Screw the Beautiful People
You see them everywhere – malls, the streets, at the club, at events, sometimes, at restaurants. Everywhere. The ones that people admire and look up to. The ones plastered on the newspaper, magazines, the ones you see on the tv, movies, etc. Screw each and every one of them. Screw the beautiful people.
Because one day, oh yes and I fucking look forward to that day, their good looks will fade away and turn into one of these:
Post-mortem teenage angst over. Fuck I’m 18+ + + + + +.
I was spending some quality time in the sheer rurality of La Provincia Laguna with my liver-spotted, "I can still walk so please don’t put me on some chair with wheels DAMMIT" 80-something year old grandmother when my buddy Gian went into a text messaging fracas at 5:30PM on how:
1) I shoud call Emergency Services (as if there’s a thing such as "Emergency Services" in the third world… wishful thinking eh?) and get an ambulance to rush me home in the metro.
2) I should shower up and come up with a todo outfit. "Todo" in Filipino means
extreme, excess, fashion victim hideous, Bryanboy. If you’re a reader coming from the non-Filipino kind, you pronounce it like "to" in "tom" and "do" in "door". TODO.
3) I should drag my fresh-from-late-grandparental-lunch-obesitation fat ass to the NBC Tent in the big city by 7PM because I’m going to present an award at the "Super" event along with my friend Kiko Escora, to the "I Love You" girls.
Alright. Perhaps I exaggerated a bit. Sorry Gian. But seriously.
Rain, 2 hour traffic and all, not even Speedy Gonzalez or any Vuitton Speedy for that matter, can achieve all that in 1 hour and 30 minutes. The distance alone is just as far as New York to London on a Concorde. And we all know what happened to that 30 year old baby – they’ve put the darling of the skies to rest and off to the aerial maosoleums she lies back.
I ended up getting home at 7PM from my gran’s.
And rather than coming up (I think "going out" is more appropriate) with an outfit, I went out with a crappy T-shirt and some buttocks-DEFIED-by-gravity Neil Barrett jeans. Go ahead. Feel free to revel in my royal
highness hidee hideousity.
This is the byproduct when you’ve got a panic attack, an anxiety attack, lack of time and lack of xanax all in one go.
Yep, it’s those faux pearls again. It’s not even effortless chic. It’s effortless *burp* *burp* *fart* *fart* cheek.
I ended up at the Super Event 3 hours late, at 10PM.
Yep, the cheek of it all. My
Had to go with my gal pal Tina and Gareth (ShaolinTiger.com), who was spending his last night in Manila.
Saw quite the usual suspects, friends and acquaintances – prima facie evidence that the scene is just small – my good friend (whom I terribly miss and owe a lunch/dinner thingie) Ariel Lozada who just got back from Paris, Kiko, Tim Yap, Tesa and Carlos, Jun, Xeng Zulueta, Hannah, Mimi Samson, Jenna, Victor, Dennis, Charmaine, etc.
I met quite a few people at the event — I didn’t expect people to be reading my little corner of the dirty world wide web. It was quite overwhelming, yet fun! The ever so gracious Tim introduced me to a ton of folks, particularly to folks at the Inquirer.
BIG KISSES FROM ME TO YOU, THE INQUIRER PEOPLE
It was a Super event indeed.
Names, Names, Names
It’s just as bad as labels, labels, labels. Bench, Penshoppe, Kamiseta. Calvin Klein, Tommy Hilfiger, Ralph Lauren. Oscar de la Renta, Marc Jacobs, Luca Luca. Paul Smith, Nicole Farhi, Clements Ribeiro. John Galliano, Alexander McQueen, Phoebe Philo. Cacharel, Lanvin, Balenciaga. Chanel, Fendi, Lagerfeld Gallery. D&G, Miu Miu, Versus (say what now). Valentino, Prada, Gucci. Dolce & Gabbana, Cavalli, Etro. Graff. Verdura. Garrard.
If you think I’m a superficial, materialistic, let-them-eat-cake cunt for playing the name drop shop till your head pops game galore, let me tell you that I’m even a complete sucker when it comes to remembering names.
I feel bad when people take the time and effort (hell yes) to introduce themselves (and other people) but when it gets done faster than the time it takes for your average coke whore snorting a bloody thick line, sometimes, just sometimes, I’d rather just freeze the moment, hand out candy and whip out my little red Smythson book to write down names.
So the next time I see you and vice-versa, please don’t be offended if I ask what’s your name again in the event that we say our next HIs and Hellos. Despite the fact that, chances are, we’ve probably seen each other many, many, many times.
Apres-Super, everyone went to Cuisine to have some drinks. I was starving that night but rather than having a full meal, it was encore un fois all over again. I have this thing about eating in front of a lot of people (mostly strangers) so rather than ordering proper food, I ended up having a ton of vodka red bulls and a small platter of foie gras. It’s just like at M Cafe on Friday.
Tina Tinio was in full force – I missed her tons after Monday’s dinner party.
Tim introduced me to Celine Lopez and Jenni Epperson (amazing gal), who were both fuckingtastic that night. Celine is genuine, warm and utterly, utterly friendly. Pretty pretty girls are pretty, pretty, girls!
Which reminds me, I’m definitely going back to my evian + raisins + xanax diet soon. Or else I’ll turn into a cow. Ugh.
Also saw Romeo Candido, the director who rescued me from my Friday boredom blues.
After Cuisine, we all went to Embassy as always. It’s Saturday, what do you expect?
I lost my Dior chronograph watch on Saturday night at La Embajada. I remember having it on my wrist when I was playing pictionary with the cameras. Then I ventured out of the vip area to dance and burn some major calorification and next thing you know, my watch has a new owner.
Whoever you are you thieving son of a bitch, send me a message with your mailing address. I’d be more than happy to send you the case, the box, the card sets and the guarantee card that comes along with it. I hope you enjoy your newfound piece like I did.
Overall I had fun.
Gian, Gareth and I left the club early in the morning and met a couple of students from Ethiopia on the parking lot.
After dropping Gareth off at his hotel, Gian and I went to Gian’s place then off to New World to check-in. After having breakfast, Gian fell asleep (yep, he snores like a pregnant bitch in labor). I tried to sleep but I can’t.
There’s something wrong and I couldn’t figure out what it is.
I decided to go home instead. I left at around 9:30AM, all by myself, and endured the 30 minute drive from Makati to my house. Same old, same old, D-word inducing drama on the way back.
Nothing and I mean NOTHING can absolutely beat that feeling.
Just imagine: you after a night’s worth of going out, alone on one side of the backseat, clothes all dirty and grimy, shivering from the cold car airconditioning, staring at the window as you get driven past the dirty, chaotic, industrial city that you live in, having all sorts of thoughts in your head — and the only thing that keeps you intact is a pair of huge, black designer sunglasses.
This sort of thing happens to me each and every weekend and frankly, the only thing worse than this is being on a subway in NYC/London/Paris at 9AM, going home drugfucked or after a booty call.
Thank god I had my last (and only) half of a rivotril tablet to put me to sleep.
V is for Victor
Right. I checked my phone right when I got up and there it was – remnants that I’ve been drunk dialing and drunk texting people again. UGH.
Even people as far as Denmark.
Sorry babes (you know who you are) for the whingeing texts I sent you.
Bryanboy, booze and any electronic device that will allow him to communicate to random strangers do not mix.
Anyway, Gian, apparently, is having Victor as his intern. He was looking for V at Embassy and he made me text him. I saw V’s blog the other day when I was blog hopping and he was at this modellaunch.com website. I was reading one of my sent messages and I texted the guy "I am so gonna put you on my blog 2 get more votes" or something like that.
And since you, my dear readers, love me (please say you do, bitches), can you all spare AND share the love and give the guy some votes at the modellaunch.com website. Even if you do hate me, regardless, please do vote for him and make me, your mommy, proud. Or at least rescue me from shame.
And if that’s not enough, here’s another one off his blog.
Satisfied now? Now go get that mouse to click this link and vote for him.
I haven’t voted for anyone yet cause I think the site requires registration — and you know where I stand on male models. I quite find them errm, I dunno. See my old post about MALE models.
And one website with hundreds, if not, thousands of them: cheekbones, steroid-injecting, gym bunny tall ogres and all… is… well… excruciating HELL for me.
Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax
Bryanboy loves people from Manila, Philippines (there, I finally said it), people from Reno, NV and people from Oklahoma City, OK.
#1 – Just because I’m bisexual it doesn’t mean my gaydar didn’t function on Sunday Morning. There you are in your full gay glory centre stage on your own – each and every move you make at 6 in the morning screams GAY GAY GAY GAY GAY to me. Well… and to 5 other people. It could be that or it could be the pills that you’ve been popping. Who knows. Whatever.
You know who you are and you don’t need a blindfold to pin the tail to the
I suggest that you buy the "Bryanboy’s Guide to Keeping it Straight" handbook if you want to keep things, well, straight. Otherwise, it’s bye bye career for you once people know that there’s a little Dorothy in her ruby red slippers hidden inside you. You could always become a chef if everything else fails. I know you’re no Ducasse but the rumor mill has it that you’re a good cook. No, not 2 eggs and a hotdog.
I love bagels, cream cheese, poached eggs and everything else that comes along with it. I’m anorexic.
Go on bitch, give me that "MAGNUM" look.
Cha-ching! There you have it!
#2 – I can’t believe I was within a 3-meter radius with a very dirty, very old man who gave some crybaby woman an STD; and this was well publicized! Fuck, I won’t even go into specifics. It will just unleash the lower middle class from within me. I’m supposed to be CLASSLESS.
#3 – Yep. That’s what I thought too, folks. He DOES look like a manwhore, especially with THAT top. (and no, this isn’t the man who gave some woman an STD).
Jesus, I’m starting to sound like a tabloid reporter now. Enough already!
I’m meeting up with someone from the Manila Bulletin Monday afternoon for an interview. I know – oh god!
As always, identify yourselves bitches, say Hi!, post comments or email me. firstname.lastname@example.org.
It’s 4:15AM now and I wanna go back to sleep.