Snap, Crackle, and Puff

Officially-minted celebrity blogger "BJ AcuÑa" aka soltero recently wondered what Survivor:PLU might look like.

I imagine it'd look a lot like Temptation Island - Puerto Galera during Holy Week would be an obvious choice. And the catty lines would be to die for.

"Kayo talagang mga bakla. Mahilig kayong mangolekta ng lalaki. 
Poor, proletariat, indigent men."

The catfights, on the other hand, might also leave us dying - with laughter.

Then again , I rather like action-comedies.

"Pendeja! Hija de puta, yo te matare! Puto pinche!"

While I admire their enthusiasm, my grandmother's Christmas eggnog packs more punch than... whatever it was these big girls were trying to throw. Maybe they'd have been better off throwing shade.

Obviously, they never learned the Basic Lessons In Snap!

Precision. Pacing. Placement. Poise.

"A sophisticated snap! is more than just noise."

Bonus Round:

I just had to put this in. Jennifer Cortez and her immortal line to Azenith Briones (scrub to the 4:30 mark if you can't wait - beetches ):

"What are beetches for but to beetch around with fellow beetches?"

 

Indeed, indeed.

Yes, Oh Yes.

It's officially December, and my scheduled year-end work torments have also officially kicked into high gear.

I lack sleep and so I am a fucking cranky bastard and cannot write anything coherent at the moment. And so I shall, instead, bring you another video for your weekly dose of schadenfreude.

After J.Ho and Beyonce , Pratfalls of the Rich, Famous, and Underdressed presents: Lady Gaga.

Bitch thoughtfully slips and falls at the 00:20 mark, thus sparing us the agony of watching the rest of her performance.

Enjoy. I know I did.

What The Elf?!?!

Well.

This being December and the official start of the Christmas season, I shall be a geek bearing you gifts.

Behold. Gray Warden and Warrior Elf Zevran from Dragon's Age: Origins. Having scandalous hot homo CG sex in a secret scene which you no longer have to play to unlock because Santa's here.

Cream in thine bloomers, all ye gaming nerds, and enjoy!

World Peace!

Or not.

I always thought beauty pageants were inherently vapid and shallow - if occasionally amusing - spectacles. The same way I always thought pageant losers were the biggest hypocrites this side of the Comelec. Standing around all poised and smiling and clapping while deep down inside their thoughts were filled with violence towards the undeserving winner.

Well, someone's finally proven me correct. And the fact that this happened at a gay beauty pageant (Miss Gay Brazil 2009, to be precise)  makes it all the sweeter:

What poise! What grace! What - what the fuck?!?! Someone should turn this into a movie, stat. Like Drag Queen Me To Hell.

The B-Side

Bonus Beyonce. And the last you'll hear of F1, promise.

From The Mirror's item on Beyonce at the F1 Rocks! concert:

"On stage, Beyonce had 12 wind machines to keep her cool 

and one of her £250,000 diamond earrings flew off."

Ahhh, kaya naman pala: 

What the eff?

MY EARRING!!! MY @^&#$&£250,000 DIAMOND EARRING!

If you liked it, then you shoulda put an earring on it.

If you lost it, then you gotta start to look for it.

Woh-oh-oh, woh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, woh-oh-oh!

Sige, mag-Whipping Wanda* ka pa. 


*Whipping Wanda: The term used to describe a whirling, rapid circular motion of the head, thereby "whipping" one's hair around. Normally done by burlesque dancers, strippers, and former lead singers of American R&B girl groups. Also a reliable way to lose £250,000 diamond earrings and possibly, one's hair extensions.

Formula Fierce

Oh, B-haaaaaaaaaaaaave!

Post-script pics on Beyonce at F1 Rocks Singapore!

Although she didn't perform as her insufferable alter-ego Sasha Fierce, Beyonce's schizo double did manage to make an appearance on her Sweet Dream Or A Beautiful Nightmare video interlude.

To be fair, homegirl looked good in the artsy-fartsy vid - in a Robot-Maria-from-Metropolis -meets-Diana Ross-on-the-way-to-a-remake-of-I, Robot sort of way.

Janet, c'est-toi?

Ah, non? Mme. Ross, est cela vous?

C-3PO in drag.

Beyonce gives good face.

"Beyonce?!? Mon nom n'est pas Beyonce!!!"

 "JE SUIS SASHA FIERCE!!!"

 Comprenez-vous?

Da Dong Show

Taken in Chinatown, Singapore, September 09.

While I might reject tasting da occasional dong,

I just can't say no to a fatty weng.

Especially a group of them.

Style Mo

Taken nowhere near Orchard Road in Singapore, September 09.

Tetoron! My God! Someone hold me.

Spectator Sport

I have no idea if the organizers of F1 Rocks! were a sheltered bunch. Or maybe Singapore is too sanitized to realize what a kiss of death Lindsay Lohan has become. I've personally wasted enough time on internet gossip sites to follow the ongoing Chernobyl meltdown that is La Lohan, or, as one of my favorite sites calls her, "Blohan." So, given all that I've read and seen about her in the internet tabs, I didn't quite believe the press items about Lindsay "hosting" F1 Rocks!

I used to feel sorry for poor Linds. I liked her in Mean Girls and thought she was a good actress. Even Meryl Streep, her co-star in  A Prairie Home Companion, thought so, too, for she went to the length of defending Lohan when talk of her rumored drug usage and wild partying first surfaced.

Magnificent Meryl's silence on - and subsequent non-involvement in - the issue since then is more telling than any signature Miranda Priestly stare.

Lohan's antics used to be amusingly scandalous - a flash of her famous firecrotch here (pic NSFW, but look if you don't mind meatcurtains), a meltdown with lesbian lover (and now ex) Samantha Ronson there. But her antics - along with her insistence on self-destruction - have grown tiresome. After all, Lindsay Lohan had everything : beauty, fame, talent, riches. And yet she seems hell-bent on just pissing everything away on coke, booze, and meth benders.

Anyhow, this post isn't just about Lohan's continuous downward spiral. It's about me personally witnessing a moment, just one among many, in Lindsay's star turn to hell.

Shortly after Simple Minds awoke me from my bored stupor by singing Don't You Forget About Me, I sauntered off to one of the open bars to grab a drink. On the vidiwall, I saw a confused-looking blonde woman wearing a racing helmet onstage, with her back to the crowd and looking agitated as she spoke to someone off-cam.

"Who is that wreck and what the heck is she doing up there?" I thought as I gazed absently at the screens. And then, like a boulder tumbling off a cliff, the realization hit: it was LindsayeffinLohan.

Considering Lohan's long and heavily-rumored love affair with drugs, I couldn't help but wonder how she even managed to enter a country where drug possession is punishable by death. I also wondered if the entire F1 event would be later upstaged by headlines screaming "Hollywood Starlet Busted for Drugs in Singapore!" I was also too busy wondering to even think of immortalizing the moment with a picture.

Anyway, so there she was, in the flesh. Confirmation that the rumors were true, after all. I'd heard that Pussycat Dolls frontwoman Nicole Scherzinger was supposed to act as presenter for this event, but apparently had dropped out amidst rumors of a split from her F1 driver beau, Lewis Hamilton. So Lohan was the next best thing - or maybe the only thing they could get on short notice.

Her job sounded simple enough : welcome everyone to F1 Rocks!, say something about how exciting the event was, and name the various headliners that were up next.

She spouted the fluff stuff passably enough until she got to the part where she was supposed to announce the acts. As I mentioned, ZZ Top and Simple Minds had already finished their sets when she came on, and yet she kept shrieking "And up next, we've got ZZ Top, Simple Minds, and BEYOOOONNNNCEEEEE!!!" Never mind that the finale for that night was No Doubt, and ZZ Top were probably catching a few zzzzzs themselves already.

After her third flub, the crowd started getting restless, and some of us started booing her. Yes, I said "us". My bloodthirst quickened enough for me to abandon my comfortable chaise in the VIP lounge, stumble down to the viewing balcony, and heckle La Lohan along with most of the drunken Ang Moh Gui* in the audience. When Lindsay shouted "I'm so happy to be here!", a white guy beside me yelled "But we're not!!!"
And the more she flubbed her lines, the louder the heckling got. "Get off the stage!!!" "Go home, loser!!!" "D-List twit!!!"

When, in a reference to the ongoing Formula One races, Lindsay quipped how she was ready to be an F1 driver, too, the guys groaned and I yelled "Nooooooooo!!!! For the sake of pedestrians and fine cars worldwide, noooooooooooooooo!!!!!!"

I gotta hand it to Linds, though; she certainly held our collective attention the entire time she was onstage. It truly was like watching a trainwreck: you know it's ghastly and gruesome, but you simply can't look away.

Eventually I think the production staff decided to make do with what little they already taped, and whisked Lohan off the stage before the increasingly restless crowd started mauling her. From the vantage point of the viewing balcony, overlooking the grassy pit below seething with screaming spectators, I was reminded of the ancient Romans having yet another bloody good time at the Colosseum. I entertained visions of Lohan flubbing the ancient gladiator motto: "We who are about to die, salute you!" then being crowd-surfed before being torn to pieces by the howling mob.

Spectator sports.

Now that's entertainment.

* Ang Moh is the local, common term for a white foreigner. Ang Moh Gui literally translates as Red-Haired Devils, or simply, those drunken expat boors.

Bonus: The beautiful Lindsay Lohan, aka The Ang Moh Gui :

Added Bonus Attraction : Lindsay Lohan and Beyonce Tussle For Biggest Dressing Room At F1 Rocks!

And lest you think I'm making this all up: Singapore Resoundingly Boos Lindsay Lohan

Up Next : A Date With Destiny (Or, Who Did I Run Into In Little India?)

Smoked Over S'pore

(Preface : This is the first in a series of 8 parts, chronicling events and impressions from a recent trip to Singapore late last month. I'm posting this entry - and the others related  to it - at this later date out of respect for the events that transpired in Manila while all this was going on. These posts contain some flippancy, aside from my usual rants, but I kept them pretty much intact because I believe that even if serious tragedies visit our lives, they cannot and should not cancel out our shallow little moments of happiness . Therefore, read if you wish, or skip if you are so inclined. )

I will be on my way to NAIA when this post gets published *, bleary-eyed and surly, on a short and unplanned weekend trip to Singapore which I'm not really excited about.

Don't get me wrong. I LIKE travel. And Singapore holds many pleasant memories for me. My father had business based there for a time and I, too, used to visit its shores frequently on my own work-related sorties. As a result, there are locals there whom I've literally known since childhood, and a gaggle of expat friends I haven't seen in a while (and probably still won't see on this trip.) And knowing my father, I probably also have an illegitimate sibling or two stashed away in Bukit Merah...somewhere.

Anyway.

It's been more than a good decade since I last stepped foot in Changi, so I've actually been meaning to go back and see how Singapore has changed and maybe watch the F1 races . Especially the F1 races. Two of my fellow speed demon friends had already made the pilgrimage to the nearest altar of Formula One last year, but I had been unable to join them due to work commitments.

And as though the fates listen to our idle musings, I get picked to go on a free junket. F-R-E-E. As in nothing to pay, just my time. And yet here I am, unhappy at the prospect of dragging my lazy, ungrateful ass to the airport.

While S'pore will always have a special place in my memories, it's never exactly held a fun place in my heart. My first impressions of it, years and years ago, were as follows : nice, orderly, safe, stable, sterile. And of course, terribly, terribly expensive. Yes, I was much, much younger then. Yes, I made a beeline for the local hotspots: Zouk and Velvet, both of which I'm not even sure still exist.** Yes, there wasn't exactly much of a gay nightlife back in the day, either, except for midnight trannies trolling to give blowjobs along Orchard Road and some desperate make-out spots on the artificial beaches. And yes, thanks to the times and in no small part to the net, I'm aware many things have changed  since then.

No, what's bugging me is that I can't bring my ciggies into the Fine City without having to pay Customs duties*** on them. And many thanks to their new and improved Smoking Laws , I may not be able to smoke in my lovely hotel, either. Maybe not even in the privacy of my room, the horror! True, I can always buy ciggies in the local 7-11s, and there are designated smoking areas on the street, and I haven't had any trouble adhering to any foreign country's smoking ordinances. So it's not really a biggie.

I'm just in a grousing mood.

First, I can't resume demolishing my liver till next year. And now I won't be able to poison my lungs at will for three whole days.

Whoop-fucking-pee.

Beyonce , you better be worth this.

*Obviously, the post didn't publish automatically and since I didn't bring my laptop to Singapore, couldn't post it from there. Out of sensitivity and respect for what went down in Manila in my absence, I decided to post this entry and the others related to it at this later time.
**Okay, I checked. They live.
***24022090 Cigarettes Excise Duties: 35.2 cents for every gram or part thereof of each stick of cigarette. Basically, you pay SD7.00 for every pack, which roughly comes out to 1USD to SD= SD1.41 x SD7 = USD9.87 x USD to PhP=47.5 =  PhP468.82 for every PhP32.00 pack of cigs. In short, every pack you bring is taxed to the amount equivalent to a whole ream. Which is almost enough to make you quit smoking. Almost.
Source: http://www.customs.gov.sg/leftNav/trad/List+of+Dutiable+Goods.htm

Jesus Loves You - And Burgers, Too.

I simply couldn't resist righting all that was wrong about that recent Christ The Burger King sacrilege those godless, bikini-waxing Brazilian blasphemers committed. My conscience demanded it.

Thus, through the miracles of Photoshop and the intercession of the Madonna's very own personal Jesus, I redeem the good name of Jesi worldwide - and the tasty burgers they hold in their palms:

Now there's the beef.*

Jesus, es verdad, tu eres la Luz del mundo.

Original unadulterated, unprocessed, and mouth-watering 100% pure Brazilian beefcake pic of Jesus Luz can be found here.

*Eternal Wanderer, this demigod is for you. Bon appetit!

Animal Appeal

Well, it's about time I got in on this bandwagon.

Two bloggers I follow just recently posted on the hazards of eating burgers. I-am-beki waved goodbye to Quarter Pounders (with cheese, mind you. I don't know his stand on royale sans fromage * ), while Gibbs warned us about how burgers could shatter your life.

As an unrepentant consumer of dead animal remains, I appreciate the warnings about how beef by-products put our health at steak stake.When I am in the mood to eat (which, luckily for our animal friends, isn't often), I'm either in the mood for fine swine or something fowl. But if only Bessie is on the menu, I am not cowed by any potential bovine retribution from the grave.

Oh, don't have a cow, man!

Contrary to the exhortations of vegans, I offer no apologies for having no beef with eating something which had a face - not counting lovers past and present. Some of those I actually regret.

Besides, how can I resist? Just look at them:

Images from Thailand's Rachachuros Seasoning Campaign.

Now, offensive as these images of raw nudity must be to our vegan friends, I must ask them to respect my dietary preferences, in the same manner I scoff at respect theirs.

If we are truly what we eat, then I confess: I am an animal! An animal!! AN ANIMAL!!! MY BROTHER IS NOT A PIG!!!!

If there's a problem with that - eat me.


Buttons from The Liberal Store.

*Fromage: What a French photographer would tell his subjects to say before he presses the button.

Divas To The Dancefloor

It's never too late for a bitch slapfest.

September 29 was the day the U.S. music charts went down in ginfamy*. Or at least, what Gawker calls 
the day that Mariah Carey, Madonna, Barbra Streisand, and Britney Spears battled for supremacy in gay hearts and minds.

That's right, today is the drop date for Mariah Carey's Memoirs of an Imperfect Angel, a collection of slow jams that includes her instant classic cover of "I Want to Know What Love Is;" Madonna's greatest hits double-disc collection Celebration, that features two new singles; and Barbra Streisand's Love is the Answer, a collection of cabaret standards. Not to be outdone by those older and wiser, Britney Spears tried to steal some of the spotlight by releasing the single "3" today. Smooth movie Britney. And it's pretty good, as far as catchy, crappy pop songs go.

So, who will be the big victor in the Diva Death Battle 2009? Lady Gaga of course! What? She doesn't even have an album out today! Precisely, but she is poised to be the gay icon of the youngest babygays that are just taking their first fledgling steps on the big pink road we call queendom. While there is definitely plenty of crossover between the Madonna/Mariah/Britney crowd, only confirmed bachelors of a certain age are going to be purchasing the new Streisand.

I confess that although my fervor for the Material Mama has greatly waned over the years (the last time I thrilled to Madonna was back in her Ray Of Light phase - truly light-years ago), I still follow her exploits on occasion, the way an ex-lover would wonder about a lost paramour from time to time. I was never into Mariah, although she became mildly interesting to me after she went loopy. Same thing with poor Brit: I only became attracted to her output after she had her famous head-shaving meltdown. Babs, on the other hand, belongs to another generation altogether. And, at the opposite end of the spectrum, so does Lady Gaga.

Maybe it's the old link between art and insanity that fascinates me, although in my opinion Her Madgesty has never truly been wacko. Her every move has been a calculated one, and I think I have far more respect for her business smarts than her music. By the same token, I should be interested in GaGa, as well. Her outlandish costumes, sense of theatrics, and uncanny ability to generate press remind me of early Madonna (navel-baring, anyone?)

They were also both Catholic schoolgirls and share a knack for self-promotion and a talent for courting publicity. So why am I disinterested in raging debates about who stole whose style and whether Lady GaGa is indeed this generation's gay icon?

Her Madjesty and her Heir Apparent at Marc Jacobs' fashion show.

Maybe I'm just too old for these things.


*Ginfamy: Gawkerian for "gay infamy."

Altered States

Vince, the Discreet Manila blogger, posted an interesting entry in his blog yesterday asking if recreational drug use is truly a hallmark of the PLU community.

Since I haven't been a scenester for a good while, it just made me think about drugs in general.

I eschew drugs, not because I'm a goody two-shoes, but because I already have an addictive personality and getting into substances would almost certainly lead to abuse.

That said, I agree with what Knox wrote in the Comments Section about trying most things once, especially while one is young and can afford to be stupid.

Someone made me sniff poppers once and my heart palpitated so wildly I actually thought I was going to die. Hence, that was my first and last time to use it, and every time I get a whiff of that distinctive metallic smell I retch.

While E remains the parteeeeee pill du jour , I am no fan of it, either. But I won't begrudge anyone else using it to heighten their clubbing experience. After all, isn't alcohol a form of narcotic itself? But since alcohol is a no-no while you're on E, I've always chosen the booze. That won't change even though I'm presently an unwilling teetotaler.

My most memorable encounter with drugs happened at work, of all places. It was the last day of an out-of-town agency planning session and we were getting ready for the big lunch with the big bosses. Bernard, one of the CDs, casually asked me if I'd like a brownie. Not thinking, I took half and went on my merry way. Lunch passed uneventfully until I reached for a glass of water and, very Matrix-like, saw my hand do a ramped double-exposure. "Strange," I thought, and reached for the glass again. When I put it down on the table, the glass made a reverberating *BOOM*, and then the table started to levitate.

That's when the realization hit me. Oh, Jeebuz, the brownie!!! To make matters worse, I remembered I had taken it on an empty stomach. It felt like I was trying to jump out of my own skin at that point but I managed to pull myself together and look around for Bernard. I saw him two tables away, sunglasses on, leaning back casually in his chair.

I galumphed over to where he was, each of my footfalls thundering in my ears like an elephant stomping on steel drums. Leaning over his prostate form, I whispered:

 "B?"
"Ya?"
"Has it kicked in for you?"
"YAAAAA...!"

Oh, God.

He must've seen the stricken look on my face because he mumbled "Don't fight it. Just go with the flow." Easy for him to say. He was a CD; I was just some Copy Group Head.

Fighting back panic, I gingerly made my way back to my own table hoping to sit down quietly and wait the trip out. As I watched my steps, I could literally see the ground falling away from beneath my feet, as I felt myself floating higher and higher into the air. I looked up and saw the mountains vividly detaching themselves from the skies, in razor-sharp clarity not even HD could match. I looked around and it seemed that someone had pushed the Saturation and Contrast levels of the world to maximum. It was...surreal.

Finally seated, I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths to calm down. And that's when the Chairman sat down next to me.

If you've never started tripping on hash while the Chairman of your company is engaging you in conversation about corporate matters, I suggest you skip the experience. It was a tribute to my presentation skills that I was able to feign lucidity and formulate halfway-coherent responses to the Big Boss' many questions, all the while fighting the biggest mind-altering trip of my life.

Thankfully he eventually got up to circulate, none the wiser that he had just been conversing with a badly spaced-out employee in the middle of an important corporate event at high noon. I stumbled to the washroom, trying to splash the trip away, but to no avail. I was stoned all the way back to the office, where I slumped on my desk enduring the biggest thumping headache of my life as the trip finally wound down to its crashing end.

Across the room, my boss stood frowning at me. But he never said a word. Well, what could he say? After all, he was always the one who passed the joint around whenever we'd go out. He knew what went down, but let it slide. He knew me well enough to know it would never happen again.

And it never did.

With all mind-altering substances, I think "caution" is the key word, with "moderation" being the next. That should go for booze as well.  I don't condone their use, but recreational drugs obviously serve some purpose.  Like love, that biggest of all mind-altering substances, rec drugs are meant to artificially enhance your existence for a short while. To take you out of yourself and experience a different state of being. A higher state of consciousness, even. A temporary escape from reality.

It's when you make it your permanent reality that you're screwed.

At any rate, I don't need my reality altered.

It's already surreal as it is.

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

A Miss Called Puke

I've always loved Bangkok.

Funky, fabulous town, filled with friendly folk, fine food and fantastic sights.

Like the one below:

And lest you think I simply conjured that marvel out of Photoshop, here's a wider shot:

Miss Puke is located on the right side of the Novotel on Siam Square, Bangkok.

Bangkok Dangerous

And this must explain my low need to belong.

Taken in a Bangkok McDonald's, 2008

Ab Flab

The New York Times recently ran an article entitled "It's Hip To Be Round", observing the seeming return of the potbelly as a statement for men.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/13/fashion/13POTBELLY.html?_r=3&ref=fashion

“I sort of think the six-pack abs obsession got so prissy it stopped being masculine,” is how Aaron Hicklin, the editor of Out, explains the emergence of the Ralph Kramden. What once seemed young and hot, for gay and straight men alike, now seems passé. Like manscaping, spray-on tans and other metrosexual affectations, having a belly one can bounce quarters off suggests that you may have too much time on your hands.

“It’s not cool to be seen spending so much time fussing around about your body,” Mr. Hicklin said.

And so guys can happily and guiltlessly go to seed.

Hm. So Flab is the New Fab. Considering how I can't drink alcohol until next year (more on that in a future post), this looks like a good time for my contrarian nature to kick in and rediscover my abs.

So long, Corona six-packs.

See you soon, six-packs.