Butterfly Goes For Fuel
I’ve never been big on dance events especially not when Above & Beyond is spinning at Zouk and I have to turn up at what was billed as some high octane dance party with huge hype and a seemingly brittle task to deliver the goods.
From the go, the event looked like it was going to collapse from the sheer number of VIPs, which made the normal entry look almost exclusive. The great thing was that the crowd that had formed the massive line at the VIP registration was an impressive collage of beautiful faces.
The big hype over the event that teased he media’s interest was largely the presence of a celebrity DJ, Samantha Ronson. Samantha who you ask? That makes two of us.
P: “Is Samantha Ronson playing yet?”
Me: “Who is that?”
P: “Which stone did you crawl out from? She’s like Lindsay Lohan’s girlfriend!”
Me: [pause for thought] “Nope.. that did not give me the slightest erection. I do not give a fuck who that is.”
I walked over to take a peek at the queue, which looked like it was going stretch all the way into the Singapore Flyer. I was never going to be a part of something that looks like an audition queue for Singapore Idol, so I did what every spoilt Singaporean would do, demand.
Me: “Please tell me I don’t have to queue up like the rest of them.”
C: “Of cos not. How many of you? Do you have a table?”
Me: “Please tell you arranged a table for us…”
And that was just the start of her night with me nagging about everything from the poor service to the badly run bars to the lack of proper service for the VVIPs. If I was a decent human being, I might have felt bad, but consuming alcohol generally equates to throwing civility and considerations out the window.
When we got in, the place was starting to fill up. We found a table in the VVIP area and conveniently sat down. Then 10 minutes later, some girl came along and placed a ‘Reserved’ tag on the table. One of the guys came up to tell me that we were being asked to leave and I thought that was the single most ridiculous request ever.
I had every right to be. I was still feeling lethargic after a long morning, I was missing out on some serious Trance shit at Zouk and I was waiting so long for our drinks, I thought I would only get a sip right before the Apocalypse.
Me: “Excuse me, but my friend here said you want us to leave?”
She: “The table is reserved for someone else, so sorry about it.”
Me: “Then where is my table?”
She: “In the VIP area over at the other room.”
Me: “Is my table still there? Because if we have to walk over there and not get my table, I will be very very pissed. And I’m pissed as it is right now..”’
Just as I’m doing my best to fly the demanding / obnoxious Singaporean flag, C walked by and got another earful from me. It came to a point where she had to – and I quote verbatim -, instruct the hostesses to,
“DROP EVERYTHINGYOU ARE DOING AND GET HIM THE BOTTLES… NOW NOW!”
Reznor and I have known C for years now and she knew fairly well that if I started to audibly manifest my irritation, then there was a concrete validation behind it and quite simply, I don’t think there was anyone in that stretch of the VVIP area that was more important than the whole group of us. I was so pissed, I would have stabbed even Elmo if he appeared infront of me.
Whatever I was doing from sulking to the hostesses and organizers worked like a charm, because suddenly they started facilitating the services towards us and the table filled with so much Russian Standard vodka and Red Bull that I found it almost impossible to stay pissed. I was so excited at the cornucopian fest that I would have belted a duet with Julie Andrews and auctioned my kidney off.
The rest of the night actually turned out pretty decent because my time management chart read something like,
Drinking – 80%
Peeing – 3%
Smoking – 12%
Debating internally between sex or hugging the toilet bowl to sleep – 5%
I also realized that not many people actually give a shit about the rest of the DJ lineups, just as long as they are here for one particular person. Some weird Caucasian chick with a funky blonde spiked hair started a conversation with me at the smoking room.
She: “So you here for Samantha Ronson?”
Me: “I’m here for Tiesto.”
She: “Oh, is he spinning in the next room?”
Of course, I knew that the night was never going to let me off that easily. Not without a little drama or injury. Maybe both.
I don’t know whether it was the alcohol or the surge of taurine and caffeine, but the guys went crazy, chasing each other around spraying Red Bull at one another. And there I was, innocently boundaried from the madness by a conversation with a friend, and next thing I know, I am clutching my eyes in pain.
I had Red Bull directly splashed into my eyes and all I could think of was, ‘first it was semen, now Red Bull’. I don’t know what I’m going to have that is going to hit my eye next, but it better not be a dolphin or a Volkswagon, because my right eye looks like it is a magnet for disaster.
There I was, clutching my eye, trying to rinse it with water and I still actually managed to piss off Poca from this.
Poca: “The girls were all over you!!”
Me: “Com’on, there were like only one of them.”
Poca: “There were like 5 and I hate them touching you!”
Me: “Babe, they are lesbians.”
Poca: “Lesbians also can have threesome with a guy what?!”
I realized then, that when women are unhappy with you. It doesn’t matter even if you have Red Bull in the eye or injured, because everything you say, is still wrong.