Clipping

Week 3 -- Glam

I don’t know how to record this event without sounding like an asshole. I apologize in advance.

My two best friends here are Gillaume and Joji. Gillaume is a French venture capitalist stuck in the embassy here for unclear reasons (wants to learn Mandarin, wants to make Asian connections, running from the fed, etc). Joji is a gay entertainment manager who spends his evenings hitting on me and Gillaume, buying us drinks, and introducing us to the women he manages. Both are fairly normal compared to most people here, even if I have a hard time understanding Gillaume and must resist Joji’s occasional coke-induced advance. Not being a homophobe has its advantages – last week, Joji invited us to the Manila Academy Awards, a fairly prestigious affair in Filipino circles. Of course, like most else in the Philippines, their film industry is completely off international radar, so this falls to the level of yacht-club hobnobbery in American terms. Gillaume told me “Ve can meet zome modelz zere”, and it was on.

We showed up in Joji’s van-limo and got out onto the red carpet, although we were half an hour late and didn’t really get the formal reception you see on TV. The crowd paid some attention to us (“Hiiiiiiiiiiii Joooeeee!!!!” – they call all white guys Joe), and I shook hands with the idiotically dressed host, but soon we were upstairs inside the Philippine Cultural Center. This was certainly my first time on any kind of red carpet, and it was surprisingly cheerless; I suppose when you’re having cameras shoved in your ass and making millions of dollars it’s a little more enjoyable. We were ushered into the ballroom, where the show was currently paused for a commercial break. Prophetically, we would spend most of our time there sitting around during commercial breaks – the Philippines seems to have about 7 minutes of commercials for every 5 minutes of television. We scooted past some people into one of the middle aisles near the outside edge, so Joji could get up and smoke when he was bored. All around us were the Filipino A-crowd: actors and actresses, beautiful girls, tuxedos, dirty old men, all kinds of dresses. A lot of the people I’ve seen out in Temple and V-Bar turn out to be actors and actresses; one guy I met the other night was up on stage announcing an award. It was quickly impressed upon us that we were Small Fish compared to most people in the room, and Gillaume intoned “It vill be hard to meet ze girlz here. Lotz off competition.” The event had the personality of the Oscars, but lacked American expertise – things were done poorly, hurriedly; the dancing and music mostly sucked; the awards screen fell down halfway through the show and had to be righted by a crew of panicked looking women. Best actor turned out to be an 8-year old boy who was the star of a film about epilepsy and monkeys. I couldn’t understand anything since everyone was jabbering in Tagalog, but it was all very exciting. Three years ago, the host got paid off to swap the best actress award at the last second. Cheers to graft.

The ball afterwards really saved the evening. It turns out that Joji manages this singer/starlet Vina Morales who had performed in the awards show, and by some act of God was at our table sitting next to me. I shit you not, this is one of the most beautiful women I have ever shared air with, let alone spoken to for three hours. Joji walked around and hobnobbed while Gillaume and I sat in a growing pool of our own saliva, making pathetic conversation and grinding our teeth. She seemed even less interested in having sex with us than any of the models at V-Bar – this, I realize now, should be taken as an indicator of status and refinement. We had shaken hands with some other Filipino celebs, most of whom were either gay or ignored us, but somehow Vina managed to come off as charming without being a colossal bitch. I was extremely into her, and I have never had less of a chance. Later, Gillaume told me, “If you believe ze girl iz not in love viz you, zhe vill never be.” Wise words, but his French game failed just as completely as mine. We went dejectedly back to V-Bar after the party.



Apart from Vina, the ball was scrumptious. A five course meal with everything from steak to saffron soup to sorbet served in an ice sculpture, unlimited Grey Goose, Bailey’s, Johnny Walker; all served by a veritable army of red-clad waiters enslaved to a ridiculous, trumpeting maitre d’ who kept hitting them with a flyswatter to move faster. When the next course started, the DJ started playing really loud techno music so that you would know to finish your fucking food, or else. We also got gift bags from Escada. If I give you Escada cologne or perfume when I get back, it’s because I forgot you.





From Left: Vina, Me, Gillaume, Joji




Ice Sculpture Sorbet




With my friend Michelle at V-Bar