What do you do when it's three a.m. and you don't have to be at the airport for another two hours but you're dressed and ready? You write about the one you love.
This is long overdue.
We will never be normal, we will never be regular. We don't count months, we ignore Valentine's Day, we skip the flowers and the candlelit dinners, we never put the best foot forward. We're not following anyone's template, we're not abiding by any schedule, we keep making our own rules.
We've been raw, we've been completely naked, we've been wrong, we've been brutally honest. We've held off, we've held on. We've been broken, we've picked up the pieces. We've made each other cry. We make each other laugh. We cuddle like we have PhDs in cuddling. We don't waste candles on dinner. We hold each other's hair back when we puke. We make plans for the future and see them happen. We've made dreams come true. We've done all kinds of craziness and we've done sane too. We've stayed in, stayed out, stayed sober, stayed drunk. We fight, we make up. We've made the world our playground.
I've come back from the dead because of Nick and Norah.
Yes, of the Infinite Playlist.
Like you and you and you, I loved the movie, loved it so much I watched it once on a plane three times, loved it so much that I forced other friends to watch it even if the stupid DVD kept stopping and we had to turn it into a drinking game to get to the end.
I have spent way too many weeks trolling through bookstores, looking for the book and complaining to everyone else about trolling through bookstores, looking for the book.
Finally, two nights ago, I found it - at the place I should have checked first, the bookstore right outside Jill's village, a place where I always am. And when I say always, I mean practically every day. Isn't this what we humans do - keep searching for things that are just under our noses?
I did my little dance of joy and bought the book. For P269. Yes, P269. I would have paid so much more. Heck, I would have given them my right boob. It is the smaller one, after all. NO, wait. I need that.
But because the world is cruel and things don't always go the way you want them (e.g. both boobs growing to the exact same size), I couldn't devour the book immediately like I wanted. I was drowning in deadlines.
I read three pages of the book and tore it away from me before I could chuck all my responsibilities out the window and finish it in one sitting.
My hell day ended a couple of hours ago after closing 20 pages of the newspaper and writing over 6,000 words and I realized with glee that I can finally finally finally read the book.
Rain poured while I was waiting for a cab outside my office and my big concern was trying not to get the book wet (which was hard, very hard because I had the book in my hands and I had no jacket or umbrella). After maybe half an hour, I finally hailed a cab and clambered into the backseat eagerly, anticipating a peaceful ride home, with me reading the whole way.
But once again, I was wrong. Because I got stuck with Cab Driver From Hell Who Doesn't Know How To Hit The Brakes Without Making My Stomach Churn. Two pages in and I was ready to hurl. I put the book down because I didn't want to risk puking on it.
Now I'm home and have just read fifty pages of it and I'm scared because that's already a fourth of the book and, like good conversations, plates of bacon and orgasms, I never want it to end.
Oh god, I love this book. It's not literature but it is brilliant. Brilliant. I want to write like Rachel Cohn and David Levithan, whoever they are.
Now why am I blogging when I could be reading?
P.S. Dammit dammit goddamit, I miss New York. So much.
Last year, I took the plunge and started my own Flickr 365 Days Project. I figured that since I wasn't blogging as much as before (understatement of the freaking century), I would instead document my days with self-portraits.
I did crazy things for 365.
Build a giant paper boat.
Day # 65 (07/30/2008) Let's sail away
Hug dusty giant mascots.
Day # 73 (08/07/2008) Where dead mascots lie
Feed our fish cornflakes. Okay, not really. But the poor guy acted traumatized anyway.
Day # 64 (07/29/2008) Fish flakes
Squeeze myself into a suitcase.
Day # 79 (08/13/2008) Zip me up
Wrap myself in toilet paper.
Day # 60 (07/25/2008) This is an apology
Make a tutu.
Day # 99 (09/02/2008) One plus one equals tutu
Throw the saddest party in the world.
Day # 95 (08/29/2008) Party's over
Waste a lot of post-its.
Day # 72 (08/06/2008) It never ends
Stick duct tape on my skin (it was painful).
Day # 70 (08/04/2008) Rules
Throw a duck party.
Day # 141 (10/14/2008) Ducky party
Take off my clothes.
Day # 67 (08/01/2008) Strum softly
Take off my clothes.
Day # 92 (08/26/2008) Finger painting
Take off my clothes.
Day # 116 (09/19/2008) Duck naked
Fine, take off my clothes.
Day # 80 (08/14/2008) Naked news
I uploaded a total of 183 self-portraits (and threw away thousands of them) but ended up quitting just as I was halfway done.
I started my new Flickr 365 two days ago (sorry, the first photo is for friends only) and I hope I make it to the end this time.
This blog post isn't just to say that I failed at 365 and I'm trying again.
I am posting this to say that I'm back. And with clothes on - at least most of the time.
I can't believe I forgot to blog about Paris Hilton
It's no secret that I love Paris Hilton.
I might just be the only person in the world who bought DVDs of all the seasons of The Simple Life - yes, her family included. When Jill and I missed our flight from LA to Manila last September, I was bummed about having to shell out way too much money to rebook our ticket but I was glad we had one extra night in LA because that evening, a new episode of Paris Hilton's My New BFF was airing.
Yes, that's how we spent our last night in LA, on the couch, chowing down microwaveable cheeseburgers and garlic bread and watching Paris try to find a new best friend. And no, we are not ashamed.
Fast forward to a little over a month later. I found myself back in LA for an insane series of interviews. And when I say insane, I am not kidding. I believe it should be declared illegal for anyone to interview close to fifty people in less than a week. That is just seriously wrong.
But I digress.
It was the last day of interviews and I had just finished listening to way too many teenage Hollywood actresses declare all kinds of things amazing. "My birthday party was amazing." "My castmates are amazing." "This show is amazing." "Our clothes are amazing." "My thongs are amazing." "My boob job is amazing."
Okay, I made up the last two. But wouldn't that have been interesting?
I discovered what was really truly amazing - being handed my freedom after close to fifty interviews with a side serving of cotton candy in a Chinese takeout box. I am not making that part up. They did give us cotton candy in a Chinese takeout box.
Again, I digress. I am sorry. But that's what happens when you do too many interviews.
I headed straight for the elevators to go back up to my room where Fifi and Lala were hiding. I was so ready to shop.
When the elevator doors opened, one of the journalists was already inside. I don't know his name and where he's from - Europe, I think. Like I've said before, I'm not very friendly on these trips. I walked in with the journalist from the Netherlands following close behind. We both punched in our floors.
The guy, who didn't speak to me the entire week, suddenly spoke. "Paris Hilton is in the lobby."
I guess he couldn't contain his excitement and he had no one else to share it with.
"No way!" I said, forgetting that I'm normally unfriendly on these trips. "She's still here?!"
"Yes, she's here. She has not left yet," he said, slowly, for my benefit. Maybe the guy thought I was dumb. Or slow. Or both.
"That means we have to go down," the girl from the Netherlands said. I nodded eagerly.
The elevator went up to our floors. We ignored the doors as they opened and shut. As the elevator made its way down again, the girl from the Netherlands said she thought she saw someone who looked like Paris in the hotel the day before but she thought it was just a look alike.
When we got to the lobby, we did a very good job of pretending to be nonchalant while craning our heads in search of Paris.
Then I spotted a camera man outside the hotel, by the driveway. Then I spotted Paris. I am very proud to report that I did not squeal. Or scream. Or make any embarrassing sound. I just held my breath.
She was wearing a blue tracksuit and a blue baseball cap. She was talking to three people who looked like freaks (but I was gaping at her through the hotel doors so who am I to judge?) while the camera man followed her. Then she got into her car - a powder blue Bentley convertible, stuck her arm out of the window, waved, said "Bye, guys!" and then drove off.
And for minutes after she drove off, the girl from the Netherlands and I just stood there, our face inches away from the glass, still gaping. Gaping at the empty driveway Paris had left.
That is my excuse for not being quick enough to take a photo of her - I could do nothing but gape. I wasn't even able to text Lala and Fifi to come down and join me at my gaping party. Fifi couldn't care less because she hates Paris but Lala was pissed.
The journalist from Brussels walked up and said, "Was that Paris Hilton?"
Still dazed, we just nodded. Brussels girl said, "Well that was a 90210 moment, wasn't it?" And the three of us stood there for a few more minutes, still gaping.
Brussels girl broke the silence again. "I don't think anyone else is coming. Maybe we should go."
The two of them walked out of the hotel while I walked back to the elevators like a zombie.
Funny how I had spent days talking to some of Hollywood's biggest TV stars. Serious actors, actors who have won awards, who have spent years in theater, who have made some big-ass movies. Did I gape at them? No.
I saved the gaping for someone whose biggest claim to fame is a night vision porn video. I can be her BFF, seriously.
True fact: if you have purple hair, people get extra chatty.
From the time I arrived at the Centennial Airport to the time I landed at LAX, at least seven people talked to me about my hair - including one woman who asked where I had it done and a man who thought I was wearing a headband.
True fact: if you have purple hair, people will jump to all sorts of conclusions about you.
Like the guy who checked my hand-carried luggage who asked if I was into bands. "Uhh no," I said.
Or the four people who asked if I was headed back home. I have colored hair therefore I live in the States? Strange.
The little three or four-year-old kid who was seated in front of me on the plane was funny. When we were waiting to get off the plane, he stood on his seat, facing me, took one look at my head and said, "Wala namang purple and black hair ah."
That made me laugh out loud.
But the immigrations officer in LA was funnier.
Immigrations guy: "What's your purpose?" Me: "I'm here to interview the cast of [a popular TV show]." Immigrations guy: "You're here to interview for the cast of [a popular TV show]?" Me: "I wish! Yeah, I could be a dead body." Immigrations guy: (laughing) "Okay, put your left index finger on the scanner."
I thought he was going to send me back to the plane. Alas, no such luck.
Luck was absent too when I was given my plane seat. For twelve whole hours, I was stuck between two people who have zero concept of personal space. They took over my arm room and leg room and so I did what I had to do - I elbowed them both while they were asleep.
And the moment after that can only be described as sheer satisfaction.
Me: "Is there a McDonald's near the hotel?" Hotel operator: "I do not understand." Me: "Is there a McDonald's. Near. The. Hotel?" Hotel operator: "Near the hotel? You want to find hotel?" Me: "No, is there a restaurant near the hotel?" Hotel operator: "Restaurant?" Me: "Yes." Hotel operator: "Restaurant?" Me: "To eat? Food?" Hotel operator: "Chinese food?" Me: "No. Hamburgers." Hotel operator: "Hamburgers? Hold on, I check." Me: "..." Hotel operator: "Yes, you can go to the gift shop." Me: "The gift shop?" Hotel operator: "Yes. Thank you. Bye-bye."
Welcome to Beijing. I feel like I've been plucked from my life in Manila and planted in the middle of Olympic chaos.
Except "plucked" sounds too easy - nothing about the word will make you think about catching a flight after midnight, being stuck at the Seoul airport for four hours and trying to sleep on two seats pushed together while strangers walked past, catching another plane and finally arriving at your destination over 10 hours later when it could have taken less than two hours.
I am at the hotel now, about to post this on Multiply. Then I realized, you can't Multiply in China.
So I'm asking my brother to post this for me. He said, "I'm just like your li'l fancy assistant, aren't I?"
Why yes, naturally.
My stomach is rumbling and I feel dirty so I'm gonna go eat my expensive burger and take a nice warm bath.
Tonight, we're supposed to watch boxing. Over three hours of grown men beating the crap out of each other.
It took a Friendster message from a blog reader to remind me that I haven't posted anything here in two months. I didn't realize it's been that long.
I didn't realize it because the truth is I probably spend even more time online now than I did at the height of my blog addiction.
These days though, I spend most of my time on Multiply and Flickr.
I am sorry I haven't been blogging as much as I used to. I cannot promise that I will be updating regularly again. But anytime you wonder what I'm doing, head over to those two sites and you'll get your answer.
And check out my 365 Days Project - that's a daily dose of my craziness, as if the world needed any more.
I tried boxing for the first time yesterday. Real boxing with a real coach, not what I used to do.
Years ago, I bought a huge punching bag and I used to punch the crap out of that bag, leaving my knuckles raw and bruised.
This time, I had a guided session which included stretching (although it was half-hearted), cardio, five rounds of boxing, pathetic attempts at punching the speedball, even more pathetic attempts at hitting the punching ball, a tragic ab workout (tragic because it made me realize how out of shape I really am) and even more stretching.
I walked away from the gym with three things - excitement over boxing, the desire to go back to the gym as soon as possible and a fresh injury.
Yes, an injury.
Ladies and gentlemen, my first boxing injury:
And it's getting uglier by the minute.
No, Kat, I do not box with my knees. I just have the knack for bumping against anything and everything solid. In this case - it was the stepper's metal bottle holder. I was talking to Jill while we were doing cardio because we suspected my machine was broken - and I somehow ended up scraping my knee and getting a huge bruise.
Yes, I am the world's greatest klutz.
And this klutz will soon have hot pink boxing gloves.
Or maybe nice purple ones, to go with my nice purple bruise.
NY Chronicles: Buffalo wings, subway-hopping and terrorism
My last full day in New York was the first full day we had to ourselves.
I was thankful I had that day. I was going home the next day but had barely made a dent in my list of places to visit/things to do/stuff to buy.
And so I promised myself that I'd make the most out of that Thursday. That Thursday was my first real date with New York.
I gave up on Norma's that morning and called room service.
Me: "Hi, are you just serving breakfast or can I order anything I want from the menu?"
Room Service Man: "Just breakfast. But what did you want?"
Me: "Buffalo wings?"
Room Service Man: "Okay, we can do that."
Me: "And fries, please."
Room Service Man: "The fries come with."
Me: "Great, thanks so much."
Room Service Man: "Room 1202, right?"
Me: "Right."
Soon, this tray was on my table.
Yes, that's what I did to ask the New York gods for a good day. I ate the wings of six chickens.
After breakfast, I went down to the concierge to talk to Maria who helped me plan my day by drawing circles and arrows on a map. That map became the most important thing in my bag that entire day.
I took the subway for the first time and loved it. I got off at City Hall and before I could walk through the park to get to the Brooklyn Bridge, which was supposed to be my first stop, I was distracted by Strawberry's sale.
I crossed the street, walked into the shop and started browsing. But the browsing stopped when I received an SMS from Giff.
"omg, may sumabog sa times square, are u ok?"
I felt my knees turn to jelly. And I started to hear sirens outside. My imagination started to run. And run. And run. I had visions of people getting hurt and planes being grounded and being stuck in New York, unable to go home. I told myself to snap out of it.
I quickly sent Giff a reply, telling him that I was okay, that the subway had passed through Times Square on my way to the bridge and I asked him to please send me updates if he had any.
My heart had started pounding and I kept looking at the other people in the store. They looked completely oblivious to whatever was going on in Times Square - they were too busy shopping. I resisted the urge to ask any of the sales personnel if they knew what was going on.
Still feeling shaky, I turned my attention to the sale. I picked up an iPod case and headed for the cashier.
The case was around $3. I handed the woman a five but she started giving me change for $20.
Me: "I just gave you a five."
Strawberry Lady: "Oh that's right. Thank you. I would have wondered why I was short."
Me: "No problem."
She said thanks a couple of more times as I headed out the door.
Giff sent another SMS. ""3 am pa pala yung sumabog sa military recruitment station sa times square. anyway, i'm glad you're ok."
I cut through the City Hall park and made my way to the Brooklyn Bridge.
I walked and walked and walked, taking pictures, watching other tourists and counting the bikes that whizzed by me. The sun was up, really up, for the first time in days - wing-eating works, apparently.
I bet it walking on the bridge would have been a lot more fun if I wasn't alone. I probably would have walked more if I had friends with me.
I needed to get back to the hotel for checkout so I took the subway back.
The hilarious bell man who reminds me of Ray Romano was at the lobby when I got there. That guy was funny, flirting with female hotel guests incessantly.
While I was dumping shopping bags into one of my luggages:
Fake Ray Romano: "No more shopping for you!"
Me: "I haven't even started yet."
Fake Ray Romano: "Going home soon huh?"
Me: "Yup."
Fake Ray Romano: "Where's home?"
Me: "Manila."
Fake Ray Romano: "It must be a beautiful place."
Me: "It is beautiful."
Fake Ray Romano: "Take me with you!"
Me: "No, let's trade."
He found that hilarious - he laughed his Ray Romano laugh.
When I finished checking out of the hotel, I asked Fake Ray Romano to take care of my bags for a few hours. The line at the Burger Joint was insane because it was lunchtime so I decided to just eat a hotdog while walking to the subway.
Soon, I found myself going crazy at B&H.
A Bill Cosby lookalike rang up my lomo purchases. He was funny and interesting. There was a Pinoy working there too - he was helpful. The guy at the film counter wasn't helpful at all - he was kind of an ass. I don't blame him, I bet he got beaten up a lot in high school.
My next stops were Payless where I bought slime green sneakers. And Cinderella, this insane shoe store that sells funky cheap boots.
I stopped at Subway for a Coke, chips and two bites of a sandwich before jumping into a cab to haul my stuff back to the hotel.
Then I left Parker Meridien, jumped into another cab and took my luggage to Sheraton where I'd be spending my last night.
I just asked the concierge at Sheraton to take care of my stuff. Soon I was out the door again - I took the subway and the shuttle to Grand Central Station.
A dirty-looking man greeted me as I walked into Grand Central's main concourse.
"Do you have any change, miss?"
I dug into my pocket and handed him two dollars.
"Oh my god. Thank you! That's exactly what I needed."
He kept mumbling as I walked away, saying that I was the first person to give him anything that day.
You would have thought I handed him a thousand dollars.
I followed Maria's advice and looked for the Vanderbilt exit so I can view the concourse from there.
She was right. It was beautiful.
I kept expecting Serena to pop out any time - but that's because I'm a freak.
After taking three billion photos, I left Grand Central Station in search of Crumbs, the place where I believe the best New York cupcakes are made. They are better than Magnolia Bakery's.
For the first time that entire day, I got lost, kept walking in the wrong direction.
It was like Grand Central Station killed my sense of direction.
I must have walked over twenty blocks in search of the cupcake place. Soon, I was surprised to find myself in Fifth Avenue again, near my first hotel.
There I saw street performers from Jamaica. I watched them - but just a little. I really really wanted to find Crumbs.
I asked a Fedex guy for directions and by then I was so brain dead that I didn't understand what "around the corner" meant. I ended up going the wrong way again.
I wanted to collapse when I finally found Crumbs. But I didn't. I just bought cupcakes.
After Crumbs I had energy leftover to pop into Hallmark and a nail polish store where I bought even more bottles of Essie.
Then I got lost again. Soon I found myself in Times Square. I approached a security guard and asked, "Do you know where the Sheraton Manhattan is?"
"That's about eight blocks away."
"No!" I said, waiting for the man to tell me he was kidding. It had happened many times before. The lady who wouldn't let me pay for my internet use, the guy at B&H who didn't want to give me a bigger bag - they broke into smiles a second later to tell me they were joking. But the guy didn't crack a smile.
"Seriously?" I asked.
"Yes, but it's a nice walk, it will take you straight through Broadway."
But I've been to freaking Broadway, I even fell asleep there, I wanted to tell him. But I resisted the urge to throw a tantrum. And resisted the urge to collapse on the street and wait for my feet to stop killing me.
Instead, I kept walking.
I walked until I found myself in an area surrounded by soldiers and policemen.
I felt no sense of danger. Or maybe I was numb from the cold. I walked up to one of the policemen and asked if he knew where Sheraton was. I ended up giving that guy a stupid story to tell. There he was, guarding a terrorist target, and along comes this Asian ditz who asks him, "Hi, do you know where my hotel is?"
Sometimes, I feel like my brain just shuts down on me.
But the policeman was nice - and so were his buddies. They were all helpful and pointed me in the right direction.
I kept walking and walking, letting myself be swept by the waves of camera-toting tourists.
Soon, I was inside my hotel.
I collapsed on my bed, ate half a smores cupcake and half a strawberry buttercream cupcake before telling myself I'd sleep for twenty minutes.
Jet lag had reared its ugly head again.
Before I knew it, my twenty minutes had become two hours. It was already eleven p.m.
I woke up in panic, jumped out of the bed and put on my coat.
In less than five minutes, I had gone from asleep in my warm bed to freezing in the streets of New York.
The Burger Joint closes at 11:30 just like a lot of stores in Times Square. I wanted to eat what is supposed to be a really good burger but it was also my last chance to buy things that were on my list.
I chose shopping over food.
After running around Times Square's stores, I tried to search for a burger place but all the diners were closed.
I returned to my hotel at around 1 a.m. cold and really hungry. A cupcake for dinner just isn't enough.
I asked the hotel guys where I can get a burger.
"There's the Big Mac but I know you don't want that," one of them said.
"Yeah, not that," I replied.
They told me to go to Maison. I ordered the cheeseburger and fries but they weren't good. The bread was tough and meat was weird, some parts were juicy and some parts were really dry. Even the fries were bad. How can anyone screw up fries?
The Coke was good, at least.
I abandoned the bad burger and returned to the room where I slept until 4 a.m.
I woke up on Wednesday (although I can't really recall if I slept) with a brilliant idea. Because the line at Norma's was bound to be insanely long, I thought I'd go down and have them pack my breakfast so I can eat it in my room.
I wouldn't have to wait for a table and I can enjoy my Chocolate Decadence French Toast (covered in strawberries, pistachios and Valrhona chocolate sauce, according to the menu) while spending precious time online. And I'd have time left over to take a walk before the morning's series of interviews.
Brilliant, right? Right.
I showered, got dressed and went down.
I was right. The line was insane. There were close to ten other people waiting for a table so they can grab breakfast.
I walked up to the maitre d' and asked if I can order breakfast to-go. He said, not unkindly, "You can order room service, you know."
I know, but the room service menu is boring.
And so I ordered my chocolate french toast and sat in the hotel hallway to wait.
And wait.
And yes, wait.
While waiting, I read my guidebook again and took a bunch of photographs.
This photo was a mistake but I like it.
I like it because it makes me look as if I have a blue flash fairy in my hands, a fairy that can fry up a mean bacon and does not make you wait for breakfast.
My food was finally handed to me by an apologetic waiter. I practically ran to the elevator to go back to my room.
There I discovered that my french toast wasn't french toast - it was chocolate madness. Chocolate madness with no pistachios.
But I was hungry so I attacked it anyway.
I ate barely a fourth of it - it was sweet and way too rich for breakfast.
I spent the next few minutes reeling from the chocolate overdose. But I had to pull myself together for three interviews.
Interview number one was with Cynthia Rowley at a suite in the same hotel.
After that interview, we walked to Sixth Avenue for two others. The interviews went well - they were interesting and juicy.
On the way back to the hotel, I spotted Cinnamon Mentos in a Chinese deli.
Yes, a Chinese deli. Don't ask.
I told the others to leave me behind so I can stock up on Mon's candy.
Then I spotted the hot and cold takeout buffet. Because it was lunch time, my stomach took over and before I knew it, I was filling a plastic container with evil Chinese goodness. Fried rice, noodles, spareribs. And yeah, evil non-Chinese goodness too. Calamari and potato wedges.
I ate in Tanya's room while she and Christine made plans to invade Fifth Avenue. We were to meet at The Pulitzer Fountain in a couple of hours for a very special treat - the Sex and the City tour.
We boarded the sexy (and new) white bus and spent the next few hours taking pictures of key SATC locations, posing in front of Carrie's stoop, shopping at the sex store where Charlotte bought her Rabbit, eating cupcakes at the playground where Miranda finally met Debbie and pointing at the hole Samantha fell into when she avoided holding Smith's hand.
Between stops, the monitors played the scenes that featured the places we just visited.
Lisa, our tour guide who is a stand-up comic, was hilarious. The tour is totally worth it. I wanna go on it again with the alkies.
We abandoned the tour a little early though - escaping after drinking Cosmopolitans at the bar that was used as Scout.
And we abandoned the tour for a very good reason - Marc Jacobs.
We said goodbye to Lisa (she's the girl in the middle) and went back to the West Village where Carrie's apartment stoop was to do a little shopping.
First stop was Marc Jacobs' accessories store. Then Magnolia Bakery to buy dessert. I chose a white chocolate macadamia nut cheesecake for us to share after dinner. Then Marc Jacobs' other store.
It was a really cold night - maybe the coldest of all the nights we spent in New York - and walking to the restaurant where we were going to have dinner was a bit of a struggle.
It was a relief to finally walk into Zampa. But that's when it hit me that I forgot my cheesecake at our last stop. I thought of walking back to get it but quickly decided against the idea because it was just too cold.
Dinner was good - I loved the lasagna - but jet lag kicked in again and I started nodding off in the middle of dessert.
Soon, we were in a cab on the way back to the hotel.
When I reached my room, I started putting away my shopping bags. That's when I realized with annoyance that I also lost a belt that I bought.
A belt and a cheesecake in one night.
I am fucking retail Gretel - leaving behind a trail of purchases instead of breadcrumbs.
NY Chronicles: The bleeding ride, Cynthia Rowley, Hairspray and the big-ass pizza
After our secret factory tour and product announcement sessions on Tuesday afternoon, we hopped aboard the party ride and left Suffern. Our Tim Gunn-lookalike tour guide kept pouring champagne. I skipped my glass - I knew it would just knock me out. You could tell who the jet-lagged girls from the Philippines were. We all wore sunglasses and earphones and slept as the limo rolled backed to Manhattan.
But we didn't make it to our hotel, oh no. The limo stopped a few blocks from our hotel and began spilling oil.
"The limo is bleeding," Tim Gunn's clone said. "It's so Macbeth!"
Many of the other girls chose to go down to shop but my feet hurt like hell so I chose to wait for the other limo.
We soon made it back to the hotel. I changed clothes and fought my jetlag by heading out to the Apple store and walking around a bit.
I didn't have a lot of time though - because we had a dinner party with Cynthia Rowley at Tavern on the Green.
The next morning, I left my hotel room to have breakfast at Norma's. I asked the guy for a table for one - but he gave me a table for four. "I'm sure your friends will come soon," he said.
I guess he didn't want a repeat of the previous day's episode - I screwed with his seating plan by asking my travel companions to abandon the table he gave them across the room to move to the table beside mine.
But I guess he didn't really know who my friends were. Because he ended up seating the girls from South America at my table.
It was fine, except I really wanted a quiet breakfast so I can read my guidebook and plan what I was going to do with my morning.
With my quiet breakfast down the drain, I talked to the girls while I attacked my bacon. They couldn't believe I don't speak Spanish. "Wasn't your country colonized by Spain for a really long time?" one girl asked.
"Well yeah but I really suck at Spanish."
I can throw around hijo de putas, that's about it.
One girl writes novels and brought one of her books to prove it. One of the other girls asked, "What are they about?"
"Sexo, sexo, sexo," she said and we all laughed.
At some point, Romance Novelist and I were left alone at the table. I asked her if her books end happily.
"It depends, you know. I used to have these wild romances that would inspire me to write. But my love life is so boring now. There is love that's good for books and love that's good for life. I like love that's good for life," she said.
I abandoned my toast and eggs, said my goodbyes to the girls and walked to Central Park. I wanted to spend hours there just hanging out but it was too cold.
I saw tourists walking down the same path. The dad stopped to take a picture of his family. "Do you want me to take your picture?" I asked. He smiled, handed me his camera and quickly posed with his family.
I took their picture, returned the camera and walked away, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I'm not used to be being so nice early in the morning.
I went to the playground. It looked like a scene straight out of The Nanny Diaries. I sat on one of the benches and started taking pictures. The nannies saw my cameras and started giving me dirty looks. I left and walked back to the hotel but not before watching a silly little squirrel play.
We headed to the UN for the session with UNIFEM. Reese Witherspoon was there and she gave a couple of speeches.
The UN session was powerful. At some point I felt like crying and I wasn't the only one - but I'll save the details for the paper. The session (and the whole trip, actually) made me proud to be a woman - and I needed to feel that on a day that my grandma's shoulder pads were making me feel like a football player.
After the UN session, we went back to the hotel to prepare for a fun night out.
We had our pre-theater dinner at Remi. By then I felt so tired that even lifting my fork took so much effort. But the food was so good. I had the buffalo mozzarella, white truffle pasta and tiramisu.
We soon hit Broadway and my jet lag was so bad I fell asleep in the middle of Hairspray. Twice. Once before the intermission. And once after.
But Hairspray was so much fun. At least those parts that I stayed awake for. George Wendt was hilarious as Tracy's mom. Shannon Durig was great as Tracy. But my favorite was Niki Scalera who played Penny Pingleton.
I didn't watch Hairspray the movie last year with Fifi and our other musical-crazy friends. So on the way out of the theater, I bought a copy of the DVD.
After the show, everyone started walking back to the hotel. But the twinkling lights of Times Square called out to me. I told the others to leave me behind.
I walked towards Times Square, taking pictures and stepping into shops.
Hypnotized by the lights, I kept walking and walking not realizing I was already eighteen blocks away from my hotel.
When the shops closed cold became too much to handle, I started walking back.
It was pretty far but I didn't mind, I knew I didn't have a lot of time to walk in the streets of New York. About three blocks away from the hotel, I felt hungry again. I popped into Ray's Pizza and bought a slice of white cheese pizza and Coke. I spent the rest of my walk holding on to the slice of pizza which got cold fast.
When I got back to the room, I ate my pizza (it was huge and lasted a very long time), went online and popped the Hairspray DVD into the player. That's where it stayed for the next few days. I played the movie at least six times but never got to watch it in its entirety - I was too busy online or sleeping or getting ready to go out.
Still, the songs ended up getting stuck in my head. All day long, my brain would play and replay "You Can't Stop The Beat." It was funny until it got annoying.
So Duck-O went to Bora, Little Army Duck went to Mt. Pulag and Geek Duck went to New York.
It made perfect sense. Little Army Duck had a teeny water bottle and enough army training to survive an insanely cold night in Pulag. Geek Duck has a pen and notebook tucked under her little rubber wings. The plan was for her to do what I was gonna do - go to New York and then write about it.
But Geek Duck was kind of a bitch. She didn't like the cold weather. And she refused to come out with me.
She didn't want to go for a walk. Unlike me, she doesn't have boots, she said. Webbed feet are sensitive, she said.
She didn't want to go to Norma's for breakfast. Not even when I tried to lure her with bacon. Bacon is evil, she said. But she's wrong. Because like babies, bacon is a gift from heaven. And unlike babies, bacon can be fried to crispy perfection.
And so I gave up. Screw the effing duck, I thought. Let her rot in the hotel room if she wants.
I didn't know that while I was changing into grandma's suit for the summit at the UN, the bitch jumped into my bag.
And I only realized it when she came quacking out of my bag while I sat in the United Nations' economic forum auditorium.
And she came for only one reason. Reese Witherspoon.
Geek Duck is a huge fan of Elle Woods. She thinks it was a huge injustice to the duck world when Elle was given a pet chihuahua and not a pet duck. Oh yeah, that's gonna happen. Elle Woods, duck and a lot of hoisin sauce.
Geek Duck stood at the summit, in awe of Reese's presence. She had visions of Reese seeing her and gushing, "Oh my god. I think we need to make another movie. About a duck. And Elle Woods."
But that didn't happen. Reese didn't even know there was a duck at the summit.
And in case the two photos aren't enough, here's one more of me, my grandma's suit and those effing shoulder pads.
You're not supposed to wear your grandma's clothes in New York
They weren't kidding when they said the boarding gate was far. Fifteen minutes of walking, the nice girls at the lounge said. It felt like more.
While I was berating myself for complaining about walking on the smooth and shiny airport floor when just last weekend I was trudging through mountain mud, I started to notice the people around me.
Couples. Korean couples. Korean couples wearing matching outfits.
The horror.
One couple wore striped Snoopy shirts with camo pants. One couple wore black and white hoodies with black shirts, jeans and white sneakers. One couple wore World Cup shirts with the word Italy emblazoned at the back.
It's just not right.
Speaking of horrendous outfits, you are not supposed to wear your grandma's suit in New York. But that's what I'm going to do.
Because the dress code requires business wear and the closest thing I have to that is a necktie I want to use for bondage a white long-sleeved shirt I bought on sale at Old Navy, in case I ever have to attend a funeral.
And so I raided grandma's closet. My grandma has power suits in all colors of the rainbow. It's pretty scary.
But because I'm going to New York, she said I have to abide by the city's uniform and wear black.
Really, grandma? Because you have an apple green suit and an ube-colored suit that I'm just dying to wear.
After an hour of trying on suit after suit after suit, I made my choices. Now, nestled amongst my scarves and coats and lacy underthings are a pin-striped suit and a black blazer and skirt combo.
Just the thought of me walking out of my hotel wearing those clothes are cracking me up.
Watch out, New York, a klutz in her grandma's suit will soon be polluting your streets.
7:40 p.m. (Korea time) I spent takeoff watching Juno. It felt so sinful - like it should be illegal. All those years of waiting for the Fasten Seatbelt sign to be switched off before being allowed to take advantage of the in-flight entertainment has totally warped my sense of enjoyment.
8:05 p.m. I am going through my nasty plane ritual of worrying about everything. I keep checking my bag every few seconds to see if anything's missing. Passport, wallet, plane ticket. Stop it, they're all there, bitch.
8:07 p.m. This seat is magical. I want to bring it home.
9:14 p.m. Dinner. Beef, bibimbap or chicken. I chose the beef - medium well. But the best part of the meal was the bread.
9:25 p.m. Juno just fucking made me cry. And the flight attendant chose that exact moment to ask if I was done eating. I can imagine her telling the others, "Hey, that weirdo in 8A is crying over her beef medallion."
9:30 p.m. Ice cream time. Haagen Dazs. Vanilla or strawberry. I chose vanilla - because of what I miss.
9:35 p.m. I start watching what is supposed to be a comedy about a guy who passes off a sex doll as his real girlfriend. It is disturbingly depressing so I switch to a new action plan - watch New York movies to prepare me for the city. I'm starting with Enchanted.
10:03 p.m. Because all the parts I like are over, I moved on to Breakfast At Tiffany's.
12:07 a.m. Switched to Margorium's Something Or Other and slept.
2:00 a.m. And slept. And slept.
8:55 a.m. Woke up, picked at breakfast, watched Everybody Loves Raymond and Friends.
9:27 a.m. Landed in New York. I just had breakfast but when I stepped out of the plane, it was dinner time again.
I spent a chunk of the flight to Korea sending telepathic messages to the lone male flight attendant to give me more bread.
More bread. Sunflower roll. Garlic slice. Pan de sal. Whatever. Just more bread.
It didn't work.
I gave up, left three-fourths of my pan-fried chicken untouched and attacked my scoop of ube ice cream and scoop of mango ice cream instead.
I continued reading my guide books while I ate. Then I grabbed a copy of Vogue from the magazine rack and it put me to sleep.
And sleep was deep. So deep that when I woke up, I feared that I had snored the whole time. I checked to see if any of the other passengers were shooting angry glances at me.
Then I slept again. And sleep was even deeper. So deep that again, when I woke up, I checked if any of the passengers were pissed off. Or laughing.
They weren't. But even if they were, I wouldn't have cared. When you have the magic hoodie, nothing will faze you.
I am now at Korean Airlines' first class lounge - they bumped us up because the business class lounge was full. I'm not complaining, their snack spread is good - chips with dip, quiche, potato-wrapped prawns, sushi.
In less than an hour, I will board another plane. And after fourteen hours of probable snoring, I will be in New York where I will wait for the intimidating city to swallow me whole.
I went on two trips in two weeks and they couldn't have been more different.
One trip involved stuffing our faces, suite-hopping, getting drunk practically every day and lying lazily on the beach even if the wind was blowing sand everywhere.
The other trip involved walking through muck for hours, bouncing around inside a flying jeep, my face and head slamming into metal too many times, squeezing into a tent like sardines - wet, freezing sardines, crying and popping pain killers in hopes of chasing away the body aches.
Strangely though, I loved both trips equally. And I wouldn't say no to doing both again - except next time, I'll bring a chainsaw when I go up that mountain in case the tent-stealers rear their ugly privileged heads again.
People kept screwing with my schedule, I had three articles to rush, the donuts kept running out, the office phones wouldn't stop ringing, my mobile phone kept losing its signal, one of our IT guys spent hours fixing my inbox, our wi-fi was down, our cable internet connection kept dying, my self-diagnosed ADD resurfaced and my concentration was shot.
It was total chaos at the workplace.
On top of that, a guy I interviewed via e-mail sent me his answers too late. I had spent days writing the article in my head but when it was time to finally work on it, I couldn't. He killed my momentum and I couldn't function properly. It didn't help that I was forced to work on my desktop. I like working on my laptop so much more.
It was a good thing Kat, Wanggo, Paolo and James were in the office with me. Otherwise, I might have started pulling my hair out.
"I can't wait for this day to be over," I kept telling Kat, who was not a fan of yesterday either.
James said something about his friends going out on Thursday nights, when we're all in the office to close Super.
"I know!" I said. "My friends are all drunk in Saguijo now and they're texting me."
I got repeated invites to follow them down the familiar path of drunkenness but I knew it was unlikely because I was still wrestling with my article.
I was still wrestling with my article when Kat, Wanggo, Paolo and James left.
I was still wrestling with my article when Fifi called to tell me they had left siopao for me at the lobby.
Me: "Asan na kayo?" Fifi: "Umalis na kami." Me: "Ngek, bat di kayo umakyat?" Fifi: "Eh wala, umalis na kami. Basta kunin mo yung siopao sa baba, baka mapanis."
And so I ran down three floors to get my siopao.
When I reached the ground floor, I found Ruby, Marge and Fifi sitting at the lobby. They gave me hugs and handed me the siopao.
They didn't stay long. They said quick goodbyes and Chri drove off.
I ran up the stairs with my siopao, energized and ready to finish my article.
One (actually two) siopao was all it took. Suddenly, the crappy day felt like my birthday. Almost.
Now all I need is a lap dance and it would feel like Christmas too.
Monks and Mosquitoes Photographs By Jill Lejano Hardcover and Softcover 7x7 inches, 54 pages
Two weeks, two countries, three cities, five cameras, rolls and rolls of film.
Jill Lejano spent two weeks in Thailand and Cambodia in December 2007, chasing monks, killing mosquitoes and shooting close to fifty rolls of film.
This book is a stunning collection of photographs from this adventure. Accompanied by a series of stories documenting the photographer's fourteen days in Pattaya, Bangkok and Siem Reap, the images take you on a journey to busy streets, fishing villages, ancient temples and the magic of three cities captured on film.
Some people arrive from trips with good finds, great memories, credit card bills and coins of foreign currencies.
We arrived from Thailand and Cambodia with a book.
Actually no, that's a lie. The book came weeks later and it did some traveling of its own. It was printed in the Netherlands and made pit stops in Germany, India and Hong Kong before falling into our eager hands.
Here are pictures:
And an excerpt:
Day Twelve
Cambodia is a study in contrast – a place where the old meets the new and where the rich coexist with the poor.
Jill’s trip was a study in contrast too.
One minute she was sitting in the dusty room at The Ivy Guesthouse, the next minute she found herself in Soma Devi where the bellboys seem to outnumber the guests.
One minute she was eating in a hygienically questionable restaurant near one of the temples, refusing to use their glass, the next minute she was at The Raffles hotel enjoying overpriced cake with sugar snowmen and Santa on top.
One minute she was sitting in an air-conditioned car, being driven around by their guide, the next minute she was hailing a tuktuk and walking to a nearby shoe shop.
But the biggest study in contrast took place on day twelve.
Jill spent the earlier part of the day in Kompong Phluk, a fishing village that is a car, a motorbike and boat ride away from town. There she took photos from the boat. When it docked, she visited a school and explored the dry part of the village, talking to the locals and giving out candy to the kids. The people in Kompong Phluk are not rich, far from it. The afternoon Jill spent there gave her a look at Cambodia’s reality and the people who live in it.
Just a few hours later, Jill spent time with people from the other end of Siem Reap’s social spectrum, the kind who can afford to spend their evenings hanging out in galleries and sipping red wine. They were at an exhibit opening at Hotel De La Paix’s art gallery.
Her jaw dropped at the exhibit’s setup. The couch she had sat on two nights before was gone – and there were blocks and blocks of ice hanging from the ceiling, creating a pool in the center of the room. At the party, Jill drank red wine and ate ice cream in strange flavors.
But she was relishing more than just the cold dessert. She was saying a silent prayer of thanks for a life that allowed her to swing from extreme to extreme, to see the world, its contrasts and vast differences and to capture them all with the lenses of her cameras.
The book Monks and Mosquitoes is now available in softcover and hardcover. For orders, e-mail pajammy at gmail dot com or suplada80 at gmail dot com.
Three hours before our EP relaunch, I was propped up against three pillows, groggy from all the pills I've popped in my battle against the flu.
My iTunes was playing Missy Elliott's Get Ur Freak On on repeat mode and the lyrics covered my computer screen - my last minute attempt at making sure I don't fuck up the words when I sang that night. But both the music and the lyrics faded into the background, lost in the haze of my paracetamol-induced coma.
I wanted to stop by the mall before heading to Katipunan for one last attempt at finding something to wear that night but my body refused to cooperate.
I was only vaguely aware of the time as I hit the snooze button again and again and again. I slipped in and out of consciousness every five minutes but was jolted awake by a text from Fifi telling me she was on her way.
I texted to tell her I was about to leave the house and that I was high on flu medication.
She replied, "Oh no, kaya mo?"
We didn't let stupid Trillanes stop us last November, I sure as hell wasn't going to let any fever get in the way.
We met at Porch for one final pow wow before going to Route and locking ourselves in the lounge to change into our pajamas.
I had an entire bag of clothes with me. Two outfits were immediately chucked - the men's pajamas Giff refused to let me wear because he said the color reminded him of maid's uniforms and the dress that they refused to believe I bought in Debenhams' sleepwear section ("Not fair," I think Fifi said).
I decided to just wear regular pajamas, pajamas I've been wearing for years, but then I realized that the garter has lost its elasticity. I was sure that if I wore it, I'd be singing with my pants around my ankles halfway into the first song.
Pants around people's ankles can be a good thing sometimes - but not for your band's EP relaunch.
And so I ended up wearing a tank top, Pink Panther shorts and knee high socks. Countless people asked me that night, "Do you really sleep with knee high socks on?"
Yes, during cold, sexy nights.
People started to arrive - and I felt like hugging everyone, especially those who were wearing pajamas.
The rest of the night flew by in a blur of great music, awesome bands (Kaze, Mobster Manila, Top Junk and Juan Pablo Dream rocked), dancing, pizza and bottles and bottles of beer.
Not for me though. I had one beer, one iced tea and two bottles of water. And I completely forgot to eat.
Every time I felt like catching my breath, I retreated to the lounge and sat for a few seconds. But I spent most of the night high on everyone's energy.
We played songs we never played before and we had a blast.
Especially when we played our new crazy version of Starfucker.
People also had a blast trying to figure out why a model slash actor showed up at the relaunch. He was alone. No one knew who invited him. Sadly, no one was able to summon enough courage to offer him sex beer. And so the poor guy left.
At one point, I grabbed Fifi and said, "This is how our launch should have been."
It took almost three months but it was worth the wait. For Mozzie, November happened in February.
The next day, I woke up and my flu was gone.
Here are pictures swiped from J's, Ram's, Rollie's, Chevy's and Gino's Multiply albums.
This post is for Giles, who has been waiting for my Paris photos.
Two photos to tide you over until I finish sorting the rest of them.
The first photo was taken with my new baby, the Holga 135.
The second photo was taken with a Vivitar Ultra-Wide and Slim. I brought two of them - I kept one loaded with black and white film while the other was constantly fed with colored film. I asked one of my travel buddies to take this picture - because I realized the trip was about to end and I didn't have a single tourist shot.
The rest of the pics will follow - I have so many of them you will soon get sick of Paris.
Given the tight schedule, I knew there would be sacrifices. That there would be things that I'd want to do in Paris that I wouldn't be able to. Like sit leisurely in a cafe one morning and take pictures of people walking by. Visit every branch of H&M. Go to Colette. Take a really long walk.
But there was one thing I wasn't willing to give up - my visit to Lomography Check-In, the new store of the Paris Lomography Ambassador Peter Boesch.
Because the store is closed on Sundays and Mondays, on Saturday afternoon I asked my hosts for some time alone so I could go to the store.
Our guide Emily drew circles and squiggles and arrows on the Paris Metro map at the back of one of my guide books, telling me where to go.
Soon, I was alone, standing on a sidewalk, trying to figure out which way to go to find the Metro.
And so I walked forward.
I found the Metro's Franklin D. Roosevelt Station.
But I faced a bigger challenge - buying a ticket.
I stood in line behind one of the machines and when it was my turn, I discovered with horror that there was no English translation. I motioned to the lady with three children behind me to go ahead and buy her tickets. I wasn't being nice, oh no, I just wanted to watch what she'd do so I can copy it. But the lady was nice, much nicer than me, because she motioned for me to go first. I was left with no choice but to play the dumb tourist.
"Can you please help me?" I asked, opening my eyes wide, trying to look like a helpless kitten. Not an easy task for someone without whiskers.
I showed her the circles and squiggles and arrows on my map and she pulled her reading glasses out. "Oh, Poissonniere," she said. Then she used the machine's roller, asked me a few questions (Did I want just one ticket or ten?) pressed a couple of buttons, moved back so I can drop a 2-euro coin in the slot and soon, my ticket was ready.
I thanked her profusely before walking off to catch the train.
I took line 1, got off at Palais Royal Musee du Louvre, changed to line 7 and got off at Poissonniere.
I was so focused on getting my train changes and stops right that I forgot to ask where I should go after reaching Poissonniere.
I got out of the station and walked a little, stopping to ask for directions. I showed a fruit stand owner the address that J had SMSd me and the man told me to just keep walking.
Soon, I was in front of Lomography Check-In.
I walked in, resisted the urge to genuflect and explored the store instead.
This was the biggest lomowall in the store:
I introduced myself to Peter. He knew me because I had bugged him on e-mail a couple of days before I left Manila.
I gave him a Mozzie CD - he's a DJ in Paris and loves music.
Peter: "Oh cool. I have a CD of Juan Dela Cruz Band." Me: "No way! Where did you get it?" Peter: "Ebay. I'm obsessed with the song Beep Beep." Me: "That's so cool!" Peter: "I'm probably the only guy in Europe who loves that song."
We talked about LomoManila and he said Jay and Cathy had visited him too on their honeymoon.
I gave Peter lomo pins. "This is fucking awesome!" he said.
Just as he was struggling to put on one of the pins, I asked him to say hi to LomoManila and to Jay and Cathy. The hilarious moment was captured on video.
I crack up every time I watch it.
I spent a few more minutes at the store, talking to Peter and shopping a little (let me stress the word little). He invited me to a DJing gig the next night but I was too exhausted to go out after all the castle visits and the insanely long dinner.
I soon left the store, sat on a bench about a block away to take pictures of the streets and the people walking around. I headed straight for the ticket machine and copied what the woman did to buy my ticket. Then I got on the train again. I took line 7 to Pyramides, switched to line 14 and got off at Madeleine then switched to line 12 and got off at Porte De Versailles. It was a long wait between Madeleine and Port De Versailles - 14 crazy stops and I ended up missing my stop - but it was worth it.
I only made it to one H&M, I skipped the relaxing morning at a cafe, I have no picture beside the Eiffel tower, I never found Sister Clavell and heck, I even missed out on crepes. But I don't mind.
The World's Crankiest Airline Passenger Meets The World's Loudest British Family
Actually, it was really the mother who was loud.
She kept bugging the flight attendant for their vegetarian meals - before the plane even took off.
She sat across the aisle from me, beside her husband, while her two children (two overgrown good-looking teenagers) sat behind me.
The mother was constantly hungry, asking for vegetarian snacks when she wasn't asking for vegetarian meals.
When she wasn't asking for food or eating, she wanted to make sure her children were asking for food or eating.
"Oliver, did you try the to-mah-to soup? It's good, you should ask for some." she said to her son loudly.
Minutes later, she called out to her daughter. "The to-mah-to and cheese sandwich is good. Go get one."
You would think that the in-flight entertainment would shut her up but she kept watching comedies and laughing loudly.
The children barely spoke but they offered other annoyances.
The daughter kept getting up to use the bathroom. She hit my head each time she got up. She also exchanged shoes with her mother every time she had to pee, giving the loud woman an excuse to talk again. The daughter got up for other reasons too - she kept getting stuff from the overhead bin. Each time, I wanted to say, "Excuse me, giant girl, your crotch is in my face."
Oliver, giant Oliver, sat directly behind me and kept kicking my seat. I'd keep kicking seats too if I had his mother.
The father was my favorite and for only one reason - he was quiet the entire time. His mouth was probably full of to-mah-to soup. Or maybe he was dead.
Just before the plane touched down, the mother spoke again.
"Oliver can you go check under the seats to see if there are more socks there?"
Oliver finally snapped. He couldn't take it anymore - just like me. "They're just socks, mum!"
Good job, Oliver.
But the mother was persistent. "Yes but there might be something else there."
Yeah, maybe a muzzle to shut you up.
I was so happy to get out of that plane. If I end up flying with that family again, I swear, I will throw ground beef at them. Raw ground beef.
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Fuck Trillanes, he can't mess with us this time. 
