Um! Pak! Tok! Tugush! Ka-blog!

I am allergic to any place where celebrities, socialites and those in between converge.

I’ve never even set foot in places like Porch and V-Bar (I’ve entered V-Bar once, when it was still Venezia, in a desperate need to pee. I saw a girl slumped on the toilet’s floor and another one staggering from one cubicle. Tsk, tsk, these rich kids can’t even seem to find a decent use for all those moolah).

And of course, I don’t even have the slightest hint of desire to go all the way to The Fort and visit the most happenin’ place as of press time, part-owned by none other than The Eventoligist himself, Tim Yap (let me roll my eyes on that one)—the Embassy.

For someone born in Paco, raised in San Andres Bukid, then Taguig, then settled in Pacita, spoke Tagalog most of her growing up years, tongue-tied when faced with foreign clients, commutes everyday to work, had ridden every mode of transportation known to Pinoys (including an ordinary bus), braved floods and actually trudged through them…

These places are a little too much, too chi-chi, too high-society, too pretentious for me.

So anyway, last night, I went to Embassy.

Like, oh my gawd! (In a high-pitched, something-shoved-up-her-ass colegiala accent) Me? Going to Embassy? I’m soo not dressed for it! Bo-hoo!

It was gonna be ok. I guess.

First off, it was a Monday. So the place isn’t likely to be teeming with Manila’s crème de la crème (by what standards, I don’t exactly know).

Second, when we got to the place, it was closed for the advertising party we were to attend. Cool. I’ll be hangin’ out with fellow mortals.

So thizzit! Thiziz really izzit! Da place to be! The place people are yakking and gushing about.

Honestly, I was quite amused that they’re still playing that pounding, rhythmic, hypnotic music otherwise known as techno or trance or whatever. Jon Herrera (such a cutiepie!) and two other fat guys were manning the DJ booth. I thought electronica nights were long overdue.

But last night was major déjà vu. It’s the music when I was a little younger, careless, single and 20.

When I met my boyfriend four years ago, I bade goodbye to that rhythmic, hypnotic, trance-like dancing. He hates it. Maybe it’s because of:

a. I’m-a-rocker-I’m-too-cool-for-this-shit kinda deal. Or

b. I’m-too-old-(and-too-big)-for-this-shit kinda deal.

I’m guessing it’s the latter.

And of course, I’d to get drunk. Thank God I was sober enough to realize that there wasn’t a boyfriend or my usual drinking buddies to look after me. So I went to the loo and induced vomiting (I know…). Jeez, I’m becoming a real drinking expert (Sige lang Nonie, ipagpatuloy mo ‘yan. Magandang halimbawa ‘yan).

Don’t get me wrong about that opening line. I’m not allergic to sosyal people per se. ‘Di naman nila kasalanang pinanganak sila na may pilak na kutsara sa kanilang bunganga (Oh sorry, I meant ‘bibig’. How very Pacita of me).

Heck, I’m even interacting with people of their kind everyday. Like my boss, for instance.

But I think my jologness is rubbing off on him. Now, he’s part god, part human. There are days when the only telltale signs that he’s not among us mere mortals, aside from his surname, are:

1. His clothes

    NONIE: Nice shirt!

    BOSSING: Kenneth Cole.

    NONIE’S THOUGHT BALLOON: Like, I care sabay roll ng eyes.

2. His ignorance of Filipino language

    BOSSING: What’s ‘maigi’?

                   Merr’n ka nang ad na maganda?

                   Pahrrung bitin ata yung copy mo.

3. His delightful amusement in my middle-class home and Pacita (a.k.a. crude/jagged) speed bumps

    BOSSING: F@#%k! My poor Audi.

But it’s really different when you put these sosyal people (plus their beautiful friends in showbiz) together in one place. It’s like one of them cult gatherings when a non-member can be spotted oh-so-easily and sacrificed to their gods.

Oh well, it was one hell of a night, for a Monday night, in Embassy.

But I still won’t be caught dead in that place on a Friday.