1. “Not being photobombed by a sports clothes-wearing person should be a basic human right.”
2. “I don’t like it when people get in the way of my frame. Tourists get their photos taken and upload them on their facebook to brag to their friends they went to a certain place. I, on the other hand, well, this is real work. If this wasn’t real work, I’m just gonna put my velour tracksuit and my sports shoes and call it a day.”
3. “I was trying things on at home to wear to the airport the night before I fly. While looking at the mirror with an outfit option, I suddenly remembered that I was being flown economy so I took off the white fox fur off my neck and packed it in my suitcase instead. Wait let me tweet that…”
4. “It just occurred to me that if you’re being flown coach, you need to tone your outfit down, otherwise, your outfit won’t make sense. It’s like ‘oh hay gurl you lewkin so divine but oh you’re like on the last row at the back near all the toilets’”
5. “I’m gonna have one suitcase for winter clothes and one suitcase for summer clothes. It’s an 8 day trip. Europe and Asia. Three days in Europe, four days in Asia. Wait, that’s three plus four, sorry, five days in Asia.”
6. “Someone from instagram told me about plebestrians. You know, pedestrians and plebs combined.”
7. “Oh oh oh oh oh I found something online, it’s like an Airbnb but it’s for dogs. It’s called DogVacay.com. You can pay someone like $30 a night to take care of your dog!”
8. “I have a question…. so you know how on planet Earth there’s land and there’s water, right? Is there land underneath all the water, like underneath all the oceans and seas? I mean, I know there’s the sea floor but are there parts of the earth where there isn’t?”
9. “What is the point of buying flowers for your home when they all die after a day or two anyway? Why would you buy death?”
10. “I want to get a dog but according to the airline I spoke to, they have a summer embargo on May 15 to September 15 and a winter embargo on November 15 until March 15. So basically I can only fly the dog like once a year.”
11. “I don’t have shoes that match my new Elie Saab oatmeal gray coat.”
12. “Next year I want to wear real jooooowwwrrrrry not cubic zirconia. I like how jewelry is pronounced more than how it’s spelled, like, jooooowwwrrrrry. Do you want some joooowwwwrrrry? Yes, please, I want lots of joooowwwwrrryyy.”
13. “I think it’s less degrading to shop at Century 21 as long as you spend a lot of money. I like Century 21. They have lots of cute stuff!”
14. “I just made my first return at a store ever. When I got home, the color looked soo different on me than when I tried it at the store.”
15. “When you go to a designer store and see staff wearing things that are being sold on the racks, you shouldn’t buy those things unless you want to look like staff. I’m only saying this because I bought something from a store a couple of weeks ago and when I went back again to browse for new things, lo and behold one of the guys who work there wore the same top as me. I’m so glad I was the only living entity in the store… can you imagine the face, my face, if another customer came up and asked for my help? I’d die! I don’t have retail experience, ever!”
16. *in baby voice* “Will you please take a photo of me doing my laundry for my instagram? I need to make my instagram look like I’m grounded, approachable and I’m doing “real people” work. Thank you! All these bitches on instragam are all smiley and happy and they all go to fabulous places but you never see anyone cooking or taking a poo or sweating.”
17. “I hate people!”
Everything in this world has a shelf life.
The idea of me pecking away at the keyboard at three in the morning, sharing images of my tiresome self to internet folk when I hit my mid-thirties is cringe-worthy. God forbid I turn into one of them geriatrics desperately clinging to their fading youth, forcing themselves to keep up with the times.
My biggest fear is to end up being that miserable, unhappy, bitter old queen who, at first glance, seem to have it all. No one knows that every night, he takes his mixture of two foundations, Maybelline and Nars, off, unveiling his face, his scars, his multiple nose jobs, botox, stitches and collagen… all in front of the mirror. He wraps his hair in a towel while he sings to “Stars are Blind” and thinks of what he’s gonna wear the next day — which Pologeorgis fur matches his gray, wide-leg Akris trousers, what haute joaillerie to wear with the latest Prada.
I don’t want that.
I always tell myself to simply go with the natural ebb and flow of things in order for me to have a felicitous life.
Thing is, I’m not one who likes to leave everything to good ol’ fate and destiny. I’ve said it many times over and over — I believe in creating opportunities for myself rather than waiting for opportunities to land on my lap. Dreams remain dreams if you don’t act upon them.
The universe, so far, has been incredibly generous to me. I think I’ve reached a certain point where I have most of what I want in life — a supportive family, a loving partner and a very loyal set of friends and business colleagues who unconditionally stand by me through thick and thin, warts and all. I have traveled the world and back. Times twenty. I’m also in a position where I can finally give back and I do. OK FINE, I don’t have enough expensive clothes but then again you can never have enough expensive clothes, furs, jewwwwwry and leather goods but in all seriousness, overall, I’m a happy camper.
AND NOW WHAT?
The problem is, I have so much energy, drive and ambition. I always have this never-ending desire to experience new things, to do more, to do better.
I feel like I need to do something really remarkable.
Every time I look at very successful people in the news, I always, always feel inferior because I haven’t achieved anything significant in this world.
So how and where do we go from here? I’m always up for a good challenge.
Answers on a postcard…
Photo via Sonny Vandevelde
I can’t remember the last time I danced for hours. It’s one thing to go to a night club and sway the odd, spastic hip here and there and it’s another thing to down a dozen vodka red bulls, throw caution to the wind and do a proper all-night sweat-a-thon dance bender. I was an avid clubber when I was younger. I’ve been to many clubs and raves back in the day, gone through countless glowsticks and pacifiers and lollipops and platform shoes and pills and god knows what else. I’ve seen people vomit, faint, foam in the mouth, etc. I’d wear my shades not at night but in the morning. Sun rise meant it was time to go home. Or to a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend’s apartment for an afterparty.
Cocaine to my ears…
And I feel what you feel, and I do what you do. And I feel like I’m falling, falling, falling… feeeeeeeeeeel feeeeeeel feeeeel!
I dunno. There’s just something so therapeutic submitting oneself to the beat of uplifting music, throw arms in the air and jump and dance and roar like a wild animal.
Times definitely have changed though. Wind the clocks forward and here I am, a morning person, hitting the hotel breakfast buffet whenever possible. Sunlight became my best friend. Without it, I won’t have images for my blog.
I’d pop by the odd club and most places feel like four-walled rooms filled with boozed posers. Barely anyone dances, etc. I went to this “Black and White” party at the Teatro Versace in Milan last week and while the venue was packed, you can count with two hands the number of people shaking their booties. What happened to those days when people spilled drinks on each other and no one cared because everyone was dancing and everyone worshipped the DJ?
In this day and age of social media and cellphones and facebook and twitter and twitpic, people became camera-ready creatures. Now I can’t even go to a club and dance carelessly until I feel like a sweaty sponge without anyone tapping my shoulder every few minutes to ask for a photo. I don’t mind doing this of course but also, it would be nice to have a night off. It would be nice to do what I went to the club for…. to be anonymous, to let my hair down, have a nice drink and dance the night away.
I’ve been so busy during fashion month that I’ve completely forgotten about the delightful Marni and H&M collaboration. Yesterday was the launch no wonder all the Marni x H&M merchandise were gone by the time I popped by H&M store on Boulevard Hausmann last night before dinner. No surprises there. I wanted so many things from the collection — the quirky tops, all the polka dot items, the jacket with the patent leather panel on the front, the accessories, etc. It was a gorgeous, GORGEOUS collaboration.
I was so bitter last night for being empty-handed (no, I’m NOT gonna look up Marni x H&M on eBay) but then I woke up this morning with feeling relieved. I love these designer collaborations so much that I always end up not buying not just one or two items but the whole lot. Remember the Versace and Lanvin collaborations? I’ve spent so much money on those and frankly-speaking, the novelty had worn off after a week. What happened to all the clothes I bought? After shooting them for my blog, they’re probably gathering dust in my closet somewhere.
I’m going back to Stockhome and I mean Stockholm, land of H&M, early next week. When it comes to aesthetics, most Swedes are allergic to anything loud. Hopefully there are still some leftovers. Who knows. Otherwise, there’s real Marni — at least not everyone and their dog has em.
Feeling bitter is not a good feeling. Please make it go away.
Hopefully it will when I go to real Marni and of course, Prada.
As promised on Twitter earlier, here are some answers to some of your relationship & sex-related questions. I wanted to take a brief break from everything that’s going on my plate. It’s very therapeutic answering your questions.
Feel free to tweet me @bryanboy with your questions or ask them on the comments box. I’ll answer the ones I find interesting. No super graphic or explicit questions though, let’s keep everything R-Rated. You may ask anything and everything, of course, but I cannot guarantee you’ll get an answer.
Click click click!
My blog readers and twitter followers are oh so familiar with my luggage mishaps. What can I say — I’m a magnet for such encounters. Over the years I’ve had my bags lost (Florence), misdirected (Russia), delayed due to connecting flights, so on and so forth. But nothing was as traumatising as what I’ve experienced the other day.
Jorge, my very reliable driver in New York, was scheduled to pick me up at around 9AM at my hotel so I can catch my 12:30PM flight. I called my hotel’s front desk around 8:45 for luggage assistance. Blond Ben, the bellman, came up to my room. What a delight, I thought. We made the obligatory small chatter as soon as I opened the door. Where are you from? Philippines. Oh, you speak Tagalog? Yes. A friend of mine is Filipino, yaddi yaddi yadda. I gave him five bags — three of them oversized, brimming with stuff. I was still packing my hand luggage so I told him I’ll stay in my room for a few more minutes and he can go downstairs. He asked if I have a car or if I’m taking a cab. I said I have a car waiting downstairs. I instructed him to meet my driver, Jorge, downstairs and to save time (I’m in a rush), he can put my bags in the trunk. Quick, easy, efficient. I tipped him ten bucks for the favour.
I went downstairs about ten or so minutes later and my beloved Jorge was there waiting for me. After exchanging hugs, I lit a cigarette. I need my nicotine fix before that long car ride to JFK. I asked him how’s the traffic and he said it wasn’t that bad. Jorge then took two of my carry-on bags: my tote bag and my roller case. “Where’s the rest of your bags,” he asked.
I thought he was joking at first. I’ve worked with Jorge for years and he doesn’t flinch at the amount of luggage I bring. Ok, maybe except the time when I had an urgent meeting in NYC so I went there overnight and brought just one suitcase with me. He’s used to seeing me with more baggage than none.
“What do you mean?”
“Where’s the rest of your bags?”
“The bellman was supposed to bring it to you 20 minutes ago!”
To cut the long story short, the handsome Ben suddenly became numero uno on my personal shit list (Eva Mendes is high up there; I’ve just found out that she’s dating Ryan Gosling.) He inadvertently put all of my bags in this big, black SUV with OTHER passengers in it. And that car left! Nowhere to be found. Ditto with my luggage. My furs were there, my Prada was there, those wasabi peas my sister asked me to buy in bulk when I went to Tokyo before coming to New York were there, my New Year’s outfit was there, my vibrator was there, my soul was there.
I don’t know what drugs the bellmen were taking for suggesting that I wait for my bags because chances are, the other car will come back to the hotel to return the luggage. And then what, miss my long-haul flight? Then they suggested that I go to the airport and they’ll send another car to deliver my luggage. Like what, when I’m inside the airport?
I am NOT leaving Manhattan without my luggage. PERIOD.
I tried to keep my calm. I went to the front desk and asked to speak to a manager. Instead of letting me speak to authority, the guy at reception simply told me that they are aware of the situation and the Bell Manager is ‘working on it.’
I don’t know what miracle they did but they eventually got hold of the other car.
Jorge and I drove to where the car was and we were able to retrieve my bags. And I made my flight.
Can you imagine? What if the other car was a cab or a private car and not from a car service?
I don’t know what the moral lesson of this story.
I’m just happy to be reunited with my tranny box.
I’m looking for straight-forward answers to my straight-forward questions. Go!
(I apologize in advance for the pop-up results…)
Thanks guys! Feel free to post comments if you have any.
A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine who works in PR whinged how one of her clients questioned a $12 Starbucks receipt when she asked to be reimbursed for expenses. My friend laughed it off, saying, “I can’t believe they questioned coffee with one of the editors when I got them over $2 million dollars worth of press that month”.
Like any werqing gurl with dreams of nice shoes, nice bags and nice jewishry, I mean, jewelry, my eyes ballooned to the size of dinner plates when I heard the phrase “two million dollars”.
The curious cat in me asked, “how did you come up with the two million dollar figure?”
She explained to me how PR companies have records of most magazine and newspapers’ circulation figures and rate cards. When a product receives exposure, they mathematically calculate the value of based on the type of coverage, the actual size, the images used, etc. She also told me how that value is multiplied twice or thrice if a product was shot in a fashion spread because it’s not a “write-up” and it looks more “legit and authentic” to the reader.
It’s all fascinating, isn’t it? Oh the things I learn each day…
While we’re on the subject of value…
I can’t remember (more like, I totally forgot) what I was searching earlier because I landed on Charitybuzz once again. It’s that amazing website that auctions unique experiences with proceeds going to charity. I’m no stranger to that site. I remember how they auctioned off a trip to American Vogue’s offices not too long ago.
Anyway, I was toying around the site until I discovered that they’ve auctioned off fashion show tickets as well.
That’s right — all for charity’s sake!
Take a look at the price of fashion show tickets: Rebecca Minkoff – $5,000, Rodarte – $10,000, Dennis Basso – $12,000, Rebecca Taylor – $5,000, L.A.M.B Gwen Stefani – $10,000, Nicole Miller – $10,000, BCBG Max Azria – $10,000, Theysken’s Theory – $15,000, Reed Krakoff – $4,000, J Mendel – $7,000, Vera Wang – $7,000.
Of course, some of these have value-added bonuses such as a free bag, dress or a coat, or quick ‘meet and greet’ sessions which last anywhere between the time it takes to exchange air kisses to a few minutes.
And then you have the $25,000 Victoria’s Secret fashion show and after party invitation which I’m sure many, horny, testosterone-laden middle-aged men with hairy backs would be willing to fork over a cheque. Heck, some Russian billionaire’s son (who has yet to be identified) gifted Zac Efron a $100,000 bottle of champagne.
Not many of them mentioned seat assignments (with the exception of Richard Chai who offered a front row seat for Richard $7,500) so for all you know, you could be sitting in row Siberia!
How much would a Texan oil billionaire’s daughter pay for my front-row Valentino spring/summer 2012 ticket? How much would a Chinese tai-tai shell out for my front-row Louis Vuitton show invite? An amount with too many zeroes, that’s for sure. Or maybe three words: PRICE UPON REQUEST.
In light of all these figures, I cannot help but think, holy rich people of the world batman, those fashion show invites are worth a goldmine! Think about all the shows, the seats, the meet and greets, backstage trips, both mens and women’s, which I’ve attended, have skipped or missed, over the past few years, for free mind you (ok if you want to be technical, all at the price of a plane ticket and bunking at hotels or apartments)… oh my gosh, I can’t even put a hypothetical dollar value in it! Can you?
I repeat — I know and I understand that it’s all for a good cause. I think it’s great that designers are contributing to such charitable efforts as well. Also, I have no qualms with the idea of people buying whatever brings them happiness (i.e. paying for material things or intangible experiences).
I’m still dumbfounded by all of this.
There are people who are sacrificing family time, personal relationships, health, sleep, quality of life, etc to go to the shows because of work, passion and love for the industry but for some, it’s all as easy as writing a check for a couple of thousand of dollars.
While the rest of the fashion world have gone under the sea with their aquatic and sea-world inspired shows, well, I’ve had another incident with the underworld a few days ago.
To those of you who noticed that I’ve been tweeting (and emailing) less than usual, well, guess what — my iPhone was snatched from me at the Republique metro station.
This is the second time I was robbed in Paris. Remember how I got mugged in 2009?
I’ve lost many, many phones in the past and it’s frustrating because I only got my iPhone 4 earlier this year. In February to be exact.
I was going up on the escalator to switch trains and this huge tall man of African descent suddenly came up to me on my left side and grabbed my phone while texting a friend to tell her I’m on the metro and on my way to Miu Miu.
The encounter lasted about ten seconds. My phone had no casing and I had no choice but to let go when the man grabbed it. I didn’t want the sharp sides of my phone to cut my hand.
I’m sad because I have lots of memories in the phone — over 2,000 photos I took during my travels, dozens and dozens of videos and of course, my precious contacts and emails.
I spoke to Joe Zee at Miu Miu and he told me that the men are only after the phone itself. It’s more than likely for them to erase everything on the device and sell it on the black market.
I seriously hope that’s the case.
I have this feeling inside that maybe I should cry over it to get it out of my system but no matter how many times I’ve tried, I couldn’t shed a single tear.
As soon as I exited the DW Kanye West fashion show, I saw a very despondent Kristin Knox from the Clothes Whisperer arm-in-arm with one of the PR staff. They were both looking for the person who stole Kristin’s invite. Security was very tight at DW Kanye West and she missed the show because her invitation was snatched from her as she walked to the entrance. I felt bad for her.
I’m not a fan of crashing or sneaking in. Even for events I really want to go to. No means no. I, like most people, follow the appropriate protocols. Suffice to say, I’m rather visible and it would be blatantly obvious to event organizers that I crashed if they see me at an event I wasn’t invited in the first place. Not a good look in my opinion.
Unless security is extremely tight and the event is a hot-ticket show, I rarely bring my invitations anymore. I’ve had them stolen from me in the past.
To what extreme lengths would you go in order to be at a show or an event?
I’ve missed many shows because I was late, because I didn’t have enough time to go from point A to point B. I even skipped shows and events where I know I’m not gonna get any material/photos/etc to blog about, or, events I have no emotional or personal connection with. After several years of going to the collections and nurturing relationships over time, I’ve learned to make do and be contented with what I have. It is virtually impossible to go to ALL events when you only have a team of one. Not enough time, not enough resources.
While waiting for the doors at Joseph Altuzarra’s show to open, a Frenchman asked me how I got invitation. I told him in jest, well, it arrived by mail.
You know me — I love, love, LOVE meeting and chatting to my readers in flesh. However, there are times when I cannot help but feel miserable inside. Especially when people ask me if I have a spare invitation to go to a show or get them into a party. I ALWAYS do my best to be polite to EVERYONE but to some, “no, I’m sorry, I don’t have one” is not enough. People would follow you around from show to show, continuously ask you the same question, taunt you and then they’ll be rude simply because they failed to get what they want from you. I cannot afford to be rude (even if the voice at the back of my head is screaming go on, say ‘HERE. HERE’S MY FUCKING INVITE. GO HAVE IT AND FUCK OFF AND NEVER BUG ME AGAIN’) because it’s not nice.
In Milan, I spoke to an Editor in Chief who I love and admire and she asked me what my plans were for the night. I told her my plans and how excited I was and then she shared some memories how excited she was when she first started going to these glamorous and glittering events in the past. After awhile they all feel the same — a painful, draining, time-consuming obligation to attend due to various reasons (political, advertisers, etc). Now all she wants to do is to curl up in sweatpants in her hotel room and get a solid six hours of sleep each night. Even she couldn’t do that anymore.