April 1, 2007
I partied last weekend. If you know me, then you'll know that's about as strange as a vegetarian dog. I don't party. I go to the beach. I watch movies, and have senseless, "intellectual" conversations with friends over coffee. I stay home and read, or have DVD marathons. I hardly ever drink. I'm quite boring. And weirdly enough, most of my friends are the same.
But party we did last Saturday. My friends D, T, N, and A all play in a band called Cold Transfer (Why am I not surprised?). They played their big debut gig on the local music scene in Handuraw's Banded event. Of course, the whole gang turned up to support the band and to hobnob with the new "celebrities". Not a bad turn
out, with only a couple of absentees. We were the biggest and rowdiest bunch, and Cold Transfer was easily the most applauded band of the night. While the performance was nothing new to the rest of the band, it was my best friend, D's first performance, and even if he was all timid and shy, he showed off his voice remarkably well. I beamed like a proud momma.
Because most of us fancy ourselves as singers, regardless if we can carry a tune or not, we felt that we should all have our turn on the 
microphone too. So we headed to Pod5 and sang ourselves hoarse. I seriously need a new repertoire because people are starting to roll their eyes at my version of "You're So Vain". We each had a shot of tequila. Nobody really felt like drinking much that night. We got kicked out of Pod5 around 2AM. Nobody felt like going home (except D and J), and we needed to keep R company until 5AM for him to catch the first trip home (He lives in Carmen, imagine!), so we decided to check out Paseo. The place was alright, reminiscent of the old Courtyard, only so much bigger with more bars to choose from. There were even shops that sold clothes (Now I know where to go if the need arises for a new top at 3 in the morning, whoop-dee-doo!). E pointed out that the average age in that place had got to be 19-21. We all felt terribly old so we just sort of shuffled about, not really knowing where we were going. We eventually ended up in the middle of the dancefloor and have actually started dancing for about 2 minutes before all hell broke lose. An epic rambol was unfolding before our very eyes (screaming, pointing, and broken bottles, the whole nine yards). I, for some reason, had this nasty image in my head of stray bullets so I grabbed the first person I could (R) and headed for the exit. Finally out of harm's way, we re-grouped in the parking lot. T decided that he wanted coffee, but nobody wanted to go to IT Park (and for good reason!). We walked to the nearest coffee shop, which turned out to be closed so we backtracked and walked to a convenience store 5 blocks away, where T promptly fell asleep. At that point, we decided we had enough so we called it a night.
When I was on stalker mode looking for pictures of M, I looked into Friendster and Multiply pages of acquaintances who seemed to do nothing but party. I'd look in their photo albums and see the endless cam-whoring of party people in varying stages of drunkeness, grinding (Umm, do people still do that?) in the dancefloor, and eating sisig. I wonder about their lives, about why they put themselves out there night after night after night. To these people, we're probably old and boring, my friends and I. We can't even party right. But on a rare night like that when we're all together, in the beach, or a karaoke room, or a coffee shop, or even by the pond in front of our building, we can't be bothered to care. I mean, really, who wants to dance with strangers when you can laugh with friends?
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