One of Those Nights You Don’t Want Facebook to Know About.

Despite near social media perfection, there are moments when Facebook bites you in the ass. When you catch her posting pictures you don’t need on your profile.  When your significant other gets pissed because you fail to list him or her under your “relationship status.” There’s no escaping it. Even if you’re not signed up to Facebook, you’re on Facebook. You’re in a picture somewhere, untagged. People have commented on you, attempted to tag you, and perhaps clicked through your photos at bar time with no pants on. You just don’t know.

A year or so back, Facebook released an application that allowed users to see who was viewing their profile and how often; a “stalker tracker” so to speak. Many of my friends, myself included, opted to refrain from downloading this tracker. When I asked my girlfriend at the time why she chose to deny the tracker, she said “It’s the feeling that someone is watching you sleep, and you cant ever escape that feeling, even when you’re awake.” The world is watching; parents, friends, acquaintances, hackers, masturbators. There will always be filters, but their effectiveness is trivial. Partying in the presence of cameras can now cost a man his job. We hope the Facebook hack in HR Recruitment will forgive the occasional whisky coke.

In a small, wood-lacquered dive bar in Bangkok, Thailand, people are picking their faces up from the floor. The celebration has hit them with force. British promoters “Popscene” are putting on a folk/rock show featuring artists from the UK, South Africa, and the USA. I am supposed to represent America, and I would do this without a single person yelling “Freebird!” Thank Buddha. The beer buzz of the room builds toward the end of the set as I try to incorporate some louder, shoe stompin’ tunes, working to combat the cluttered noise in the crowded venue.  The show goes swimmingly. Hugs are shared. Beers are cheered. Patrons toast in three different languages, “Cheers! Chiyo! Salud!” I wind up my guitar cords. The DJ starts spinning.  

My old friends Lawrence & the Machine happened to be in town. A four pack of road-worn Brits that could drain a pitcher in a New York minute.  They would be the tone setters for the evening, bringing the shameless sweat and grime necessary to take us to a parallel universe of outrageous nightlife. The best part was, The Machine brought their cameras to document potentially hazardous Facebook material.

For some reason there were cameras everywhere. A flash would go off every minute capturing some sloppy moment in smoke and swill. People spilling drinks, kissing, posing droopy eyed with big grins. It’s pictures like these that always get to Facebook before you can, pictures tagged too fast for comfort. Pictures that HR people see and form unjust opinions on. But now is not the time to worry about that. “Let’s get incredible!”, someone yelled through the foggy room.

The debauchery ensues with Iggy Pop shaking the half blown speakers. Smoke rings chain up the air. A pint glass shatters on the floor near my shoe. Gin and Tonic’s look like Kryptonite lanterns illuminated under blacklights like some twisted disco.  If there was a song to describe the moment it was “Don’t Fear the Reaper”, and we all needed more cowbell.

It was as if these people hadn’t been out of their homes in weeks, saving their energy for some legendary party prophesized from the sky. A well-respected local art teacher named Kate Kassidy rolls cherry cigarettes the size of Snoop Dogg’s ring finger. Punk-rocker dude Wilson Matthews is chugging mercilessly on a liter of local beer, eyes void of all sanity. A gangly South African expat known only as “The Steve” lies passed out on the sidewalk outside the bar. We wake him up and put him in the cab to go to Wong’s Place Pub, a skeezy late night joint in Bangkok.

Wong’s place had recently been featured on the city news, making it the most happening bar in the latter hours. It is also a hot spot for drag-queens and various alternative lifestyles, a selling point for tourists looking to see some crazy shit.

“Wow this place looks really Chinese”, I said as we opened the oriental brown doors. “Have you ever been to China?”, asks a smug, eavesdropping hipster to my left.  I have never been to China. But I have seen Rush Hour 2. One thing was certain; I was not cool enough to be here.

Mr. Wong himself is notorious for being difficult. Jumbo-thick glasses. Mean stone-face. Motley Crue mullet. He stands on the bar with a microphone, making sure everyone is purchasing drinks at a steady pace and yelling at those who don’t. “Pay now. Pay for that beer!” Wong struggles to keep control of the huddled mass, shouting through the karaoke speakers thumb-tacked to the wall. Despite running the biggest party joint in Bangkok, Wong hates to party.

I walk in the bar with a bottle of water 1/3 full. Mr. Wong snatches it out of my hand. “No carry-ins! I owner. You buy new water,” pointing to a fridge full of beer. Too full on beer to drink more beer, I purchase a $2 water from Wong. “No, you buy more. Must buy drink,” says old man Wong, looking more like Kim Jung Ill than I had originally noticed.

“Can I have a moment to decide Mr. Wong?”, I reason. “No. Buy now”, Wong says. I proceed to ask Wong for obscure drinks like aloe vera juice and organic apple cider, stuff I thought he wouldn’t have. Waste his time a bit. But by some act of the orchard-farming Gods, Wong had organic apple cider. “Damnit,” I thought out loud. “You pay now!”, he repeats twice more, as if I just killed his dog or something.

Wong took advantage of Bangkok’s lack of fire code, jamming the room beyond a visible inch of floor space. Cramped and soggy with sweat, I walk outside, slamming  water in the alleyway to shake the fog from my thoughts. Refreshed. Time to rally. I attempt to go back inside to meet up with friends Kassidy, Wilson, and The Steve, but Wong won’t let me back in. To Wong, I had failed to purchase enough alcohol to make my presence of any value. Wongzo the Grouch points me in the other direction. Defeated, I follow his finger. Mankind has seen hundreds and thousands of people get kicked out of bars for being too drunk, but never have I seen a man removed for not being drunk enough. Perhaps Wong is right just this once. Perhaps I need to learn how to party. I’m going to bed.

The next day Facebook would release the documentary of the evening from four cameras present on the scene September 17, 2011. The catalogues of photos are remarkably crusty and unrefined. Here are a few accounts of the camera…

• 1)   Conservative looking expat passed out face down on the sidewalk.
• 2)  Innocent schoolgirl smoking what appears to be a George W. Koosh cone joint.
• 3)   Goateed Thai man doing karate.
• 4)   White girl rubbing the Buddha belly of an overweight customer.
• 5)   British guy folding his arms over his crotch, giving a WWF “suck it” gesture with determination. 

I spent hours grazing these albums on Facebook; couldn’t look away. While Facebook may not be the greatest use of time, it is easily the greatest way to waste time. We hope HR Recruitment will forgive the whisky coke, plummeting of pride, and prominent rise to shame. And if they don’t, well, sorry for partying.