did I write all that to promote one event?

Butterfly's Marketing Pt 2

It's been a long wait. I'm secretly guilty of keeping the blog in abeyance and holding you in fervor for the next post. Yes, hit the gavel if you said that's marketing. I call it demand and supply. I write something you like, you come buy me a drink.

Let's get this over with.

1. You chat up someone at a club. Your interest in her background is a ruse to blindside your true intentions of self marketing. You ask things like "What do you work as" just so that you can tell her you're a lawyer and "I'm jet-lagged" just so she know that you've been further than the Causeway.

You don't really care what people have to say just as long as they listen.

Now that's Infomercial.

2. You know your clubs well and where to find the right crowd. You know where to snag that pilot, or have your ass odiously groped by foreign men. On other nights, you like to sneak out the cloying romantics or the thrill of having an ashtray randomly flung at you.

You know the right clubbing ettiquette or if neccessary, the right Hokkien expletive to blend yourself in. You know the crowd and when to tease the cleavage or to reserve yourself by the bar with Martini Biancos depending on the prevailant competition.

That's Market Profiling.

3. You're an average girl. You enter the club with little interest from the crowd. You order a glass of Scotch on the rocks and men suddenly start paying attention to you. The music gets better and you're feeling high so you start dancing. More men start looking at you.

You ride the momentum with another order of Stout and you start dancing more frantically. More people begin looking at you.

You feel the intense gazes and men breathing down your neck. You're impluses rage and you catipulate yourself to the inebriated impetus. Inhibitions has lost its sense of comprehension to you. You start dancing seductively on the platform. The poor lighting and your sweeping fringes are working in your favour and you are at your social vertex. Everyone is looking at you. You love being you.

10 mins later, the drinks kick in and you fall off the platform. People start laughing at you and someone throws in a foot (or two) while you are on the floor. You're no longer hot and no one gives a shit about you. You start to cry, no one cares so you slit your wrist with the Tuborg bottle cap. You hate being you.

Now that's Product Life Cycle.

4. From the bar, the girl dancing on the platform is the hottest peice of ass you've seen all night. She's so hot, she can legitimately boo at the paralympics and still have men clapping for her. You make your move and throw everything including your Dad's Ferrari at her.

You start dancing up to her and before you know it, you have successfully skipped conversational foreplay and jumped right into tongue kissing. For the remainder of the night, your conversations are mainly with her breast and you opt entirely for whispering into her ears.

Everyone is in awe of you.

5 hours later, you wake up screaming.

The foundation is off, the mascara ruined and the remnants of her blusher still trail across the pillow. Her eyes are suddenly obnoxiously corked that she only needs them slightly spaced apart to qualify as a chameleon. Her face is pot-marked and you don't know whether to kiss them or to play hop-scotch on it. She only needs to flash her 3 inch penis now...

You are in disbelief and you swore your mother swapped her in the morning to occlude you from sleeping around.

That's Deceptive Advertising.

5. You drive to a club, your windows are down and your head is inched to the outside. Your Ferrari may be one of the fastest production cars in the world but suddenly at the club drive in, your car is moving so slowly that people start wondering if you're tarring the road. Even the Picanto's are horning your ass.

While making an exit, you get into a heated debate with the valet because he forgot to straighten your wheel. Now that you've gotten an audience, you make sure everyone sees you leave in your chick magnet of a ride... with your best friend and you head to Thompson for Prata.

That's Publicity.

6. You're chatting up a girl by the bar and you've bought her significant amount of drinks. The chemistry is right but you're not sure if your charm is functional in sobriety. You deduce that beyond her threshold, every additional alcoholic indulgent will proportionately meliorate your chances of taking her home.

That's Marginal Analysis

Then one drink too many and she goes from being horny to giving the table a blowjob. You have to hold her head to the side because she might choke on her own spew. Taking her home is now the distant utopia.

That's HAHA, You got Fucked.

7. You just met a girl and she gave you the best blowjob in the cubicle. You come out and share the story with you friends and before you know it, she's lining them up by the toilet in descending bulge sizes.

Now that's Word of Mouth.

8. You're not pretty and neither can you dance. The best thing going for you is the well endowment of good cleavage. Rather than spend time subscibing to Shiseido preaching, you opt for low cut blouses and barebacks.

You know your strengths and you play to it. You start all conversations with a quick contraction of the shoulders forward and you have a nasty habit of leaning over tables. At times, you choose complimenting Christian names like Mimi or Papaya.

You're conversational proficiency is bordering retardism and you think per entry parking is misleading since payment is upon exit. Thankfully for you, superficiality is the word of the day and cleavage is all you need to keep men interested.

That's Packaging.

9. You're in the same black top as the girl across the table. Blame it on sheer coincidence or that irresistible Mango sale, but she's getting all the attention and you're not. You wonder why, so you take out your Char Siew Bun and munch. I'll tell you why. She's hot and you're a whale. You're lucky people aren't throwing flying kicks like they should at you.

That's Product Differentiation.

10. You've been wanting to lose weight in awhile and your friends suggest on hitting the clubs to dance the flabs away. Pause and reconsider your friends, cos they are obviously idiots. There are only two ways to lose weight fast. Bulimia and lyposuction.

Look, it'll take you 2 seconds of puking to attain what will normally take 2 hours in the gym to achieve. You're a smart girl and clever enough to disguise your addiction to fingering that throat by drinking. 6 glasses on, you're well tanked for the night and you're legitimately allowed to puke at least once. And no one will suspect a thing.

That's Kick Backs.

11. You're at your favourite club hangout. On good nights, the place is swamped with beautiful people and you're contented to having your feet stepped on by them. Tonight, you've come out in force. You're pimped out in that Armani pressed suit and you're learning new words like 'Moet' and "Cheers". But suddenly, the place is looking more like the Superbowl of suasage buffet and the prettiest girl is the by the bar scratching her armpits.

You're pissed (and you should be). You just blew a couple hundreds on the drink tab and there isnt a refund for your suit.

Now that's Market Depression.