Shrine in the Ether

The Hobo Files

2009-09-25T06:52:00.009+08:00

Just posting to promote this spanking new humor site that's big on amusement. The blogger is a newly laid-off fashionista cum beauty junkie who is currently struggling to keep her Louboutins on amidst the recession.

Surprisingly, the blog is full of interesting articles with actual tips and tricks and useful insights on surviving the recent economic slump in style.

The latest story is on scam sites that desperate hobos like her tend to run to in desperation and that which do nothing but clean out their bank accounts further. A totally fun and enjoyable read! :D

Don't forget to pay for your laughs via Paypal (there's a link on the site). "Her Hoboness," as the writer refers to herself, is trying hard to entertain you while making ends meet, after all.

Enjoy!

http://herhoboness.blogspot.com/

Moving...Moving...Moving...

2007-02-23T19:40:00.000+08:00

...well not really...but you might want to check out my blog at MySpace...the posts come in tiny bite-sized pieces for people who only have like 30 seconds to read each of the 9876543456789876 daily posts in their friends' blog lists...

Same snarky goodness without the bulk...here ya go...

Here clicky clicky...

Enjoy the insanity!

o.O

yo Quiero Taco Bell... o.O

2007-01-04T15:17:00.000+08:00

Few things are more catastrophic, more wretched, more dire than having to go back to work after a rare break from the grind. Although 18 days of doing absolutely nothing seem like more than enough time to sufficiently recuperate from the tortures of the hellhole aka “the office,” it’s not at all enough to make up for the multiple near-heart attacks and aneurysms on “the job.”

Indeed, this is one of those moments when no matter how totally gross Paris Hilton’s crab-infested coochie may be, I’d seriously consider trading places with the world-renowned celebutard and consequentially inherit the offending baby-making factory if it means a lifetime of being rich and famous albeit for being a bumbling idiot.

Heck, I’d gladly don those tacky skin-tight leopard dresses and expose my love-flaps to my ~~disgusted~~ adoring public every chance I get. Knickers are overrated after all and could be gawddamn costly. The money saved from total abandonment of those flimsy overpriced undergarments could instead go to supporting ~~aspiring porn stars~~ starving orphans everywhere.

I’d even date her revolting boyfriends in all their puke-inducing glory. Seriously now… Nick Carter? Brandon Davis? Travis Barker? Stavros Niarchos? All that money and all she could find are horrid asshats with a built-in aversion to soap and water? But heck, I’d kiss them all if it means not having to work another day.

Gaaaah…

What am I saying wanting to be Paris Hilton? See? See how work is messing with my brain right now? x.x I’d sooner feast on mangrove worms doused in an icky concoction of ground exotic organisms but first lemme just find a chihuahua to stab work with… o.o

I Wanna Be a supermodel... o.o

2006-10-08T04:52:00.000+08:00

Found this in John Mayer's blog, don't ask...and I thought it would be fun to try... :P

Of Cars and Coke...

2006-08-31T16:43:00.000+08:00

August is almost over and I’m posting not because I ran into Johnny Depp through some clever twist of fate and want to make you guys jealous but because I don’t want a blank month in my blog archive. :P

Yes, I’m anal like that. This blog will be two years old next month after all. So yeah, despite the fact that my uber demanding work has single-handedly ensured that I would never live life as I know it again, it’s not gonna bring this blog down dammit… >:P

My readership nay have dwindled to a point where my only visitors have been pervs on the prowl for Clemence Poesy’s nakedness or just nakedness in general but hey, that might come useful for when I decide to turn this blog into an online sex shop or something. Who knows? I might clinch Lindsay Lohan as a loyal customer. I heard she’s a major vibe connoisseur. O.o

So yeah, aside from having dinner twice in one weekend at the same hawker center with pseudo-celeb, F1 commentator Steve Slater and former racecar driver, Chris Goodwin, there’s really nothing else to write home about. The table convo was about what else? Cars. And although I can relate, there’s not much I can contribute unfortunately so I just launched into a monologue on my love affair with Coke Light instead. I blabbered at length about how I spilled a can full all over my TV set and after a cursory wipe down with a piece of cloth the TV still functioned properly! Yep, no sticky residues whatsoever. It’s miraculous stuff!

Chris feigned interest and asked about whether you can really use Coke to clean a bowl and I said yes and even lick it off after. They all gave me a curious look and I giggled like a drunk school girl hoping someone would fart to divert everyone’s attention. And what do you know? Someone did! But alas, the farting sound was just coming from my sweaty thigh plop plopping on the plastic chair. o.O How fun…

Fuck Me Dead... o.O

2006-07-19T18:36:00.000+08:00

Just when you think you’ve seen the worst of them, you’re proven wrong.

MTV, whose name is becoming more and more of a misnomer with every passing day as they continue to flood the channel with more brainless reality shows and features rather than music as it was originally intended, just outdid itself in certifiable idiocy with a show called “My Own (insert name of effing celebrity you want to fuck the brains out of here).”

I’ve had the ~~dis~~pleasure of seeing the episode of a college coed maniacally obsessed with Justin Timberlake and who was looking for her own ~~shabby~~ version. Yep, that’s the basic framework of the program. Some crazy fanatic searches and settles for a wannabe because well, there’s simply no hope in hell to get the real thing. The funniest bit about it is that none of the potential wannabes come even close to a mudpost modeled after the desired celeb. Heck, the six guys who were competing to become the crazy girl’s own Justin for instance all looked every kind of wrong.

But hey, there’s a silver lining to the nimbu-cumulus cloud, the boys were made to make total buffoons of themselves imitating Justin through funny-as-hell signing and dancing lessons especially for the last three standing who had to act out a Justin video complete with props, ridiculous affectations and such.

Now that’s entertainment if I’ve ever seen one. Never mind the ten IQ points or so that I lost in half an hour.

Borked Bits

2006-06-28T09:28:00.000+08:00

Talk about being borked with a capital “B”… o.O

Honeymoon at work is over…not that fumbling around like a zombie grappling with foreign concepts like “blacking tapes’ and “dumping music” (which I still don’t know how to do efficiently btw…) for roughly a couple of weeks can even be remotely considered a honeymoon, but anyway…

Pressure is fast mounting with my life, which I already don’t have enough of, set to take the backseat, or maybe even the trunk…at least in the next couple of months with a live triathlon coverage in the offing and a new motor sports magazine in the works. I’m no stranger to pressure having worked in the TV/film/video industry since time immemorial…er, just 5 years actually but hey, that’s substantial… kinda… O.o Still, there’s no worse feeling than being practically an hour-old duckling thrown in the lake and basically just left to either wimp out or waddle…god, it’s like the first day of school all over again and well it’s effing rattling! It doesn’t matter how confident you are or how experienced you may be, there’s just no escaping the jitters. I usually thrive in competition but I worry that I may be losing my edge…I’m thrashing madly about right now waddling the best way I can and managing to just barely break the surface. Wheee! Fun.

And like as if starting a new job isn’t stressful enough, I just had to have a huge falling out with a really good friend which makes matters just the way uh-huh uh-huh I like it - oh-so-screwed-up! But heck, like that’s a big surprise. As with everything else in my life it seems, I have a knack for totally fucked timing. I’m feeling crappy as hell right now like that time I grabbed a litter of fuzzy kittens by the ruff, and stabbed them to death one by one with a splintery wooden soup ladle and a rusty old spork… x.x

Uh, well no, I’ve never done anything like that at all but I just assume that if I did, this is prolly how I would feel – totally wretched! It’s like someone drove a nail through my heart and set my soul on fire. I would certainly be running to a priest, a rabbi or even just a hobo pretending to be god’s messenger of peace and love if I don’t know for a fact that I don’t have a soul. I donated it to charity, how’s that for irony? You think that maybe I can get a tax exemption for that?

PWNT! o.O

2006-06-17T02:03:00.001+08:00

You'd know that you've lived on this effing island long enough when your standards, specifically with men, just incontrollably freefalls. Indeed, the average member of the male population in this godforsaken isle is hideous beyond words. I'm quite convinced that every single one of them has been genetically modified, with their Y chromosomes changed to M - a perfect ode to Monobloc, that tacky ugly plastic furniture in all their craptastic goodness. Both have about the same vapid personality after all. o.O

So screw good looks, wit, charm, intrigue or maturity. You'd just have to settle for anyone, anyone at all who can speak proper english at least 80 percent of the time. Nevermind if he's only got half a head attached to a part elephant, part fruitfly body. It just has to do.

Should you somehow find yourself falling for someone whose idea of fun is hacking random websites declaring that it's PWNT, it's not your fault. Yes, he basically gets off on those horribly stupid flash presentation shite but hey, you gotta admit that that one called "Miko Miko Nurse" is a hoot in all it's seizure-lixored glory. At least his first flash attempt had been about you, one that says he'd love you forever, stronger with each passing day and yes, it's prolly been lifted from one of 'em standard-issue greeting cards with their effing cliche verses and such swimming in a cesspool of sentimental clap-trap but whatever... Same goes for that song he wrote which says something about making love to you in the pouring rain... o.O Hey, it's geek-style romance and well, surely better than nothing.

You know you're fucked with a capital F though when he turns out to be much younger than you and hey y'all! He still lives with his mother! Whee! Life's great...NOT! >.<

Of Fucktards, Asshats and Such...

2006-06-03T20:09:00.000+08:00

Meh…the bane of the online journal…once you’ve acquired substantial readership, you can’t help but start fussing about the things you talk about for fear that the subjects in question would find out and make your life even more wretched than it already is. I’ve never really cared of course, at least not enough as to really hamper my blogging until now. Damn tech-savvy stalkers who can simply type in a few carefully selected search strings and easily find out everything about you from the name of the stinky boy in class who tried to kiss you when you were seven to the number of lurkers currently de-lurking on your forehead.

And of course, it doesn’t help that I’m a cam-whore who plasters my silly mug everywhere I could. Well, not exactly, but I do have a pic in my profile that will confirm to certain creepy crawlies that they are in fact, the miserable rat finks I’m referring to. O.o

So yeah, I’d love to rant about the asshat who showed me his ‘nakedness’ (his own words) against my will (yep, I’m scarred for life), the bastard who stopped talking to me the moment he realized I’m not interested in friendship with benefits and the racist fucktard who just sent my entire career careening down the drain, but I can’t so I won’t.

Don’t worry, I’m currently in the process of planning what will be their uh, ‘accidental demise’ but unfortunately, I can’t probably document even that for obvious reasons. o.o

Overheard in a Chatroom:

“You are nothing but a wadded up tissue in the asshairs of society!!!”

Seriously, someone give the guy an award for witty word-smithing. ;)

How to Lose 10 lbs in 10 Seconds

2006-05-27T01:37:00.000+08:00

Wow. Seriously, how can anyone effing go from dangerously obese to hard body in all of four months? 0.o

Janet Jackson has see-sawed from hippo to hotbod throughout the years and I’ve frankly always suspected that she’s just got some ultra-talented surgeon who simply carves through her rolls and rolls of fat with robotic precision using a couple of bread knives and gets her in shape in like under two minutes just in time for an album launch or whatever.

I mean, I can run like a hamster on a wheel 24/7 for a full year and still register a 10-lb gain at the end of the exercise. My body is just genetically built to gain an ounce at the mere sight of food and it doesn’t even matter if it’s broccoli or frozen peas. Never mind that I try to workout regularly and practically subsist on a diet of water and oxygen most days. What can I say? I’m just too lazy to get anything decent to eat. But when I do get the energy, I can fleece out an entire fast food outlet. But isn’t that the point of working out though?

Should all else fail in the quest to lose the extra luggage though, I can always cut off an arm, ya? Now there’s a plan B if I’ve ever had one.

XXX

2006-05-24T03:34:00.000+08:00

If you’re one of many who come here to look for nude photos of Kataharine McPhee, shoo, shoo, you won’t find ‘em here. But if you’re not picky or just otherwise pervy, then this should prolly be good enough for you…

Wheee! Look at me! I’m naked!

Yes, yes I’m just soooo goddamn awesome, I know…e-mail me for the address where you can have the flowers delivered. It wouldn’t hurt to add a check, too.

So yeah, life pretty much still sucks stale bananas but on the plus side, I finally got my hair to turn purple. Well actually, make that purplish to be exact but hey, I’m not complaining…it’s about the biggest accomplishment I’ve made in the last couple of weeks so, yay me.

Bump in the Night

2006-05-15T00:05:00.000+08:00

A striped grey and black cat jumped onto my bed rudely interrupting my pleasant romp in la la land. I nudged it lightly with my left foot to one side and buried my face into my pillow trying to salvage any vestiges of sleep. But then, a searing pain stirred me up a second time and I saw the feline nibbling fiercely on my toes. I was about to kick it to oblivion when suddenly the cat turned into some kind of komodo dragon/alligator hybrid. The monstrous creature then opened its mouth wide and looked like it would swallow me whole but before it could, I snapped into consciousness this time for real.

I haven’t remembered any of my dreams in what seems like years, and the first time I did it runs like a low-budget horror movie? Gosh. What does this say about my subconscious really? The cat didn’t even look like a real cat but some stuffed animal, possibly a giraffe, doctored to resemble one. The monster itself looked like something straight out of Monsturd as well not that I would know for sure since I never even knew that such a movie existed but anyway…

My subconscious could have at least supplied some awesome special effects such as believable blood and gore for instance. I mean, I think I saw ketchup oozing from my severed toes and well, that’s just scuzzy. And the whole scene could have happened somewhere else other than my bedroom, you know? The only thing even remotely interesting about my bedroom is the dust bunny accumulating under the bed in the shape of Abe Lincoln…Seriously, I’d really rather not remember my dreams next time if it’s going to be this goddamn crappy.

Mug-nanimous!

2006-04-28T13:01:00.000+08:00

I was doing an image search on River Phoenix and this baby turned up. And I didn’t even type in the word ‘dead’ in my search string.

click pretty River to see puke-worthy River…but only if you have the stomach for it…consider yourself forewarned

How effing sick is that?

Sure, having mugs of celebrities on er, mugs is not a new concept but dead mugs of dead celebrities on your coffee mug? Brutal. Still, I’d say someone give Shovelware an award for the most original retail idea. I don’t imagine them fielding orders by the hundreds or even just the tens on any given day but it takes a totally fucked up mind to hatch an idea that sick. I only wish there’s a Kurt Cobain and Michael Hutchence one, too. I’d buy 6 of each and then throw a nice tea/coffee party. Lovely. Just lovely.

Frank Was Clearly on to Something...

2006-04-24T18:35:00.000+08:00

First, the birth of the Anti-Christ and now, Kimi coming in 5th at Imola. What the fuck is wrong with the world??? Is the end really upon us?

I rushed home to catch the last third of yesterday’s F1 race in Italy to find effing Schumi leading the pack with friggin’ Alonso close behind. Having absolutely no sleep, and by NO I mean not even a wink, working my ass off since Friday night, it wasn’t exactly the reward I was looking for. Hell, I was tired, and after working with a pervy asswipe all weekend a victory would have been great, Kimi…geez Apparently, he had a poor start and everything just tumbled from there. To make things worse effing JPM finished ahead of him, too….aaaargh!!!

It’s a good thing I’m still too knackered to care too much or the end would be coming too little too soon for sure.

You’re Cordially Invited to a Bomb-Shelter Party

2006-04-20T10:16:00.000+08:00

Happy day! I have a humongous lurker that de-lurked literally overnight right at the center of my effing forehead…Wheeee!!! How could you not love this life? I really could do cartwheels right now. As this is most likely one of the signs of the impending apocalypse, I named the bloody thing Suri, in honor of the Anti-Christ, of course. Xenu would be rather pleased.

Of course I should know better than to stay up all night dodging horny slags, playing trivia games and getting brainwashed by a young evil genius poised for world domination but hey, my sanity is currently doing a country jig with the Easter Bunny so cut me some slack.

I’m itching to pop the friggin’ spot with a rusty blood-stained ice pick or something but I’m just way too stressed lately that I would probably drive the damn thing right through my brain and perform an accidental lobotomy…but hey, a self-trepanation should be cool albeit unoriginal.

God, I need more sleep.

Live Evil Vile

2006-04-18T14:17:00.000+08:00

You Are 52% Evil

You are evil, but you haven't yet mastered the dark side.

Fear not though - you are on your way to world domination.

How Evil Are You?

Bleeech…

How pathetic is this? And I thought I might be right up there with Hannibal Lecter and the Green Goblin in wickedness…I couldn't possibly be just on the way to world domination. I created the concept for heaven's sake! My alter ego, Shego is walking around with a paper bag over her head right now...tsk, tsk…excuse me while I catch a hundred cute fuzzy little bunnies and burn them in a ditch…

Purple Haze

2006-04-12T14:57:00.000+08:00

There goes my traveling circus dreams…

I dyed my hair purple and it turned out inky black…wow. I just can’t seem to do anything right nowadays…even idiot-proof DIY kits turn out to be catalysts for disasters of apocalyptic proportions. Yes, not having my hair the way I want it is right up there with effing Tom Cruise spawning the anti-Christ with his vapid bride in the catastrophe scale, even when we all know that that constantly shape-shifting bump is a friggin’ pillow carefully stuffed and lovingly hand sewn by a village of beautiful young virgins exclusively fed with fine ambrosia and honey.

That my friend, cannot possibly be human...
(click for a closer look)

Actually, I wouldn’t venture so far as to say that my hair turned out to be as tragic as the tragedy that is Tom Cruise. No, the maniac is certainly on a special league of tragic all his own. My gothic ‘do meanwhile is almost likable if I had the pasty white skin and the multiple facial piercings to go with it but hey, I’m someone who uses tanning oil as a regular moisturizer and who’s been looking high and low for a labret small enough to go undetected at work to no avail so no… murky mop + tanned skin + lack of facial hardware = do not a goth make.

I look more like an exotic islander and we all know ‘exotic’ is but a euphemism for strange. The same way monkey brains and bull testicles as delicacies are. And you know you wouldn’t want it if someone compared you to either. So yeah, another failed project and counting. I guess I shouldn’t make any plans of piercing my own tongue or something.

ELLE Stinko!

2006-04-11T14:52:00.000+08:00

It’s a sad, sad day for all of humanity. Okay, I’m being effingly over-dramatic but it’s a sad day for me anyway because I just found out that ELLEgirl magazine will cease to exist after its June/July issue. This, in spite of a solid track record in terms of ad sales and readerships. The publisher, Hachette Filipacchi Media US, said something about teens now looking for alternative media and all that shit so it intends to just keep the magazine’s online counterpart and develop this exactly like the printed edition.

Great. I generally hate reading 4,000-word articles off the computer screen and I don’t really know of anyone who would so willingly subject themselves to the optical version of the Chinese water torture so I don’t really understand this move. Unless they’re planning on peppering the site with lots of pictures of Orlando Bloom in various states of undress then I wouldn’t even be barely interested…plus, I like having stacks and stacks of what my mom calls “fire hazard” in my room. It would most likely lessen my chances of survival in case of a disaster but anyway…

As a former International Contributing Editor to the publication, I do have a reason to be moved. I remember picking up the first issue of ELLEgirl with Julia Stiles on the cover and after scouring through it, thinking how totally rad and fresh it was. The magazine had a sophisticated, cosmopolitan perspective that was unheard of in teen monthlies at the time or even now save for Teen VOGUE which came in much later. I should know because despite being out of my teens for a while now, I have kept my subscription to at least 5 teen titles since.

I don’t know but I enjoy reading teen magazines more than any supposedly targeted to my age group with the exception of JANE and VOGUE. I couldn’t care less about cheesy relationship tips, skanky sex articles and “grown-up” fashion pages devoid of personality and would much rather flip through pages and pages of fun, quirky clothes and feel nostalgic about the usual teen theatrics. So anyway, I immediately sent in my credentials to then editor Brandon Holley (now with JANE) which led to more or less a two-year gig with the publication.

maiden issue

Contributing to ELLEgirl on the side was an almost improbable feat as I was also a full-time TV producer at the time. Friday nights were especially hellish as you’re basically forced to cramp three days worth of production in a single night because it was supposed to be a five-day work week but hell, broadcasting did not stop on weekends so you still had to prepare all the materials that were to air. The grind, which starts at 10 or 11 on Friday morning usually finished at 2 or 3 in the afternoon on a Saturday, with barely any rest in between. It was a hamster on a wheel kind of thing.

Despite this bloody schedule, I somehow managed to squeeze in my journalistic duties. I would just briefly reacquaint with my bed and then prepare to hit the watering holes in the city where the young, hip and beautiful hung out and took pictures of spiffy clotheshorses that prowled about. The funny thing is I missed practically all of the deadlines that none of my pictures ever made it to print. The only proof of my association was my name that consistently appeared on the masthead. That was good enough for me.

And as it happened, I wasn’t Superman after all and I had to drop some gigs despite my best efforts. I’ve always made a mental note to go beg ELLEgirl for an ICE post again albeit one I never got the chance to do and apparently never will.

Typical. Oh, well.

Knackered to Smithereens

2006-04-10T18:24:00.000+08:00

Who knew sporting Louis Vuittons can be anything but chic? Before all you rabid fashionistas stone me to death however, allow me to explain…LVs are never good worn under your eyes. Unless you’re auditioning for the remake of the Night of the Living Dead then no, dark circles and bloodshot eyes are not covetable. Surely, being able to fit say, Jupiter into these humongous pieces of under eye luggage could be a world record feat, but it’s probably not how I’d like to go down in the annals of humanity…

…On second thought, what the heck? Sign me up for the challenge; it might be my best shot yet.

So anyway, I can just barely manage to breathe and blink at the same time so although I have planned a long-winded discussion on er, The Politics of Pathology and the Making of 'Gender Identity Disorder' for my post today (ahem) my entire physiology has somehow been reduced to the basics of breath-blink-yawn-repeat. And yep, even that is decidedly tiresome. So until I get some shut eye and blood in my coffee stream, you’d have to make do with this bagel on a plateful of tequila worms.

JPM: Just Pathetic, Mainly

2006-04-07T11:33:00.000+08:00

Okay, I’ve already posted my fortnightly F1 blabber and one more is probably one too many especially since a lot of my readers are apparently more interested in JD Fortune, declamation pieces, and nude pictures of Cleménce Poésy or of any other entity in a skirt – inanimate or otherwise - for that matter, at least judging from this site’s visitors’ log.

But what the hell, I’d traverse F1 territory anyway because this is just too good to pass. To McLaren driver, Juan Pablo Montoya, I have four words for you, mate: Shut the fuck up.

The underachieving fucktard is apparently bitter because team mate Kimi Räikkönen is literally eclipsing what little success he’s been able to manage in a year and 3 races with the team.

You weren’t in a position to challenge for the title last year? Well, guess what? You still do not register in the F1 value meter. Haha! You are so a non-threat that despite being in the fastest car in the circuit no one takes you seriously because you’re the only one who can spin uncontrollably during a friggin’ parade lap (aside from Alex Yoong that is who infamously spun three times in a single race…but at least, he was actually racing at the time). How totally embarrassing is that? Nothing compared to Coulthard running into the wall entering the pit, I’d say and David actually has a decent record to speak of so it can be dismissed merely as a blip.

JPM sucking donkey balls, as usual

And puh-leeze, you better be thankful that Kimi has lots of offers from other teams because that way, at least you have some glimmer of hope to keep your McLaren seat not that Ron Dennis would want to give it to you, really. He’d have to be out of his mind after you basically sabotaged the team’s chances at a world championship last year both with your ineptness and petty jealousy. Go back to racing champ cars or something or just seal your effing piehole at the very least.

And yes, I should probably stop now before any of Juan Pablo’s cronies start flooding my inbox with hate mails then try and hunt me down…thank god he’s not Clay Aiken or I would be off to the CIA requesting for an identity change right this minute. Repeat after me: Claymates are rabid. You wouldn’t want to mess with them.

So yeah, as a wise person once said (read: moi) “Put your money where your mouth is,” asshole.

Of Pez Dispensers, Kangaroos and Selling Your Soul to the Devil...

2006-04-03T11:25:00.000+08:00

Aw, poor Kimi.

He looked so dejected at the end of yesterday’s Australian GP that I just wanted to hug him and give him an ice lolly. He finished second in the race less than 2 seconds behind eventual winner Fernando Alonso but he’s the kind of guy who’s never happy with second best, you know? I’m the kind of bitch who likes getting what I think I deserve, too so I’m rather sympathetic.

As always, Kimi could easily have won this GP but what do you know? Luck is as much a factor as talent is. He lost part of the endplate of his car’s nose and struggled to keep up with Alonso since. Fine, he made a little mistake locking up and flat-spotting his right front tire while overtaking Button but c’mon now, Schumi, who sold his soul to the devil, had been able to overcome worse gaffes than that, precisely because he sold his soul, yes. His contract with the unhallowed king has apparently expired though as he totally lost control and slammed into the wall entering the home straight around lap 33. God, call me a sadist but I truly, totally enjoyed that, definitely the highlight of the race. Although I would have liked it more if it were Fernando Alonso, instead.

A Happy, Happy Sight!

Oh, I don’t know, I totally adore Fernando, in fact, I have the shirt to prove it haha, but his cocky attitude of late is really irking me quite a bit. Probably irrational on my part but I can’t exactly decide how to feel now, can I? Right now, all I know is I want to whack him in the head with a Brokeback Mountain Pez Dispenser. Whack you, Alonso, I don’t need to see your goofy (albeit amusing) impression of a “kangaroo.”

So anyway, at least Kimi and Mc Laren are actually in a much better position at this stage compared to last year when the silver arrow’s reliability was suspect. At least, the MP4-21 is looking to be a hardier, more capable machine than the pathetic bucket of bolts that preceded it in the past couple of years. Yeah, I’d say the future still looks promising for the team. I’d like to see them kick ass in three week’s time at Imola.

Idolholics Anonymous

2006-04-02T16:10:00.000+08:00

Is it so wrong that I’d marry Elliot Yamin in a heartbeat? The boy sings so beautifully that I can almost forget that he looks like an extra in Planet of the Apes with his oversized ears and severe hairline. Well, almost.

Also, I have this burning desire to kick Kellie Pickler on the face with the force of a thousand raging bulls. The girl’s dumb blonde act is just excruciating. I say that anyone over 16 who doesn’t know what a minx or calamari is, cannot pronounce “salmon” properly and has to seriously ask “What’s a ballsy?” like as if the word is a noun in an irritatingly cutesy manner, ought to be shot in the middle of Times Square and then trampled over by oncoming traffic.

And why is it that every time Ace Young comes up on screen I suddenly get major cravings for a hunk of gouda? His tacky affectations produce enough cheese that could top a couple million party-sized pizzas the world over and with a little something left over for a few boxes of wheat crackers…Absolutely the last thing I need is a Constantine knock-off with a creepier aura...

So yeah, it’s American Idol season once again, the time when every shred of my sanity goes flying out the window. Just like last year, I find myself carefully if not obsessively planning my activities around the show’s broadcast schedules. Absolutely no event, not a life-threatening moment, nothing short of an impromptu date with Kimi Räikkönen would get in between me and AI. Actually on second thought, I might just cancel on Kimi should our tryst happen to fall on the same day as an AI broadcast. Oh god, I’m so torn…

I don’t know why I do this to myself though knowing how I’m compelled to hurl myself out the window every time I hear Paris Bennett’s baby talk which is an abhorrent cross between Marge Simpson’s emphysemic rasp of a voice and The Nanny’s off-kilter, screech. Seriously, for the love of everything that is fucked up and unholy someone shut the hell Paris up! Her mouth ought to be duct taped tight to be opened only right before she performs. A stage-hand then should club her in the head afterwards to render her unconscious before she could say anything at all. This simple procedure would most certainly reduce suicide rates all over the world by at least a few points and significantly lessen Prozac consumption as well. Yeah, it will be a happier, rosier world, all in all, I’m positive.

Then there’s Mandisa who is making me fat. I mean I already don’t have the fittest of bodies to begin with but all I need to do is see her on TV and I immediately think I could afford to gobble up a whole tub of Ben & Jerry’s and half a dozen Krispy Kremes in one sitting! I mean, I look like Nicole Richie next to her, and it’s totally clouding my judgment. I swear I might just decide to sue.

And Bucky whose unintelligible drawl brought back awful memories of when I first started to settle in this country…when people would say things like “My phone is spoilt…” or “The toilet is choked…” and I honestly couldn’t make sense of the statement whatsoever. I mean it’s not exactly standard usage unless it’s a deliberate attempt at personification, you know? Indeed, AI is affecting my psyche in horrible, horrible ways…

Just the other night, Katharine McPhee’s hideous, hideous ensemble gave me a severe headache that not even Vicodin could remedy. A pretty face and an army of stylist and all they can do is make her look like an effing trapeze artist? Whoa. Just whoa.

And Taylor always seems to be having some kind of attack…like some alien civilization is sending him encrypted messianic messages through jolts of electric currents throughout his body from some faraway galaxy…It’s quite concerning especially since he also looks like he is at least forty. He could be having an infarction for all I know!

But as Simon said, “Thank god for Chris Daughtry!” There’s just no way I could endure up to two full hours of ghastly 70s disco tunes, inane country numbers and sub-par Xtina imitations if not for Chris’ delightfully intense, very current performances. The guy has a voice that literally sends shivers down the spine. Very raw, very powerful. It just grips you throughout and leaves you wanting more. Although he is very talented, heaven forbid he wins AI though. Have you seen what happened to Bo? And Bo didn’t even win. I was never a fan of Sugar Money’s (Bo’s pre-AI band) music but I do recognize that the guy has a gift. But whatever gift he had has sure been wasted on the bland, cookie-cutter stuff he’s currently churning out.

But whatever…all I know is that I’d never want to see Chris wearing that atrocious oversized polo shirt, jeans combo outfit he supposedly wears for his Customer Service work. It makes about as much sense as a fruit fly on ice skates…so yeah, will Fuel just hire him as their front man already?

Fortune Rocks

2006-03-29T18:54:00.000+08:00

So, I was randomly flipping through the cable TV channels the other night and was stopped dead on my tracks by a glossy music video by some band that sounded rather familiar but which I couldn’t immediately recognize. The video used a mosaic technique that shifted from scene to scene in quick flashes and alternated between tight and long angles coupled with an intermittent lighting scheme that made it difficult to identify the band members in those short moments when they were visible on screen.

The lead vocalist’s voice had an overt sensuality to it that totally reminded me of Michael Hutchence of INXS fame and come to think of it, I thought the music was rather reminiscent of INXS itself with its preppy, classic pop rock beats. Imagine my surprise when the video credits finally came on listing the song as “Pretty Vegas” by INXS indeed! Whoa. Just unreal.

From this…

The new hit song which apparently debuted at #37 on the Billboard Charts sometime November of last year (why I hadn’t heard of this song before now is a testament to my apparent hermit crabbiness at the moment…) has been penned by the new lead singer himself, JD Fortune, whose scruffy/prim look does draw parallels to the late Hutchence who oozed animal appeal despite being kind of femme. JD decidedly rocks the eyeliner look, too and that’s all that matters if you ask me.

To this…

Anyway, I never followed Rockstar: INXS, the reality show that brought JD and the band together. I didn’t really think INXS would be able to find a replacement who could hold a candle to Hutchence’s legacy but turns out I was wrong. As a long time fan of INXS (not the biggest of ‘em although rather familiar with the band’s work), I must say I approve of JD Fortune taking over the vacuum Michael left some 8 years ago. For a vegetarian and a former Elvis impersonator who lived in his car prior to this gig, JD sure is kind of cool.

Heartbreak!

2006-03-21T01:47:00.000+08:00

I was in Sepang roasting in the 35ºC heat but not minding the blisters that were beginning to form everywhere on my sweat-soaked body because that day, I was to witness Kimi Räikkönen repeat his 2003 feat at the Malaysian GP.

I see you…

He qualified 7th on Saturday and although that may not seem at all impressive, it was good enough for me. After all, this is a guy who has once driven from 17th on the grid to the Championship in Suzuka and just last week in Bahrain, from 22nd place to 3rd. So, yeah, he can do anything short of walking on water and maybe even that if he’s just a little bit lucky, that is. And well, he’s just not. And I can so totally relate because there I was having to elbow my way through the disastrous shuttle service system in the circuit fighting my way through a bunch of giant, smelly men and sweating like a 300 lb Hell’s Angel myself in the punishing humid conditions and what do you know? Kimi raced all of 30 seconds, then was clipped at the back by Christian Klien by the time he reached Turn 5 and was immediately sent spinning off the track with a broken rear suspension. And just like that, his race – and mine - was over.

Get ready for (non) action...

The disappointment tainted the air like lethal nerve gas, at once killing the enthusiasm of most everyone in attendance. I felt particularly bad for the large Finnish delegation but not as much as I do for myself being so prepared for the occasion waving my Finnish flag, ready for some action. Heck, I never even got to see Kimi pass by, save for the parade lap which I hardly saw. I happened to be by the hilltop at turn 11 and although I had a good view of Turns 1 and 2, Turn 5 was unfortunately out of sight.

Damn you Klien, damn you for ruining my perfect race weekend. Well, I think I’m being punished for my unfaithfulness to McLaren, for being such a whore buying a Fernando Alonso tank top before the race started even when his fame is currently annoying me to no end. Well, all Kimi merchandise save for a few key rings have apparently sold out long before race day so you see, I really didn't have a choice and yeah, I quite rocked the blue and yellow.

Hurts so Good

2006-02-26T01:50:00.000+08:00

Oasis is mostly known nowadays as a bunch of pissy divas (well, only Liam and Noel Gallagher actually but Liam & Noel = Oasis so that justifies qualifying the whole band as such…) who haven’t released anything fabulous since Definitely Maybe and (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? At least, not fabulous enough for a band that has pompously proclaimed itself as “the biggest rock and roll band in the world.” So just what was I thinking when I so willingly shelled out 100 bucks to see the Singapore leg of their current tour?

First-off, the crowd was iffy with tweeners composing one half and geriatrics, the other, complete with a woman apparently in her sixties clad in Oscar-worthy finery. I know, what the fuck? And when the band came out 45 minutes later than scheduled dressed in what looked like bland $15.77 Wal-mart buttondowns, everyone just continued to stand there, like they’re deep in concentration contemplating the answer to the Kato Conjecture. Well, I have news for you guys, it has been solved by Steve Hofmann so just ask him for the answer, okay?

Really now, the whole thing was a horrid, smaller-scale repeat of the effing Siloso beach NYE party (see “Beach Splash”). The crowd was drier than airplane air that I swear God, Allah, Shiva, Buddha or however you call him, could have swooped down the stage and performed an Ashley Simpson jig and no one would have batted an eye!

Divalicious!

Second-off, not being big on showmanship themselves, Oasis also just basically stood there as well, Liam leaning on the mic stand in a half squat that couldn’t have been comfortable, singing a series of analogous non-hits that totally reminded me of Bone Thugs N’ Harmony. Hello, E 1999 Eternal? This album is about the most monotonous ever recorded in the entire history of music recording. The friggin’ record contains 17 songs each with a different title but which nonetheless all sound the same.

My carpool-mate in college used to play this effing record and sang along with it with unwavering enthusiasm throughout the two-hour drive to school every goddamn awful day! I have contemplated whacking him in the head repeatedly with the CD case until he got a hint…or bled to death, whichever came first, but I didn’t have a license, still don’t, so what’s a girl to do but stick with the rule that says not to harm the hands that drive the cradle or something like that? On the upside, I bet that with hypnosis, I can subliminally recite the lyrics to the whole album, especially “Tha Crossroads” (and we pray, and we pray, and we pray, everyday, everyday, everyday…) which I’m sure you would agree, is really kind of cool…the same way being able to read a book upside down or reciting the alphabet backwards is…yep, I can be such a dork and don’t you just love it, love it, love it?

So anyway, despite my best efforts to make the whole facsimile of a sham of a concert by supposedly the best rock and roll band in the world worth it, I found out that dancing like mad and howling like crazy simply do not cut it in a crowd full of zombies. The woman in the gown actually turned to me at one point and shushed me. Shushed me! In a rock concert! For real!

Nearly an hour of completely indistinguishable songs later, Oasis finally accepted that most of their new materials are crap and started to perform real songs beginning with Champagne Supernova followed by their biggest hit, Wonderwall. But then all of a sudden, the lights went out and next thing I know, the band has left the stage. Whada??? Of course, there was an encore, all of a couple of forgettable singles and my most favorite Oasis song, yes, I do have a favorite, Don’t Look Back in Anger for the finale. Then they’re off the stage again, this time for good.

Last time I checked, a concert lasts 2-3 hours long so yeah, can you say total rip-off? I practically heard my money wailing when I parted with it at the ticket booth. I should have heeded its pleas. But then again, money and me is a pairing as tragic as chocolate cake and gravy or Tom and Katie. So, it's all for the best I guess.

Meme

2006-02-10T18:24:00.000+08:00

I like memes but I’m usually too lazy to do them but here’s breaking my vow of dormancy for a wee bit because Zydeco Fish tagged me. I wouldn’t have but he has one of the coolest blogs there is so I feel absolutely compelled. ;) Here goes:

Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot, like so.

1. sara
2. kirk
3. shelly
4. zydeco fish
5. drizzlenightsky

Then you get to select five people to pass the love on to so they can do this meme, like so:

1. Boomer Palaris
2. r3d3L
3. Marj
4. Nancy
5. Dan

What were you doing 10 years ago?

Trying to get decent grades while studying as little as possible at university…In hindsight, I probably would have had a much easier time if I just studied as much as I could to get good marks…

What were you doing 1 year ago?

Freelancing as producer, director, ESL teacher, writer, editor, contributor, and everything else that ends in “er” or “or.”

Five snacks you enjoy:

1. Cheddar Cheese!
2. Kettle Chips Salt & Vinegar
3. Bola-Bola Siew Pao
4. Mango with Sticky Rice
5. Doritos Salsa Verde

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:

1. Semi-Charmed Life by Third Eye Blind…a minor achievement, I'm sure you would agree if you’re familiar with this song
2. Sometimes by Britney Spears…the perfect Videoke number
3. Teenage Dirtbag by Wheatus…an anthem of sorts
4. I Remember You by Skid Row…what will be my wedding song (?)
5. Wasted Time by Skid Row…because Sebastian Bach was just so gorgeous

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:

1. Buy a Chihuahua and name it “Twinklebell” or “Twink” for short
2. Publish a book called “Confessions of a Dominatrix”…I mean, “Diva”
3. Launch a street fashion line, “Chwink”
4. Remake Britney Spear’s “I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman” using a grating falsetto
5. Make a sex video…because every millionaire should have one circulating in the net!

Five bad habits:

1. Hitting “snooze” 50 million times before finally getting up in the morning
2. Blogging at work
3. Spending inordinate amounts of time browsing ONTD
4. American Idol
5.Shopping on impulse!

Five things you like doing:

1. sleeping for 14 hours
2. reading
3. writing
4. surfing
5. going on road trips

Five things you would never wear again:

1. shoulder pads...how did those even come into style?
2. culottes
3. skorts (combination skirt and shorts)
4. high-waisted pants/jeans
5. moon boots

Five favorite toys:

1. Bop It Extreme
2. Frazzled
3. video camera
4. Final Cut Pro/ Adobe Premiere
5. Mp3 player

It's Mmm...Mmm...Good!

2006-02-09T18:58:00.000+08:00

Been back in Singapore for exactly three days now and I’m still feeling quite rundown with the endless coffee trysts, get-together dinners, amusement park dates and out-of-town weekends with family and friends whom I have not seen in a year or so. Don’t get me wrong, it had been a blast but I would have liked to come back looking refreshed like I’ve been cruising along the Mediterranean enjoying Mojitos sent over by handsome strangers named “Jorge” and “Enrico” and not like I’ve been housekeeping for the entire two weeks for a household of twelve while at the same time sitting half a dozen incredibly smelly Saint Bernard’s on the side.

Who knew vacations could be quite so taxing? Next time, remind me not to plan on about seventy million things to do within a short period of time unless there’s a place at the Guinness Book of World Records for me at stake.

Of course the complete and utter exhaustion has been well worth it. I totally relished the bitchfests with equally vile friends, the delectable food, the eventful roadtrips, my favorite haunts, even the ultra-hardcore rides at the newly opened park in a posh district that made me feel like a particularly tiny pea in a gigantic pod. Everything that makes coming home something to look forward to!

Yep, everything had been great...up until I went to check my bank balance and find my account almost wiped out. Having Rebecca Bloomwood as an icon sure doesn't help so yeah, it will be a date with a certain gentleman named “Campbell” for me every night from here on.

At least, he’s yummy. I can take solace in that.

The Name is "Woman", "Wonder Woman"...

2006-01-23T16:21:00.000+08:00

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. ;)

Strike a Pose

2006-01-13T10:52:00.000+08:00

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.

Manly, Yes, But I Like It, Too!

2006-01-04T17:33:00.000+08:00

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. ;)

Beach Splash!

2006-01-02T23:40:00.000+08:00

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 a ~~particularly 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.

Noël Fou

2005-12-28T23:48:00.000+08:00

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.

Happy Christmas!

2005-12-24T19:15:00.000+08:00

Have a fabulous one every one!!!

D’Arvit!

2005-12-19T21:17:00.000+08:00

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!”

Public Service

2005-12-14T09:06:00.000+08:00

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...

Next Time, Bring A Spatula

2005-12-09T19:24:00.000+08:00

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'm Gonna Live Forever...

2005-12-04T00:07:00.000+08:00

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!

Whatever...

2005-11-29T15:44:00.000+08:00

I've just been sitting around not getting anything done, but oh well. Eh. Pretty much nothing seems to be worth doing. I just don't have much to say. I feel like a complete blank, but I guess it doesn't bother me. Today was a complete loss.

...

C'mon now, you know this doesn't sound like me at all. Uh, maybe a little...okay, a lot! But that's beside the point. That brilliant piece of nothingness posted up there didn't ~~entirely~~ come from my ultra-fab mind. I got a little help from The Apathetic Online Journal Entry Generator. Figured I'm a perfect patron as nothing indeed has been happening lately anyway and heck, I've got a journal to update. ahaha ...ahahaha...aha...um, well yeah.

Trés Pathetico

2005-11-24T18:00:00.000+08:00

It’s only a month before Christmas and I would pack away all Coldplay CDs, that is if I had them, to minimize the risk of me slitting my own wrists. For some reason, I have always felt miserable on the weeks leading up to Christmas and by the time I warm up to the joys of the season, the tree has withered and stores have started to hang heart and cupid cut-outs in their display windows.. Pathetic, I know.

Things are not looking up this year being in a largely Buddhist country that celebrates the holidays only on a commercially superficial level. Of course, there is the annual company DND (Dinner N’ Dance) to get me in the festive mood but horror of all horrors, there is a theme for the party! I wouldn’t mind if it we’re anime or some Hollywood movie. I’d love another chance to be erm, a Tomb Reindeer. But no, the theme is, ta-dah! Humpty Dumpty Academy. Whada? We are all supposed to come dressed like students or school personnel. The admin has gone loco! Like the 16 years or so I spent studying hadn’t been torturous enough. Lovely. I should just go listen to Coldplay and end it already.

As Georgia Would Say, "The Sex God Has Landed!!!"

2005-11-21T18:00:00.000+08:00

I saw “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” over the weekend and despite the breath-taking special FX, superb direction and exquisite cinematography, all I could think of through 156 minutes and 54 seconds of it was, “How cute is Cedric Diggory?”

Mmm…mmm…good!

I lurrrved, lurrrved, lurrrved Robert Pattinson’s brooding rendition of the character J.K. Rowling described as “extremely good-looking.” The casting crew didn’t disappoint this time. I’m almost willing to forgive them for picking Bonnie Wright for the role of Ginny Weasley who is just all kinds of wrong for the part. Or Clémence Poésy who certainly didn’t live up to Fleur Delacour's half-Veela pedigree. But anyway…

Stanislav Ianevski who plays Bulgarian Quidditch Champ, Viktor Krum is also quite pretty. And yep, I probably need a good, thorough scrubbing about now for lusting over these, literally, ‘boys’. Robert and Stan are 19 and 20 respectively. And although our age-gaps are nothing compared to that of Ashton and Demi or Cameron and Justin, it still feels so wrong…I should wait another 10 years maybe. With age comes nerve, it seems. Hah!

But pretty eye candies and sugar mama inclinations aside, I quite liked the latest installment in the HP franchise. It was fast-paced and although a lot have been trimmed from the original narrative, the resulting tale is still as gripping and as exciting as I had hoped. The plot is compact but trés comprehensive although I would imagine a neophyte who has barely touched the books and who has only seen the movie versions to be confounded beyond belief with the ultra-speedy turn of events. Still, the film offers enough special FX to make a blockbuster out of a trashy B movie plotline so even the dimmest of the dim should be able to enjoy it.

Mike Newell’s direction is decidedly more straight-forward than the über stylized effort of Alfonso Cuarón, but is just as tight and effective. Now, I’d like to make a decent review and analyze the movie to bits but I’m so not feeling it right now so you just have to take my word for it when I say that this one will grip you from the beginning, take you for an amazing ride and leave you breathless afterwards. I can’t wait for the next one already. Too bad, neither boy toy would be in the next two episodes as all HP fanatics would know. Cedric, of course, met a rather tragic end in GOF while Viktor seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth. At least, we could all hope that he’d make a comeback in HP 7 where he might really take on Ron for Hermione’s heart. A sulky Ron sure is a joy to behold. Heck, Cedric might even return from the dead. I know Dumbledore couldn’t emphasize it enough that nothing, no magic, can bring back the dead but I’m guessing millions of crazed, screaming girls can. ;)

Chili Crab is Fab

2005-11-19T03:40:00.000+08:00

Barely halfway through November and I’m as broke as a Ming vase thrown out a 22nd floor window. I see two long weeks of instant ramen dinners ahead. Good thing I like cup noodles. Really.

Someone sign me up for a 10-step shopaholism detox program before I end up in the poor house. In fact, I already have one foot by the door. It would probably take a herd of buffaloes to keep me off the malls. Throw in a bunch of stallions for good measure. And a couple of orangutans, too, while I’m at it.

Yep, it’s THAT bad. But I’d like to think I spend my money on totally worthwhile stuff. Of course, there’s the occasional disastrous designer outfit bought at half price but just ends up gathering dust in the closet…but c’mon now, who can resist a steal like that? And waay too many posh seafood buffets. But then, there are also Havaianas in every type and color and fashion magazines and books, too! Well, a little too many of them actually…In fact, I have an entire library of reading materials to show for my utter destitution. At least the pulp can sustain me in case it gets even worse than THAT, you know? If they don’t raze the house down to the ground first, that is.

I just spent 30 bucks on another book tonight. Never mind that my profligacy alarm had gone off days ago. It doesn’t help that the yoga center I go to is merely a block away from Borders. I just can’t resist Louise Rennison’s latest oeuvre. Really, how could anyone not want to buy something called, “And Then He Ate my Boy Entrancers?”

The sixth installment in the Georgia Nicolson diaries series even comes with a ‘Tell All” CD. You see, the deal was just too good. Sure, sure, the books are technically for young adults. But hey, 27 is young adult, if you ask me. In fact, the term “young adult” applies to anyone less than 35. If you don’t agree, take it up with the Vatican. They may not be absolutely infallible but I’d like to think they are in this case.

Actually, the book’s protagonist, Georgia, is just full of er, hilariosity that it doesn’t matter how old you are, she’ll make you spurt spaghetti out of your nose. So yes, ~~based on personal experience~~ I advise everyone not to eat pasta while reading Georgia’s diaries. Soda is a bad idea, too. The carbon stings really badly and no, it didn’t happen to me. Um, yeah...

The books are especially good to read after you have made a fool of yourself in front of a gorgey (Georgiaspeak translation: gorgeous) Creative Director that you just met. This morning, I was summoned to a very important meeting which I have absolutely no idea about as I was just taking over from a colleague who managed to get herself fired after less than two months on the job. I should have done my homework but who has time for that? There are just too many face pack sessions to do and not enough time.

So anyway, in the middle of a particularly intense brainstorming session, the Executive Director suddenly wanted to know what’s in my “beautiful brain.” To make the long story short, I talked crap right out of my ass – all the way. Not good. At all.

I thought about going straight to Changi Airport, my workplace is like 5 minutes away after all, and boarding the first available flight to Burkina Faso. Then I realized I’m broke so I just bought a roll of paper bags to wear over my head in case I run into Mr. Gorgey Creative Director ever again.

As I was preparing to leave this evening, I received an e-mail calling for another meeting on Wednesday. Hmmm…I wonder if my olive Mohair wrap-around sweater would look great with a regulation brown paper bag. Maybe I would play dress-up later tonight to find out.

Muses, Muses Where Art Thou?

2005-11-10T23:23:00.000+08:00

I thought I saw Emily Rose, in her most gorily contorted pose, on the floor right before me when I woke up this morning. If you’ve seen “The Exorcism of Emily Rose,” as I have, in a most ungodly hour of 1.35 am, you’d know that it’s not exactly a nice image to start your day with.

Emily with her limbs knotted in weird angles, her head bizarrely twisted skywards, her eyes glazed like oversized prunes and an otherworldly expression stamped on her menacing face. I’m not one to scare easily but that particular image is something that has managed to lodge itself in my subconscious.

not my favorite fantasy

The movie is not something I would classify as a horror flick, though. It is primarily a courtroom drama, a fascinatingly intellectual one if I may add, that which attempts to explain the bizarre circumstances that surround her horrific death. Could she had been possessed by a demonic force that eventually wore down her mortal body or did she merely suffer from epileptic psychosis albeit one of an intensity previously unheard of?

I personally think that Emily Rose was neither psychotic nor possessed. She was simply an automatic yogini. I mean, hello? Those postures are like the unhallowed version of the more complex yoga postures. And if there’s such a thing as automatic writing then I don’t see why there shouldn’t be automatic yoga.

God. The muses have left the building. Maybe for good.

Beam Me Up, Scotty!

2005-10-24T11:45:00.000+08:00

I swear I’m going to be a yogini.

There’s something oddly satisfying about twisting your body into odd shapes while teetering on one limb. If I squeeze my eyes shut tightly as I touch my right heel to my left earlobe and then reach for my left big toe with the tip of my nose, I can almost morph into some kind of Martian bacteria at will.

After attending five classes including a multi-level Power Yoga one, which is really just slightly less punishing than say, “The Wheel”, I feel so empowered that I can probably turn Cristina Aguilera into an elegant virgin. Yes, from a graceless whore...not that you’re wondering…

With a bit more practice, I can possibly teleport or apparate (whichever era you prefer) to places just by chanting ‘ohm’ earnestly while entranced in meditation. Hey, this skill should come in handy as I attempt to traverse the boundaries of space and time to magically appear in the wonderful city of Manila, Philippines on the day Constantine Maroulis arrives to rape the Filipino public with his eyes. What? I just want to know whether it had been worth it to be ridiculed to the damages of incest and sodomy when I wailed over his demise at AI. I was rundown and impressionable, okay? Cut me some slack…pretty please?

So, anyway, I know it would be so much easier to just fly, as in a plane, to the target destination but c’mon now, did you really expect I’d shell out the airfare? Okay, maybe I would but with my fucked up work sked and the irreversible damages caused by multiple attacks of shopaholism in the past several weeks, it’s simply out of the question.

Back to yoga then, I may just learn how to apparate in time.

Back But Maybe Not for Long...

2005-10-18T18:59:00.000+08:00

Whew, looks like I’ve been missed!

I’ve had a bad case of the sniffles this past week and constantly felt like my head was going to burst but I kept going to work anyway because I have deadlines and no one else could do my job for me. It‘s really hard to think creatively when you can’t even feel your brain with all that mucus flowing around your head, but things had to be done. One word: agony.

About the only things more painful are my butt muscles (didn’t think they exist) and quadriceps right now. They feel like they’re going to fall off of my body. The culprit? Hatha Vinyasa Yoga. I went to my second class last night and contrary to popular belief, yoga is not the gentle, easy exercise that it seems. Most of the postures look quite simple but each one literally sends every sinew to a raging burn, if you hold it long enough.

I woke up this morning feeling like the unfortunate drain cover that Juan Pablo hit in last Sunday’s über boring F1 Shanghai GP. It was like watching the Aquarium Channel. The cars hobbled along the circuit like acutely poisoned fish and only the water was missing. If it had been raining, no one would have been able to tell the difference.

Fortunately, this sham of a Grand Prix came in the heels of an exhilarating Suzuka race which Kimi Räikkönen brilliantly won just the week before so it's easier to just ignore this Shanghai horror. Also, if you weren’t convinced before, the Japan GP should totally make a believer out of you. Kimi is a total god.

So other than catching a bug and a couple of Grands Prix and subjecting myself to some really extreme corporal torture, nothing much has been happening still. Unless you count downloading 11 hours worth of 80’s metal monumental. Well, I’m sooo glad that boybands are finally out and I quite appreciate today’s emo/punk music, too but it’s about time that metal makes a comeback, you know? I’m sure I’m not the only one who misses head banging. With heavy rock concerts everywhere, who needs a blowdryer to give your hair that sensational lift and bounce? Just don't get whacked by a water bottle...although from Baz, I probably wouldn't mind.

Now to Find Me a 6-foot Long Alligator…

2005-10-07T01:30:00.000+08:00

Been MIA from the blogosphere for almost two weeks. You’d think I’d return with a truckload of amusing anecdotes to tell enough to snag me a lucrative tell-all book deal but no.

In the past week and a half, everyone seems to have accomplished something monumental: ~~Katie~~ Kate Holmes got herself implanted with the seed of the devil, Superman has literally been reborn and a 12 foot Burmese python busted its guts open after attempting to digest an alligator half its length in a swamp somewhere in Florida.

Wow.

They are all very unfortunate events, really but at least they had something going on worthy of CNN reportage, you know?

While I on the other hand, had only been able to stay perfectly still like a partially digested scrap of squiggly lettuce trapped between my date’s teeth after a Burger King dinner. What?

You know it's quite bad when the highlight of the last fortnight had been a juicy online debate with a total stranger who insisted that GNR’s Patience was the best power ballad of the metal era. It’s not even technically a power ballad; the song is acoustic for heaven’s sake! And like you didn’t know, my vote is of course, on Skid Row’s I Remember You.

Yep, I may have busted my ear drums listening to Axl Rose’s vocal chord-shattering screams (he actually blew them twice or thrice throughout his career) all through junior high but he just couldn’t, cannot, will never be able to, compare to Sebastian Bach. Baz is god. In fact, he is above god. If you have ever heard him sing, you simply couldn't disagree. He can make anything, anything at all, and I bet even that dreadful, traumatizing “Ketchup Song,” sound absolutely divine. That voice is just unbelievable.

And speaking of unbelievable, I got to see STOMP sometime last week and it was an aural odyssey that defies logic and conventions. Making music from newspapers? Plastic bags? Lighters? PVC pipes? Paint scrapers? Get out of here! It would have been perfect if not for stupid audience members who kept clapping at all the wrong moments totally drowning the subtle rhythmic transitions in between acts. I got this close to spending the night at Changi Prison for battery…

…which wouldn’t have been so bad. I could have had the perfect excuse not to come to work. I’ve never been good at lying. Heck, coming from me, even truths sound like lies!

But I could really use a break, which might not be justified as I've worked for only about five months this year. You know you're in trouble though when everyday feels like a Monday. It’s probably time to call in a priest to exorcise my demons. It will be too late once the weekends start to feel like Mondays, too.

I would look in the directory but who knows how locals call exorcists in this country? 'bub catchers? Demon eaters? I mean I never got to find an electrician and they’re supposed to be more common, eh? The wiring in the house is still busted and Japan GP is fast approaching.

I would need some Rogaine.

I Bet You Can't Carry A 40" TV!

2005-09-26T21:37:00.000+08:00

It was race day at Interlagos, Brazil, yesterday, (1am today, Singapore time) and as luck would have it, about an hour before the F1 GP was to start, the TV went bust. Actually, it was the electrical outlet where the TV set is plugged into that isn’t working after it shorted a while back.

I thought to get a repairman earlier but what do you know? The local phone book doesn’t have a listing for electricians so it’s either Singaporeans never experience any household electrical problems or they call electricians by a different name like Bolt Masters, Wire Warriors or something and they need to be summoned by a mystical spell unearthed from Anak-sanamun’s ancient tomb.

I simply have no idea where else to look so yeah, I figured I could either enroll in a technical school, get a degree in electrical engineering or a similar field and fix the problem myself in about a year or so, or I could just cart the TV to the nearest working outlet in the house which is in the dining room. Okay, I could simply have bought an extension cord and life would have been so much easier but ~~I forgot so sue me~~ you know me, I thrive in distress...

Anyway, so I flexed my ~~non-existent~~ muscles and began to heave the chunky 40” Jurassic Era television set and was instantly reduced to a puddle on the floor. WTF??? I couldn’t even budge the thing a measly inch! And I’m someone who can replace 5 gallon water dispenser bottles with little effort…oh, well…there's no way I'll be making the pages of Boing Boing the following morning so I abandoned all plans of moving the TV.

On to plan C, then…the internet!

Horror of all horrors! There’s not a single free live stream, video or audio, of F1 races anywhere in the net! BBC Five Live has a notice up saying they cannot continue with live F1 audio webcasts because of copyright issues. Eh? And we’re wondering why F1, supposedly the grand daddy of all motorsports, cannot even compare to say, curling, or mud wrestling in popularity! Bernie’s preoccupation with elitism and exclusivity is just ridiculous…

And what are the chances of the only video webcaster, RSBN, being robbed of ALL of their broadcast equipment not too long ago on August 5 thus having to stop operations? Can you say pathetic? I wouldn’t be surprised if this is an evil scheme plotted by Mr. Ecclestone, himself though...

But most unfortunate of it all…Fernando Alonso became the youngest ever F1 World Champion robbing Kimi Raïkkönen blind of the honor…the perfect ending to a perfect story...Now excuse me while I writhe in perfect misery...

And Not for Lack of Trying…

2005-09-18T18:37:00.000+08:00

I was reading a magazine article the other day and the writer insisted that happiness is a choice. We all choose to be either happy or miserable. Sure, whatever, I’m sold. Enough with all these negative thoughts and ranting about random stuff I have no control over, endlessly. It sure can get tiring at times. I’m going to make more of an effort to make life worthier of living. I'm going to be, gasp! Positive.

So with a zest that will rival that of a freshly picked lemon, I got myself a funky writing pad and prepared to take note of little everyday miracles that would happen in my workaday life. It is actually a variation of Oprah’s “Happy Book”…you know, the one that documents at least three happy things that happen to you everyday. Oprah vows that being more aware of these things is all supposed to make you more optimistic and thus, happy.

Alrighty then.

So I opened the first page of my spanking new pad and set off to scribble something on my very first miraculous discovery. Hmm…it was proving to be quite a tedious task. Oh well, the first time is always hard…hmm…more thinking…until, aha! I know what to write about - eye creams! Here’s why…

You see, they’re worth the annual income of about a couple hundred Mauritian sweatshop workers per ounce and I’m sure you would agree that it’s indeed a miracle that people buy them at all for being so friggin’ useless!

Um yeah, I can’t think of anything else. That has got to do for now.

Hey, I tried.

Miserable Rat Fink

2005-09-15T12:40:00.000+08:00

Amazing. It’s nearly that time of the month and yet I woke up to an über clear, even glowing, skin this morning instead of the pus mountain revue that breaks into a song-and-dance extravaganza on my mug all too often. It’s almost enough to land an Elizabeth Arden print ad campaign provided I can also fake the impossibly high cheekbones that every one of those synthetic models possesses with an ultra-tight ponytail.

Something is amiss. Gravely amiss.

Alright, I guess I should just be happy but I’m almost too scared to be. I’m convinced that this is the kind of calm that precedes a catastrophe, you know? But what the hell, I should prolly find a venue to parade my billboard-worthy visage. You know what they say, enjoy while it lasts.

Speaking of which, the circus is in town! It just might be the place to get discovered for a new designer skin line and hopefully not Chin Chin Su, too…

This stuff is nasty. Just nasty.

So I’m watching Cirque du Soleil’s “Quidam” this weekend. I really wish I’m going with a Scandinavian supermodel-type whose 6 foot 3, rock-hard body could resist a point-blank kitchen cleaver attack but no, I’ll be with ~~Brad Pitt~~ ~~Kimi Raikkonen~~ ~~Orlando Bloom~~ my sister, instead. But anyway…

Tagged to be Cirque’s best production ever, Quidam is purported to be quite deep, psychological, unsettling even terrifying. Sounds perfect for drama queens like moi who thrive in utter wretchedness. Now only a bloodbath scene, preferably one that involves a helical fulcrum and an oversized soup spoon, would make it even cooler in my book…

I recently purchased a copy of “Prozac Nation,” too, which should ensure that the gloom goes on and on long after the circus tent had been knocked down and the cast’s bone-breaking feats are but a distant mist in a past long gone. What can I say? Tragedizing things is an art form and I’ve mastered it. So all you aspiring protégées of the art, just send me a letter of intent and I’d get back to you.

Cheers!

Man: It’s what’s for Dinner!

2005-09-09T11:57:00.000+08:00

And yep, take that literally.

That’s the tagline of the HufuTM brand whose site I found from Random Good Stuff, an interesting site that I frequent.

Hufu, ladies and gentlemen, stands for ta-dah! “Human Tofu.”

To say I am appalled is an understatement. There’s actually a market for mock meat “designed to resemble, as humanly possible, the taste and texture of human flesh”??? Jesus swinging in a tree! It’s got to be a joke but no, the site assures visitors that the product indeed, exists. How comforting. Ugh.

It was supposedly originally conceived for “students of Anthropology hungry for the experience of cannibalism but deterred by the legal and logistical obstacles. Whada??? I guess we should be wary when an Anthropology major invites us to dinner, eh? Lest you end up on the table as the main course!

Granted, cannibalism still survives in certain indigenous cultures but for some yobbo (a Tuck MBA student at that) to introduce such a concept to the civilized society? God, I just don’t know what to say. The educational system sure is failing.

And I thought Southern Chinese people are barbaric for eating cats! Now, I love cats and in my mind, that practice is simply inexcusable, but cat-eating just sooo pales in comparison to this Hufu creation. And I don’t give a friggin’f*ck that it’s not even real human flesh. The idea is still sickening.

And worse, the creators affirm that manufacturing the product is perfectly legal and that “any national attempts to outlaw HufuTM in any member state of the European Union are subject to countervailing EU law and hence invalid.” Right. Leave it to enterprising f*cktards to abuse their civil liberties and cash in on an opportunity that I had no idea existed..

That's Just Fowl!

2005-09-07T11:04:00.000+08:00

You know you need to go on a diet when you look at your thighs and they remind you of a pair of molting geese.

Not that it’s necessarily bad to have shedding birds for thighs. As I’ve said before, I’m a fan of imperfections, scars, freckles and the rare third nipple. In fact, I love seeing girls who have no qualms about exposing their gigantic bums and distended bellies and no mom, it’s not because I like girls that way…yeah, you can breathe easy…

Anyway, you see, I’m all for self-loving. And with that, I mean accepting and being comfortable with what you’ve got although that er, other sense is fine, too. Granted, I’ve had a lunatic phase when I did cardio and strength-training for three hours every single day and ate nothing but apples for a full three months. So did I achieve my goal? Hell, no but show me an apple and I’d ram it down your throat. That’s how much I came to hate the stuff.

Apples are so so evil…

So why am I thinking of dieting all of a sudden when I’d really much rather have my head bitten off by a gargoyle inflicted with the Black Death? Well, I’ve been quite happy with myself for a while but the stresses of moving to a new country and starting a new job sure wreaked havoc on my poor ~~mammoth~~ little body.

The sleek cat tattooed on my left hipbone is looking more like a jaguar nowadays - one that feasted on a few hundred gazelles in one seating. Lumpy is just not the same as curvy so yeah, the geese have got to go.

Tattoo Schmoo

2005-09-02T11:35:00.000+08:00

I discovered the ultimate source of nonstop entertainment for those days when nothing but bashing other people could make you feel better. Come on now don’t be shy, we all get those moments. You wake up feeling as useless as man nipples one morning and no amount of Ben and Jerry’s Oreo Mint ice cream could convince you that life is worth living.

Why not drop by at Bad Tattoos (We love to Hate ‘Em) and take a particularly vile stab at the morons who thought it was the best idea since sliced bread to get a “Native American Vampire/Slut Humping a Corn Dog” tattoo? It’s quite liberating I assure you and a barrel of laughs, too.

This sample does not even begin to describe the wealth of materials unearthed by devoted members from god knows where some of which are just so positively horrifying that no matter how shock absorbent you are, you would eventually need some proper trauma therapy. O-kay. That after effect kind of defeats our original purpose but what the heck? This site is a joy to behold!

Thank god, I don’t remember ever posting any pix of my own tattoos anywhere in the internet or I would have been bludgeoned to death by the deliciously ruthless mockery that pervades the forum by now. From what I have read and seen so far, the members do not like tribal, kanji and stars, all of which I have. I’d like to believe that mine have been done in good, albeit simplistic, taste though and I love every one of them so screw, well whoever...

Tasty. Very Tasty.

2005-09-01T11:19:00.001+08:00

Whoa! Can you believe this deal?

Click image for full details

And I’ve been spending at least S$12 for cab fare to work when I can fly to all these tourist destinations for less? I’m sure there are hidden charges and what-nots but still…

Then again with budget airlines crashing here and there of late, I can’t help but be paranoid about the whole idea of ultra-cheap travel. My innards spread around a thicket like Mexican Chili is not a particularly appealing prospect to me...nosiree but, mmm...chili...

Here Comes the Crab!

2005-08-31T12:10:00.000+08:00

The shitty things you find when your brain hurts, you’re crabby as a seafood salad and certainly in no mood to compromise:

Click image for full effect

WTF??? Of course you know it should be, “HOW MUCH LONGER?”

I understand that the use of the English language varies from culture to culture but I think we can all agree that there is a norm? I don’t have a problem with pidgin English (localized version) for as long as it isn’t passed off as the standard which is effectively what happens when the corrupted usage is perpetrated by a reputable name (the campaign is by a large banking group in the Southeast Asian region) in the popular media.

I’m an advocate of proper usage. I guess that’s what being an ESL teacher (English as a Second Language although I no longer teach at least not right now) does to you. My ears literally throb when I hear bastardized grammar structures but that I can forgive. Yet although it is indeed, permissible in casual conversation, there’s absolutely no excuse for it in formal settings, not especially in print when the effects are decidedly more permanent.

Yep, not even if that ad is supposedly trying to reach its intended audience by speaking their language. It’s just not acceptable. Term switching say, “knickers” for “panties” (British) or “paddock” for “field,” (Aussie) is perfectly fine but total disregard for grammar rules is not. And no, you can’t say otherwise. I’m mulish today, remember?

EXPOSED: When Good Dreams Go Bad!

2005-08-30T12:15:00.000+08:00

Three months on the job and I’m already breaking out in hives as I do when I’m overly stressed. Even an emergency facial proved futile in fixing this abominable pus mountain cultivating itself on my third eye chakra, looking like an organic bindi. It is enjoying itself loads together with its pals, a host of other despicable growths, that decided to party on my face without inviting me.

So I just slunk in my bed, defeated, and just watched one of my fave videos ever, Skid Row’s “I Remember You” several hundred times. It’s a really beautiful song and I swear it will be my wedding theme except that I have no plans of getting hitched and the single is actually reputed to be the best break-up song of all time. Knowing how my life is irony personified however, that just makes it la cancion mas perfecta en mi opinion (here’s hoping to attract more Hispanic readers…hah!).

Sebastian Bach was just so gorgeous that I couldn’t help but cry. I mean, how could someone so beautiful marry a hooker (well, she looks it) with eyebrows in a shape that only Joker could pull off? Worse, they’re still together 13 years, and two teenage sons later…er, sweet?

You just gotta love the hair…

The nostalgia sent me on a video hunting spree which led me to a fairly new episode of MTV Cribs (sometime 2002) where Bas gave a tour of his New Jersey abode which actually looked more like a KISS tribute museum with all the tacky paraphernalia that included a (gasp!) plastic cup laced with Gene Simmon’s blood in the freezer that Bas apparently wrestled other crazed fans for when Gene threw it to the audience in a concert.

More than his icky KISS collection and his wife, Maria’s Joker brows however, what depressed me most is that Bas looked nothing like his gorgeous diva self circa 1991. Then famous for his cocaine-chic emaciation, his Cribs reincarnation was a bloated shadow of his former sex-god glory. By my reckoning, he seems to have slipped into a giant barrel of beer, stayed there for a few weeks, maybe months, and emerged looking like an unfortunate drowning victim, except alive, prior to taping.

Scarily though, I imagined I would still be willing to wash his feet for him ~~lovingly~~ every night, newly drafted Doughboy persona and all. Hey, this is someone I’ve been in love with since I was 11 or 12 so surely this is acceptable behavior?

Anyhow, it turned out that that Cribs episode was shot on a particularly bad day as the Bas has apparently been turning up in every major concert arena of late (and Broadway theaters well, not so recently) looking more like the god of babeosity that he is supposed to be albeit with a bit more weight and a tad more wrinkles. He’s 37 after all.

So what do all of these have to do with anything? With the 2005 VMAs wrapping up amidst the destruction of hurricane Katrina in Miami on Sunday, I just realized that I still want an MTV Moon Man very very very very very badly.

He’s dying to be mine and he knows it…

I miss making videos. I really do. Really really badly. Have I established that fact enough? I was supposed to be the next Michael Gondry. Or Stephane Sednaoui. But fuck it, I wasn’t born a trust fund baby. Like many others in a rut, I am probably not meant to pursue the things that I love, at least not without much grieving and cussing and trashing and kicking.

Surely, I would have turned out wild and direction-less if I were an uh, heiress but at least I wouldn’t have to slave over some thankless job that’s only good for the money. On second thought, maybe I don’t really want to be a Paris Hilton. There sure are more than enough tramps walking the face of the earth already.

I Think Before You Die You See the Ring

2005-08-28T21:29:00.000+08:00

I’m all for fun at work. If it weren’t for employee handbooks condoning tequila shots in the middle of drafting a report, a couple of rounds of Beeropoly would surely be a welcome addition to yet another boring brainstorming session.

So you’d think I’d be the first one to sacrifice a lamb and dance around a fire naked to honor the gods when I discovered six-packs of Guinness Stout and bottles of wine, vodka and brandy in the office pantry last Friday. Was there going to be a party? In a department of five workers it’s probably not a bad thing to have some people over for a bit of socializing. My elation had been ephemeral however when shortly after 5.30pm a bunch of old fuddy-duddies converged at the boss’s office for a drunken night of off-key singing to the accompaniment of some really dreadful guitar strumming.

Not good. At all. Specially if you’re still trying desperately to finish some pointless presentation due on Monday morning before yet another Friday night goes down the drain. I mean there’s no way I’d be slaving over some inane project throughout the night and into the weekend. My weekends are reserved for marathon ~~sleeping~~ partying with nary a thought on the dreadful surprises the following week has in store on the work front.

Since when has the office been the “IT” place for sorry-looking old farts who sport identical comb-overs to party, anyway? I don’t think I could ever listen to “Eye of the Tiger” quite the same way again. It’s an awful awful song as is but butchered by a bunch of wilting seniors? I’m deeply traumatized. Sadako crawling out of my TV screen to scare me to death is nothing compared to what I witnessed.

maybe she wants a shot of Stoli, too...

Still, this might mean gone are the days of having to plot a convoluted scheme just to be able to sneak out of work in the middle of the day for a drink when your daily dose of Zoloft is underperforming. So I shouldn’t prolly be complaining.

Meanwhile, is anyone else bothered that practically everyone is a friggin’ photographer nowadays? Everywhere you go, hordes and hordes of them tote their Manfrottos and indiscriminately click away at anything from clouds resembling Pamela Anderson’s tatas to pond scum that look like George W. Bush and everything else in between. I used to think it took vision and innate creativity to be one but lately, a S$300 digital camera is all a photographer make.

This is all very cool but with even the crappiest of photos turning into Annie Liebowitz masterpieces with a little bit of Photoshopping, I don’t see how photography could still be considered a legitimate skill. I’ve always wanted to be one but it has lost most of its prestige to me now so I guess I’d just be a bum and hope that my mom buys my excuse for my current lack of ambition. Oh, well excuse me while I watch paint dry. I’d need the training for my new career path…

Vengeance is Not Ours, It's God's...bow

2005-08-22T16:28:00.000+08:00

I went to this al fresco bar, Sanctuary along Orchard Road last Saturday night. The place currently features an acoustic cover band whose lead singer would almost certainly put Rob Thomas out of business with his serious vocal chops. The guy almost looked like Rob Thomas, too. If Rob were hit squarely in the face with a wrecking ball, that is.

I’m still not done shaking my fist in the face of god whimpering ‘why, oh why?’ like the blind child asking for a piece of bread and some mercy in that overused declamation piece. Thank god for Egyptian cotton towels on sale. For a mere S$49, I have somewhere to curl in a fetal position and wail, ‘in luxury,’ if I may add, as the Peri brand’s slogan goes.

About the only thing worse than singers who look nothing like they sound are PSEUDO BLOGGER TROLLS WHO ACT NOTHING LIKE THEY SHOULD!

I don’t know about you but I wouldn’t make a movie review without seeing the movie first. So what’s up with these arrogant assf*cks who feel it to be their place to comment on an issue like they know every little circumstance that surrounds it? Even more infuriating, they feel like they know you enough as to actually tell you what to do.

I mean, don’t tell me to “get over it” when you don’t know why I wrote what I wrote to begin with, okay? I mean, why should your opinion matter, again? If you’re a Giga member or someone who has contributed substantially to the welfare of humanity, then I might just consider what you have to say even if I don’t know you. Otherwise, you’re non-existent in my book especially if all you’re going to be is some annoying critic with nothing important or constructive to share.

Please don’t be so haughty as to act like you know me when your sole basis is this blog. You can probably read all the entries in here and you won’t even come close to within one percent of knowing my true person so, don’t even try? For your sake? Sheesh…

And I thought disabling the comments feature will prune out all the smarty asses but apparently not…oh, well…

DO NOT FEED TROLLS

May you be kicked by an incontinent camel, thou plaything of Beelzebub!

Again, special thanks to the Ship of Fools people for their ever brilliant and handy Biblical Curse Generator

ON THE RAVE SIDE…

Kimi Raikkonen became the first driver in history to win the inaugural Turkish GP yesterday. It would have been a perfect day for Mc Laren if only Juan Pablo Montoya didn’t get a sudden attack of imbecility during the penultimate lap. He swerved off the road in true ~~scatter-brained~~ Montoya fashion allowing Renault’s Fernando Alonso to beat him to the chequered flag in second place. God, he’s totally useless and I really don’t know what Ron Dennis was thinking when he signed him to the team. Even if JP were the only driver left in the universe together with Alex Yoong, I’d take Alex. At least his incompetence on track had been mildly amusing. Juan Pablo’s is just plain maddening!

But nothing a plateful of Swedish meatballs cannot remedy. Who would have thought IKEA would have the best meatballs in town?

hmmm…divine!

Well, it prolly goes without saying since it’s a Swedish store and all but I didn’t think the in-store café would have some of the best grubs around as far as casual dining goes. The poached salmon was tasty and the cheesecake among the best I’ve tasted, too.

Now, I feel a haiku coming:

Round like ping-pong balls
Swimming in rich yummy sauce
Oh, keep them coming

Now, please say you’d come back? Please?

RANDOM USELESS INFO:

Someone found my site using the search words, "jiggling boob pic" at MSN search! Whoohoo! ;)

EDIT: 21 December 2005

Alright. Due to the overwhelming number of surfers who reach this page looking for a copy of the declamation piece referred to in this post's title, I decided to give in...again...and grant your wish. So just click on the title and get your very own copy of this award-winning masterpiece...NOT! kthx...

Cherries on Top?

2005-08-16T14:44:00.000+08:00

Note to self: BE surfers do not appreciate tasteless haikus…

If I stop writing them would you promise to vote for me? Or even just consider the possibility? Please? With peanut butter on top? No? Oh, well…

I recently came across a blogger who was ranting about how she could never seem to win in Battle of the Blogs. It’s something I have never tried so I gave it a go. I mean, how hard is it to win these battles anyway? I thought my layout and content are competitive enough to win a few head-to-heads but boy, was I wrong!

A dozen battles and some 150 credits ~~down the drain~~ later, and John Gochnaur’s batting average is looking like the record of a lifetime in comparison.

Now, I don’t mind losing to the witty diarists in the BE community so much but when you can’t even win over a wretched porn site, you tend to ~~tinker with the idea of posting a few nude pictures of your own~~ question God whatever the hell happened to basic human decency…hmmm…

Oh, yeah? Oh, yeah!

2005-08-12T10:54:00.000+08:00

I was reading Sarcomical’s blog and was inspired by her phantasmagorical haikus so I decided to attempt one of my own:

Friggin’ dunderhead
Disgrace to the human race
Eat my daisy dukes*

*Dedicated to the high-bred poet that hears voices in his ~~empty~~ head.

Hat Trick

2005-08-08T17:09:00.000+08:00

I’m on a roll, y’all! I just reached Confucius-level wisdom. I am now officially a great sage.

I’ve been putting off going to the salon since I came to Singapore. To be honest, I’m wary about getting my hair done in here. Of course, my concerns are almost certainly unfounded but I have an über talented hairdresser back home who can whip up any hairstyle I request him to do so yes, I’ve been spoilt. My growing pains proved much stronger than my paranoia however so despite my apprehensions, I decided to take the plunge and get that hair cut on Sunday.

I took all the necessary precautions that will make any (fashion) paramedic proud. I brought a photo (however cheezy) similar to the style I want which any halfway decent hairstylist should be able to approximate and opted for a pricier salon which should logically have better standards. I was careful. So, WHAT THE HELL IS THIS FRIGGIN’ ABOMINATION DOING AT THE TOP OF MY HEAD!?

Not only did the idiot stylist insisted on giving me a totally different cut but he also took a long time crafting this ridiculous facsimile of a sham of a hairstyle that makes Richard Simmons’ coif look absolutely fab.

I’m Ally McBeal circa Season 4 reincarnated, instant dork extraordinaire with a bad fringe. The layering at the bottom is hideous, too. Like the clod used a soup spoon and a butter knife instead of scissors.

Lesson learned?

Always bring brass knuckles to the salon to punch idiot stylist with. Really.

Apocalypse Now

2005-08-04T09:39:00.000+08:00

I turn 27 today. Do you realize how many uber talented, rich, famous and beautiful people have died at this age?

Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison...the list goes on and on...

God, I should be careful...

Another Lesson Learned...(At This Rate, I'd be Confucius in No Time!)

2005-08-01T11:42:00.000+08:00

A public service announcement:

When your favorite Swiss Herb Lozenge plainly states that taking 10 in a span of 1-2 hours may have laxative effects, please do not ignore it then consume the whole box in like 15 minutes.

As I did.

Well, the new blackcurrant flavor was a little hard to resist but still, you’ll thank me for it.

Trust me.

Really.

Beware of Trolls

2005-07-30T04:17:00.000+08:00

As you may have noticed, I pulled down the last two posts that I recently made for seriously, what was I thinking? O_o

Mr. Ripper hadn’t been quite as proud of me as it’s so unlike me to take anything so earnestly and it well, ruined the snarky, darkly humorous mood that this blog has always had. So, here’s to make up for my momentary ~~insanity~~ lapse in judgment.

A while back, a blogger troll, let’s call him “Mr. Troll”, and his pathetic crony, let’s call her, uh, “Crhony,” posted some really ~~delicious~~ nasty comments on his blog involving moi as according to him, “this is my blog. i can write whatever i want here.” Right…however ~~moronic~~ presumptive his accusations have been. Somebody call the World Police, someone is abusing his freedom of speech.

Anyway, I won’t go into details as I now realize it had been a mistake to have even given this non-issue my time of day but suffice it to say that I posed an innocent question (about Mr. Troll's descent) with which I swear I didn’t mean to denigrate but which Mr. Troll (and the Chrony) took personally accusing me of supposedly ‘labeling’ him, like as if I mistook him for an old VHS tape or something. How weird is that? Although it’s true that I loved labeling everything I owned using a Dymo label maker as a kid and had I still had that cool machine, I would have gladly made one for him: P-R-I-C-K. Just perfect.

So then, Mr. Prick even went so far as to say that I have no business to "decide that [I] know what he is, better than [he does]." Eh? I actually made that decision? Jesus in a car seat! I must have been under the Imperius Curse! Someone call Dumbledore to reverse the hex, quick!

At no point did I claim to know what he is, no? I wouldn’t have asked otherwise. I would have worded it as a statement if I were 'labeling' as he claims. And can I just say that I typed in that query in a whim? I’m not interested in Mr. Troll’s heritage. At. All. He doesn't seem to be very interesting to begin with. He could be half-ass, half-cow, which clearly he is, (I told him that) for all I care!

Then Mr. Troll felt it his place to talk down on people and made some really derogatory remarks saying he doesn’t care what I am, like as if he were referring to a paperclip or a piece of chewed gum. Oh, and this is supposed to be a person who wrote that particular entry because he felt I was being discriminatory? Que horreur! How much more contradictory can you get?

Lastly, he flaunted his education to my face (a degree in Asian American Studies, WTF? Am I supposed to be impressed?! Hail to you, oh Mr. Troll!), never mind that it obviously didn’t have the desired effect that an education is supposed to have on people. It's supposed to make you civilized, you know? Enough to NOT be irrationally incensed by a remark the circumstances with which asked, you're not sure of.

And yep, in case you have been zoning out all this time, Mr. Troll turned out to be a MAN. Wow. That is like the most surprising revelation ever, at least since the Charmed ones blew Cole’s cover as “The Source” or that Tom Cruise is stark raving mad. I mean we all suspected as much, but still.

Mr. Troll sure is way too whiny and űber catty for a guy so I initially mistook him for a girl. Not that we, women are catty and whiny but it is indeed more in our nature to be so, no thanks to our predisposition to mood swings especially around that time of the month.

So anyway, I now learned my lesson not to address a retarded opinion by some stuck-up assf*ck (not especially at 3 in the morning after a long hard day of work) no matter how ~~flattering~~ offensive it may be. It’s not worth it, I tell you. After all, the only opinion that should matter to us is from those who ~~do not hear voices in their heads~~ ~~do not have demons in them~~ ~~do not have major issues~~ we care about.

Dear j,

Thou shalt be cast onto a steaming dung-heap, O thou who art a byword for idiocy!*

Sugar

*Special thanks to Biblical Curse Generator.

It's a bird! It's a Plane! Oh, It's Just A Stupid Song...

2005-07-27T14:01:00.000+08:00

I used to love Aerosmith. Never as much as I love U2 but I really liked them, you know? All those fun songs, Janie’s Got a Gun, Walk This Way, Blind Man, Crazy, Deuces are Wild, but then they started singing about missing a “pig” and wanting to be an insomniac which was the theme song of a wretched movie where people did nothing but climb up mountains for the whole two hours, like it was a mountain-climbing movie, no? It proved to be a disastrous move (no thanks to you, Liv) and it’s been all the way downhill for them after that.

The culprit…

In fact, they have started to dig. I'm sending them a shovel and a spade right this minute and I encourage you to do so, too although they probably won't need any help with the digging...So will someone please tell my co-worker to stop tuning to that station that plays that dreadful sham of a song over and over? It’s about as classic as yesterday’s newspaper, okay?

It doesn’t help that this station’s other most wanted single is the one by my favorite singing robot (oh, she’s the only one there is?) called “Inside You’re Just Begging for A Dirty Joke Title” (TM Jacob). Can you say eew?

*Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that the friggin' station just decided to play the stupid song right when I'm waxing lyrical about it!

Eew.

Boohoo S(h)ick

2005-07-26T13:12:00.000+08:00

What should women smell like?

Candy, that’s what. Or freesias. Or freshly mown grass. Or blueberry muffins. Or leather. Anything really. Anything but MORNING BREATH, that is!!!

I went to a meeting this morning on some artsy-fartsy museum project we’re currently working on and we were greeted by a girl with a cool boho chic fashion sense that made me wish I worked in a museum instead. Loved the flowing hair, loved the frilly skirt, loved the Jesus sandals, loved most of her that is until she opened her friggin’ mouth.

Jesus in a car seat (TM PiKKeL WeeZel)! it was 10.30 am for heaven’s sake and I expect for those bristles on a stick (read: toothbrush) to have touched those ivories (more like canaries…canary yellow, actually) by then. Can I just say you’re not supposed to have a stinky mouth when you’re meeting with people on business, not especially for the first time?!

God, talk about first impressions. I don’t care if she has Einstein’s IQ (she doesn’t) there’s just no excuse for not practicing super basic hygiene. If it’s not her thing, how hard is it to pop in a mint, for crying out loud?

I didn’t have breakfast as usual and my empty stomach + girl’s kiss of death combo proved to be a lethal mix. God, people sometimes amaze me. Okay, make that most times. I considered throwing up on her but excused myself instead. I wouldn’t want to confound myself, too you know?

Devilled Nuts and Bolts Surprise, Anyone?

2005-07-24T20:53:00.000+08:00

This has got to be a joke! Tell me that Bin Laden is in fact, St. John the Baptist reincarnated and I would be more apt to believe it.

The silver arrow failed Kimi Raikkonen yet again. Leading by 11.3 seconds after 36 laps at Hockenheim and the MP4-20's transmission just had to lock-up...Ooooooh! I'm really this close to flying all the way to England, break into the McLaren headquarters, find those pathetic Mercedes engines, blow them into smithereens and feed every miserable nut and bolt to those inept McLaren engineers responsible for those cursed engines' development. What good is a fast car when it cannot friggin' finish a goddamn race???

Aaaargh!!! Kurashitte kudasai!

Faster Pussycat Kill! Kill! Kill!

2005-07-23T23:36:00.000+08:00

Oh, my friggin’ lord, enough already! For a highly-developed, cosmopolitan city, Singapore sure could be quite so backwards.

Two weeks after the CEO of a charity organization stepped down from his position amidst controversy regarding his salary package amongst others, Singaporeans are still screaming for his blood in a manner that would put Herod and Caiaphas to shame. (You may throw in Pontius Pilate into the equation for good measure...) And I thought good education cures narrow-mindedness…oh, well…

The general sentiment is that the CEO in question misused the organization’s funds. Never mind that he was single-handedly responsible for making the NKF the world-admired charity it now is. The public resents his S$25,000 a month salary, his first-class business trips, the fleet of service vehicles he had at his disposal, the bathroom in his office and even the gold-plated taps didn’t escape denigration. (Oh, those poor taps!)

Honestly, I don’t see why this should be a big deal. CEO’s everywhere else in this country earn an average of S$43,000 monthly, and private jets and other such perks are not exactly unheard of in other industries. Still, people assert that the deposed CEO is supposed to have some kind of moral obligation with the charity’s money coming from the people...yada, yada, yada...Hello? Can I just say that he in fact, served the charity for FREE for 23 years? And that even now, his salary is about 40% lower than average? If I were the Pope, I’d see to his canonization immediately. No one endures twenty years of school, in the process breaking the family’s piggy bank, to end up poor, no?

Apparently since the NKF is a charity the public expects its CEO (and its paid professional volunteers) to be dressed in rags and to subsist purely on gruel and hard bread. And heaven forbid that he fly business-class to a meeting in America or Europe! He should take one of those standing-room only budget airlines where you need to pay separately for the stale sandwich and cold coffee served for lunch.

Even the organization’s practice of hiring professionals instead of volunteers to handle its marketing affairs is currently under scrutiny. Doesn’t anyone even realize that this is the very reason why the charity is so successful? Well, none seem to. People are supposedly so distrustful now of charities that they are wary about donating to them. Oh, puhleeze…most do not have a drop of compassion running through their veins, anyway. The fact is, those who do not, and have not contributed a single cent are also those who whine the loudest. The horror! The hypocrisy!

Also, no one else seems to be bothered by the fact that the media is monopolized by the opposing party. The one that dutifully exposed the NKF’s ‘juicy’ secrets to the public and purposefully printed uber unflattering pictures of the CEO obviously in an attempt to make him seem like the criminal he isn't.

If anything, they exposed nothing more than the public’s ignorance and insularity…disappointing, to say the least…especially when your comments get deleted at the Channel News Asia forum boards because it's the only one that presents an argument to the contrary.

Heaven help me. I may as well be in Burkina Faso in the 9th century.

The Blogger Formerly Known as Me...

2005-07-18T12:02:00.000+08:00

Quick! Someone get me a fake ID and a one-way ticket to Tahiti.

I’m joining the Witness Protection Program and assuming a new identity as a voodoo master specializing on rekindling lost love and offers lessons on thwarting the evil eye from Monday to Saturday (accepts laundry jobs on Sundays). Should anyone ask, I got my PhD in Sorcery from an authentic Haitian hocus-pocus university shortly after falling victim to a wicked witch doctor who turned me into a zombie. Yes, a real, honest-to-goodness zombie (ghastly shards of rotting skin optional) not the kind I turn into at work on Monday mornings…

Anyway, so this witch doctor’s wife ruined her third cauldron of gumbo in as many days, this time putting way too much salt, and unwittingly fed me the whole pot to cover-up her tracks and avoid being turned into a stinky, warty toad after her sorcerer hubby threatened to do so, fed up with her lack of culinary skills. Well, he could render a clove of garlic unrecognizable with just a blow of a rusty old cleaver, you know? He’s earned his props as a kitchen divo.

If at this point you’re poor brain is already in knots, know that salt is supposedly the counter-charm to a zombie curse. So, to make the long story short, I snapped back to my senses, got a good facial (to get rid of the ghastly shards of rotting skin, yes, yes…), and a full Ayurvedic massage, to boot (well, life had been um, quite stiff…) and became a full-fledged, friendly neighborhood, Voodoo Mistress (part-time laundry woman) at your service.

Yes, I’ve given this plan some thought, okay, a lot of thought…can you tell? Here’s why:

6.30-7.30 wake-up/prep for work
7.30-8.30 commute to work
8.30-5.30 Work! Work! Work!
5.30-7.30 Work some more…yep, I’m a slave to the grind…
7.30-8.30 commute from work
8.30 home

Yes, I’ve become an easy target for socio-pathic, serial killers who are on the prowl for their next victim…I now have a gasp! – daily routine…

…just like my geeky high school Math teacher, and the cranky old banker next door, and mum’s frumpy accountant friend.

No offense to those who have a daily routine (although lots of luck with those pychos…) but I’m someone who wasn’t supposed to have one! Why else would I get a communications degree? I was supposed to space-out, cram, party, clown, ram, panic and jam, and then do these in all possible variations and permutations! But here I am instead, working in a supposedly creative environment but where everyone’s move is calculated down to the trajectory of the balled-up piece of paper expected to hit the rim of the trash basket in 1.76 seconds flat at a speed of 110mph. Sometimes, I fear that people here could be androids…or just boring…or both…Oh, is it 11.53 am already? Excuse me but my sked says I need to go to the loo…

Diseased

2005-07-12T10:17:00.000+08:00

I’m reminding me more and more of Tara Reid lately. And how I wish I mean the sexy, freshly-scrubbed version but it’s actually more like the downtrodden American Pie 2 Tara with the eye luggage the size of original 1854 Louis Vuitton flat trunks! I swear my eyeballs would literally fall off their sockets if I don’t get enough sleep soon. Some gross but fairly accurate visuals there...

zoom in on this photo and you’d know what I mean…better yet, just watch AP2 again…

The fact is, I’ve finally managed to patch things up with the Sandman…insomnia more or less under control but I still refuse to turn in early even if I can because hello? I just like subjecting myself to barbaric rituals such as sleep deprivation for instance, no?

Well, it’s actually more like out of habit having gone to bed no earlier than 4 or 5 am for the longest time and my body seems to be rejecting the idea of sleep but self-imposed suffering is chic nowadays, you know? So, I'm sticking to my barbaric ritual claim...

I'm actually hoping that my lack of sleep will inspire erm, my public to initiate a website in my honor…I won’t mind being at the center of a “Let Drizzle* Rest” campaign (*name changed to protect the identity of the person involved...)

I can envision it already…t-shirts, caps, mugs, ballpens, the whole caboodle all with my name on them!

And please don’t forget to sign the petition. I’d pretend to be angry and hurt and threaten to sue all of you together with your whole family up to the nth degree of affinity - even Fido won’t ecape my wrath - for making fun of my ~~self-imposed~~ disease when you’re supposed to understand the pressure I’m going through to be perfect and be compassionate about my plight…right.

The Secret of the Quick Lunch...

2005-07-07T17:57:00.000+08:00

I hate short lunches. It’s right up there with world hunger, the Iraq war and Katie Holmes.

Meals for me are like minor social events and are thus, treated as such. Hell, I would even pile on the Bvlgari and put on a Balenciaga, only I own neither. Lunchtime is when my mind finally kicks into activity after a whole morning of basically hobbling around like er, some hobbling thingy. It’s when I can, yet again, dazzle my adoring public (a.k.a. my friends back home) with (uber) stylized narratives of my latest escapade albeit one that took place in my own backyard. It’s when I can pretend I’m a trust fund baby, feasting on my fillet mignon, totally forgetting about the fact that I’m a slave to the grind probably doomed to work my butt off till I’m 65 and eligible for Social Security. So, bite me if I’m currently devising an evil plot that will have these people I currently work and ~~grudgingly~~ have lunch with at the receiving end of a pebble-loaded blowgun firing spree.

I’ve always known that the Chinese eat fast but I thought it was because there are usually at least 6 dishes in a lauriat meal so food is gobbled down at a frantic pace to make sure they get to sample every (mushroom) dish available, no? But since I’m talking about simple, single-course lunches (two-course if you consider Fish and Chips two separate dishes) and not wedding party-type lauriats, I’m really wondering what the rush is about.

By the time I put in a forkful (or chopstick-full?) in my mouth, everyone else on the table is already washing down his meal with a demitasse of hot milk tea. Eh? It’s almost as if David Copperfield swooped down from nowhere to perform some random ‘disappearing’ magic act on a whim. I swear to God it’s not even five minutes! It takes me far longer to walk the five steps to the bathroom early in the morning.

I suspect that they merely snort the food down their noses. If snorting cocaine gives you an instant high, it’s possible to also get instantly “full” this way, right? So, I set off to put my theory to the test over lunch today. Alas! My subjects turned out to be way sharper than I thought. In the time it took me to slice a chunk of fish fillet, I looked up to see my colleagues’ plates already licked clean!

Oh, well, there’s always tomorrow to play Nancy Drew again…

Babble Bath

2005-07-04T09:49:00.000+08:00

No one seriously cuts their nails by their desk in the office! I arrived at my work place (fashionably) late this Monday morning to the sight of my colleague casually snipping away at her cuticles by her computer. I must have startled her when I said good morning coz she jumped back a little but then went back to her clipping duties like it’s totally acceptable for people to be grooming themselves in public.

Whada??? Sure, her cubicle is supposed to be her private shrine of some sort but it’s not as private as the Oval Office, you know? I may be being anal here but how different is cutting your nails really from say, brushing your teeth? Would you gargle away happily by your desk? No? I thought so. Yes? Dude, stop taking advice from Tom Cruise. Seriously.

Meanwhile, a guy I work with just came in wearing the same exact pair of pants he donned just last Friday. I would give him the benefit of the doubt that those trousers have seen the insides of a washing machine over the weekend if only he didn’t wear them on Thursday, too. It’s a casual work environment and jeans are actually permitted in the work place and I’m not quite so anal as to say that I wash my own jeans after each wear. Heck, no! Or they’d fade so fast especially those dressy indigo ones that can be oh-so-chic paired with delicate, layered tops. But c’mon, there are certain rules to adhere to here, at least in my book.

First, you never wear the same pair of pants (jeans included) more than once in the same week but if you absolutely must , say you’re having a fat week and those jeans are the only ones that can keep you off Ritalin, then be sure you do it on a Monday and a Friday. There should be enough time for the jeans to erm, aerate in between wearing. Secondly, can I just say that only basic pants can be reworn? You know, plain, nondescript pairs? This guy in the office has been wearing his camouflage pair (!) since Thursday! And from Monday to Wednesday, he sported a pair of basic blue jeans but with embroidery across the hip! Can you get any more telltale than that?

I get the feeling though that these people are not exactly trying to be discreet…it may be a cultural thing, I’m not sure, in which case it still doesn’t make it alright. Or as I said, I may be being anal, in which case, do whack me in the head with a rubber chicken. I won’t whack you back, with a real chicken. I promise.

In other news, Kimi Raikkonen came in second in yesterday’s French GP at Magny Cours. Alonso, who was on pole, took the title but only because he was lucky. Luckier than Kimi, at least. Kimi’s engine blew during Friday practice and was penalized ten places on the grid for requiring an engine change. If he started at number 3 as he originally qualified, he would seriously beat Alonso to a pulp…he’d leave him in the dust on the first turn and lap him at least twice in the same race. Not about to happen though. If there’s one woman Kimi can’t charm, it’s lady luck who’s being as much a bitch to him as she is to me…Still, he came in just 11 seconds behind Alonso from number 13 on the grid…You gotta be a genius to do that. But then, Kimi is not just a genius, he is a god. In fact, I’d gladly lead a cult to venerate him…

I'd kneel before him anytime...;)

We’d have Sunday worships and F1 Guidebook Studies and have fortnightly fund racing (not a typo) programs. It would be cooler than Scientology, I swear, and even people on Prozac can join. If you want to ~~convert~~ sign-up, drop me a line...

And speaking of geniuses, I saw Batman Begins on Saturday. I know, three weeks after it opened in cinemas worldwide but I’ve been ~~life-less~~ busy, you know? I’m not really a fan of superhero movies but Christian Bale so totally rocks as the caped crusader, that I’m seriously going to watch the movie three times more. Seriously.

Screaming Meemies

2005-06-30T12:21:00.000+08:00

Avril is getting married and Sum 41’s Deryck Whibley is the dad, I mean, groom to be.

Eh? Isn’t there a law that prevents punk rockers from falling in love? If there isn’t, someone please tell congress to pass one. Love conquers pain, emptiness, frustration and a host of other negative emotions. How can one be sufficiently ‘punk’ without the necessary angst and resentment that make punk music so perfect for sulking in a corner whining why life couldn’t be better?

Sure, most would contend she’s not even really punk but at least she doesn’t sing about flowers, rainbows and butterflies…We already have enough Carrie-oke Bot Underwoods to ensure us fifty million generations worth of songs like those.

Meanwhile, everyone else seems to be falling in love: TomKat,
Paris squared, Bennifer 2…heck, even Bubble Boy managed to hook up with a girl despite being in a goddamn bubble! Well the movie was released a few years back but still…

he could be a love doctor, you know?

What could I be doing wrong??? Would I also need to be demented, loose or just plain pathetic to find erm, My Happy Ending?!

May you be pursued into the mountains by sex-mad baboons...

2005-06-24T12:49:00.000+08:00

I’m usually articulate and quite droll, or so people tell me…so I hate it when I get into a situation when someone insults me subtly, or even ourightly for that matter, and I couldn’t come up with a suave, witty retort to stun the offending party. By the time I get my thoughts together, too late, the moment had passed and the spiteful bitch (or bastard…) had long walked away, smugly relishing her (or his) triumph.

In the working world, you do get to meet certain nasty characters who probably spend inordinate amounts of time concocting the brew of your eventual downfall. Yep, even if you don’t compete with these people and quite frankly, do not look at your job as some sort of battle to the top of the corporate ladder.

Personally, I couldn’t care less if my job title is officially, “Royal Crap Cleaner” or “Executive Girl Friday” as long as it’s something I find worth doing and have not come to vehemently fear, come Monday morning. I am not interested in position or power and god help me if I ever need to wear a power suit (even if it’s Prada or Armani) for work. I would rather have my limbs dismembered by a throng of horses and cast into the sea to be chewed on by sharks. In case you're wondering, no, I'm not such a slob to come to the office clad in whale-print jammies, hell I don’t even wear those for bed, but casual chic is about as far as I would go. If I can have things my way though, no one can pry me from my board shorts and Havaianas if they use a vise-grip.

Just the other day, I had been asked to open a local bank account (yep, I'm civilized enough to have a bank account, in fact I have two but they both have been opened in another country) wherein to deposit my fee for something I worked on. As it was already late and quite inconvenient to do so, I asked whether it was possible to just transfer the money to my sister’s bank account instead. In a totally patronizing manner, the woman I was talking to ‘explained’ that they couldn’t pay someone who didn’t do the work and asked me to, ‘think’ as if to insinuate that my request suggested that I do not have a brain. Whada??? It was just a suggestion, hello? And I beg to disagree that the idea was blatantly idiotic. Even if that's the case, there’s a nice way to say so if it is unworkable. In my daze (a mixture of sleep deprivation and information overload on some research I’ve been working on) however, I was able to mutter nary a peep and felt so maligned after that, that I sunk into the depths of perdition the whole day. If only I knew exactly what to say…

So, I was quite excited when I stumbled upon THIS site full of random Biblical (yep, you read it correctly) curses to spout against any malevolent intruder.

Wouldn’t you just love to tell someone off with, “Harken, thou Mesopotamian harlot, for you will be as welcome as a fart in the queen's bedchamber?” I know I would…

I can't wait to see the likely mayhem that may ensue...Sweet.

Horse Tale...

2005-06-20T10:49:00.000+08:00

What is the whole world up to?

I turn my back for a moment to focus on myself for a little while and there comes one surreal occurrence after the other. Like the rules have been changed without my knowledge not that my opinion would have mattered but still…

I was still awake at 1am this morning anticipating the beginning of the Formula 1 Indianapolis Grand Prix at 2am, as what happens when they are held on the other side of the world. Yep, never mind that I have to be up at 6:30, about a couple of hours after the race would have ended, and would most likely be spending the rest of the day in a drunken trance. If you’re anything like me, an F1 fanatic who would watch live races at whatever time of the day come hell or high water, the sleep deprivation is well worth it. That’s saying a lot knowing how I’m like a cat (or a koala) who likes sleeping for 14 hours at a time. It’s just not the same watching the replays; I would feel rather stupid cheering or cursing any happenstance knowing that it took place some time ago.

Well, turned out I stayed up late for nothing this time. 7 out of the 10 teams withdrew from the race, my beloved Mc Laren included, after they failed to reach an agreement with the FIA on the issue of tires and chicanes.

I don’t know really who to blame. Michelin is certainly at a fault having recognized the tires’ weakness just the night before but all the teams, save for ~~fucking~~ Ferrari, agreed to go through with the race, if only the FIA would bend the rules a little. They could have let the teams on Michelin to change into tougher tires, or added a chicane to slow down IMS’ deadly turn 13. Both are of course, against the rules but given that the teams in ‘danger’ are willing to give up their grid positions, even possible championship points, it could have been considered just so the fans who made an effort to see the race (and tickets certainly don’t come cheap) could have seen a decent show. Note that a component failure in Indianapolis could be especially fatal and this is not the kind of entertainment anyone would have wanted to see but so is a six-car race among mid-fielders.

Leave it to Ferrari to live up to its party pooping reputation having rendered the 2002-2003 series unwatchable (although it’s not their fault to be quite so dominating then), and now being the lone team not to agree to the majority proposal. The ironic thing is it’s not like Ferrari is a paragon of virtue by any measure. They have broken many rules before but they seem to be keen to such schemes only if the situation would work on their favor. Not that they would have been gravely discriminated if they had consented to the tire change or the addition of a chicane having been offered priority status in the grid and the points system.

On second thought, even with all the teams on the circuit, it would still have been a farce of a race if one team on Michelin finishes in a podium position but cannot lay claim on the win. But then again, people pay good money to watch WWF and we all know it’s a sham of a fight. It’s entertaining, fake blood and hilariously complex signature moves notwithstanding. I could have seen Kimi win the race and not get any points for it but I would still have enjoyed the journey. Hell, he could have retired mid-race and it would still have been better than not seeing any racing at all. Is that too much to ask for? Apparently, it is for the FIA and Ferrari.

He’d be in my next party…as the main course!

The prancing horse, and possibly Max Mosley (FIA President), ought to be barbecued in my next backyard party.

Fleeting...

2005-06-17T01:02:00.000+08:00

I just found out that Luigi Santiago, a TV director, was shot dead at the V-Bar (GLorietta 2) at around 4:10 am on Wednesday, June 8. I don't exactly know the man but I did work with him once when I was still with ABS-CBN in 2002. Not that he would remember if he were still alive.

He was the director for a music video whose talents I had to shoot for a spiel for a promo campaign. And although I remember for the shoot to have lasted two days, with none of us getting more than forty winks, I have exchanged nary a sentence with the guy. Still, I feel like he's someone I've known. I even had a little crush on him which lasted for about a year. I just can't believe he's dead. The guy is only 26, my age.

Life is really fleeting. We shouldn't be taking it for granted. In my friend, Ten's words of advice: "Grab it by the lapels..."

What Have Boobs Got To Do With It?

2005-06-16T22:56:00.000+08:00

Xiaxue is hot, hot, hot in Singapore. Who, you say? According to media reports, she's Asia's best blogger for two years in a row, has millions of readers all over the world and has guested in at least half a dozen TV shows. In fact, I've seen at least a couple of those guestings and whack me over the head with a rubber chicken but she didn't impress me one bit. She seemed like a clunky old Hoover to me - useless and empty. The girl is a raven-haired Pamela Anderson who shares the same passion for platform boots, tight tees, kabuki make up and big hair. But hell, some people could be poor conversationalists but turn out to be brilliant writers so I thought I'd give her a chance. And give her a chance, I did.

The page opened to a shell pink, blue and tan layout complete with a full body portrait of Xiaxue (click at your own risk...god, I'm actually giving the girl free publicity...not that she needs any more...) in her Anime-inspired get-up of suede knee-highs, tiny white mini and a baby tee, orthopedic armbands and hoop earrings big enough for Tinkerbell to jump through, sprawled seductively on a couple of satin pillows on the floor. The image took no less than half the page. Whadaa???

I feel queasy already, I in fact, barfed a little, okay, a lot, in my mouth...Bing and Bong are about the only things more cutesy patootsie...and although I had the urge to hurl the computer out the window, or towards my annoying officemate, who is nearer, I decided not to quit right there...After all, I had to read at least a few of her blogs to be able to give a fair analysis. What can I say? I try to be just and merciful...*cough* So read her blog, I did. (Er, I know I'm totally turning into a Sith...or something...)

Anyway, midway through the first post, a ranting of some sort about another Singaporean girl who supposedly posted naked pictures of herself in her own blog, I was as baffled as a waffle as how that facsimile of a sham of a blog could be adjudged the best by any measure. Sure, tastes, standards and preferences vary widely but I still don't see why so many would want to read hopelessly mediocre musings that I found neither amusing nor introspective. Indeed, upon reaching the end of Xiaxue's kilometric babbling that left my brain in bubbles, I have basically vowed to dedicate my life to hunting her down and making her pay for polluting the net with poorly written pathetic ramblings posing as legitimate treatises on the wondrous aspects of human life. How about a kebab-like death? Basting optional...

Given that the country is a city of barely 4 million, and that Xiaxue's limelight-hungry mugs are all over cybercity (and beyond), I prolly wouldn't need to
waste more than a few days of my life to accomplish this task. Quite frankly though, I don't even think it's worth my efforts to try. I'd really rather watch paint dry.

You can run but you can't hide in such a small country...

Not wanting to tolerate another wretchedly abysmal entry, I finally decided to check out the other girls boobs, er, I mean blog and as I did so, I thought I died and went to heaven. And no, it's not what you think why...

Finally! A young Singaporean with a good grasp of English grammar, usage and syntax and proper use of colloquialisms, idiomatic expressions and even slang. It also helps that the entries are very personal, candid and radical and often deliciously sarcastic. Now, this is someone who has substance between her ears and who actually has something to say not just some cesspool of sentimental claptrap pretending to be intelligent. And although, SPG's (that's her screen name) world is not something I can truly identify with, it's something I won't mind, and maybe even enjoy, reading about.

Chicken Farm...

2005-06-14T01:20:00.000+08:00

I feel like snapping the neck out of the first chicken that will cross my path, which should make sense if I live in a farm but the closest this country has to anything even remotely rustic is their MRT early in the morning (or any time of the day for that matter...) No it isn't too crowded or too old ...the system really is efficient and modern but why does it feel like walking into a Fear Factor challenge everytime I commute in the morning?

What's with the whole aversion to soap and shampoo, people??? A swipe of Ban under the arms wouldn't hurt, too...and a spray of Sui Love, while I'm at it...Jeez...and I thought even the Ayoreos have already learned how to use that plastic stick with bristles on one end that clean your mouth, you know?

I hope it's not too much to ask but it's a tropical country and not the Antarctic for heaven's sake! There's no excuse not to wash up when even the slightest of movement can bleed your groins dry...

Now where's that chicken...

A Useful Survivor Skill...

2005-06-10T19:10:00.000+08:00

I really need to go so I'm keeping this extra short...I just really had to share this link with my readers as it had me in stitches when I saw it...The serious, matter-of-factly, Negosiyete tone that the 'researcher' responsible for this piece used is what made it hilarious...or I was just bored, which is more likely, but whatever...

In any case, I still don't understand why any guy would want to friggin' wear THIS. I know I wouldn't not even for a costume party and that's saying a lot especially from someone who has once dresssed as a "Tomb Reindeer" (Tomb Raider with antlers...)for a Christmas party, which no one really understood although I still think that concept was grand...and a Can-Can girl which everyone thought was my impression of one of Jack the Ripper's victims...yep, my costume ideas tend to be weird although I prefer 'witty'...Besides, it shouldn't really be called a "bra" as the procedure for making it requires filling the cups with stuffing...that qualifies that thing as prosthetic breasts, then, doesn't it?

If You Love Italian...

2005-06-03T19:14:00.000+08:00

OMG. The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants is now officially a movie (released June 1) . Yes, the series is perhaps intended for young adults but it didn’t stop me buying every volume every time it came out, anyway. The bookstore was having a sale on “children’s books” the first time and being someone who cannot resist discounts, especially 30% ones (and higher) I just had to purchase the first installment.

The Cover that had me running to the check-out counter...

I mean, who wouldn’t be intrigued about the story’s premise? Four girls passing around a single pair of jeans for each to wear (two weeks at a time) throughout their first summer apart as a way of keeping contact, without washing them! I don’t know about you but it sounded like an interesting science experiment to me. Like when you put a Quarter Pounder in a glass jar for 10 weeks to see what kind of lower life forms would grow on it, just as Morgan Spurlock did in Super-Size Me (in the edited out segment “Smokin’ the Fry”). By the time fall arrives, the pants would probably have mushrooms growing on the crotch area which may not be too bad if your kitchen specialty is Pasta al Funghi.

Further, I’m a sucker for drama and complications and the story has plenty albeit predicaments that I personally wouldn’t be bothered to spend even one second worrying about. Think forbidden desires, dying friends, problem parents and long distance love…they just sound gravely consequential but trust me, they’re not. Sure the heroines are pre-college kids and you don’t expect them to worry about inflation, famine, death and destruction. It’s just that at around the same age, I couldn’t care less if a barracuda swallowed me whole while I was getting a tan, (as long as I get straight A's all the time...What? I was a geek...) so I can’t relate much. Then again, I find that I’m always an exception to well, lots of rules. I seem to defy categorization. I’m probably the reason why statistical computations always have a margin for error…+/-2.5…or I may just be plain spacey. Period.

In all fairness to author, Anne Brashares however, she did write a reasonably exciting narrative that managed to hit a nerve…although, I worry that it might simply have been poked by one of the book’s edges – my copies are hardbound – when I fell asleep while reading in bed. As for the movie, I checked out the trailer but it hardly captivated me. There’s something wrong with the casting, I think. America Ferrara is probably too old to play Carmen (although she did look younger in the movie) and Alexis Bledel certainly doesn’t look Greek enough, in fact, not at all, to be Lena. The girl who plays Tibby seems to lack the charisma to pull-off the role of a jaded ingénue and the actor in the role of my fave character, Bee just doesn’t leave an impression. I forgot all about her while I was still watching the trailer…talk about being forgettable. And with a rating of 6 out of 10 in a movie review site, my judgment is probably not too far off the mark.

Consider yourself forewarned, not that you would have been interested in the first place.

Can't Touch This

2005-05-30T01:51:00.000+08:00

Excuse me if I switch to full-on drama queen mode. My desolation is so colossal that it should have its own zip code.

I’m feeling completely devastated after witnessing Kimi Räikkönen (McLaren F1 driver extraordinaire) lose the European GP title to Fernando Alonso (Renault)despite leading from the get-go (overtaking P1 BMW-Williams’ Nick Heidfeld on the starting grid) when the silver arrow’s suspension collapsed, hurtling the MP 4-20 spectacularly off the track, on the absolute last round of the 59-lap Nürburgring race. It would have been his third consecutive title of the season but like me apparently, the guy has the luck of a turkey doomed to grace my sandwich-and-salad lunch tomorrow. Just unreal.

Kimi is easily the gutsiest, most talented and most competitive driver in the F1 circuit. Why he isn’t winning left and right is thus, a riddle harder to figure out than any that The Sphinx could probably come up with. Lady luck is an utter bitch! He’s just sooo unlucky…as I am. In fact, I’ve had my own fair share of such misfortunes (See entry, “The Rumors are True…”) that it’s almost surprising Kimi and I weren’t born twins…I would have loved to be blonde (hopefully not dumb) and green-eyed (literally, not figuratively…)

And speaking of dumb, what’s up with the people in this country? Everyone seems distressingly insular and it’s supposed to be a cosmopolitan city! You know how most Filipino girls have “Maria” as part of their first names in honor of the Blessed Virgin Mary, a practice that we acquired from the Spaniards who introduced us to Catholicism? Well, it’s no secret that there are a lot of Filipino domestic helpers in Singapore (blame it on the corrupt Philippine government for not being able to provide decent jobs to perfectly capable people...Here’s wishing GMA and her cronies will rot in hell…grrrr…) a lot of whom incidentally have “Maria” in their given names. Now locals automatically think that one is a domestic helper, which isn’t necessarily bad, but then treat her accordingly (read: with disdain), if she happens to be a Maria never mind if the person in question is a Harvard Law graduate who speaks half a dozen languages (including Basque and Swahili) and who discovered the antidote to the H5N1 virus recently. It’s moronic, really.

Of course, if you happen to be white (Caucasian or mixed, not Block&White-fair…) or simply do not have the usual ethnic Pinoy features and are decked in a YSL Rive Gauche dress complete with Hermés platforms and a matching twilly, plus a pile of croc-hide Gucci accessories, then you will most certainly escape such narrow-minded resentment. It’s not at all acceptable either way not especially when I also happen to be a “Maria” albeit practically no one outside of my family knows.

Don’t get me wrong, surely a lot of people here are quite unprejudiced and urbane but the bigoted minority just pisses the hell out of me! It’s the 21st century for heaven’s sake and humanity is supposed to have banished its barbaric ways. Racist tendencies should have gone with those
gigantic pants that MC Hammer wore in the early 90’s. So, can everyone just please stop acting all superior and just see things objectively? I mean, how hard can it be? It certainly wasn’t with those hideous genie pants and weren’t you glad you chucked them?

Lost in Translation

2005-05-27T05:28:00.000+08:00

"Hello! How may I address you?" Someone please pinch me till I bleed just so I can be sure I was fully awake and not still prancing with giant chocolate Easter bunnies along rainbows in la la land...What? That was one of Homer's Duff-fueled dreams? Oh, anyway...

I had been waiting on the trunk line of a government office for nearly half an hour and was about ready to smash the window with the cordless receiver on my hand in utter besetment when someone finally picked up on the other end and greeted me with such cheerful courtesy which was well, unusual if not absolutely miraculous. Although generally helpful, local customer service reps (CSR) in this country are not exactly known for their enthusiasm on the job. More than the rare display of ardor (albeit short-lived) however, what really threw me off was that I didn't know exactly how to reply to the question I had been posed. I mean, did I need to have some sort of title with which the rep could call me? Most people would automatically use Madam, to address a woman or Sir, for a man, won't they?

"Oh, you mean my name?" I clarified, in case 'Baroness,' which I would have preferred (although Duchess or Empress has a nice ring to it, too), is not the answer that the rep was expecting. True enough, "No," came his terse reply, which to me sounded like a euphemism for, "Idiot" in the condescending manner with which he delivered it. Someone forgot to let me in on the joke. Have I told you locals are not big on customer care?

I merely brushed the question off, mumbling that it isn’t important and then proceeded to ask if he may transfer my call instead to another rep who I had already spoken to about my concern earlier that day. “I’m sorry, madam... (Gasp! He knew how to address me all along!) but we can’t transfer calls...” and again, just barely concealing his (unwarranted) annoyance firmly asked, “So, how may I address you?” At that point I realized that he was in fact, asking not how he may call me but rather, how he could help me. How totally odd.

But uh, okay. Pardon my ignorance then. After all, I can be so dim sometimes, or as local parlance would have it, “blur.” I know, it’s technically not an adjective but there’s no stopping Singaporeans from using the word descriptively, as in “Lisa left her homework again. She is so blur.” Eh, you say? That’s just the tip of the iceberg, dahlinks (TM Ivana). Not too long ago, I overheard someone in the MRT talk about her physical discomfort saying that her back was “very pain.” Well sweetie, as a brochure for spa esprït (5th level, Paragon Mall, along tourist haven a.k.a. Orchard Road) proudly announces, you absolutely need to, and brace yourselves for this - “Be luxed!” Don’t ask me, I’m just as baffled as you are. How about a session of something called “Chai Detox”(It’s not a tea and it’s not curry-in-a-hurry! - Yep, the copywriter had a little too much to drink...I hope...) which should supposedly, “charge the naughty toxins out of your body.” (Whada??? He really had to be pissed drunk to come up with something that silly!) Naughty toxins - I hope they’re not quite so naughty or my compulsively disciplinarian mom (she hates it when I’m naughty...) would spank them to behave like a lady, too...

But perhaps, more than an achy back, there’s nothing worse than having to go to the loo only to find it closed because according to the sign, “The toilet is choked.” I wonder if anyone had thought to apply the Heimlich Maneuver to rescue the poor bathroom fixture from the throes of damnation? Whatever...me thinks they should arrest that girl who was nonchalantly smoothing the hem of her cute patchwork mini. I’m sure she flushed her mobile phone down that toilet as she did say she needed to get rid of it because it was um, “spoilt.” Oh? I had no idea that handsets, like milk, came with sell-by dates! But of course, you don’t need to be formally erm, “orientated” to know that they in fact, don’t?

If someone asked you whether something is possible, never ever say sure, yes, certainly or definitely as you normally would. The reply of choice to such an inquiry is a succinct, “can”. Can you come to the party? Can. Can you fix this for me? Can. Can you do the presentation? Can. And if you’re trying to look halfway interested to make a good impression? Say, “Is it?” repeatedly, gusto, not at all necessary. I saw Jessie last night. Is it? She was with her boyfriend. Is it? She asked about you. Is it? You get the picture. To my scrupulous ears, everyone just sounds like they are constantly channeling Quu and Tee but you know what they say and I quote, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” I wonder if that also means pulling a Brutus and stabbing Caesar...Only then could the real fun begin in my book.

And don’t even get me started on the lahs, lors and hors (eventhough I truly, deeply appreciate that such interjections are wholly inculturated and sometimes even come across as endearingly cute...), the weird pseudo-Brit pronunciation (L’s and R’s are always silent no matter where they appear within a word...), the stilted sing-song accent or the general disregard for standard syntax, usage and conjugation. Whereas reading is supposed to be relaxing, I find my parietal lobes throbbing agonizingly after only a few minutes of sifting through the throng of typos and grammatical errors on local publications. Now, pardon my nit-picky ways but there’s no excuse for it, the published word should always be immaculate, in my opinion.

If Catherine Zeta-Jones only knew, she’d no doubt sue the local edition of Marie Claire that bore her mug with the headline, “Is There Anything She Can’t Do Wrong?” on its March 2005 cover. My, my...Mrs. Michael Douglas is inept, eh? In case it confused you like those er, blur MC editors, the copy should have read, “Is there anything she can do wrong?” or its negative form, “Is there anything she can’t do right?” either of which marvels at how she always seem to do everything right, as I believe what they really intended to say.

Meanwhile, do excuse me if I seem like a snob and a half with my purist commentaries but it can be frustrating when when it's supposed to be English but try as I might, it all really just sound Greek to me. The government’s “Speak Good English” campaign, launched in 2003, has yet to accomplish its goal although an asinine obsession to Constantine Maroulis, who acted like he ingested a truckload of sugar in yesterday's AI finale (which I saw three times because I just couldn't get enough of the guy, embarrassing histrionics and all...aargh!!!) can probably explain that too. Whee.

BTW, Carrie-oke bot V2.0 Underwood, as expected took the AI4 title and god, she really is a robot! She sounded all choked up and her face is all scrunched up in what looks like a wave of emotion while singing that hideous, hideous song, "In Your Heaven" but WTF??? There were absolutely no tears. No tears! I swear! Creepy...

Yes, Mathilda! There is a God...

2005-05-05T16:32:00.000+08:00

Oh.My.God!

Scott won't be President of the US of A after all...I'm just sooo devastated...NOT!

I've been feeling a tad bit depressed lately mostly because my birthday is in exactly three months (from yesterday) and I haven't exactly been looking forward to growing old another year after I celebrated my 25th when my jiggly inner thighs began to become immune to any method of firming up and the fine facial lines started to show...

So I spent yesterday curled up in the sofa watching American Idol...yes, I said I wouldn't watch the goddamn show after Constantine got booted out but there was really nothing else on TV save for some Chinese soap called, "My Fair Lady," which weirdly uses Guns N' Roses' "Welcome to the Jungle/Paradise City" as background music...go figure...and a host of entertainment channels all in either, Hindu, Tamil or Malay...So much for knowing Spanish and Japanese, they're not very useful in Singapore...

Anyway, as I expected, AI was a major snoozefest with conclusively less vitality than a drive-by shooting victim in a coma. I could hardly keep my interest on the program that by the time Bo sang "Stand By Me," which wasn't bad but also not extraordinary, I was bored beyond tears that I found myself loading my dirty laundry into the washing machine and actually quite enjoying the erm, 'rush'. Yep, it would be easier to believe that the moon is made of green cheese seeing how I hate doing laundry (as I can never seem to do it right...) but that's how bad I thought AI without Constantine Maroulis was that doing laundry in comparison, is a far enjoyable activity.

Still feeling lethargic from the mind-numbing episode, I had no strength to eat properly so I munched on Bacos while reading through a painfully stupid paperback called, "The Love Trainer"...I know, what was I thinking? I would have tossed the book across the room with an emphatic force that will rival that of the Boxing Day tsunami but I'm the kind of reader who likes to finish everything I've ever started on so I just had to read through the trashy tome, all the while also watching Rob and Amber reach the London pit stop in first place in The Amazing Race with Meredith and Gretchen getting eliminated...uh, no Tino sentiments here...

By midnight, I went to bed feeling as empty as a ravenous Vietnamese refugee's rice bowl and woke up to find out that God finally heard my prayers and sent Scotty "The Body" packing tonight...

Depression, instantly lifted. Scott eliminated is better than Prozac...I'm still doing the Macarena in my jammies, singing "I'm in heaven," to my neighbors' chagrin...Do I look like I care? Life is great...

Scott Savol for President

2005-04-28T15:54:00.000+08:00

A friend recently told me that I'm scary. I said I don't look anything like Scott Savol so pardon me if I don't see why I should frighten her in any way. She clarified her statement saying that in the decade that we've known each other, and we've been quite close, she has never seen me cry. At all. Over anything. Ever. She thinks it's odd that I don't have a vulnerable side to me or that she hasn't seen it. "You're like a robot!" She blurted. Oh, like Carrie-oke Bot V2.0 Underwood? I beg to disagree. I can move my hips a lot more fluidly than Miss-Stepford-Wife-Meets-Barbie (thanks, Mr. Cowell) ever could. I swear that the girl is a descendant of C3PO (and possibly, R2D2), only with a lot less tactility and erm, malleability.

Carrie's ancestors...

Meanwhile, it's true that my emotions seem to be exclusively limited to angst and animosity but hell, I can't help it if there are way too many negative elements in this world to harp about endlessly! I guess I'm just more comfortable with anger than with grief. Acerbic is more my bag than sympathetic.

Still, I reminded her that I actually did cry over Lilo and Stitch. Poor little blue alien alone in the rain, in search of his Ohana in vain. That was heart wrenching. I mean, really. Wouldn't you feel as wretched if you found out you were merely lab-created?But since missy wasn't with me when I bawled over Stitch, she didn't believe any of it. I swear to God though that I cried. I really did!

Granted, one tiny teardrop out of the corner of one eye, but that should be telling enough, eh? Missy rolled her eyes in exasperation and called me a freak (hopefully not in a Scott sense or I would have clobbered her with a Nokia um, in a rather Scott way...) muttering something about me being impossible to have a coherent conversation with. So, I'm like Paula now?!

Well, I don't tend to be emotional. Very few things faze me: J.Lo's success, Britney's marriage and now pregnancy, Becks association to Posh...but nothing that will genuinely make me break into cold sweat. Case in point, should the world end right this minute, and swoop comes Jesus from the skies? I'd be the one saying, "Oh, well, it was fun till it lasted..." but not before I kick my self in the arse - repeatedly - for not landing myself a worthwhile boyfriend, first.

On second thought, there's something that I know will paralyze me with fear, if it doesn't kill me first, that is - Scotty "The Body" in the buff with his 'cute little chest hairs' (to ape some creepy fangirl in the Idolforums...Hey, I can't believe they exist, too...) sticking out. One word: NIGHTMARISH *shudder*

But of course, I'm also prone to disappointments and frustrations although I rarely, if ever, show it. I can be as dead as a zombie which is precisely why I'm feeling such an uber dolt for CMAO (Crying My Ass Off - now there's a new chat expression for you...)just half an hour ago, and in front of a roomie, too. Scandalous!

Could someone have died? Thankfully, no but I could very well have keeled over and expired myself from the utter, unfeigned embarrassment of bewailing Constantine Maroulis' exit from American Idol 4 in tonight's results show. Yes, I cried over effing American Idol, for a guy who doesn't know I exist! Wow. I've started to dig, y'all!

I don't know why I care so much but I just do. I have seen just a few episodes of AI prior to this season but I found myself carefully arranging all of my activities in the last 3 months around the show's telecast sked (uh, yeah I have a life...right...) in case I miss one of Tino's performances. He had me at "It's hot in here, it's hot in here..." in DC. What? I've always gravitated towards unkempt, immature boys (if you're one, do drop me a line...hee!)

Indeed, Tino had been such a staple in my workaday life since, that his shock elimination (from never having been in the bottom 3 to getting dismissed...Whadaf*ck???) violently hurtled me back to that fateful day just after I turned 11 when the family dog, Prince (no relation to The Artist Formerly Known As...thank, God), died and went to doggie heaven. Not that Tino look anything like our dog but you do get the point. Oh wait, Prince also enjoyed sticking his tongue out (while doing a rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody) and was also charming as hell but anyway...It's just one of those moments when you learn - the hard way - that life isn't all fuzzy bunnies and swirly lollies, and for all your dissent? Nothing will ever be the same. Ever again. I totally pulled a Janie Lane, of Warrant fame (read: my heart just spilled onto the floor...). Damn.

On the bright side, I can now set coffee trysts on whichever day of the week without having to consult my AI4 calendar. Also, I can stop telling people that I have to attend to some uh, very important matters (although that's not entirely a lie) to avoid being stared up and down like some curious art installation for obssessing over a friggin' TV show! Tino had been the only one who made American Idol worth-watching for me with his off-the-wall antics probably better suited to an 8 year old boy but he totally worked the neglected-kid-with-ADD act just the same. He is after all, eight at heart, as I am, ADD notwithstanding.

His over-the-top performances, yep, trademark eyef*cking and Shannen Doherty-esque (BH90210 circa 1992) pouting included, will be sorely missed. I'm in fact, feeling the unmistakable symptoms of withdrawal already (e.g. writing this blog). There would need to be an over-the-counter alternative to Tino's artful histrionics that never failed to inspire maniacal debates of astronomical proportions between the haters and the lovers, and which fueled the fixation of fanatics who sincerely believe that dissecting every minute aspect of Constantine's person is infinitely more important than say, Iraq's rehabilitation. Yes, I'm being all-out emotional here and I know. Eew.

Meanwhile, who the hell votes for Scott Savol??? Admittedly, the guy has a decent voice and a heartwarming background story (his father once told him he'd never amount to much of anything...such a supportive family, that Savol clan...) but come on, unless you've been lodging inside Jason Newsted's amplifier all this time, you'd know he'd (Scott) been nothing short of appaling in the last three or four weeks! Four finalists (Nikko, Nadia, Anwar and now Constantine *boohoo*) who deserve to be there more than he does are gone. Are you there, God? It's not Margaret but it's someone who loves you more than Scott ever will...Ahem.

Two theories: One, like Michael Schumacher (see entry, "Monkey in a Ferrari"), he sold his soul to the devil - or Fake Jesus as TWoP's Jacob more appropriately calls whatever "it" is that Scott worships (Beelzebub? A couple dozen corn dogs? A six-pack of beer? THE telephone? Who cares? Apparently, I do...*sigh*); and two, the same people responsible for George W. Bush's re-election are the ones making sure that he stays in the competition. It's a conspiracy, people! Scott has his eyes trained not only on the Idol title but on that of the next President of the United States of America, as well. Before long, beating each other up with a telephone will be the new national pat time replacing good ol' baseball. Now, there's something to look forward to. Sweet.

What Lies Beneath...

2005-04-23T18:49:00.000+08:00

Lies...all lies...

I woke up with a tiny zit on my right cheek and with my laughlines a bit more pronounced than I remember from when I went to bed last night er, more like this morning but anyway...Having battled acne up to my university days (nothing Freddy Kruegeresque although enough to have ruined a few parties and pseudo-dates...), I've held on to the promise that it is but a teenage phenomenon and will be a thing of the past by the time I'm in my twenties...Well, f*ck that claim, it's a lie! I'm already in my mid 20's and I still get the flareups, yes, despite a religious skin regimen and never ever in my life sleeping with makeup on. I guess I should start sleeping at night (as opposed to the wee hours of the morning...) but isn't that what those expensive skin care lines are for?

To be fair, the condition is nowhere near what it used to be when I was younger, the pop-ups (pun intended) sure have subsided to about once a week as opposed to well, three times a day, I kid you not (enough to inspire any casual onlooker to play mental connect-the-dots while looking at you, amused) but whoever said that your skin is supposed to reach its best in your twenties ought to be butchered into bite-sized pieces, cured with a honey and saline combo, shredded into floss and fed to frisky jaguars for making us all believe that bull with all our hearts only to get gravely disappointed. I don't know about you but I haven't exactly seen my "best skin years" and here I am already facing the onset of facial lines and gulp! the prospect of aging...Now, aside from a basic skin care line, I would concurrenlty need an eye gel and some revitalizer to my daily repertoire according to the people at Dior, Clarins, Estee Lauder and all the rest of them who makes us believe that shelling out $60 for little more than a drop of some 'miracle' cream is sane. Not that we can blame them since we totally buy into the idea for fear of well, literally, wilting away, but still...

Then again, a good inexpensive alternative would be to audition for Survivor IX (I need to think up something uber revolting and/or controversial to do during the interview process to make it to the show) so I can forget about trying to look (and smell) even halfway decent for a month or so, never mind that I might come back from the experience looking like Metuselah incarnated...But should I win, that million dollars in my bank account can make me the world's most interesting person even for one brief shining instant and would surely make most people forget any number of zits and fine lines on my fab mug...Ah, yes! I have such wondrous faith in the human psyche, can you tell?

Disclaimer

2005-04-22T01:35:00.000+08:00

You know what I realized? Those things I wrote in that last post would only work, if you submit your site first to the search engines, otherwise it cannot be 'crawled'...but I'm sure you already figured that out, eh? Good...we're back in business.

Blogging for Dummies

2005-04-19T19:45:00.000+08:00

I accidentally (okay not so, I admit I'm just plain nosy sometimes...erm, well, most times...) hit on a tiny button featuring some sort of exploding graphics on a friend's blog site...What? I like chaos...

Here's the button to satisfy your curiosity...

Anyway, so this button took me to this site called "Blog Explosion" where you can sign up for an account to increase traffic to your blogsite. The idea is for members to gain points for visiting other member's blogs. The rules are way too long to survive my current attention deficit disorder so don't ask me how people can benefit from these points...I have no friggin' idea. What struck me about the whole set-up however is that a surfer can gain points via 30-second visits to member blogs, which should be enough for say, Howard Berg to gain a fairly accurate sense of your whole person but an average reader would be lucky to get the detail of what you ate for lunch in your last post if he doesn't drop a pen first and have to bend down to pick it up.

It all seems so silly and kind of defeat the purpose of increasing blog traffic, if you ask me...and even if you don't, for that matter. Moreover, they make you fill-out a longish form before you can start an account and well, I hate forms except for those that ask for your crush's name and what your definition for "love" is...wait, I think that might be a slumbook...but anyway...

If your goal is for your blog traffic to well, explode, I have a far better, more effective and easier way to accomplish exactly that. What more, you can do it in one sitting, and in just about a minute if you're at least a 45wpm typist(although Ctrl+X and Ctrl+V will work too). So what's the big idea, you say? Two words: Constantine Maroulis. Dont' snort...at least, not yet. I swear these are sacred, magic words. Write that name in a host of different colors, fonts and type sizes. Animate the letters, make them blink, quiver, flash, shimmer or if white magic's more your beat, "orb."

I once blogged about Constantine Maroulis in January (when he still was a virtual unknown) and was surprised to be bombarded with a ton of hits albeit from fangirls who were under the impression that I was some sort of authority on the subject of Constantine. Well, I loved PFTSOB's music even before lead singer, Tino (that's my personal nickname for the dude) shot to pop star fame via American Idol 4, back in the days when the band's website had something like 83 members, yours truly, included. I've always been a bonafide RENThead as well ever since I saw the Manila leg of that musical about 3 or 4 years ago and I was of course intrigued that Tino played "Roger," who happens to be my fave character. But other than that, and the fact that I know the guy is 6-foot-3, uses hotel shampoo on his hair, thinks that working out is for wimps and believes groupies are overrated (useless information, you get the point...), I know next to nothing about him.

Still, this didn't stop fangirls (encompassing mostly teens and tweens but not excluding men and women of all ages) who go bonkers over Mr. Maroulis from watching my site like a home video since, and with the same fascination if I may add. Who knew Greek boys can be so damn hot? Pete Sampras and Mark Philippousis sure didn't live up to the "Greek God" moniker...

The guy's face can sell a wound scab, I tell you, and although no one has thought of this scabbily (!) grand idea as of yet, his face has since graced everything from mouse pads to magnets to photo charm bracelets, and a whole spectrum of what-have-yous in between. If even an autographed playbill can sell for $49.99 on e-Bay, I have no doubt in my mind that Tino can sell your site, too.

He'd sell anything for you...;p

Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis Constantine Maroulis

There, watch that hits counter (bottom sidebar, please) explode...hee...;D

Before It hits You...Run!

2005-04-09T16:12:00.000+08:00

Stupidity is slipping into a tacky Irish pub with its rotten interiors all fashioned in green, in a sudden fit of spaz, getting pissed drunk on roughly five gallons of suspiciously cheap, only-slightly-better-than-isopropyl, alcohol and having wads of horrific gin blossoms crop up your face afterwards and then dragging your inebriated ass over to the filthy tattoo parlor next door to have it inked with a multicolored, mural-sized image of pre-implant removal Pamela Anderson by a sleazy biker dude who happens to be infinitely uglier than the bruise surrounding the glow-in-the-dark barbell on your newly mutilated navel.

But so is spending nearly three days reading about 151 pages of member comments over at the super hilarious American Idol forum boards at Television Without Pity.

Whatever you do, do not click that link lest you risk going through the same ordeal I went through. One that is apparently more haunting than Jocasta's, itself. Ah! I had the noose and the step bench ready but was prevented from following on the ill-fated Queen's destiny, when American Idol suddenly came on at 3pm (direct off-satellite at that) on Wednesday.

After watching Constantine Maroulis' over-sexed, overtly creepy (don't get me wrong, I love the boy but I agree with the haters, 'Dude, tone down the eyef*cking, really...'), yet beautiful (in my opinion) rendition of Frank Sinatra's "My Funny Valentine" (originally from the 1937 musical, "Babes in Arms"), my mind was instantly flooded with dirty, erm, I mean, sweet...*cough* instead of dark thoughts.

Now, should you still want to click that link (TWoP, above), consider yourself forwarned...Your eventual doom won't be lurking anywhere near my conscience! Hee!

Anyway, I originally intended to read just a few posts but I've never seen a forum where ninety percent of all posters are apparently relatives of Wittie the Pooh (or maybe only in Constantine's My Big Fat Greek Asshole, [yes, they hate him a bit...well, a lot!] thread?).

Meet Wittie's cousin, Winnie...

I'm tired of the usual empty squees and the inordinate!!! predilection!!! for!!! exclamation!!! and the spate of smileys, cute as they may be. In my search, the Star of (Internet) Bethlehem pointed me to this site which turned out to be unadulterated, left-wing humor heaven, what with all the deliciously hilarious mockery! It didn't help that the moderator himself (a guy named Jacob) is a brilliant wordsmith (albeit more biased than CNN or Fox News had ever been in their coverage of the War On Iraq...case in point, the dude suspended me for offering a factual explanation on why everyone should accept the fact that Constantine can sing...Que Horreur!!! Jeez...) who can string together words in a fashion that had me literally, ROFLMFAO, for the forum virgins amongst you, that's "Rolling On Floor, Laughing My Fat Ass Off," and then WALAFZ, "Walking Around Like A Friggin' Zombie," afterwards. Well, just call me a genius, I made that one up.

I have since forgiven myself for the atrocious exercise in absolute futility, Louis Vuitton luggage beneath my eyes notwithstanding, as the forum has in fact, fired up my own creativity or more appropriately, inspired rage, and made me want to spew cleverly worded vindictives, myself. Yeah, like my views aren't often negative enough...What? I love sarcasm as much as the next biggest Simpsons fan.

I mean THIS Simpsons, you big doofus, you...

Uh, actually, *confession* I did list Ashlee as among my fave artists in my Friendster...

Fact is, she's still right there. I just can't bring myself to delete Ms. Faux Rocker's (and I mean that only in an Avril sort of way...) name from my music list even after that curious Saturday Night Live fiasco...because after all, she still...she still...she still makes me want to go...LA LA!!! "...on the kitchen, by the floor..." *hangs head in shame*

Cut the girl some slack, she has been "living in the shadow of someone else's dream" all this time, after all...

Thank god for full album downloads though, I never had to shell out for her CD, save for the writable one I burned her mp3s on. What can I say? I'm a cheapskate...

But before the Internet IP police throw my sorry little ass into pirate hell, no, the downloads' audio quality wasn't any good and I erased the files from my hard drive (technically my sis'...) within 24 hours of downloading them as the site instructed so that doesn't make me a pirate. Right? Right? Right? Plus, only god knows where I managed to hurl the writable CD in a fit of erm, another spaz...The last time I heard, a merchant from Venice found it outside my window and has since used it as a coaster for his morning coffee to avoid damaging the gleaming finish of the real Canadian maple wood counter in his kitchen, the gleam of which he maintains with a secret Venetian polish that he, himself peddles from door to door...

Meanwhile, in all fairness, Autobiography had been pure bubblegum fun...perfect for shaking your head to while blowdrying your hair to get that extra lift at the roots although a little bit of mousse and careful teasing can do that, too...

All else considered, it wasn't such a stupid thing to do after all and it had in fact given me a magazine story idea, which I might pitch to say, Glamour or Cosmo, even Vogue...(not that those snooty editors would give me the time of day, but anyway...) "50 Better Things To Do Than Hang Out With An Assf*ck," (forgive my filthy mouth tonight) item number 13, "Read an entire thread on a beyond witty TV forum for three straight days, stopping only to get a pack of tissue or better, a squeegee, to clean the spray of saliva from all that laughing, obstructing your computer display and to soothe those carpet burns from all that rolling with a dab of La Mer."

Then again, in this zombie-like state, even that new Pamela Anderson tat on my butt is looking like a fine, fine piece of art.

Fortune Cookie...

2005-04-04T13:11:00.000+08:00

From the fortune telling scale at Bishan last night after eating a meal consisting of half a chicken sausage pizza (and I mean half, not half a slice), a bowl of minestrone and a cup of potato salad:

"You have a deep appreciation of the fine and beautiful things to [sic] life."

Like eating, eh? No wonder the backside says, "54kg."

God, I need to diet and fast...

I'm A Certified Addict!

2005-04-03T08:32:00.000+08:00

Updates from the Lion City...

I'm not a big fan of Simple Plan and was familiar with just a couuple of songs (ones I really know), Perfect , which was on extended play at MTV, and Addicted, which Katya Santos has since ruined for me with that boobs-fondling scene in perfect timing to the song's chorus: "I'm ad-dic, I'm addicted to you" that she did...Can you imagine how?...Blame it on that Hot Babes Videoke VCDs...=D

Anyway, they had a concert at Suntec City last Wednesday night as part of their "Asian Invasion Tour" and tickets were priced at only $50 a pop, so my sister and I went to see it since I like punk rock, anyway...

The small venue was filled with about a couple of thousands prepubescent teens (between 8-16 years old) who were mostly Caucasians...I think we blended in quite nicely with our Avril-inpsired oufits complete with jelly bracelets and leather wristbands...okay, so I'd like to think...haha...anyway, the concert was a blast, believe it or not, and if Simple Plan could be that fired up playing in such a small venue, I could just imagine what they may be capable of in say, Wembley Arena?

So, I instantly became a fan after I realized I know more of their songs than I initially thought (Shut Up, Jump, Welcome to my Life, I'd Do Anything, among others) and the guys actually sounded quite fantastic, live...they're quite fun to watch so, you can bet I'll be on the lookout for their next gig, hopefully in a far better venue since the concert-going public in Singapore, ang moh (local slang for Caucasians) or not, are just well, a tad too lethargic for my taste...not to say I held back with the headbanging and crazy dancing, amidst odd stares, hushed comments and all...;p

Meanwhile, I saw Cheri Mercado (ABS-CBN newscaster turned ABC 5 newscaster...go figure...they must have paid her a fortune to wean her from her cheesy, albeit popular, ANC show, Coffee Talk...)at the Ritz Carlton in the East Coast while having dinner last Sunday...I didn't exactly approach her as I do not tend to be star struck but my sister later told me that they were both lining up for the seared cod when she asked whether she's from the Philippines as well...she obviously saw us staring her up and down, all 4 feet 10 inches of her...yes, she is that short...while we were deliberating whether she really is Cheri of the "Ma Cheri Amor" fame...er, that was the theme song of her morning talk show back then...

And, still, no sightings of male model extraordinaire, Jon Jonsson, although I've practically spent the last five days hanging out at Orchard Road...If it's any consolation though, I saw local TV host, Kumar, of Ch 5 travelogue, "Wish You Were Here," at the POSB bank in Takashimaya, very, very, very gay in his all black ensemble complete with an Hermes birkin bag...quite stylish, if I may say so myself...;D

Look Here!

2005-03-23T06:47:00.000+08:00

I stumbled upon THIS in one of my forums...

It's just too adorable for words...=D okay, I'm a certified Constantine addict...

Killing Has Been Ex-VJs...

2005-03-21T07:10:00.000+08:00

Remind me to kill Nadya Hutagalung if ever I see her...

The friggin' Indonesian racist herself...

I was reading a local magazine called "8 Days" where when asked how she manages her wardrobe she answered, "I give my old clothes to my Filipino maid so she can sell them back home."

I wonder why it should be necessary to emphasize her maid's nationality??? I mean I would still be as miffed if she had said she gives her old clothes to her Sri Lankan or Bangladeshi (or even French or American for that matter if such a thing exist) maid...if there's one thing I observed in this goddamn country, it's that virtually no one recognizes the art of diplomacy or political correctness...

People here call African Americans, 'black,' and ask Indians whether they are the "white or black" kind...what the f*ck??? Stinking racists...

Alone and Liking It Immensely...

2005-03-17T14:19:00.000+08:00

I hate doing things alone...except maybe taking a shower (which I wouldn't mind doing not alone, although it has to be Const there with me...haha...;D) or reading a book in which case I won't really need someone else's presence to perform.

A journalist friend once wrote an article in the magazine she works for on dining alone inspired by who else, but yours truly, knowing how I wouldn't ever attempt to eat anywhere, not even in a foodcourt where absoutely no one would notice, in my lonesome. She concluded however that it was a totally liberating experience, eating in a posh place, no less, without hiding behind the security of a book.

I'm still not convinced though. I would feel so naked having lunch without anyone seated infront of me to talk to. Now, don't get the idea that I'm totally dependent on the presence of others to survive. I'm perfectly capable of doing things on my own such as travel by myself or shop by myself but there are certain activities I would prefer doing with company.

Which is why I shocked even myself when I went to the Singapore Zoo last week with just me, myself and I. My sister and I got tickets but she had to work the last minute leaving me to decide whether I would waste the 18 bucks I paid for the ticket (my sis actually did pay for them...)or just go and check out the place. I opted for the latter.

The lady by the gate looked at me with an odd expression when I handed her my ticket and proceeded to enter. It's not such a wonder seeing how their usual visitors comprise of entire classes of students, groups of tourists and mostly couples. They might have thought I'm totally anti-social, repulsive, or both.

I initially trailed a pack of Japanese tourists pretending I was marveling at the tropical plants lining the footpaths but actually hoping that other visitors would just think I was with them. I can speak a bit of Japanese anyway and could actually follow much of what the tour guide was saying. The participants started to become aware of my presence however after about 15 minutes and began shooting me odd looks so I just decided to go on a tram ride so I wouldn't have to bear the pitying looks of bystanders who are probably thinking I was lost. It was a really big zoo, after all. The tram riders however were divided into either families or couples and despite my best efforts, I still stuck out like a sore thumb among them.

What the heck, I was beginning to enjoy my solitary adventure, nonetheless...

I went to the Fragile Forest next and canoodled with the furry, adorable lemurs although it was forbidden to even touch them...what? I'm horrible that way...

Before I knew it, I have pretty much seen everything in the zoo including the komodo dragons and the poisonous scorpions, reticulated pythons, iguanas, armadillos and porcupines aside from the usual attractions of bears, monkeys and cats.

A keeper approached me at one point before closing time asking whether I was lost and looking for my companions. I told him I was actually alone because I wanted to be with nature and the animals without the distraction of humans. Haha...what a lie...he offered to allow me to touch the cheetahs observing how I had been grinning widely at the felines' uber cute feline antics...I declined however as it was already 7pm and American Idol was on at 8pm that evening and I was at least an hour away from the city...so shoot me, I chose to see Constantine sing "Every Little Thing She Does" over petting a real live cheetah...what can I say? Mr. Maroulis happens to be a tad more adorable than the cats...so, so much for wanting to be with nature and the animals...=D

He's just a little too cute for words...(with AI4's Nadia Turner)

On my way out I went to the KFC conveniently situated right by the entrance of the zoo and ordered a 'Shrooms burger with cheese (yum!) and a medium lemonade...to go...I still wouldn't eat by myself...then I boarded the bus to the nearest MRT on my way back home.

I definitely got to do things alone more often.

The Lion City Roars...

2005-03-08T18:10:00.000+08:00

It's been more than a month since I last updated this journal and I totally missed it! Internet surfing here in the Lion City (a.k.a. Singapore) costs an arm and a leg per hour. And being the bum that I currently am, on leave, without pay, I might add, from my illustrious (eh?;p) editor job in Manila, I really should be thinking how I can wisely spend my dollars. An hour of surfing costs a nice hearty meal (from soup down to dessert) in a semi-posh eating joint back home.

Anyway, after thirty days of hawker meals, 36-degree heat, 7 pm sunshine and getting lost in bus interchanges and MRT stations, here are my observations on this fabled city, so far...

1. Singaporeans dance (whether in clubs or in the streets) like no one is watching...no one quite mind if they look like escapees from Mt. Elizabeth's mental ward...

2. Public transport is a joy to behold! I've never had much fun shuttling from one place to the next via MRT or bus...yep, I've gotten lost a couple of times but with a bus guide and an air of confidence, there's no way you can miss your destination.

3. Food is more expensive than electronics. You can buy a Creative MPEG recorder for the equivalent of five meals in the famous Jumbo Seafood restaurant at Boat Quay.

4. Everyone speaks English, yep even the lowly bus driver or newspaper guy, I just can't guarantee a fluid conversation every time. While in Novena Square, I asked the woman in the information counter where I can find an internet cafe. She politely replied that the nearest one is at "Go Hi Tow Wa" and instructed that I cross the street to there. Upon reaching the place she suggested, I was pleasantly surprised that the building is in fact, called, "Gold Hill Tower".

5. It's not unusual to see people clad in fineries (good enough to go to the Oscars with) in buses or trains.

6. Whatever you do, never ride a cab if you can help it. The cost of a kilometer distance can pay for a buffet lunch.

7. American Idol is big here. And I mean, Godzilla big. 90% of households, and all buses, tune in to Channel 5 (the local carrier) on Wednesdays and Thursdays when the show goes on air.

And speaking of American Idol. I recently confirmed that rocker boy extrtaordinaire, Constantine Maroulis and I, share a psychic connection. Stop making that face and listen to me first...

While listening to Black Crows a couple of weeks ago, I decided that Const should sing the song "Hard to Handle" in AI and as you AI heads already know by now, he did sing it in last week's performance show.

Okay, I admit it's mere coincidence, but still...

Anyway, I should have already racked up quite a bill by now so although I hate it, I would have to cut this short.

See ya all next time for the continuation of my useless musings on this island country.

TTFN!

Playing Catch Up

2005-02-05T21:38:00.000+08:00

I met up with a couple of old friends, a jetsetter (ship setter?) who has a cool cruise ship job that has him shuttling between the US, Europe and the Mediterranean for all but a quarter of the year (Redel) and one who works in an events company that allows her to hobnob with just the likes of Incubus and Linkin Park (Anne), for coffee to catch up on things...

The tryst was short but sweet and Mr. Jetsetter even brought me an uber cool voodoo doll from the Bahamas which promises to shower me with love and riches if I keep it close to me at all times...he must have sensed Lady Luck's perennial disgust of me and thought that Mr. Voodoo Doll can prolly turn the tides to my favor...now I'm planning to pin the doll on my shoulder ala eventologist extraordinaire, Tim Yap, to make sure that the luck finds its way straight into my welcoming arms...

At around midnight, we dropped by another friend's (Tanya) house who was celebrating her birthday where we met up with a few other friends whom I personally haven't seen in maybe about a year, and watched an old episode of Campus TV...It had been fun and I intend to do this more often!

Short Hair Rocks!

2005-01-31T19:56:00.000+08:00

My hair cut addiction kicked in yet again which had me running to my stylist late yesterday afternoon...my new reincarnation is as (non-blonde)doppelganger for Allison Lohman circa 2003...will upload a pic as soon as I get one taken...

Bingeing is A Virtue...NOT!

2005-01-29T15:36:00.000+08:00

Hilarious!

I ran across a mini-interview of AI 2's runner-up Clay Aiken who said that "half my butt is mac and cheese, the other half is Krispy Kreme..."

How funny is that? I can almost forget that the guy is soooo totally gay...

so you think I'm gay, eh?
yes, you are, Clay, there's no doubt about it...

And speaking of Krispy Kreme butts, I'm still a whopping 116 lbs! That's really bad since my ideal weight for my frame and height should be somewhere around the 100-105 lbs. neighborhood...the lowest I've managed so far was 106 in mid-December but then, the Holidays came and knocked me off-rhythm...before I knew it, I've packed enough poundage to last me another half a year of weight control struggles...

Great! Just when I thought I can finally slip into that cute, mod, Roxy number and set-off on a surfing trip...technically, I can but with the prospect of my belly jiggling all over the place, it wouldn't be such an event to look forward to...

kiss those cute bikinis goodbye...

Now hang on a second while I stuff my face with some more Krispy Kremes...or, er, Hot Loops, in this case...

Wasting Time...

2005-01-28T21:14:00.000+08:00

Trapped in a box...

Sealed shut in a tiny space where even breathing is an effort...

Stuck in a stand still for much too long that something happening...anything at all...would be such a welcome change...

A few years back, I would have given a couple of arms, even thrown in a leg, just to arrive at some sort of a pit stop where everything would momentarily freeze so I can catch my breath...

But it's true what they say, (be careful what you wish for) too much of a good thing can be just as punishing...

The lethargy I'm currently in, bores me beyond tears...

Things just wouldn't fall into place no matter how hard I try to coax them...

But there has to be a way.

MInasan wa Roboto Desu Ka.

2005-01-08T15:04:00.000+08:00

I've mostly felt like a robot this past week...dragging myself out of bed every morning, coming to work (mostly late), and going about my task in auto pilot...

The dawning of the new year didn't do much to affect people's demeanors...my co-workers for instance are still steeped deep in the mire of bitchiness and I don't mean my brand of bitchiness...more like the bad kind...yeah, yeah, it doesn't bother me...it's like being Isis amongst a flock of mere mortals...they'll never be able to understand me and I really don't want them to...I'll just have my buddy, Thor, shoot them up with his trademark bolts of lightning to punish them for their mediocrity...haha...=D God, how I hate normalcy...

Okay, enough with the dramatics...I was so tired that I slept through 3pm today...now I want to get a new haircut but I'm too lazy to get dressed and pay my uber talented hairdresser a visit...I've been having my locks lopped off like every two to three weeks lately...I didn't know that having your hair cut shorter and shorter could be so addictive! Maybe even more than getting tattoos...okay, maybe not...I still need to get around to getting that fairy on my forearm...What? i love everything celestial and well, weird...

Anyway, I've had long hair (and I mean long...hip-length at one point...) for most of my life and cannot imagine how I had been able to live with that...I swear it's just soooo fun to get haircuts practically all the time and needless to say, I highly recommend it!

By now, you should be bored to your senses 'listening' to me rave about getting haircuts...it's therapeutic, I swear! The cheapest (well, maybe not, but cheap enough) way to a whole new outlook and personality...

It's now 3:30 and I've only managed to awaken half of my senses...still feeling very much like Astroboy inside his dome...soo not ready to take on the bad guys as of yet...

Oh, well, TTFN!

My Answer to Paris Hilton's Tinkerbell...

2004-12-27T19:50:00.000+08:00

Christmas Day started really late for me having slept at 5am that morning after a night of eating, drinking and being merry, opening gifts from friends and family...No doubt, my favorite amongst all my presents is a spanking new pair of aqua and pink Havaianas from my big sis...whoohoo!!! I hardly even noticed the cute red Girbaud tote that came with it...

I intend to get a pair in every color...

Anyway, I woke up at around 2pm later that day to do some post-Christmas shopping...

Look who begged me to take him home...=D

This darling monkey in hot pink and aqua
(the same color as my new flip flops no less...)
is called Kapo Kanobi

his other stats:

Age: 2.5
Birth place: South Africa
Height: 28cm
Weight: 3kg
Fave Color: orange
Fave food: Banana, Chocolate cookies with hazelnuts
Character: Lovely, Intelligent, Energetic, Helpful

Ain't he a total cutie? And for just barely 200 bucks, too...Now, I'll just tote this adorable primate with me everywhere I go and make like Paris Hilton and her chihuahua...hahaha...how totally rad, eh?

And speaking of rad, I just gained another couple of pounds over the Christmas weekend...dang...at this rate, I'd be like the Pillsbury Doughboy in no time...

my latest look-alike?

Oh, I'd just worry about the excess poundage after the holidays...haha...bring on the fruit cake!

Here's hoping everyone's having an awesome holidays!

Campus TV awarded the Anak TV Seal

2004-12-24T00:28:00.000+08:00

My now defunct program, Campus TV, was recently awarded the Anak TV Seal by the Southeast Asian Foundation for Children's Television. The Manila Bulletin even dubbed the show "a surprise contender" during the final deliberation. Personally, I find this a bit odd since Campus TV's last episode (La Union Surf Camp) aired on December 30, 2003 and aired reruns for the next three months before it finally bid the airwaves goodbye (not because it wasn't making money but because I left the show...just had to clarify that...=D)...but what the heck? I lifted this article, which also appeared in PDI, from Inq7...enjoy!

truly the greatest show on earth...ha! =)

Viewfinder : 55 child-friendly shows cited

Updated 09:39pm (Mla time) Dec 20, 2004
By Nestor Torre
Inquirer News Service

Editor's Note: Published on page A28 of the December 21, 2004 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer

VIEWERS who keep complaining about the lack of child-friendly shows on local TV screens should take heart in the fact that the Southeast Asian Foundation for Children's Television has found programs fit to sport its Anak TV Seal.

Last Dec. 16, the 55 shows were honored during ceremonies at Café Mischka in Quezon City.
The various TV networks that are members of SEAFCTV also formally presented the newest spokesperson of their cause, Mikee Cojuangco Jaworski.

Screenings and evaluation sessions were held for months by almost 2,000 jurors all over the country, to sift through the 130 entries from 11 networks and come up with the 55 "seal-worthy" programs. The screenings were held mostly in the Visayas and Mindanao with the help of Negros Navigation and Cebu Pacific. Additionally, nearly 300 jurors representing various disciplines deliberated during the final rounds to come up with the list of winners. This year's total is deemed significant because it's the biggest number of shows cited since the Anak TV Seal was launched in 2000.

The year's most family-friendly and child-sensitive shows are:

ABS-CBN-"Wansapanataym," "Sineskwela," "Math Tinik," "Detek Kids," "Bear in the Big Blue House," "EpollApple" and "100 Deeds of Eddie McDowd."

ABC-"Island Flavors," "Campus TV," "Gourmet Everyday," "Mommy Academy," "Chikiting Patrol" and "Tutubi Patrol."

GMA-"Wish Ko Lang," "Happy Tales," "Blue's Clues," "Dora the Explorer," "Kay Susan Tayo," "Unang Hirit" and "Pet Ko."

RPN-"Road Trip," "Island Life," "Biyaheng Langit," "Signs and Wonders," "Asin at Ilaw," "Payo ni Doc," "What Would Jesus Do?" "Spongebob and Square Pants," "As Told by Ginger" and "The Wild Thornberries."

ZOE Broadcasting-"Serbisyo Legal" and "PJM Forum."

IBC-"Entrepinoy," "Good Take," "A Taste of Life" and "Quiz Bee."

Studio 23-"Breakfast," "Sports TV," "Kiss the Cook," "Seventh Heaven," "Bayani," "Game Plan," "In Fitness and In Health," "Hirayamanawari," "Team Explorer" and "Digital Tour."

Net 25-"Sky Trackers," "Euromaxx," "Convergence Reloaded," "The Planet," "Urban Peasant," "Arts 21," "Between the Lions," "New Yankee Workshop" and "Tomorrow Today."

Directors, producers and hosts of the winning shows were honored during the ceremonies last Dec. 16.
The awarding rites coincided with the worldwide celebration of the International Children's Day of Broadcasting, and the period earmarked by Malacañang as Responsible Media Week. The Anak TV Seal is proudly "worn" by the selected shows, not only as a badge of honor, but also as a seal of "good housekeeping," indicating to parents that the programs cited, while produced by adults, can still be viewed by children.

We trust that the viewing public will patronize the 55 shows that have gotten the Anak TV Seal, so that other producers will realize that wholesome shows can enjoy good ratings, and finance the production of more good programs.

Now, for the P64,000 question: Why didn't any NBN show get an Anak TV Seal? As the government channel, NBN-4 is supposed to stress good, alternative programming. Also, why wasn't GMA 7's "LG Digital Challenge" among the shows that were cited? The Sunday-morning quiz program makes learning fun for high school students, it's surprising that it wasn't included. Third, if GMA 7's morning show, "Unang Hirit," made it, why didn't ABS-CBN's own morning program? Are they really that different?

Worth a Thousand Words, Indeed

2004-12-20T20:37:00.000+08:00

My friend, Anne (Mega-Maksim Maniac Extraordinaire) just told me she was at The Podium, too last Sat...how come we failed to see each other in such a small place? I asked her if she was able to take better pictures of our muirn beatha dan (yes in our case, there can be two...haha...or three, including wife, Ana...;p btw, to the non-witch amongst you, it's Gaelic for 'soulmate'...) since all of mine seems to have been taken by a drunk!

And speaking of pictures, guess what else I stumbled upon? (please don't ask how...)

best viewed with a song about a certain station (!) by 80's heavy metal band, Cinderella, playing in the background...haha...;p

This image should be especially meaningful to those of you who I have known for at least 8 years...

And for the record, I've gotten over it...really...

Even if my cat doesn't believe so...;p

Meowky Mark...sorely missing his Funky Bunch...