Birthday Love in Kowloon

So I had an insane night this past Saturday. In. Sane. At the request of my friend B, who required a gweilo wingman for this particular obligation, I attended the birthday party of his girlfriend’s mother at a large dinner/dancing hall in Kowloon. It was a costume affair – well, at least for the two tables’ worth of relatives and friends. For the other 300 people at the restaurant, it was just another night out; that said, it was certainly interesting and more than a little humbling when we entered the place and had to walk past several large tables of regular diners while dressed as, respectively, a pirate (B), a Native American (E) and a 'big Chinese dude', which I discovered a few weeks later was a Chinese vampire, thus explaning the attention and praise of the locals (me). I was rockin’ one of those silk shirts with the high collar and toggle buttons as well as a crazy hat with a long ponytail in the back. Luckily it did not take long for us to reach our two tables of already litacious revelers, most of whom were in costume as well. Ah, the safety of the other freaks.

You know, I’m really not sure where to start. I think I might just do it diary-style, in chronological order, as I have done with many other talez of my Kongistanian Drunkitude.

We show up a the place and I’m generating all sorts of laughter and praise for my costume, from enthusiastic shouts of “Beautiful!” accompanied by a thumbs-up to some remarks in Chinese that well could have been mean-spirited insults for all I know. Everyone was laughing – no one was giving me the stinkeye – but laughing with people and at people often go hand-in-hand in Chinese culture and, while they may bear no ill will toward you, people make no mistake about the fact that they are making fun of you. Some of my friends would not have done so well in this environment. But, like my father, I try to keep in mind the inherent goodness of people, be respectful and have fun and, unlike my father, drink my way into relative comfort.

And that’s what B and I proceeded to do, although we were first sidetracked by – what else? – photos. Lots and lots of photos. First we were bombarded with the introductions: we met E’s crazy sisters (dressed as Pebbles and a sexy cop, fishnets and all), her mother (a belly dancer), various friends and boyfriends (a gay Spock, an Arab, cowgirl, etc) as well as E’s father and aunt. They didn't dress up.

Then came the photos – B, E, and myself, then B and I with two women from the other table, then B with just the two women, me with just the two women, group shot after group shot…at one point, I was surrounded by people imitating a bunny hop (you know, hands curled, palms down at chest level, hopping away), saying to me, “this how Chinese Frankenstein walk! Not like this” – Frankenstein move, with arms outstretched like a zombie – “but like this!” (bunny hop). “Now you do! You do!!” Completely confused yet eager to make nice with my new friends, I obliged to their immense delight. Dude, I had no clue at this point. Honestly, I’m desperately scanning the table for a beer. The table is littered with dirty plates, hard-boiled eggshells, cans of soda, and empty bottles of Chivas and Henny. Lots of full sodas and empty beers, but no full beers. Finally they start flowing out of the ice buckets off to the side. I have both an excuse to avoid the photos and a way to bear with them. Down they go, along with some scallops, squid, chicken, duck’s feet with mushrooms (ok, I bagged the duck feet), and some weird cream cheese and onion thingies that look like fish sticks but were not.

And so it continues…with a blown kiss and a sodden, indecipherable remark, Pebbles challenges me to a drinking contest – one beer, as fast as possible. I win to cheers. Her boyfriend immediately pours me another and, with a glare, begins downing his beer. I blast through that one too, to more cheers. Cowgirl raises her eyebrows as she notices me chat briefly with Victor. My foot hurt.

As the food and drink flows, and more bottles of Chivas and Henny arrive, the focus turns to dancing. At first, our crew made comedic little forays into the crowd of couples waltzing about. Gay Spock and Sexy Cop first give it a shot with dramatic, exaggerated tangos that plow straight across the floor, narrowly missing the other couples. Then Pebbles and Sexy Cop pair off and do the same. Keep in mind that, while everyone else is wearing slacks and oxfords and such, we’re the ones wearing afro wigs and fake titties and carrying everything from cap guns to plastic bones to feather boas. Everyone is having a great time. At some point, we’re pressed into conga line service – a few drinks too early, I might add. A little later, E’s moms pulls me up to the dance floor for some one-on-one time, and we remain the focus of attention for a while. Soon there are several of us dancing in little groups, switching partners at our whim.

After settling back into our seats for a while, I notice that a sort of group dance is developing. Set to an ominous, bass-heavy groove to which everyone knows the words – something that sounds like a slowed-down version of Noize Organized’s “Set it Off” – everyone links arms and does this little two-step deal which involves a kick and a “HEY!” every so often. Two smaller circles morph into one huge oval that covers the dance floor. Their own little Electric Slide. B and I compare it to something you’d see at a C&W bar.

By now, everyone is pretty well plastered, and it’s time for the cake. We all gather in front of the band for the blowing out of candles and a couple happy birthday songs, including the ubiquitous English version, and several more photos are taken. Beers keep filling my glass from all directions – Pebbles’ boyfriend seems particularly intent on doing me in, and while I have not had need to seek out a drink for the past couple hours, I’m feeling a little more nice than I should.

Around 12.30, we all headed out to grab taxis. B, E, Cowgirl and I take a cab back to Central, where several folks are gathered at a jazz bar above Dublin Jack’s. This is when things get a little hazy. While I recall speaking to Tony, an editor here, I don’t recall what we talked about. B was only too happy to fill me in the next day:

Me: I’m litacious, man.
T: Uh-huh, I see.
Me: It’s like a new word for lit. I need to make up words to describe how lit I am.
T: o-kayyyy…

At some point, I left the place and managed to make it down the stairs of the place, and down the series of steps below the mid-level escalators, without killing myself. Stopped in the 7-11 for supplies – by now the shirt is open and I’m carrying my hat in an attempt to make this journey with some dignity (yes, I was wearing a t-shirt underneath), and either no one notices or I’m too nice to notice that they’re noticing. I think my brain was on emergency autopilot, keeping my litaciousness in check until I reach the relative safety of my apartment. Ah, the apartment…so safe. I know! I’ll turn on the oven! That’s a capital idea! Two Stouffer’s pizzas later and I’m passed out. One of the last things I remember is turning the oven off – all the way off, like not just the oven but the power switch at the other end of the kitchen. Didn’t burn myself, and there’s no way I’m going to burn down the building. Well, not this time anyway.

The next morning…well, at some point I opened up the sluices at both ends and went back to bed, still completely shitfacular…and when I woke up, I didn’t feel particularly good about myself. Took me about 5 minutes to find my glasses, and I was still wearing by boxers - something I probably haven’t done since 1989, unless I’m forgetting a night that was similar to this one. My clothes were spread from the bathroom to the kitchen, where the oven door was still open. Guess the closing-door part was deemed a little less important than the turning-off part.

More later,

Chucky