Saturday, April 10, 2010

The Genting Rave Story Pt2

After we finally convinced Faith that travelling 4 hours back to customs was as good an idea as playing hopscotch on a mine field, we found ourselves with one more remedy to chase.

There were now two immediate tasks to solve when we got to the hotel. We still needed to secure our return transport from Genting and now we had to somehow find a way to locate Faith’s bag at the customs, which was as good a chance as growing marijuana at the botanic gardens.

Her growing anxiousness and fervid optimism was fast blooming into a red herring to my own skepticism of finding a way back from Genting. Predictably, it both fell faster than a stripper's skirt when we finally arrived at the hotel.

Not only was it not possible to contact the Malaysian customs, but there also weren’t any bus services that we could arrange to get us back from Genting. It was now a gamble - we had to try our luck there.

But that was a worry that would be left till later. We had one night in KL and I wasn’t about to surrender it to petty doubts and trivial concerns. There was cheap food at rat-rampant hawkers and a pre-arranged guestlist at Zouk that awaited our consumptive destruction.

And that was exactly what happened.

Jo, who was LB’s contact in KL, came down to pick us up in a very predictable Proton. She was also the one who had arranged for our VIP passes to the SpeedZone event in Genting and truth be it, probably the one pivotal pull in LB’s decision to travel.

When we got to Zouk, the familiarity that so often greeted us was now replaced by a façade that bore likeness but encompassed a world of difference. There was the crowd that was dressed like anything without heels was a crime. Then there was the music that was entirely perplexing to hear top 40’s at Velvet, when I’ve been so cultured to expect House.

It was not as if Zouk KL was plastered with gorgeous partygoers like I’ve been told, but there was an air of difference, almost as if there was a crowd of maturity that was calling out to be acknowledged.

There was a bottle of cognac and a round of tequila to bribe my time for staying on till the drinks depleted, because I was constantly bitching about the essential need for Trance in all party nights.

When we finally went over, I went from the only one sulking, to the only one dancing. LB suddenly shafted a bottle of Belvedere at me. I glanced over at the table in front of us.

Me: “Did you just steal their bottle?”

He giggled like a schoolgirl witnessing her first erection.

LB: “Just shut up and drink.”

I titled myself away from the view of the table and took a gulp from the bottle, then slipped the bottle over to RotiPrata, who started dancing with the bottle in plain view of the table. Everyone needs a friend like him to get caught.

We then moved over to the tables by the side, which pretty much herald the end of sobriety. One moment we were civilized patrons toasting champagne, slurring well wishes of schemes of grandeur like world peace and a ‘great 2010’. The next, LB started latching on the low grilled ceilings.

LB: “I ALSO CAN DO CHIN UPS!!”

Apparently, RotiPrata had pretended that he was doing chin ups with the ceiling grills and so in that shallow pocket of alcohol reservoir LB has, everything seemed like a great idea. He clung on to it.

Before we realized anything, the ceiling grills gave way and collapsed onto the table; two panels to be precise; one on LB’s head and the other on the table. I glanced around quickly to assess the situation. The floor staffs and security were rushing over. It was barely 2pm, I will not end my night this way.

Me: “Pretend you are injured. Exaggerate it!”

This was the only logical solution. I was hoping to twist the story as if the grills had collapsed on our innocent conversations, but the way the grills had bent under LB’s colossal weight made us as guilty as calories on a Big Mac.

And were they furious at us. They tried fixing it back, but it wouldn’t stay on. They tried bending it back, but it wouldn’t shape up. They tried threatening LB, but he was too busy feigning injury.

Then they left and we got back to laughing. Never mind that we had in the last 5 minutes become the focal point of observation, because chagrin is always lost in the presence of alcohol. LB got right back to yelling toasts at me.

LB: “DRINK!! WHY CAN’T DRINK AH?!”

I don’t know how to explain why this is hilarious and ironic on so many profound levels because obnoxious cheers and provocation was in the past, primarily my domain and LB was always the face of sobriety to sheath my misdemeanor.

Me: “Fuck you. I need to pee.”

Then he trailed closely behind me, grabbing on to my arm as we made our way to the toilet.

LB: “Dude, I’m fucked.. I’m fucking drunk…”

I hardly had time to snigger at him when completely unexpectedly, he waded into a proclamation that was lingering with the stench of inebriation.

LB: “I found my true love!”

I’ve heard this approximately as many times as you’ll hear Lady Gaga on the radio, so I generally do not pay much attention to it. But at this point, anything and everything is a valid reason to clink our champagnes glasses together for celebratory pleasantries.

When we got back to the table, RotiPrata was pretty much passed out on the sofa. So I did what any friend would do, I started taking pictures of him in ridiculous positions. Some random guy on the next table came up to me.

Guy: “Is he your friend?”
Me: “Yep, but these pictures are for an anti-binge drinking campaign. It’s called, ‘if you get drunk, you are going to be made fun of’.”

By then, Poca and Faith had already retired their glasses, Jo had already spewed by the table, LB was occupied with getting her to the washroom and I was left to tend to RotiPrata’s sprawled ass with another of our KL counterpart, RO.

There was just nothing we could do to get him up from the sofa. If we tapped him, he would brush us off. If we dragged him by the arm, he would struggle to lie back down. But all it took was for a woman to reach over to tap him for him to spring into life, while extending his hand towards hers.

The security guy started shining his light at our direction.

Security: “I think you guys need to leave now.”

This was amazing, I actually still had a lot of mileage left to party, but we were actually asked to leave the club. And I always imagined that when that day came, I would be too drunk off my wits to even remember.

When we got out, RotiPrata started to sober up and it was just left to LB who was trying to make a close on Jo. Faith, RotiPrata, Poca and I jumped into the cab and left LB to his work his charm, or what’s left of it.

RotiPrata: “Uncle, I will pay you RM10 extra if you will run that guy and girl down.”

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