Am blogging from Agagooga's humble abode at present. He was kind enough to pick me up from the vicinity of Ardmore Park, where I had been reasonably inebriated as the host of the prior gathering I was at insisted on making all his guests down straight shots of Absolut Mandarin vodka.
A few candid observations I made while wandering around town prior to my degenerate state:
a) The whore motif still appears to be a popular one amongst women these days.
b) Listening to some Filipino maids talk in this bizzarely stilted conversation stream that resembles Vulcan translation -
"what are you thinking of Brittney?"
"I am thinking what you are thinking."
"The word is bitch right?"
"I feel I am in your mind at this moment."
(I swear, this was almost what I heard, verbatim, at Atria)
c) three guys in RJC PE t-shirts who resembled Asian hobbits (couldn't tell if they had hairy feet through their sneakers). Two of them were putting the One Ring (I could see the inscription) around the other's neck, in front of the Blind Accordion Man at the Orchard Road tunnel (a friend of mine tricked me by saying the Blind Accordion Man had started a Blind Accordion Institute where he teaches blind people how to play the accordion and sing badly in public spots while making millions)
d) Toe-socks are evil, creepy, and scary.
Was at Ardmore Park because my old friend YM was having a party. I haven't seen him in years, but to behold him with a glowing ring around his neck (one of those coloured plastic monstrosities with a little bulb in it), and the One Ring text tattooed around his forearm was a bit of a shock. As Mark said: "You know those irritating flickering blue lights on beng cars? You've just become one."
Eventually spent most of the function in a corner next to a koi pool, frenziedly smoking, downing lychee martinis, and feeding the fish with cigarette butts. Was mostly talking to Gil, Mark, YM and Zee - my generation Palmerston crowd. The problem with large gatherings is the inevitable breakdown into smaller cliques - and I've never gotten the hang of the flitter-around-and-network school of partygoing.
However, I must say Ardmore Park has the nicest apartment function room I've ever seen - equipped with microwave oven, huge freezer, and coffee-maker.
YM calls those hors d'ouevres with bread, a little bit of veg, meat and cheese "open-face sandwiches".
Also enjoyed the reaffirmation of my desire to garner vast material wealth (inspired by the 8 cars I saw in the parking lot all with the same licence plate number - "3538").
Noticed with some amusement that more than a few people I knew had signed on with the SAF. I suppose all that advertising about the virtues of an army career has finally paid off. One of them was a junior of mine who did microbiology at uni (I always thought he'd end up working for Yakult) who now says he can't tell me what he's doing. Probably developing the next generation of anthrax.
At one point Mark & Zee were in a corner discussing business. Who wud've thunk it?
Eventually, after the celebrations, and watching YM retch into his swimming pool, I decided it was time to exeunt. Nevermind that I had no money, nowhere to stay, and had to stagger to Kranji at 9:00am tomorrow morning so that I could make it to JB for my friend to give me a ride home. I like living on the edge. Forward planning is for losers.
Gabriel met me in front of Borders after I had called him one million times. I was able to make it to Wheelock Place on foot only because some drunken Indonesians were staggering to Shaw Center and I sort of trailed along like a remora, direction-wise, with my fellow convoy of the inebriated. When I hit Borders, Gabriel's reassuring bulk loomed in front of me, and he was kind enough to help me stagger to a nearby mamak store where I recuperated with some cheese prata.
After a cab to his place, I am now in a slightly more lucid state, which is not very pleasant, but the Wolf Blass wine Gabriel has provided me is helping rectify that error in my condition. Tomorrow morning, I have to somehow haul ass to JB where an Dim is waiting to spirit me home in his Proton Waja. For free.
In the meantime, I shall smoke out the window in Gabriel's house, enjoy the good company , soft drinks, and general support of my incapacitated state (at one point Gabriel permitted me to ride piggyback for 50m down River Valley Road when my alcohol-impaired motor skills got too onerous), and I still don't understand why he lets me blog here when most of my entries are spent abusing him for his hypocrisy and moral self-righteousness.