Delay Delay Delay
A big hello to all of you. I know I haven’t updated much in the past two days. I’ve been terribly, terribly busy. Plus, my colds and cough are still here. I’m fine though –
don’t you dare thanks for worrying about me. your thoughts of sympathy are good but I need a new Chanel bag.
Unfortunately, I started smoking again. Yesterday, to be exact… after a 6-day lung holiday.
Save the lung cancer sermon – I don’t need it. In fact, shove this imagery up your buttocks if you want. I look forward to the day when my lungs turn pitch black.
Err, ok, I take that back.
I’ll stop smoking. I promise.
I look forward to the day I turn 75 – at least I’ll get to wear Oscar de la Renta.
Going back to business, my god, I’m soo anxious to see what my best friend Kelly’s offspring are gonna be.
I actually know what they are already. (DUH)
It’s just that I can’t reveal them until Friday night. That’s what I said on the invite.
Everyone knows that patience is a word that does NOT exist in my vocabulary. A pretentious parrot such as myself will never, ever, voluntarily shut his mouth for a few days to stop himself from bragging.
Keeping this secret from each and everyone of you is nothing but pure torture!
I think y’all gonna die if you knew what’s inside those two eggs. I’ll give you a couple of hints:
- they’re both brown
- one of them has some of the world’s most exotic skins
- one of them is bigger than the other
- one of them can fit inside the other
I know it’s already quite obvious from those two pictures but please gargle and swallow that man cream cum like a proper whore so you won’t ruin it for everyone else.
Besides, it could be an iguana or a ferret.
You never know.
Keep an eye out on Friday, October 7, 2005.
And yes, I know what you’re thinking. Shut IT. Oh yes. Just STOP, STOP, STOP looking at my arms and my bulging stomach. I know I’m BALLOONING to UNBELIEVABLE PROPORTIONS. It’s hard being a surrogate mother. Contrary to what people think, I will never, ever, ever accept that dirty rumor our ancestors said over time. I REFUSE TO ACCEPT THAT the "joys of motherhood" is worth all that excess flesh and stretch marks that motherhood brings. That’s all bollocks, I’m telling you.
I’m not even a real mother yet I already have stretch marks.
Bah! I won’t dig my own grave any further. What would my future grandchildren think if they read this blog in year 2080 and see that I admitted having stretch marks on a public domain?
Louis Vuitton Goodies
Yesterday was quite productive. I accomplished a ton of stuff – went to my usual haunt in Greenbelt, enjoyed a huge lunch with my gal pal Tina. As always, I enjoyed our our favorites – baked oysters, foie gras with green apple tart, duck confit, green mango and prawns salad.
Picked up a few things at Louis Vuitton – bought a bag strap and a bracelet. My special orders from Paris also arrived – my ski bonnet and my fur gloves.
This Thing About My Age
Stop this ludicrous commotion about my age – all of you!
Since when did a number became so important in your backwater swamp gossip talks? Heck, the only set of numbers that are important to me is the number of unfortunate guys I’ve slept with, my American Express card number and of course, the number of times I ask my maid to fetch me a glass of water each and every day.
Let me clarify this once and for all.
I’m too old to be a runway model in Milan, too young to be a pensioner, too old to be a pedophile’s sexual prey, too young to be a parent (of any kind), too old to be barely legal.
In other words, I’m….
cha-chin,. cha-ching, cha-ching
However, I’ll leave it up to YOUR imagination on how many ++ (plus plus) you’d like to add to that age.
Have you guys forgotten my annual 18th birthday party this year when i failed dressing up like a proper
bloke on knickers ladyboy?
Now as for that special someone at the LVLU discussion forums who thought I’m 17 years old…
Well, I wouldn’t call you special for nothing.
Let’s leave it at that.
I’ve been thinking of going dropping by Tallinn, Estonia (and Riga, Latvia) mid-trip on my Russian holiday. Like most countries, I need a fucking visa to go to that "Nouveaux-Euro" country. One of their visa requirements is the fact that I need to have some invitation to visit their country, even as a tourist.
Blah blah blah Kabbalah.
Unfortunately, there are no Estonian embassies in South East Asia so I have to fedex my passport and visa application to some far-flung place (i.e. USA).
I’m just waiting a response from their immigration people to see what they have to say.
2 names baby.
Carmen Kass and Tiiu Kuik.
If that country can export fine specimen such as those two, I’m curious on what they have in store over there.
Grocery shopping you ask?
Believe it or not, I had my first ever encounter with someone Estonian yesterday. We exchanged quite a few messages and he seems to be nice.
Hold the malicious thoughts right there. All we did is talked about friggin Estonia.
I’ll keep you posted in the next few weeks to come whether or not I’m going to Tallinn as well.
Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax
#1- Bryanboy loves people from Zaventem, Belgium, Reading, MA, Wellers Hill, Queensland, Australia, Pennsauken, NJ, Saint Paul, MN, Woodhaven, NY, Piedmont, CA and of couse, people from Manila, Philippines. Identify yourselves, bitches – Bryanboy loves each and everyone of you.
#2 – People from Finland are talking about me. God knows what they are talking about though – and I don’t care. It’s nice to get some attention from the far north. Click here to read the thread on some discussion forum. Big brownie points if you can understand what the hell they are talking about. Hello Finland!!!!
#3 – Jesus, the heat here is FUCKING killing me. I’ve got my airconditioning set to the coldest temperature it’s capable of but the heat seeps through our fucking roof – yes, we have third world roofing. We’re poor!
#4 – The Kate Moss cocaine video is out. Let’s all put this issue down to rest shall we?
More upates later. Promise!
As always, you know where to contact me… +63-915-785-1492 or email@example.com.
Boy what a productive day today was.
I went to my pulmonologist/internal medicine doctor at around 10:00AM and it looks like I don’t have bronchitis. Instead, I have pharyngitis (also known as sore throat) and something else that I totally forgot about, like some sort of an allergic reaction. He prescribed me a ton of meds, like 4-5 pills that I need to take at least once a day – some are twice/thrice per day. He also told me to continue on my nasal spray for 6 months.
I seriously thought I have bronchitis. I mean, gawd, what was I thinking?
I guess I don’t want to die from a respiratory disease, you know? Can you imagine the look on my face, all gagging for one last hit of oxygen, kind of like those suffocation/drowning victims?
Anyway, let’s play pictionary shall we?
Here are pics taken at the hospital’s parking lot before going to the doctor.
Possibly the longest pictionary we had in ages eh?
Apres-doctor, my sisterette and moi went to McDonald’s Drive Thru for lunch. I haven’t had McDonald’s in AGES and I mean AGES – there’s no other way to celebrate the moment by having large fries, a quarter pounder and a large coke.
After McD’s, we parked in front of my aesthetician’s clinic to chow on my cheap yet chic meal.
More pictures from my aesthetician’s parking lot…
I realized I should try different poses in my pictionaries. Here’s yet another one. Isn’t it lovely? Hahahahahahahaha!
So yeah, after all that pictionary effort, I went to my aesthetician, had my usual glycopeel cleaning facial and a power peel/microdermabrasion session. I haven’t had such treatments in the past month – can you imagine how reckless I am with my skin? Ugh! Never again. No wonder I’ve been getting zits as of late.
Kate Moss: Fashion Victim?
Mark your calendars bitches and take note of V-Day as in Video Day, October 3, 2005.
Sky One (UK) will show the controversial footage of Kate Moss snorting everyone’s favourite drug, from royalty to rock stars, supermodels to actors, socialites to the beautiful ones – COCAINE!
Click here to read more.
More updates later. You know where to contact me.
P.S. Sunglasses and shoes by Yves Saint Laurent, bag by Chanel, "The Clash" t-shirt from People R People (Filipino version of Urban Outfitters), old jeans – by Earl Jeans, black jeweled necklace from Valentino, dog tag necklace from Chanel, clapper board necklace from Chanel, studded belt from Top Shop, No5 belt from Chanel, chain bracelet with pearl from Chanel.
Go Go Go Goyard!
I know y’all missed me. I’ll cut through the chaff and crash straight to certified, grade-AAAA Bryanboy Bragging Bonanza.
Trust me, they didn’t call the "dark ages" dark for nothing.
You see, like any self-respecting fashionvictimlabelwhorehomoerectuslabellusaddictus, yes, oh fucking yes, I did, at one point, carried the infamous black Prada nylon backpack. And yes, I even had the Loueey Vee version.
Times have changed, let there be light!
Blah blah bullshit.
All it took was a late night escapade to Harvey Nichols Hongky Tongk, some Engrish-speaking woman blaring "the store will close in 15 minutes, however, the fourth floor bar and restaurant will remain open till midnight" throughout the store’s sound system and 3 minutes to pose in front of the mirror whether or not the orange or the green suits my skin tone.
Meet my latest Goyard "acquisition". Everyone loves Goyard.
Well, I know I do.
I don’t know about you.
There is no other way to express your love for logo-a-gogo unless you’re carrying a Goyard.
This is the pinnacle, the apex, the apogee, the crest, the height, the meridian, the peak, the summit and the zenith of logo-a-gogo chic.
(See, I know how to fucking use the thesaurus you fuckin bitches.)
It’s the greatest bag ever… larger than a Louis Vuitton Speedy, smaller than a Keepall!
I’m telling you, had I spent longer than 10 minutes at Goyard, I would’ve declared myself bankrupt by now.
Those bright-coloured hardcore trunks can easily put most of my (often my mis-matched luggage of mine to shame.
Notice to the public: the blue suitcase/trunk is NOT a Prada. It’s a hand-made piece by Globe-Trotter, purveyors of fine luggage since 1897. Click here to read an online article about them.
Welcome to Cape Town, capital city of The Zara-rah Republic!
I’ve never had so much unfashionable fashion fun in my entire life.
You see, I’m not really a Zara fan. I saw a ton of Zara stores in the London back in my hey day and the only people that I see go inside their stores are mid-30s, not-so-young-but-still-have-that-yuppy-mentality women who have outgrown TopShop.
Since that damn gorgeous bitch with genes not even Bill and Melinda Gates can buy (who I really really love) started popping up on their ad campaigns, I changed my mind towards them and thought, hey, their stuff aren’t bad at all.
Jenni and moi spent around 30 minutes in Zara and boy oh boy I fell in love with a ton of their stuff. They have the chicest black coats ever, tons and tons and tons and tons of black jackets, colourful "house clothes/doomed for domestication" cotton hoodies with sequins and appliques.
I wanted to buy many, many, many pieces. Heck, I could’ve bought my entire fall/winter wardrobe right then and there.
The only thing that stopped me from doing so is the prevailing inner fashion victim "mother-knows-best" type of voice that told me "do you realy want your pretentious self seen by the staff at the Valentino boutique nearby, carrying shopping bags with the word Zara on them?"
I say screw what people think. I bought a black cape and an olive green hoodie. They’re fucking cheap-oh as in cheap-oh-my-god. You can probably buy a hundred or so of their coats at the same price of a J. Mendel fur shawl.
Imagine how mortified I was when I tried the cape where we stayed at.
I wore my Linda Farrow Gallery sunglasses and my Vivienne Westwood hat for some theatrical effect and presto – I look like a damn lampshade.
That little moment was priceless. It was history in the making.
Ok, maybe not.
Probably one of those "when good things happen to bad people" (or vice versa) moments.
It was soo funny that we were literally rolling like
bitches in heat dogs on the floor, laughing our fat asses off.
Nevertheless, I LOVE Zara. They’re just like Mango – Zara is my new best friend.
I can’t wait for the Zara store to open here. They better have those nice black ex-Gucci-esque coats.
And no, there’s no lesson to be learned here. I’m THE perfect customer. I DO NOT TRY THINGS ON at the STORE. I just buy em. The dressing room is my worst enemy. It’s like having a CT-scan/MRI scan except you can see yourself get defrauded by lighting and mirror magic.
We’re the Kids in America
Looking out a dirty old window, down below the cars in the city go rushing by… I sit here alone and I wonder why.
I came across this treasure chest of stimulating imagery while searching on google.
Friday night and everyone’s moving, I can feel the heat but it’s shooting heading down… I search for the beat in this dirty town.
I guess this is how people MY AGE do "it" in certain parts of the world.
Come on now everyone… sing with me!
Down town the young ones are going, down town the young ones are growing… we’re the kids in America… we’re the kids in America… everybody live for the music-go-round!!!!!!!!!
and don’t forget…
Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax
#1 – Bryanboy loves peope from Leeds, UK, Ridgewood, NY, Bridgeport, CT, Fairport, NY, Alajuela, Costa Rica, Alameda, CA, Beijing, China, Wallacia, NSW, Australia, Longjumeau, France and of course, Woodstock, GA. Bryanboy loves y’all – Identify yourselves bitches and say hi!
#2 – Thank you so much Jenni for the Fauchon chocolates. You really know the shortcut to a sheorhe-male’s heart.
#3 – Kelly is horny again!!!!!! See my best friend get 69′ed – for the first time.
#4 – All of the pictures that you see on today’s post are the only pictures on my camera. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to camwhore the entire weekend. More pictures will follow though… all I’m asking for is a little patience.
#5 – Bryanboy’s in da house… house of wax, that is, not house of Chanel.
God I need a haircut… and a facial.
As always, you know where to send your love. Email me, firstname.lastname@example.org or send me an SMS, +63-915-785-1492.
I’ve got 6 hours to go before I leave the house.
I’m jetting off to a place where being a label whore is de rigueur.
Look, I’m only fucking 16 years old. I’m allowed to wear bright colors, to display all my labels loud and proud.
I’m not a high almighty card-carrying member of the dead poets society. I’l save the Comme de Garcons, the Costume Nationals, the this and that when I turn friggin 45.
Seriously, no offense whatsoever but I’ll save the blacks, the whites, the neutrals, the tailoring and all that fashion hoola baloo to the intellectual fashionistas.
I’d rather celebrate my youth by being a full-blown label whore. The Dior, the Chanel, the Hermes, the Yves Saint Laurent, anything that has a label on it.
Heck, I evem got a silk bolero jacket from Hermes with the Hermes ribbon printed on it. Fabulous. Very bling bling.
Besides, discretion is for someone who is friggin old, wrinkled, botoxed, etc. In other words, anyone over 30 and above.
Of course they need friggin discretion. What would people think if they’re still a damn logo-a-gogo carrying senior citizen?
Anyway, I’m just enjoying it now because I’m young, I’m restless and I’m fucking carefree.
I am the epitome of consumerism. Without me, capitalism won’t exist.
I j’adore it when people look at me as if I’m a fucking walking billboard advertisement.
Make my fellow youth envious… jealous.
I’m sure, one day, when I hit 75, the only thing that will save my life is Zoran, Oscar de la Renta, a wheelchair, an oxygen tank and formaldedye.
Here’s suitcase number #1 (Globetrotter). Underneath all those clothes are dozens upon dozens of handbags and accessories.
I love Globetrotter. I think I’m definitely going collect more Globetrotter pieces. I first heard of them earlier this year from American Express Departures magazine. I LOVE them.
Here’s suitcase number #2 (Prada). Clothes, cosmetics, toiletries and sundries.
This suitcase contains clothes… a ton of Marc by Marc Jacobs, Gaultier, Neil Barrett, my oh-so-loyal LL. Bean toilety kit with my Obagi stuff, YSL and Dior sunglasses, Chanel box with goodies inside, etc
I hate it when my maid packs my stuff cause I want to oversee what is being packed etc. I’m a firm believer of overpacking… I like it whenever I have selection whenever I’m travelling… excess, excess, excess!
All this effort for a mere 2 day trip. I should be back on Monday early evening.
Big shout out too the Kangaroo Vogue forums. Bryanboy loves you all, and I’m honored to be the topic du jour of all the beautiful kangaroos on the discussion forums.
Who knew there’s a Vogue down where the underworld lives? I mean, I know there’s American Vogue, British Vogue (my favourite), Italian Vogue, French Vogue (Gotta love Carine).
As a closing note, my god, you Australian people have a really scary
scary socialites ex-Prime Minister’s wife. What on earth was she holding?
"The titans of the luxury business have a message for Sydney socialites such as Lady Sonia McMahon, who was recently photographed at a social function carrying a fake Hermes Birkin bag: that steal could cost you more than the real thing.
Should Lady Sonia ever take her fake Birkin to France, whose intellectual property laws are rigorously enforced , Australia’s former first lady could find herself detained at the airport, taken to the police station and fined thousands of dollars. Anyone who is considered part of a larger operation could go to jail."
Click here to read more.
Since I’m a label whore and I’m a certified AAAA fashion victim, the best thing about carrying a genuine Hermes Birkin bag is NOT the bag itself but the fucking bragging rights AND the envy that comes along with it.
I LOVE YOU ALL!
AND YES BRYANBOY LOVES AUSTRALIA, TOO!
I’ll update when I get back. You know where to contact me = +63-917-785-1492 or email@example.com.
Support Oxfam NOW!
It’s friggin 1:03PM and I’m about to go to bed.
Remember my little fashion project? Well, the auction started yesterday.
Nick Knight (yes, the REAL Nick Knight of Pirelli calendars, Dior ad campaigns and Gwen Stefani’s album cover), the gang at ShowStudio and i-D Magazine are auctioning off fashionable contributions from highly-influential people in fashion, including Bjork, Mrs. M. Prada, the folks at Yves Saint Laurent and yours truly. Hahahahaha!
Place your bid now for my old Issey Miyake hooded top.
Click here to read the story and the drama behind that garment.
Click here to see how the staff at ShowStudio unwrapped my little tyvek envelope of love.
And yes, I FedExed the thing to the UK.
Fresh from the third world baby.
If you’re a loyal Bryanboy fan, bid now and pay top
dollar pound sterling for your own little piece of Bryanboy.
Bid, Bid, Bid, Bid, Bid NOW! Click here.
It’s for Charity.
Anyone Got Blow?
Kate Moss in yet another cocaine unshocker. Are we supposed to be surprised? My god, is there anything new these days?
Click here. here. and here.
You could’ve at least shared some to me, mother hen.
I think I’ll pass.
You *have* to see this. Look who fell off her seat at the US Open.
Bryanboy Mall Rat Extraordinaire
As part of my "research" for an upcoming article/piece, I spent the entire day hopping from one mall to another on the lookout for "good finds" (aka cheap thrills), chic post-shopping eateries and such. I went to a grand total of 4 "malls" today: Podium, Shangri-la Plaza, Greenbelt 4 and Glorietta plus 1 department store, good old Shoemart.
Podium was dead; I texted all of my friends and told them it felt like I was in a mausoleum. A mausoleum filled with stiff-looking, shirt-and-tied ninetofivers who looked down on me because I look like a punk kid gone camo.
Oh yes. You should’ve seen the looks on the faces of these 30-something, office clerk workers when I entered Starbucks.
Just because I look like a ghetto trash army rag doll (cum rag is more appropriate because my black t-shirt’s got gold paint splatters) it doesn’t mean you can go high all hoity toitty on me.
My entire body is covered with invisible "You’re-Staring-At-Me-And-Giving-Me-Crappy-Looks" sensors. I get internal titillations every time someone’s eyeball roll to my direction.
Heck, even my Birkin bag, which I used today, is covered with such detectors.
That’s right. I ditched my Chanel 2.55 in the car and brought the holy grail of handbags with me when I went to Podium.
Punk kid my ass when my Birkin bag is DEFINITELY more than their third world annual income.
Editorial Note: One of the joys of owning a *genuine* Birkin bag is the bragging rights that come along with it.
Fucking Yuppies. God I despise them. Prtentious yuppies in white, blue, gray or pink button down shirts with trousers and loafers that scream OFFICE WORKER!
Darlings, just because you’re in a bloody office uniform it doesn’t give you the right to feel you’re loaded, so cut the snobbery, bitch!
Don’t get me wrong though. I really have nothing against office workers. Or clerks. Or minimum wagers. Afterall, their taxes fuel most politicians’ fat wallets therefore giving us more golddigger opportunities.
But it’s cunts like me who keep the GLOBAL economies afloat. Paris, New York, Milan, plus all the sweatshops all over the world that print the "Made in Italy" label.
Think about it.
Office workers = Local Economy
CLMs (Cunts Like Me) = Global Economy
Anyway. Enough teenage angst.
Let’s continue with the pomp and the high-voltage tales of tension pretension that you guys love.
Don’t blame me darlings, I’m smoking Cartier Lights. I’m obliged to be pretentious as my lungs get filled with Cartier tar! HK Duty Free I <3 You!
Now if only Graff or Verdura made cigarettes…
Shangri-la housed the only place (Homme et Femme) in this third world cesspit that I call home where one could find Balenciaga, Dior Homme, Costume National and Marni amongst others.
Editorial Note: will you please create another shop (or move) to friggin Makati this way I don’t have to do the 2-hour driving trek from the suburbs to your shop?
I like that shop. I really do.
Me likey likey so much that my original intention was only to look at their latest batch of Dior Homme but the sizes they have are size 3 or OBESE sizes (ruins the sole purpose of Dior Homme when they carry Dior Homme for fat people. GET THE ONES FOR RAIL ANOREXIC THIN BOYS PLEASE).
I ended up adding yet another Balenciaga bag (olive) to my collection, its matching coin purse keychain and a Balenciaga assymetrical sweater/top.
For truthful journalism’s sake, I have to tell you that the color is a little tad darker in real life.
I also went to Escada – that’s right bitches – the first time (ever as in ever) I’ve set foot in the store where I thought only Eurotrash grandmothers shop (despite the perennial quirky feminine youthful female orgy ad campaigns) but boy oh boy I found it fun and normal.
So "fun and normal" to the point where I added myself on the waiting list for the Escada/Siemens Denim and Diamonds cellphone (about US$900). Isn’t it j’adorable? It’s better than my random Nokia fuck-up child that can’t even take photos using the back camera because of a "memory" problem.
Greenbelt 4 was nothing new – same old same old. It was rather disappointing actually. It feels as if its halls are your house and the shops are your rooms. There was just nothing there that caught my eye. I even went to BVLGARI and tried a couple of watches – I found a really nice yellow gold piece but I didn’t like the strap.
Then I went to Vuitton (oh salvation) but the only good thing there is a dark plum-coloured velvet scarf with fringes.
Forget Glorietta. Most of the shops were closed because it was late.
One shop that DID caught my eye and made my Chanel black caviar 2.55 felt cheap was this:
Fake Burberry… Fake Chanel… Fake Everything!
Why on god’s name is this sort of thing allowed at a fucking mall considering we have GENUINE Burberry shops?
Whatever happened to copyright laws, intellectual property, anti-counterfeit laws etc?
Bah. Whoever owns that shop must have some god damn NERVE (and BALLS) to sell counterfeit goods.
Who the hell owns Glo-fucking-rietta?
Does anyone in the Philippines know?
If you do, will you please print this post and send it to the powers of be?
Stop playing in the dark with your glo-sticks and give a stern warning to whoever owns/operates that shop.
My Chanel 2.55 needed a fucking Xanax when we passed by the shop earlier. Had my genuine handbag had the mouth to talk and the voice to sue, it would’ve won millions of dollars in damages – hassle, emotional distress and visual battery.
I’ll update you in a bit.
I’m thirsty and in need of something to drink.
You know where to contact me. firstname.lastname@example.org or +63-915-785-1492.
Excess, Excess, Excess
I’m at a loss of what to say right now so I’ll let the following pictures show you the kind of fun I had in Hong Kong. I’ll post all the photos we took in a photo album later tonight. I haven’t even unpacked my suitcases! Oi!