Monday, January 23, 2006
The Name is "Woman", "Wonder Woman"...
I hate my name. I really do. It’s so old-fashioned that it immediately elicits an image of a little old duster-clad lady who comes by your house on Sunday mornings to take your dirty laundry and do them for you. It’s so common, drab and boring that I couldn’t care less if it was supposedly the most popular name for girls in America in the 50s and 60s. It also happens to be a Spanish word (slightly modified spelling) with a really flattering meaning, but what the heck? I still don’t like it.
My mom said that it was a choice between that and “Wonder Woman.” Eh? She apparently let my elder sisters, then 3 and 4 years old decide what to call me. Sweet, yes, but not exactly the greatest of ideas, obviously. In the end she picked the first name of the actress who played Wonder Woman in the short-lived TV series, instead.
Not that the Catholic Church would have let her but I would have liked to be called “Wonder Woman” a whole lot better. At least it’s unique and it would have placed me at par with the likes of celebrity spawns Audio Science Clayton (Shannyn Sossamon’s son) or Pilot Inspektor Lee (Jason Lee’s). As a fan of everything far out and bizarre, I swear those names kick major ass regardless of what everyone else says.
Kicking major ass since 1978...
So to Bob Geldof’s daughter, Peaches, who claims her name has caused her nothing but embarrassment throughout her life, I say boo-fucking-hoo! Peaches isn’t even really that different. I’ve known at least half a dozen Peaches and many Apples, a few Oranges and even a Lychee. No, fruit names are not quite so weird where I come from and they are quite fitting if the person bearing such a name is as pleasant and sweet.
Granted, her full name Peaches Honey Blossom sounds like something Paris Hilton would name a ferret, but she still got the best deal compared to her siblings. I would have killed Paula Yates, if she were my mom and isn’t already dead that is, if she called me Fifi Trixiebelle or Pixie Frou-Frou. Here, I draw the line between stand-out and absurd....No one, absolutely no one, not even Giselle Bundchen, Carmen Kass or Daria Werbowy could pull the name Frou-Frou or Fifi. You may only do so if you have long silken fur and yips like crazy but it’s still uncertain even then.
Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily, Paula’s daughter with the late INXS front man, Michael Hutchence meanwhile, lucked out. It’s a beautifully original name in my opinion, which is more than I can say for little Moxie CrimeFighter Jillette, Penn Jillette’s (one half of Las Vegas magic act Penn and Teller) daughter. “CrimeFighter” would have been cool for a boy but for a girl? Well, I just hope she grows up slender and model-like.
I’m not sure I’d like to be called Blanket (Michael Jackson’s), Betty Kitten (Jonathan Ross’), Cash (Slash’s), Denim or Diesel (Toni Braxton’s), though. But surely, even God'iss Love (Lil’ Mo’s), odd as it is, should be more interesting, no? Technically, I can go to wherever I need to go to legally change my name, pick out anything I want and replace it for a fee. But I can't decide what I would like...should I be called Ikeketralopolis (Bob Hope’s) or Jermajesty (Jermaine Jackson’s)? Jermajesty sounds quite fitting don’t you think? Sad, I know, but fitting nonetheless. ;)
My mom said that it was a choice between that and “Wonder Woman.” Eh? She apparently let my elder sisters, then 3 and 4 years old decide what to call me. Sweet, yes, but not exactly the greatest of ideas, obviously. In the end she picked the first name of the actress who played Wonder Woman in the short-lived TV series, instead.
Not that the Catholic Church would have let her but I would have liked to be called “Wonder Woman” a whole lot better. At least it’s unique and it would have placed me at par with the likes of celebrity spawns Audio Science Clayton (Shannyn Sossamon’s son) or Pilot Inspektor Lee (Jason Lee’s). As a fan of everything far out and bizarre, I swear those names kick major ass regardless of what everyone else says.
So to Bob Geldof’s daughter, Peaches, who claims her name has caused her nothing but embarrassment throughout her life, I say boo-fucking-hoo! Peaches isn’t even really that different. I’ve known at least half a dozen Peaches and many Apples, a few Oranges and even a Lychee. No, fruit names are not quite so weird where I come from and they are quite fitting if the person bearing such a name is as pleasant and sweet.
Granted, her full name Peaches Honey Blossom sounds like something Paris Hilton would name a ferret, but she still got the best deal compared to her siblings. I would have killed Paula Yates, if she were my mom and isn’t already dead that is, if she called me Fifi Trixiebelle or Pixie Frou-Frou. Here, I draw the line between stand-out and absurd....No one, absolutely no one, not even Giselle Bundchen, Carmen Kass or Daria Werbowy could pull the name Frou-Frou or Fifi. You may only do so if you have long silken fur and yips like crazy but it’s still uncertain even then.
Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily, Paula’s daughter with the late INXS front man, Michael Hutchence meanwhile, lucked out. It’s a beautifully original name in my opinion, which is more than I can say for little Moxie CrimeFighter Jillette, Penn Jillette’s (one half of Las Vegas magic act Penn and Teller) daughter. “CrimeFighter” would have been cool for a boy but for a girl? Well, I just hope she grows up slender and model-like.
I’m not sure I’d like to be called Blanket (Michael Jackson’s), Betty Kitten (Jonathan Ross’), Cash (Slash’s), Denim or Diesel (Toni Braxton’s), though. But surely, even God'iss Love (Lil’ Mo’s), odd as it is, should be more interesting, no? Technically, I can go to wherever I need to go to legally change my name, pick out anything I want and replace it for a fee. But I can't decide what I would like...should I be called Ikeketralopolis (Bob Hope’s) or Jermajesty (Jermaine Jackson’s)? Jermajesty sounds quite fitting don’t you think? Sad, I know, but fitting nonetheless. ;)
Friday, January 13, 2006
Strike a Pose
Everyone wants to be Gemma Ward. Everyone who can tell an Ungaro from a Balenciaga that is, or at the very least, a trucker cap from a beret. The fresh-faced 18 year old is the hottest sensation to ever work the runways of every fashion capital in the world since Linda Evangelista who (in)famously never got out of bed for less than 10 grand a show.
Recently, Gemma graced the catwalks of Sydney where a local gossip rag raved about her dazzling looks and delectable über model personality describing her as “alien-looking” and “otherworldly”…er, excuse me??? Since when has alien-looking been a compliment? I must be living under a rock and missed this latest development! Apparently, models who look different (which is really just a euphemism for strange) are all the rage right now, especially with Devon Aoki’s recent forage into Hollywood via the impressive Sin City and the not so impressive 2 Fast 2 Furious.
So, refusing to be left behind on all things hip and wonderful, I wrote a new entry in my goals journal (which I don't really have, but nevermind you get the point): Item #23: Look as alien-looking as possible.
Alien-looking is the new black…
First, I gotta have big unearthly eyes. I looked in the mirror and tried to enlarge my pupils at will. No success. This is turning out to be harder than I thought. I remember reading somewhere that your eyes naturally widen when you see someone you like. I can try that, but since it’s next to impossible to find cute guys around here, I’d have to think creatively...
I went to NYDC and ordered my favorite Three Amigos pasta and what do you know? My pupils instantly dilated at the sight of penne cooked al dente and drenched in sumptuous sauce with lots of pepperoni, ham and beef meatballs blanketed in generous doses of mozzarella cheese…Yum!
Yes, it's utterly gorgeous!
But although I wouldn’t mind lugging around a plateful of pasta everywhere I go, it won’t be too convenient either. Luckily, I discovered Acuvue Define. The TV ad promised bigger, brighter eyes and sure enough when I put on a pair, people can’t stop staring at me. It could be the big volcano of a zit on my right cheek but hey, a girl could hope. My sister did say that I looked different, “like a puppy dog,” she said. Not exactly otherworldly, but alien enough, I guess. I'm off to a good start.
Next up is the thin line of a mouth. Not easy if you have lips like Renee Zellweger’s or Angelina Jolie's. I spent inordinate amounts of time pursing my mouth several different ways. I settled on a drawn in look made popular by Liv Tyler. I kinda look constipated but hey if this is what a supermodel makes, I’m not going to argue.
Now that I have the alien eyes and the mouth, there’s only the walk to ehem, re-engineer. The idea is to appear like you’re walking on clouds. I tried ambling around with a definitive spring on every step but that doesn’t look too otherworldly. I seemed more like Tigger after ingesting a hiveful of Pooh’s honey. I gotta try something else. So I tried a gliding motion similar to the Martian whore who bit the finger off Martin Short’s character and spat it across the room into a tank full of piranhas in that totally bizarro movie, Mars Attacks! Now, that’s more like it.
So, I’ve been parading around with my new alien-like demeanor since and have been getting odd stares everywhere I go. I guess that’s good, eh? And now, to wait for all those model agents to beat a path to my door.
Recently, Gemma graced the catwalks of Sydney where a local gossip rag raved about her dazzling looks and delectable über model personality describing her as “alien-looking” and “otherworldly”…er, excuse me??? Since when has alien-looking been a compliment? I must be living under a rock and missed this latest development! Apparently, models who look different (which is really just a euphemism for strange) are all the rage right now, especially with Devon Aoki’s recent forage into Hollywood via the impressive Sin City and the not so impressive 2 Fast 2 Furious.
So, refusing to be left behind on all things hip and wonderful, I wrote a new entry in my goals journal (which I don't really have, but nevermind you get the point): Item #23: Look as alien-looking as possible.
First, I gotta have big unearthly eyes. I looked in the mirror and tried to enlarge my pupils at will. No success. This is turning out to be harder than I thought. I remember reading somewhere that your eyes naturally widen when you see someone you like. I can try that, but since it’s next to impossible to find cute guys around here, I’d have to think creatively...
I went to NYDC and ordered my favorite Three Amigos pasta and what do you know? My pupils instantly dilated at the sight of penne cooked al dente and drenched in sumptuous sauce with lots of pepperoni, ham and beef meatballs blanketed in generous doses of mozzarella cheese…Yum!
But although I wouldn’t mind lugging around a plateful of pasta everywhere I go, it won’t be too convenient either. Luckily, I discovered Acuvue Define. The TV ad promised bigger, brighter eyes and sure enough when I put on a pair, people can’t stop staring at me. It could be the big volcano of a zit on my right cheek but hey, a girl could hope. My sister did say that I looked different, “like a puppy dog,” she said. Not exactly otherworldly, but alien enough, I guess. I'm off to a good start.
Next up is the thin line of a mouth. Not easy if you have lips like Renee Zellweger’s or Angelina Jolie's. I spent inordinate amounts of time pursing my mouth several different ways. I settled on a drawn in look made popular by Liv Tyler. I kinda look constipated but hey if this is what a supermodel makes, I’m not going to argue.
Now that I have the alien eyes and the mouth, there’s only the walk to ehem, re-engineer. The idea is to appear like you’re walking on clouds. I tried ambling around with a definitive spring on every step but that doesn’t look too otherworldly. I seemed more like Tigger after ingesting a hiveful of Pooh’s honey. I gotta try something else. So I tried a gliding motion similar to the Martian whore who bit the finger off Martin Short’s character and spat it across the room into a tank full of piranhas in that totally bizarro movie, Mars Attacks! Now, that’s more like it.
So, I’ve been parading around with my new alien-like demeanor since and have been getting odd stares everywhere I go. I guess that’s good, eh? And now, to wait for all those model agents to beat a path to my door.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Manly, Yes, But I Like It, Too!
So I have something in common with Bono, Conan O’Brien, C.S. Lewis, Sinead O’ Connor, Bram Stoker, Eddie Irvine, etc. aside from immense talent, wit, beauty, charm, popularity, *cough* *cough* and of course, eccentricity…
…I also have Irish in me! For the longest time, my dad and his entire family have always thought that their grandpa (my great grandfather) was American. He was born in Kelleys Island, Erie, Ohio in the 1870s after all and sailed to the Philippine Islands during the Spanish-American War where he met my great grandma, a Japanese/English lass with whom he had my paternal grandmother. He died really young in the 1920’s (rabies, if I’m not mistaken) so no one has really been able to confirm his ancestry until very recently when I stumbled upon a really old 1880 US Census record that affirms that his family migrated from County Clare, Ireland to Ohio in the early 1870s.
Hmm…this might explain my curious fixation with Irish Spring! Yes I’m talking about the soap brand that was popular in the 80’s. Now, I’m a fan of body washes and I don’t really use soaps but that one commercial where some guy shaved off a nicely curled chip along the length of the bar left quite an impression on me when I first saw it on TV. I was mesmerized by the knife’s edge gliding smoothly down the soap’s length. My five year old mind swore that it’s something that I simply had to try. So one fine afternoon, I set out to replicate the experiment using an ultra-sharp vegetable peeler that I found in the kitchen cupboard. Yes, it was perfectly hidden, but I was smart enough to use a chair to climb onto the counter top and easily retrieved the coveted implement.
Keep out of reach of children…
Just then, mom stormed into the room as if on cue, and promptly thwarted Operation: Irish Spring. I got a really good scolding, especially since my older sister managed to pare her left index finger through to the bone with the same peeler just the week before.
Until now however, I can’t look at a box of Irish Spring without getting an irrepressible urge to take out a knife and scrape the bar inside. It has such a throttlehold on me, calling my name from across the supermarket aisle every single time. Yep, it’s definitely the Irish in me. Never mind that the damn thing is manufactured by an all-American corporation, Colgate-Palmolive. ;)
…I also have Irish in me! For the longest time, my dad and his entire family have always thought that their grandpa (my great grandfather) was American. He was born in Kelleys Island, Erie, Ohio in the 1870s after all and sailed to the Philippine Islands during the Spanish-American War where he met my great grandma, a Japanese/English lass with whom he had my paternal grandmother. He died really young in the 1920’s (rabies, if I’m not mistaken) so no one has really been able to confirm his ancestry until very recently when I stumbled upon a really old 1880 US Census record that affirms that his family migrated from County Clare, Ireland to Ohio in the early 1870s.
Hmm…this might explain my curious fixation with Irish Spring! Yes I’m talking about the soap brand that was popular in the 80’s. Now, I’m a fan of body washes and I don’t really use soaps but that one commercial where some guy shaved off a nicely curled chip along the length of the bar left quite an impression on me when I first saw it on TV. I was mesmerized by the knife’s edge gliding smoothly down the soap’s length. My five year old mind swore that it’s something that I simply had to try. So one fine afternoon, I set out to replicate the experiment using an ultra-sharp vegetable peeler that I found in the kitchen cupboard. Yes, it was perfectly hidden, but I was smart enough to use a chair to climb onto the counter top and easily retrieved the coveted implement.
Just then, mom stormed into the room as if on cue, and promptly thwarted Operation: Irish Spring. I got a really good scolding, especially since my older sister managed to pare her left index finger through to the bone with the same peeler just the week before.
Until now however, I can’t look at a box of Irish Spring without getting an irrepressible urge to take out a knife and scrape the bar inside. It has such a throttlehold on me, calling my name from across the supermarket aisle every single time. Yep, it’s definitely the Irish in me. Never mind that the damn thing is manufactured by an all-American corporation, Colgate-Palmolive. ;)
Monday, January 02, 2006
Beach Splash!
If “Siloso NYE Splash” is indeed Asia’s Grooviest Beach Party as organizer MTV Asia claimed, I’d hate to see the least groovy of ‘em. Singapore’s wildest New Year’s countdown party is the lamest ass bash I’ve ever had the misfortune of attending. And I say this with the authority of someone with a degree in Partying Major in Socializing and Minor in Drinking. One of my first jobs fresh off from college was as an events organizer for a well-known fashion label and having had a hand in managing some of the most memorable of them, I think I know what a rocking shindig is like.
The music was thumping but the majority of the crowd just stood there agape - mesmerized by an unseen spaceship about to beam them up to planet Kryztyk or somewhere else presumably more exotic. Whada? I mean, why go to a dance if all you plan on doing is make your best impression of aparticularly hideous mudpost? The disappointment didn’t stop there. Beck’s was a major sponsor but beer was still sold for 8 bucks a cup half-filled with ice. Great. And I was looking forward to getting drunk. Kidding…um, NOT! At exactly 6am with the moon still up, the DJ left the booth and refused to return despite pleadings for an encore. Well to be fair, he did one last track but c’mon now, it was still practically nighttime! The sun rises (if at all, it's always gloomy of late...) at around 7.30 am in this island. You would think they’d break the rule for New Year’s celebration’s sake but no such luck. I suddenly missed Manila’s rocking Sun Lounge party where Rockwell’s rooftop gets filled to the brink with beautiful party people, (both literally and figuratively) and where the booze, not only beer but all sorts of cocktails too, is free-flowing and the dancing continues till 8 or 9 am. What more, they don’t charge you 20 bucks at the gate to see a pathetic fireworks display...TWICE!
We arrived at the venue at around 11pm, roughly an hour before countdown, when you would expect the place to be vibrating with life but no, I might as well have gone to Venus and been more successful. Despite my best efforts to enjoy myself, I got tired of dodging smelly, ugly men who kept trying to dance with me even when I repeatedly distanced myself from them. Guys please, if you ever hope to hook up with a woman, use a friggin’ deodorant, for heaven’s sake! By 3am, I was feeling like I’ve wasted 4 hours of my life (and an über cute get-up…) and was ready to kill the first chicken that would cross my path.
Peek-a-boo!
Before I could go on a frenzied hunt however, a posse of French partyphiles rescued us from the throes of damnation. And I thought the French was boring but these guys (and gals) really know how to party!
I got home before noon and I was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow. Hey, I managed to have fun after all! But make no mistake about it, Siloso Beach Splash still sucked sweaty ass.
Powered for Blogger by Blogger Templates
The music was thumping but the majority of the crowd just stood there agape - mesmerized by an unseen spaceship about to beam them up to planet Kryztyk or somewhere else presumably more exotic. Whada? I mean, why go to a dance if all you plan on doing is make your best impression of a
We arrived at the venue at around 11pm, roughly an hour before countdown, when you would expect the place to be vibrating with life but no, I might as well have gone to Venus and been more successful. Despite my best efforts to enjoy myself, I got tired of dodging smelly, ugly men who kept trying to dance with me even when I repeatedly distanced myself from them. Guys please, if you ever hope to hook up with a woman, use a friggin’ deodorant, for heaven’s sake! By 3am, I was feeling like I’ve wasted 4 hours of my life (and an über cute get-up…) and was ready to kill the first chicken that would cross my path.
Before I could go on a frenzied hunt however, a posse of French partyphiles rescued us from the throes of damnation. And I thought the French was boring but these guys (and gals) really know how to party!
I got home before noon and I was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow. Hey, I managed to have fun after all! But make no mistake about it, Siloso Beach Splash still sucked sweaty ass.
