Shrine in the Ether

Christmas Eve was a blast!

I mean, what better way to spend it than in the company of leggy French babes dancing naked on stage, every inch of dewy skin glowing under a flurry of kaleidoscopic laser lights? No, I haven’t been hanging around nude bars with wads of cash in my pockets ready for an impromptu lap dance or two nor have I been experiencing particularly potent bouts of LSD-induced psychedelia. I’m talking about Le Crazy Horse Paris, of course!

Tagged as L’Art Du Nu, the French cabaret conceptualized by Alain Bernardin raised controversy everywhere it toured for its bevy of beautiful ladies cavorting in little more than inch-thick strips of cloth scarcely wrapped around their voluptuous bodies. The whole performance was pop art come alive, like a Salvador Dali painting in motion. The gracefulness of the movements was awe-inspiring and the frenzied visuals lent a certain sensuality to the air that made me want to devour a huge bottle of Maraschino cherries at once...don’t ask why, I have no idea either but it must be the delectable flashes of hot pink strips of light…

The production was polished and superb in all technical and artistic aspects albeit probably not ideal for those with self-esteem issues. Indeed, if I weren’t in such a festive mood, the parade of baby-smooth booties and perfectly rounded breasts swaying elegantly just meters away from my face would have been enough to sink me to the depths of depression and next thing I know, I would be licking my right index finger and inserting it into the next live socket I’d find to end my misery.


A definite must-watch…

The venue was dressed to look like a lavish turn-of-the-century boudoir all trimmed in red silk and gold accents punctuated with crystal lighting fixtures - as luxurious and as glamorous as you can imagine. The event called for “Smart Casual” which I interpreted as “Semi-formal” – any excuse to preen really, so I dressed up like Paris Hilton complete with useless toy dog but without any of the skank. That is to say, it’s probably how the erm, heiress would dress if she were to meet the Queen…and the dress code says no crotch exposure…and no frocks that look like something Courtney Love did time in…in which case, it’s probably nothing Paris would have considered wearing at all…

But anyway, the dress was utterly gorgeous and was even more perfect with the furry baguette I paired with it. I would upload a picture but I don’t want to run the risk of my face being PhotoShopped onto Charlize Theron’s body…or maybe I’d like that…remind me to upload later. But for the meanwhile, just use your imagination…

  

After the show, we went dancing in Gotham at Clark Quay supposedly the “it” place for true blooded partyphiles although I had more fun watching wasted people let the alcohol take over their senses and make complete fools of themselves than freaking out myself.

On our way home, a group of octogenarians (okay more like mid to late thirties - same difference) who might be Australians judging from their accents, took a snapshot of my sister and I without our permission and started acting all friendly and stuff. I just glared at the fogies the whole time especially at the Jared Leto look-alike (if Jared’s face were removed, soaked in vinegar solution for a week and reattached), who comfortably circled his arm around me. What can I say? I wasn’t drunk enough to mistake him for Brad Pitt. I wish I was though seeing that there wasn’t a single hottie in sight who still didn’t have someone slobbering all over him.

The next day, I woke up with my throat feeling like someone stuck a bottle brush in and out of it during the night and when I opened my mouth to say something, nothing came out, not even a peep! I spent all of Christmas Day convincing people that no, I really am not imitating Marge Simpson until I tired of it and just wore a two-foot cobalt blue wig at the end to make the striking similarities just a tad more obvious therefore eliminating the need for me to explain.

Well, not exactly.

I went to bed with my throat full of raw, scratchy cotton. Still, it was a fun Christmas all in all.

Have a fabulous one every one!!!

Well, what do you know? There I was with a plastic smile plastered across my dolled up face pretending to enjoy the goddamn awful fare served from the kitchen of the Marriot Hotel (which is supposedly rated five stars but never mind) during the company DND when my ticket number was announced as the 18th prize winner in the evening’s lucky dip. If you’re familiar with my humongous little rift with lady luck, you’d probably take this as one of the signs of the impending apocalypse.

It’s no secret that I’m never lucky. Indeed, I have the luck of a fattened up turkey waiting to be executed on Thanksgiving morning. Case in point, I’m the person who took home the can of friggin’ motor oil as a consolation gift after all the i-Pod’s and Moto Razr V3s have been dished out to the fortunate bastards in one Christmas Party. Before you think otherwise, I’m really quite easy to please. Heck, I’d be happy with 10 bucks. At least I can use it to buy a nice Chicken Fold-over meal at Mickey Dee’s but no, that bitch (read: lady luck) always has other plans.


All that will make me happy. Really.

So when my stub was picked from among hundreds of others, imagine my surprise! I didn‘t exactly pull a Tom-Cruise-being-his-Scientologist-self-on-Oprah, I’m usually quite composed after all, but it took about five minutes of prodding from colleagues before I could get off my seat to climb up the stage and get my prize.

Whoohoo! Finally…a case of changing luck, perhaps?

Hell, not quite.

I never even had the chance to find out exactly what I won as one of the committee members swiftly pulled me aside to apologize saying that I wasn’t qualified for the draw having been with the company for less than a year. Apparently, my stub was mistakenly placed by a member in the wrong bowl. Whada??? As a sign of their good will according to them however, the committee chair promised to give me the top prize amongst those for employees with less than a year of tenure. Oh, goody! So she excitedly handed me a plain white envelope and egged me to open it right there. I opened the flap, it wasn’t glued, and fished out a hundred-dollar voucher for some department store I have not heard of called OG which, judging from the disgusted look that crept up one of my colleagues face, could only stand for “Oh, Gee!”

Alright, I give in...

I know what it's like to click on a link to a site hoping to see what you're looking for and find nothing on it especially when information is scarce on the subject. So, to the hundreds of you who come looking in my blog for news of Paris Hilton's Christmas Shrine...consider your wish granted...

STEWART TRESPASSER SETS UP SHRINE TO PARIS
The man who was arrested for trespassing on domestic goddess MARTHA STEWART's property last year has created a Christmas shrine to PARIS HILTON at his Cranston, Rhode Island, home.

JOE MORETTI has adorned to outside of his house with giant images of the celebrity socialite in a series of sultry poses - and he has even included Hilton's pet Chihuahua in the celebration at his Cranston house.

The 38-year-old says, "If it's offending anyone, I apologise. That's not the intent. The intent is to be different and to be creative and let them see a little bit of Hollywood or New York in Cranston."

Previous displays have featured Princess Diana and Martha Stewart.

 
Source: www.ContactMusic.com

Next time, use quotes in your searches, okay?

And while I'm at it, who knew Bill Gates was a felon? He was arrested exactly 28 years ago today.


source: www.thesmokinggun.com

Okay, not exactly...he was apparently arrested for some traffic violation the details of which have been lost by now. I never knew people actually smiled for those mug shots...or maybe Bill was just happy because he'd been baaaad...it was probably his idea of upping his popularity with the laydeez...

And lastly, never wear lipgloss with your angora top...that fruity swish of sheeny goodness may contrast nicely with the softly textured fabric but there are few sensations worse than the feeling of fibers clinging onto your mouth the whole day! Trust me on this one, I sooo know. I've been coughing up hairballs since yesterday...god, it must be hard to be a cat...

You’ve eaten a particularly huge burrito, had a really bad stomach ache within half an hour of consuming the damn thing and you had to make a Marion Jones dash to the loo. After relieving yourself and flushing the toilet, you noticed that you left skid marks in the bowl. Oh, no! Someone else is waiting to use the stall, what do you do?

FLUSH THE GODDAMN TOILET SEVERAL TIMES MORE, YOU FILTHY, STINKING SLOB! BUNCH UP A WAD OF TISSUE PAPER, USE YOUR FRIGGIN’ HANDS, LICK THE BOWL, WHATEVER! ANYTHING TO CLEAN UP THE MESS YOU MADE, YOU STEAMING INCONSIDERATE PILE OF DUNG!

Geez…Some people are just so unhygienic. Inconsiderate and unhygienic...never a good combination. I find skid-marks in the office toilets every goddamn time. Worse, the culprits so shamelessly step out of the stall and saunter to the sink to primly wash their hands like as if they are paragons of impeccable health practices with nary a thought on the little surprise they thoughtlessly left behind! Whada??? Hello, miss, you left something in the loo, would you like me to scrape it for you?

I think I may have discovered the passport to fame. Forget about mindless reality shows where people end up notorious instead of famous and pseudo talent searches where your fifteen minutes of celebrity is up even before the clock starts ticking.

You know those cheesy inspirational e-mails that tell you to dance like no one is watching? Just spread the cheese on a bagel and take the advice to heart because it’s sound guidance, apparently.

My roomies, a couple other acquaintances and I went to a comedy cum dance club last night. A famous local personality was headlining the show and the sets were campy fun although the crowd was disappointing being mostly women and men whose sexuality are suspect. Nevermind though, the motley mix of 80s pop and more recent dance hits awakened the Paula Abdul in me and by that, I mean “dancer” not “drunk,” although after downing 9 or 10 glasses of vodka, that could be the case, too.

While dancing wildly to some euro pop number, a middle aged white guy who looks like he spends most of his time fighting a 51 rogue and a 53 warrior in Felwood by the Bloodvine River in World of Warcraft (read: geek), approached our group and introduced himself as a talent scout of some sort. He gave me his name card (Managing Director of The A-List, hmmm...are we sure it’s not the Z-List, instead?) and said that he is looking for suitable talents for a showcase. Ahahahaha…How weird is that? I mean, I’ve acted on children’s theater, hosted a three-minute segment in a little-seen TV awards show, recorded a radio jingle and appeared in several TV merch plugs before but c’mon now, perform before a live audience and possibly get signed to a talent agency? You’ve got to be kidding! If I were 15, maybe but right now, it all just seems preposterous even if Constantine himself is just starting his showbiz career and he’s already 30.

Well, that and I’m no Madonna. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to organize a fan club in my honor. While the prospect of t-shirts, caps and tumblers with my űber gorgeous mug on it is indeed, an attractive one, I don’t think I’m charming enough to be a performer. Plus, I prefer to be behind the scenes, actually. I like being the brains behind the operation rather than just the legman who executes the plan. Still, it was nice to know that I could have challenged Britney for the title of Pop Princess. ;)


We almost look alike…NOT!