Beware of getting girls drunk

It’s not quite a good idea for a guy to take two ladies out for drinks, ply them with an inordinate amount of alcohol and not have cavalry support on standby.

Modernburrow learned that two weeks ago, for better or for worse.

It started when nadnut organised a Mortini Night get-together at The Bar at Morton’s.

About eight of us were there, leisurely sipping exquisite martinis while indulging in free-flow steak sandwiches (only available weekdays 5 to 7 pm).

Me and nadnut had two drinks each (the Appletinis are to die for).

When 7 pm arrived and we were all overdosed on steak sandwiches, modernburrow said, “Let’s go to St James!”

“What? Drinks after drinks?”

“Why not?”

But only me and nadnut were game for it, so it was just the three of us.

I wanted to go to Bellini Room but it wasn’t open yet, so we had one drink at Movida while we waited for BR to open up.

The Comedy Night Set starts at 9:30 pm every Tuesday at Bellini Room.

Gino entertained us with his jazz numbers, with insults and gay humour (the latter of which can be interpreted both ways) thrown in between songs.

It’s quite funny, as long as you’re not the target of Gino’s jokes.

The three of us shared a bottle of wine while we laughed at Modernburrow, who managed to get himself targetted at one point of time.

When our bottle finished, Modernburrow ordered another.

I was, like, “I need to go.” (I had already told them earlier that I needed to leave early.)

“But the real live music hasn’t even started yet,” he said.

Then I found out that Tom Brown was still performing at Bellini Room and he was up next. That clinched it.

I couldn’t leave without watching suave, dashing Tom Brown, whom I had mentioned five months back and never gotten around to seeing him again.

Somewhere in the middle of our second bottle, nadnut decided that we weren’t drinking fast enough for her liking. She started making us bottoms up every five minutes.

While Tom Brown serenaded us, I tried my best to concentrate, but it was very hard because I was beginning to feel very woozy.

nadnut wasn’t faring any better, for the matter. The more intoxicated she got, the more she decided that it was fun to make us drink nonstop.

We finished our second bottle in no time.

Then, she wanted champagne.

I protested. “I need to goooooooooooo!”

The champagne came, anyway, and I found myself just sitting there, giggling to what I can’t remember and drinking when asked to.

At one point of time, Stephen Francis, band leader of the Bellini Room house band, came over to offer us a glass of something each. Champagne or wine, I can’t remember.

Tipsy nadnut got really excited and wanted to take photos with him.

Now comes the punch line.

When she was MSNing me the photos (I didn’t bring my camera out that day), she asked me, “Hey, who is this guy we took photos with?”

I said, “…”

She said, “I don’t even remember taking this photo!”

I said, “…”

Enough said.

I think we finished the champagne.

Alcohol count: Averagely one bottle each, plus three drinks prior to the bottles.

It got to a point where everything was fun and exciting and funny to nadnut and she couldn’t stop expressing her views on everything. Me, I just giggled.

Modernburrow put his foot down. “I’m putting you girls in a cab. You’re getting too giggly.”

“What’s wrong with giggly?” I asked.

I don’t remember his answer.

I only remember him ushering us down the stairs and putting $50 and a $5 taxi voucher in my hands.

“You’re the more sensible one right now, so you hold on to this and make sure both of you get home.”

While waiting for the cab by the roadside, nadnut went nuts. There was no official queue at that area, so when two guys got into a cab before us, she started yelling at them about not being gentlemanly.

All this time, Modernburrow stood by our side, trying his best to calm her by speaking in a calm, reassuring voice, trying to make me stop giggling, and trying to flag a cab for us.

We finally got into a cab after five or 10 minutes. Our escort went back to Bellini Room, sans giggly girls.

In the cab, I told the driver to drop nadnut off first and then proceed to my place, but she would have none of it. “My place further! You drop off first!”

I argued some, but she was very insistent, so I gave in to her and handed her the money and the voucher.

“Keep properly,” I told her.

I didn’t realise she was “gone” at that time. She was still making intelligent conversation, really. I just thought she was really happy.

We had a nice conversation in the cab.

The next day, she asked me, “How did I get home?”

I said, “Er… mb put us in a cab. You insisted on dropping me off first, so I don’t know what happened after I got off the cab.”

She said, “I woke up in my room and can’t remember how I got there.”

DOTDOTDOT!

She had also lost the money and the voucher and could only very vaguely remember having a conversation with me in the cab.

Faint.

It must have been very embarrassing for Modernburrow to chaperone us that night. I think a quota on alcohol needs to be set the next time, if there’s a next time.

Okay, this entry is way longer than I expected! I need to end this somewhat abrubtly now because I have tons of work to do.

Only old people like jazz?

I used to hate jazz when I was much younger. I mean really hate. Jazz offended me because I thought music shouldn’t hurt the ears like that, with its weird cacophony of sounds.

I did appreciate some jazz, but only those that incorporated more mainstream melodic vocals. I liked listening to some Christmas carols sung jazz style. And I enjoyed Kenny G, although I know jazz purists would call it sacrilege to associate Kenny G with jazz.

But I hated jazz in its pure, undiluted form. The tunes go up and down like a roller coaster ride in a seemingly random fashion. There’s no melody. The tempo is schizophrenic. Trumpets are noisy. I didn’t understand the genre and I didn’t understand why people would call it music, because it’s just noise to me. Like how the older generation calls heavy metal noise.

Unfortunately, the Goonfather loves jazz.

When I first found out, I was like, “OMG I’m dating an uncle.”

(In Singapore, “uncle” is often used to describe someone who’s not old but acts old and dated. Of course, we also call old and dated people uncle, but it’s funnier when you call a young man uncle.)

I was of the mind that only old people like jazz.

Whenever the Goonfather played one of his jazz albums in the car, I would make a face at him and change the disc.

But I have to allow him his pleasures sometimes. He likes to put on a jazz CD at home, dim the lights and then sit or lie down and zone out, maybe with a glass of red. Totally uncle behaviour. But I let him do it because he doesn’t do it too often.

Thankfully, his choice of jazz veers towards the more melodic type, like “Dream a Little Dream of Me”.

I used to hate that song because I found the melody irritating, like many other jazz melodies. But I’m beginning to like it now, thanks to people around me who won’t quit playing or singing it.

After knowing the Goonfather, I gradually, unknowingly changed my status from “Hate jazz” to “Don’t mind the Goonfather’s jazz”.

And then…

The most incomprehensible thing happened.

Last night, I was at Bellini Room (the jazz/blues outlet of discoplex St James Power Station) and the band was playing this piece featuring a saxophone-clarinet duet and no vocals (exactly the kind I used to hate vehemently) and I was thinking, “This is quite nice, doesn’t hurt my ears.”

OMG.

I turned on the Goonfather, accusing him, “You make me old!”

“What?” he said, startled.

“I’m actually enjoying this stupid music and it’s all your fault! You make me listen to jazz and bring me to these jazz places. You’re making me old!!”

“Nay,” he said sagely. “You’ve upgraded. You have to be of higher status to appreciate jazz. So, congratulations.”

I gave him a look. “Old people listen to jazz. It has nothing to do with status.”

“Ok,” he said. “I shall quit my job and work at McDonald’s and next time we go Dragonfly instead of Bellini.”

(Dragonfly is the canto-pop arm of St James, frequented by young adults. I’ve been trying to get the Goonfather to go to Dragonfly since St James opened for business more than a year ago, but my plans have never materialised for some reason or other, one of them being that the Goonfather claims he’s graduated in taste and status and now hates teeny-bopper music.)

That wasn’t much of a threat. Wasn’t much of anything, in fact, so our conversation veered away because it was ridiculous in the first place.

But I was quite perturbed by my realisation that I didn’t hate jazz anymore.

I listened to the band intently, analysing the sounds, trying to figure out why I used to hate it and why I didn’t hate it now. Maybe the bands I had occasion to hear in the past sucked. Maybe the band at Bellini Room is really good.

Or maybe my tastes have really changed. Which is quite possible. I used to love Pez candy when I was a kid but now I can’t imagine why. It’s hard and tastes just like sugar. I would probably get more pleasure out of sucking rock sugar, an activity I don’t fancy in the first place.

I DON’T KNOW.

I just know that the sound of jazz doesn’t offend me anymore.

OMG.

For the moment, I’m putting it down to the charismatic singers at Bellini Room.

My favourite, suave and dashing Tom Brown:

Smouldering Darius Mendoza, who prances on-stage and off-stage like a rock star instead of a jazz singer:

Sexy Jeassea Thyidor, who was a Singapore Idol contestant.

They’re all really good and are contributing to my mysterious conversion.

I can’t say I love jazz yet. But I can say that I’m looking forward to being a Bellini Room regular.

Does that mean I’m getting old?

OMG.


Mr Mendoza serenades to an unsuspecting birthday girl with a seductive rendition of “Happy Birthday”.