Oh my Lord, has it been a year already? It seems just like yesterday when I wrote about Vernissage. Google “Nightlife installs himself at the Art Fair” and read last year’s dare-I-say hilarious column on the HK Mag website.

Well, this year, nobody asked me “What are you going to buy?” or “So, found anything to buy yet?” as I had not so discreetly warned people with my Facebook status: “predicts that I won’t have much time to look at the art since I will be busy kissing cheeks and answering ‘So what are you going to buy?’ 496 times.” The only ones who asked me that question were friends who were trying to be cute with me.

Speaking of being cute, whilst I was trying to take a photograph of Marnie Weber’s 2008 whimsical sculpture of fiberglass and aqua-resin “Warrior Pig”—still one of my favorite pieces—(animal art just relieves my spirit of its sinus problems, check it out below), the ineffably modelesque Lisa S came up and kicked my foot from behind. I turned around and was prepared to shoot dagger eyes to whoever had spoiled my perfect angling of the porcine sculpture, and luckily, Lisa S yelled, “It’s ME~~~!” before I attacked her. “Did I try and dropkick you over when you were posing for the paps outside the Diesel ‘Hong Kong Terry Richardson’ exhibit?!?” I asked. Bygones. Lisa S wants to put “Warrior Pig” in her and Daniel Wu’s kitchen, and hang sausages from its antlers.

Back to L’art from interior design. I certainly heard less nonsense this year, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t hear any. There were people who brushed up on their adjectives and art-speak, spewing their big bags of bullshit. I do confess that I myself am guilty of using the word “juxtaposition” whenever I talk about art or film. But there were some trolls who kept saying: “Oh my, now THIS really speaks about modern consumer culture and capitalism eloquently.” Oh Really?

As Chuang Tzu (or Zhuangzi in modern Pinyin) once said: “A dog is not reckoned good because he barks well. Likewise, a man is not considered wise just because he speaks skillfully.” Bitch, please. SFTU.

Here’s my absolute favorite roll-my-eyes moment: “I like this one the best” (someone talking about a portfolio of seven black and white etchings with aquatint and dry-point) “Yeah, but you gotta get the whole series.” Responded his female companion right away without barely a proper glance at any of the images.

Yeah, but you GOTTA, riiiight…? Bitch, please. Shut the fuck up.

I think I managed to see half of the art on the first floor on opening day. Someone came up to me when the venue was closing and proclaimed: “Oh I haven’t looked at any art yet!” Of course not, you’ve spent all your time at the Veuve Clicquot lounge, and now you’re drunk.

Maybe that’s what I should have done— alcohol makes art-poseurs so much more bearable—but I had refrained from drinking since I was saturated with buckets of Sang Som from my mad weekend in Bangkok (promised my 12 travel companions that I would not write about our collective weekend in my column—you want a clue? Watch “The Hangover Part II”). I didn’t go to ANY of the gallery parties for the next few days, and attended an impromptu acupuncture party on Friday at Dr. Poon’s instead (she’s also my dentist, so I trust her with needles). I’m starting a new trend, oh yes, acu-parties.