(SPOT.ph) Okay, so basically the truth is that I haven’t been out in a long time, and given the fever I had the night before, there was absolutely no reason for me to be at the Magnum party on Tuesday. But as fate would have it, I played my little game of “the path of least resistance” and found myself pulling up to 32 McKinley five minutes after Azealia Banks had finished performing.
(“The path of least resistance” is this thing I do that entails me not trying too hard, and letting the cards fall where they may. It dictates whether or not I go out, who I go with, what I end up wearing, how late I stay, and everything else in between.)
On this particular night, I sent a total of two feeler messages to see if people were headed that way, and ended up getting hit back with an “I’ll pick you up at 10:30” text. Had neither of them replied, I can assure you, I would have been on my couch all night curled up with my copy of Amy Chua’s Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother (which I recommend to all young mothers).
This was feeling a bit too easy, so I threw up the next obstacle. The invitation said “cocktail” attire. A distress t weet had gone out earlier in the day with a bratty complaint that nobody liked to talk to me at cocktail parties when I was in high heels. Bratty, yes. Valid, yes. At least 6’4” in my Gaupo stilettos…I mean, it’s just awkward for everybody.
But I’m trailing off. Anyway, long story short, the outfit ended up becoming zero stress to put together, I got picked up, and made it out.
Now here’s the thing. Within the first five minutes, I had said hello to about 20 people (the first of which was photographer extraordinaire, Marc Nicdao, escaping the premises to get some rest), and the cheek kissing didn’t stop for the three hours that I was there. I had missed the main act completely (which I was a little upset about in my own Sarah way, “But black people NEVER come to Manila!” footstomp), but knew I could catch Azealia Banks back in New York sometime. This party, however, would never quite repeat itself.
Photo of Azealia Banks c/o @nixalanon
It was a wonderful evening. There were lots of awkward little moments, like there always are for me in social settings (usually because I’m a silly and strange girl that forgets people’s names and sucks at small talking), but here’s are some of the things that really made the party twinkle for me.
Photo c/o @pamquinones
I’ll flat out say it; I think she’s the best stylist this country has ever produced. I think she is doing us all a massive favor by staying in Manila, and we should repay her by letting her take month-long vacations every now and then, offering to take care of her chiropractic doctor’s bill when he says she can’t wear high heels 312 days in arow, and finding ways through hell and high water to make sure she’s exercising her creativity, feeling challenged, and like she’s growing at all times.
Photo c/o @teresaherrera27
The birthday girl posted this Instagram photo early in the night, and took advantage of the lack of people to snap some shots of the party venue. “I’m such a dummy, I never learn. The invitation said 8 p.m. I’m still an American girl.” But what she doesn’t know is that this photo may have been the pivotal piece in my night being awesome or atrocious – I was home stressing about “cocktail attire” when I saw her in her little shorts online, and immediately changed outfit direction to something I could rock out to.
Photo c/o @djeuric
Speaking of rocking out, MY GOODNESS. What an absolute pleasure to see DJ Euric behind the turntables as the party goers filtered indoors from the expansive (and expensive) garden. Unapologetic in his song selection, and rightfully so, the master of un-mainstream had everyone trapping out (in their cocktail attire) and celebrating the way Azealia Banks would have, had she opted to hang out a bit longer. She favorites his “yo, you killed that set!” Twitter message, but I think HE killed his set. Made my night. Truly.
Photo c/o @samrichelle
“Everybody keeps making comments about my bikini top, asking where the pool is,” I comment, a little pouty. “It’s right over there,” Sam says, pointing behind the laser-lit wall everyone is taking pictures in front of. And she knows, because not only is she picturesque enough to be a fairy-tale princess (albeit a bombshell, super-siren one), but this mansion that Manila has occupied for the evening could basically be considered her real-life castle. (I forgot to ask her if she designed the dress she was wearing, but if the low back-to-crack line was any sign, it probably was. I am so petrified and fiending to wear one of her dresses. Gym muna.)
Other great things to happen that night were little reunions in many shapes and forms; one with the Rogue team for the first time since my Jan-Feb 2013 music issue cover came out (which made me super happy, even though I can’t find a copy to buy for myself anywhere), and others with some of my favorite creators in Manila; Jujiin Samonte (whose eyes I could not see underneath his reflective silver uni-visor mask glasses (I don’t know what they’re called in real life), and little catch up chit chats with the evening’s director, Robby Carmona, as well as the stunning Ornusa Cadness (who I was almost over-emotionally thrilled to see), my favorite non-cocktail attire-wearing photographer Steve Tirona, and the ever diplomatic Borgy Manotoc.
The red wine hit home, and I ended up back in bed with a fever the next day, but that’s okay. Parties like that don’t come around too often.
Next time, I should really have some ice cream.