Wag the ‘waga- waga’
December 19, 2004 | 12:00am
We entered the ballroom of a plush hotel. It was filled with people, half of whom I didn’t know and the rest I had never met. Watching them, I immediately spotted three kinds of smiles that are de rigueur in a gathering like this: 1) The honest-to-goodness-so-glad-to-see-you smile; 2) the hurry-up-snap-the-picture-while-I-still-have-lipstick smile; and 3) the waga-waga smile.
The third category is interesting. The waga-wagas are people who fill-up a carpeted room by spreading a lot of noise, any noise, mostly idle chatter. If you listen closely, they make sounds like bees flapping or wagging their wings, thus wag-waga.
Wherever you look, you’ll see them moving around, bustling, fleeting and continuously chatting. They keep the party energized. No substance, just the inaudible drone of waga, waga, waga, waga.
If the waga-wagas were transported to a movie set, they would be the throng of chic and debonair add-ons that make a party scene look full and well attended. If it were a battle scene, they would be the assembly of generals, the foot soldiers, the flying ace pilots, the wounded and just anyone who’d make some form of noise. They have no dialogue, no one-liners to set them apart from the principal actors.
Back at the party, heads kept turning and I realized that I was not the only one on the lookout for a friend in the thick crowd. Everybody else was doing it except a lot were more interested to be seen, in the scene. People from all sectors of the industry came and when I finally saw a familiar, friendly and reassuring face, I immediately broke into the first category smile. She had rescued me from a room full of people, all alone. (I borrowed that from a song).
It’s futile to try and make friends in a standing-only event. Fine, honest and meaningful conversation is drowned by unessential babble that leads nowhere. At best, you don’t go past the following dialogue: "Ah, where are you from? What do you do? What was that again? You were saying? I’m sorry I didn’t get the last bit. What? Don’t you know who I am?"
At a wedding, the mother of the bride was bragging about this event coordinator and her efficient team that she hired for this special occasion. "Nothing but the best, "she beamed. I saw them at the church in their full regalia, donning headpieces as a means of communicating with each other. They were supposedly stationed in strategic parts of the church. "It’s a necessary gadget, this headset," she said. "You need it to ensure that everything flows like a dream preventing any disaster or headaches for the bridal entourage. " "Very professional," I concurred.
I watched them as they adjusted the volume of their headsets, peppering their conversation with roger and copy and lots of waga-waga in between. For some reason, they raised their voices ceremoniously whenever they caught someone watching them.
When the minus one CD was played, I sat up and giggled. It was the wrong track. The music was Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus from the Messiah. "Excuse me young lady," I said. "Shouldn’t they be playing that after the couple exchanged I do’s?" She stared at me, face blank as a slate so I snapped her out of it, "Hello. Are you all right?" "Of course, you’re right," she replied. Pushing the earpiece further down her ear canal, she whispered, "Abort music, abort music." Suddenly, she turned around and exclaimed. "Oh no ! Eh, eh, I lost contact with our sound mixer. There’s nothing I can do." "Well, that’s high-tech disaster of the first order, " I thought. I pinched myself from saying, "There’s such a thing as the stairs. You can run up and tell him."
A few seconds passed and suddenly, the whole church was engulfed in laughter. The CD was switched but instead of appropriate music, we heard a drinking song medley starting with Roll out the Barrel. My friend snickered, "They must be out of their noodles. What do they think this is? Malt and hops Oktoberfest?" The poor mother of the bride was nearly in tears.
In another party, there were more waga-wagas. This time, it was the kind I loathed most. We were introduced thrice by the same person on three different occasions yet she looked at me as though the stork only delivered me that night. I heard a voice within me say, "If I hear you say nice to meet you‚ I will clobber you." She offered a limp, skeletal-detached hand and pompously asked, "Oh, do I know you?" Saved by semantics.
The waga-wagas are ubiquitous. They come from all walks of life. They can be the humble, simple folks who are content to be the noisy, enthusiastic crowd behind the velvet rope with no hang-ups, just content to be props. But the dangerous kind comes from the so-called movers and shakers. What is puzzling about the latter is despite their top positions, they still resort to bullying and elbowing. That’s when you realize that the abundance of money does not guarantee good behavior or fine manners. While these captains of industry and the crème de la crème provide life and animation in any gathering, they are shallow, self-centered and insincere.
Genuine people won’t snap to attention at the sight of a photographer and his flashing camera (hmmm, maybe they will but only because you are in the picture with them). They maintain eye contact and are sincerely appreciative of persons they meet. If made to choose, they prefer anonymity. They can, however, make noise in celebration of a friendship that’s unique, infectious, generous and two-way or a worthy cause that brings comfort and smile. It’s a healthy, boisterous noise that breaks jaded spirits and pulls up sagging egos. In short, they beat the drums, in pure delight, at having you in their life.
In contrast, if you go past the ruckus the waga-wagas make, you would know that they are like flat champagne, without the fizz and froth.
The next time you party, play the spot game. When your ears get itchy and they start to swell resembling bright and fiery rouge, you know the waga-wagas have just taken over the room. Cup your ears, make a hasty retreat and head for home. Be glad that in the privacy and comfort of your quiet, simple world, they occupy no space.
Is that Handel’s Hallelujah I hear in the background?
The third category is interesting. The waga-wagas are people who fill-up a carpeted room by spreading a lot of noise, any noise, mostly idle chatter. If you listen closely, they make sounds like bees flapping or wagging their wings, thus wag-waga.
Wherever you look, you’ll see them moving around, bustling, fleeting and continuously chatting. They keep the party energized. No substance, just the inaudible drone of waga, waga, waga, waga.
If the waga-wagas were transported to a movie set, they would be the throng of chic and debonair add-ons that make a party scene look full and well attended. If it were a battle scene, they would be the assembly of generals, the foot soldiers, the flying ace pilots, the wounded and just anyone who’d make some form of noise. They have no dialogue, no one-liners to set them apart from the principal actors.
Back at the party, heads kept turning and I realized that I was not the only one on the lookout for a friend in the thick crowd. Everybody else was doing it except a lot were more interested to be seen, in the scene. People from all sectors of the industry came and when I finally saw a familiar, friendly and reassuring face, I immediately broke into the first category smile. She had rescued me from a room full of people, all alone. (I borrowed that from a song).
It’s futile to try and make friends in a standing-only event. Fine, honest and meaningful conversation is drowned by unessential babble that leads nowhere. At best, you don’t go past the following dialogue: "Ah, where are you from? What do you do? What was that again? You were saying? I’m sorry I didn’t get the last bit. What? Don’t you know who I am?"
At a wedding, the mother of the bride was bragging about this event coordinator and her efficient team that she hired for this special occasion. "Nothing but the best, "she beamed. I saw them at the church in their full regalia, donning headpieces as a means of communicating with each other. They were supposedly stationed in strategic parts of the church. "It’s a necessary gadget, this headset," she said. "You need it to ensure that everything flows like a dream preventing any disaster or headaches for the bridal entourage. " "Very professional," I concurred.
I watched them as they adjusted the volume of their headsets, peppering their conversation with roger and copy and lots of waga-waga in between. For some reason, they raised their voices ceremoniously whenever they caught someone watching them.
When the minus one CD was played, I sat up and giggled. It was the wrong track. The music was Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus from the Messiah. "Excuse me young lady," I said. "Shouldn’t they be playing that after the couple exchanged I do’s?" She stared at me, face blank as a slate so I snapped her out of it, "Hello. Are you all right?" "Of course, you’re right," she replied. Pushing the earpiece further down her ear canal, she whispered, "Abort music, abort music." Suddenly, she turned around and exclaimed. "Oh no ! Eh, eh, I lost contact with our sound mixer. There’s nothing I can do." "Well, that’s high-tech disaster of the first order, " I thought. I pinched myself from saying, "There’s such a thing as the stairs. You can run up and tell him."
A few seconds passed and suddenly, the whole church was engulfed in laughter. The CD was switched but instead of appropriate music, we heard a drinking song medley starting with Roll out the Barrel. My friend snickered, "They must be out of their noodles. What do they think this is? Malt and hops Oktoberfest?" The poor mother of the bride was nearly in tears.
In another party, there were more waga-wagas. This time, it was the kind I loathed most. We were introduced thrice by the same person on three different occasions yet she looked at me as though the stork only delivered me that night. I heard a voice within me say, "If I hear you say nice to meet you‚ I will clobber you." She offered a limp, skeletal-detached hand and pompously asked, "Oh, do I know you?" Saved by semantics.
The waga-wagas are ubiquitous. They come from all walks of life. They can be the humble, simple folks who are content to be the noisy, enthusiastic crowd behind the velvet rope with no hang-ups, just content to be props. But the dangerous kind comes from the so-called movers and shakers. What is puzzling about the latter is despite their top positions, they still resort to bullying and elbowing. That’s when you realize that the abundance of money does not guarantee good behavior or fine manners. While these captains of industry and the crème de la crème provide life and animation in any gathering, they are shallow, self-centered and insincere.
Genuine people won’t snap to attention at the sight of a photographer and his flashing camera (hmmm, maybe they will but only because you are in the picture with them). They maintain eye contact and are sincerely appreciative of persons they meet. If made to choose, they prefer anonymity. They can, however, make noise in celebration of a friendship that’s unique, infectious, generous and two-way or a worthy cause that brings comfort and smile. It’s a healthy, boisterous noise that breaks jaded spirits and pulls up sagging egos. In short, they beat the drums, in pure delight, at having you in their life.
In contrast, if you go past the ruckus the waga-wagas make, you would know that they are like flat champagne, without the fizz and froth.
The next time you party, play the spot game. When your ears get itchy and they start to swell resembling bright and fiery rouge, you know the waga-wagas have just taken over the room. Cup your ears, make a hasty retreat and head for home. Be glad that in the privacy and comfort of your quiet, simple world, they occupy no space.
Is that Handel’s Hallelujah I hear in the background?
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