Tete-a-tetetelephone

Infernal device.

A couple of blog friends who I chat with occasionally (you know who you are, bitchez) once asked me for my cell number.

I had to decline.

It wasn't a rejection or a rebuff, not at all. I could always use a new friend, considering the few remaining ones I have are either flirting with death, already in its cold embrace (read: married), or trying to sell me overpriced things I neither want nor need.

Thing is - as all my friends know - there's a little problem.


I hate texting.


When I'm not spinning off my axis at work, I like to spend my free time masturbating. The urgent beep beep of a cell phone signaling a text naturally interrupts this favorite pastime of mine. Moreover, it would require that I remove my left hand from tweaking my nipple, or worse, release the family jewels from the comforting grasp of my right.

And more often than not, my reward for this herculean effort would be to behold a message that says :



 "Musta na?"



I'm confident my blog friends (you know who you are, bitchez) didn't take it personally. I don't believe I've ever concealed the fact that I am a grouch, especially while I am working - which is like, 18 hours of the day on average. So, chances are any social texts would come in at a bad time. Even while I am sleeping would be an especially bad time. You'd have more chances winning the Lotto than your text catching me at a good time.

And, as my real-life friends so keenly know, if it's really something important or urgent (like, if they're dying or something close to it) then they should be calling, not texting. Even then, I'd probably snap that they should be calling God, not me. The only calls I don't pick up are from unknown numbers, my ex-bff, and Citibank.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: while cell phones are certainly useful communication devices, their very ubiquity and indispensability in this wired and increasingly-wireless world turn them into veritable tracking devices. If I wanted to be reached at any given time, I'd have had a microchip implanted under my skin, thank you very much.


Not that I don't like you, I'm just kinda busy.
And I am sick and tired of my phone b-beepin'
Sometimes I feel like I live in Grand Central Station
And I cannot be texting back, 'coz I am busy.

Sorry, I cannot text you back, I'm kinda busy.


K-kinda busy.
K-kinda busy.


Sorry, I cannot text you back, I'm kinda busy.

I'll just see you in chat, cat.

Noir Noir

Since my good pal Eternal Wanderer has recently endured una notte scura dell'anima  - no doubt in part to his ongoing encounters with femme fatales - I thought I might cheer him up with this little gem.

Some things are universal and self-explanatory. So watch the video first, before you read the transcript:




But in case you're not into Robert de Niro waiting, talking Italian, here's the English translation :

Voiceover: After Brokeback Mountain, gay movies were legitimized.
                  And classic movies will never be the same again.

[Interrogation scene]

Guy1: Have you killed Mr. Boz?
Woman: Obviously, no.
G2: Do you use drugs, Miss Tramell?
W : Sometimes.
G3: Have you ever used drugs with Boz?
W : Sure.
G2: What kind of drugs?
W : Cocaine... Have you ever done it under the effect of cocaine, Nick?
 
[Woman opens legs]
[Detectives' surprised reaction shots]
[Woman crosses legs]
[Detectives look at each other]

 All: AGGGHHHHHH!!!
G2: Disgusting, close those legs!
G3: I've never seen something so disgusting!
G1: Oh my God, I feel unconscious, I'm about to faint... omg omg!
G3: Oh, Nick! Nick!
G2: Nick! Nick, air! Air, baby.
G3: Unbutton his jacket!
G1: God, I saw she was looking at me... MONSTER! Oh God, noooooo (cries) 
G3: Viper!
G1: Handcuff the legs of that WITCH! (wails) 
G2: Macho macho man ♫...


[end]
 
Voiceover : After Brokeback Mountain, even Basic Instinct will never be the same.  

Seasons Change

One of the things I love most about countries with temperate climates is the changing of the seasons. In the tropics, we have but two.


I love autumn most of all, when the leaves change in dramatic bursts of color. A last hurrah before they fall, signifying the transition to the silence of white winter.


I've noticed a shift in the tone of quite a number of blogs that I follow. So many people seem to be entering a season of heartbreak and heartache. At least two have shuttered their blogs - hopefully just a temporary retreat, while they lick their wounds in private and hibernate in peace.


After the Fall enters the Winter of our discontent. All this has happened before, and all this will happen again. 


'Tis but the changing of the seasons.

The summer knows. The summer's wise.

She sees the doubts within your eyes.

Everything has its season. Everything has its time.

Show me a reason and I'll soon show you a rhyme.

We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun.

But the wine and the song, like the seasons, have all gone

         When autumn sheds the leaves the trees are bare

When you're not here it doesn't feel the same.

The falling leaves drift by the window. The autumn leaves of red and gold.

I see your lips, the summer kisses. The sun-burned hands I used to hold.

Like a sturdy tree that's seen a thousand seasons, I've to shed my leaves in winter to grow them back in spring.

To welcome life again. To welcome you.

We tell ourselves another season.We turn away and find the reason.
But love decides how things must be. And love is stronger far than we.

Almost mockingly, the sign at the end of the road says "Happy."

Who's to say it will not be so when Spring returns?
But in the meantime

If you’ve learned
Your lesson well
There’s little more
For her to tell
One last caress
It’s time to dress
For fall...

Sing, Sing, Sing, Schwing!

So, what the hell WAS I doing in Singapura, anyway?

Thanks to that free junket I mentioned last post, I was in the Lion City (which is literally what Singapura means) to attend the 1st-ever F1 Rocks Singapore with LG! - billed as the only officially F1 endorsed concert during the Grand Prix week in Singapore. F1 Rocks! boasts of featuring name acts from the region and from the world (and by "the world" I mean the U.S., which, whether we like it or not, is the epicenter of all that is pop.)

The line-up for this event - the first in what the Singapore Tourism Board hopes will turn out to be a successful annual crowd-drawer - wasn't too shoddy: N.E.R.D., No Doubt, ZZ Top, Simple Minds, The Black-Eyed Peas, and for the grand finale, The Artist Formerly Known As Beyonce Knowles.

 Formula Fierce.

Now, I'm often nonplussed when it comes to local celebrities, coming from a field that deals with them on a regular basis, but when it comes to international superstars, I can be just as agog as the next screaming fan. Whether they admit it or not, everyone loves a brush with fame, basking in the reflected glow of the spotlight, and the bragging rights to say "Dude, I saw Bono in Sydney, pareeeeee !!!"

F1 fans.

We would be attending what were actually the second and third nights of the three-night extravaganza, thankfully missing the opening night which featured Canto-pop and local Singaporean stars. I'm sure they were great, but ai yah, so sorry, I'd rather clip my hangnails, lah! This second night's headliners were more interesting: N.E.R.D., ZZ Top, Simple Minds, and No Doubt.

The only way to go, baby.

Thanks to heavy media connections (always good to have friends in the media), we had VIP privileges and didn't have to sweat it out with the local and expat peasants on the grassy fields of Fort Canning Park, where F1 Rocks! was being staged.

Instead, we enjoyed the use of several VIP lounges high up in the actual fortress mansion, where a closed-circuit giant screen and vidiwalls projected the onstage action if we were disinclined to brave the stifling Singaporean heat on the VIP viewing deck a level below and actually see the performances live.

Step right up, folks.

Front and center of the fortress mansion was the F1 Rocks! stage, said to be the biggest that had ever been set up for a rock concert in Singapore, and good enough for the demands of just about any world-class act. Sparing no expense, the organizers had it flown in from Australia, but the full glory of its sights and sounds would not be revealed until much later in the evening.

Places, everyone!

The VIP lounges, naturally, had several open bars which served everything from champagne to piss (and by piss I mean Heineken), as well as a constantly-replenished buffet table and roving promo girls shoving pints of Häagen-Dazs down our throats.

 

The show is about to start.

It was aaaaaaaallllll good.

We were pretty much beat from the harried schedule, coming in from the flight, a hasty check-in at the hotel then a quick dinner before attending to the real business at hand. So we were happy to just hang around the lounge, the other guys taking full advantage of the free booze while I flopped onto an ergo chaise and caught a quick catnap while N.E.R.D. warmed up the still-sparse crowd.

 

No one. Ugly. Allowed.

The pretty wait staff was very attentive and tested the limits of my doctor's orders to stay away from alcohol. The fates intervened when I, frustrated at being dry all these months and finding myself adrift in a sea of increasingly-drunken revelers at an open bar, tried getting a beer. Both the Singha and Heineken dispensers, which had been working perfectly just moments earlier, started spitting foam instead of lager, while I tried to stop my own mouth from following suit.

ZzZzzzzZzzzzzzzzzz*ngOrk*top.

I finally gave up, got 7-Up, and snored through the electric guitars of ZZ Top (since I was only half-awake, I don't know if they played She's Got Legs, one of my favorite 80s songs). Simple Minds woke me up when they sang their only hit, Don't You Forget About Me (the theme song from the classic John Waters movie "The Breakfast Club"). It brought back good memories of the 80s and so I deigned to watch them live from the balcony, singing nostalgically along.

"Don't you forget about me," begs Simple Minds' frontman Jim Kerr.

I was probably really bushed - and the other guys with me really buzzed from all the free booze - because we weren't really enjoying ourselves. Well, we were enjoying the smoked salmon and ogling pretty girls of all races (with me giving a few side-eyes to some of the male specimens, as well ), but as far as the concerts themselves were concerned, it was like "Well, we've stayed this long, might as well wait for Gwen Stefani to come out."

So we stoically soldiered on, enduring more Häagen-Dazs alternating with Johnnie Walkers punctuated with vodka tonics interrupted by the occasional bubbly. Well, I mostly suffered through Macadamia Nut ice cream and 7-Ups - everyone else was getting royally soused.

Finally, the giant screen showed this countdown:

The countdown was highly doubtful.

Naturally, it was a solid ten minutes of crowd screaming later when No Doubt strutted onstage and electrified the audience - which by official count had swelled to nine thousand strong by this time - with a roaring rendition of Spiderwebs. I must admit, Gwen Stefani's voice was powerful and in good form that night. She rocked the joint like nobody's business, and for a woman who's given birth twice, her torso, in full signature display, looked impressively taut and tight. The girl was foiiiiiineeeee!

But there was no doubt who ruled the night.

Still, fine as she was, Gwen was no match for our increasing fatigue and the undeniable fact that we weren't 18 years old anymore. So, in an act of blasé pop blasphemy, after hearing Don't Speak, Ex-Girlfriend, and a couple of other songs I wasn't too familiar with, we unanimously decided to troop back to the hotel without waiting for No Doubt to finish their set.

Don't speak! I'm singin' here, I'm singin' here!

 As we lurched down the Fort Canning steps while Gwen belted out I'm Just A Girl, we were met by latecomers coming up to see the show. A ruddy-faced Ang Moh*, who probably assumed we were just a bunch of ignorant drunken fools, asked "Hey, don't you guys know No Doubt is performing tonight?"

"No doubt!" I snickered.

The lights were on, but we were off for home.

After all, compared to a hot soak in the tub and the comfort of crisp linen sheets, Gwen Stefani was just a girl.

*Ang Moh : Simply put, an expat. Specifically, it is a widely-accepted and simple term used to describe Caucasians. The term originated most probably in the 18th century, to denote the British settlers arriving in Singapore for the first time. Ang Mo(h) - literally translated means “Red hair(ed)”

Milk of Human Kindness

No, not that kind of milk, you filthy-minded louts.

I'm talking about charity and its cousin, compassion.

Much as I can be a right-royal asshole, I can just as easily be a bleeding-heart teddy bear. Mental, but Mentos. Hard on the outside, chewy on the inside.

I had always been a selfish child, but children by their nature are selfish. Sharing is a concept that is taught and, hopefully, learned.

For what it's worth, over the years I have been blessed with the kindness of strangers. The guidance of mentors, the generosity of my betters. And somewhere along the way the importance of "doing the right thing" was imprinted upon me.

"Noblesse oblige" comes to mind. As Wiki defines it :

"Noblesse oblige" is generally used to imply that with wealth, power and prestige come responsibilities. The phrase is sometimes used derisively, in the sense of condescending or hypocritical social responsibility. In American English especially, the term has also been applied more broadly to those who are capable of simple acts to help another, usually one who is less fortunate.

In ethical discussion, it is sometimes used to summarize a moral economy wherein privilege must be balanced by duty towards those who lack such privilege or who cannot perform such duty. Finally, it has been used recently primarily to refer to public responsibilities of the rich, famous and powerful, notably to provide good examples of behaviour or to exceed minimal standards of decency.

In short, to whom much has been given, much is also expected.

Ah, expectations. Great expectations.

Being neither rich, famous, nor powerful - much less from any noble lineage - this should be the least of my concerns. So perhaps it is a variation of the infamous "liberal guilt"*that is at work here. But whatever it is, I cannot help but be moved by the plight of others, and usually - though by no means always - when I am in a position to help, I do so. Not out of any Christian piety nor self-righteousness, but simply because it is the right thing to do. The same way spitting on a politician is the right and decent thing to do. But I digress.

Nothing ever comes free in this world, however. Not even charity. People do expect things in return for their generosity.

I, for instance, expect some measure of gratitude. Not groveling. Gratitude. A simple "Thank you" would do.

I also expect not to be lied to, and I expect people not to abuse my kindness.

Expectation, as we know, is the mother of disappointment.

Common sense should dictate when enough is enough. The caveat about charity, however, is that there is never enough. It is a bottomless pit of needs and wants. It is Oliver Twist holding out his soup bowl and pleading "Please, sir, can I have some more?"

Compassion, alas, can grow thin. And so can charity.

I have no Messianic Complex and harbor no illusions about saving the world. After all, "God helps those who help themselves." Well, I am obviously not God, and people do tend to help themselves - to other people's kindnesses.

I've shunned people whom I've helped in the past when it became clear that they were either not doing anything to improve their situation or were simply content to coast along on free rides. I feel no guilt over that - I'm not Mother Teresa. And I'm sure even she would've browbeaten a beggar or two if she found out they were just taking her for a ride.

I know that if you teach a man to fish , you feed him for life. What's riling me at the moment is the time it's taking for certain people to learn something other than baiting their hooks.

Whenever we open our hearts, we open ourselves to abuse. It's been said that you must give until it hurts. In my case, it's not so much that it hurts, as much as it irks. In my giving, something's gotta give.

What is it again that we pave the road to hell with?

I'm just a soul whose intentions are good. Oh, Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood.

*Liberal guilt is a perfectly natural phenomenon exclusive to homosexuals and Grungefags by which people feel guilty for being born and/or raised in more culturally, economically , socially or genetically favorable circumstances. Basically, it's taking for granted that being a white, wealthy, healthy, straight man makes you more lucky than everybody else, and therefore that you should feel guilty for existing, since it is common knowledge that you are responsible for people's shit when they are less lucky than you. Therefore, people affected by liberal guilt are responsible for the problems of the entire universe. From Encyclopedia Dramatica

Do You Give Good Face?

The French, as you know, are glad to die for love. Hence, quelle quelle surprise that their term for an orgasm is le petit mort. Little death. As in, every time you make me cum, I die a little.

Anyhow, you know what an O-Face is, right? It's that expression on your mug as you approach - or are in the midst of - an orgasm.

Now unless you're Hayden Kho or incredibly narcissistic, I very much doubt if most of us have seen ourselves make those little faces of death, much less immortalize them in portraits.

Photographer Giulio Scorio has done just that, in his series entitled Faces of Ecstasy. The blurb on his site says “Faces of Ecstasy is a series of portraits taken while the subject is mid-orgasm. All orgasms are real. What is happening behind the scenes is for the viewer to decide.”

Below, a few more samplings for your viewing pleasure. You can see the rest at his official site. Enjoy!

Link courtesy of Homotography

Past Lives

I've always taken a bemused interest in the occult, thanks to a mother who had a steady parade of geomancers, fortune-tellers, and manghihilots of all stripes traipsing through our home and pointing out where all the bad feng shui was coming from (all right, all right, they were coming from the black dwarfs festering in that open old well under the living room floor! The one my dad steadfastly refuses to tear up.) To be fair, they were consistent, to the point that I could mimic the next geomancer and point to where the invisible old lady was (in the patio), where the impakto lived (in the big mango tree underneath the water tower) and where the white dwarfs held court (near the grotto) - much to my mother's consternation.

Anyway, I ran across one of those internet tests where they tell you your past life. With nothing better to do, I inputted the required data and these are my results:

Your past life diagnosis: I don't know how you feel about it, but you were female in your last earthly incarnation.You were born somewhere in the territory of modern Thailand around the year 900. Your profession was that of a monk (nun), bee-keeper or lone gunman.

Your brief psychological profile in your past life:Inquisitive, inventive, you liked to get to the very bottom of things and to rummage in books. Talent for drama, natural born actor.

The lesson that your last past life brought to your present incarnation:There is an invisible connection between the material and the spiritual world. Your lesson is to search, find and use this magical bridge.

Do you remember now?


Ahhh...no, I don't. It HAS been several lifetimes ago, you know? But "Verrrrryyyy interesting", as a camp spy movie villain would say. I had a Chinese client, a very nice lady who was heavily into reincarnation and all that past-life jazz, and she had taken my birthdate and consulted a very thick book to determine who I was before I was who I am today. She did say I was a woman in one past life, but not in Thailand and certainly not some heat-packing, bee-keeping nun.

I was a beautiful (a quality so important in any life) 16th century Italian (Venetian, Venetian, say I was Venetian!) gold-digging femme fatale (is there any other kind?) who forsook her friends in favor of fortune (okay, I want Angelina Jolie in the role, stat!). I suppose the "talent for drama, natural born actor" aspect in the internet readout would've been very useful for slithering, scheming, sexy me at that point. So would the "inquisitive, inventive, wants to get to the bottom of things and rummage in books" part, although that sounds eerily like my accountant - especially the "inventive" part. She also said that in another past life, I used to be the father to my other client and her husband, who used to be siblings, in turn. Hmmm...as their former father, I don't think I want to get into the incestuous ramifications of my ex-progeny's decision to get married in THIS lifetime, soooooooooooo..........

...........back to gold-digging me. It's interesting to note that my supposed lesson is to discover that invisible, magical bridge between the material world and the spiritual world. In a previous post, I had railed about how work had taken over my life, and how my relentless pursuit of money (let's not kid ourselves; I don't knock myself out for the sake of art) has turned me into a horrible friend and a terrible son. So maybe they've actually got something here.

Oh, an invisible, magical bridge! It reminds me of the one Sarah Palin built to go nowhere. But since we're trying to learn life lessons here and avoid getting reborn as, oh I dunno, Paris Hilton's crabs, I'll be a good boy and say it reminds me of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, where Indy literally had to take a "leap of faith" over a gaping chasm to land on an invisible bridge. Since my eyesight is already bad, I guess I'm just gonna have to grope for that bridge before I can cross it. Still, I'll find it...yes, I'll find it. If I search until I dieeeeeeeeeeeeeeee (na na na, ya ya ya ya ya, na na na, na na na ya ya)

But until then, I guess I'll be living in a material world, for I was a material...

...a material...

...a material girl!