Louis Vuitton

Oh dear. I had serious palpitations earlier.

(image courtesy of LouisVuitton.com, LVMH)

Vogue.co.uk:

Louis Vuitton will close Paris Fashion Week with a party to publicise its biggest store yet, opening on the Champs-Elysées on 10 October for a select clientele. A hundred "VICs" (very important clients) suspected of spending up to $200,000 a year on the luxury brand have been invited to mingle with celebrities for a preview of the store and the chance to buy limited-edition items. Sharon Stone, Serena Williams and Uma Thurman are expected to attend the event, which will comprise dinner and a visit to Vuitton’s museum in Asniéres. The opening coincides with the launch of Louis Vuitton’s online store. (26 August, 2005)

I won’t divulge anything as of yet… but… is it France or Russia this winter?

a) France: rush to the French Embassy PRONTO to apply for a tourist visa (funny how I talked about the damn visa thing yesterday), go to the travel agent, book business class airline tickets to Paris for only a 1-week stay, try to get a decent hotel suite (because of the fact that it’s fashion week, rooms at the top hotels are scarce), deprive myself of shopping, dining, going out, etc for an ENTIRE MONTH otherwise it would be no serious shopping (other than food, booze and presents) for me in Paris…

PROS:
- MIGHT be able to go to LV’s hottest ticket this year (take note of the MIGHTY word MIGHT)
- COULD BE a once in a lifetime opportunity. Well, at least for now.
- Uma Thurman. OH. MY. GOD.

CONS:
- 1-week stay only. my parents are gonna flip out cause it’s only last month that I left.
- can’t go all out on shopping (I shouldn’t have gone to HK!!!!!!!) cause last month’s bills haven’t even arrived yet!
- what’s a trip to Paris without spending big buckeroos at Louis Vuitton. Loulou de la Falaise. Colette. Hermes. Dior. Chanel?
- it would be very sad to come home empty-handed (like that would ever happen, knowing me, but still…)
- winter outfits gone to waste because of warm, tank top + cashmere cardigan, October weather

or

b) Russia: let this once in a lifetime opportunity pass, sulk for several months but revel in caviar, blinis, vodka, gorgeous Russian eye candy during hardcore winter wonderland because I know the fall/winter outfits that I bought on my recent shopping expedition (including my precious Fendi and Hermes down jacket) won’t go to waste… but I have to wait until Nov 17 to make that happen.

PROS:
- no rush, no stress
- my hotel is FREE for 12 days in Moscow because I’ve racked up over 140,000 points on my Starwood Preferred Guest account. 10,000 points = 1 free night at the Moscow Sheraton.
- caviar, blinis, vodka
- pure winter wonderland escapade
- I’ll get to see my Russian friends whom I haven’t seen since last year
- I’ll get to use my Dior snow boots, Fendi, my furs, my Hermes down jacket
- my Russian friends can finally teach me snowboarding (I’m REALLY LOOKING FORWARD TO THIS)
- I’ll get to visit North Russia where nuclear submarines are at
- very litte shopping (not set in stone cause I’ll be on a 1-day stopover in HK for last minute necessity buying) which leaves me more opportunities for next year, i.e. NYC on either Jan/Feb or Mar.

CONS:
- MIGHT miss LV’s hottest ticket this year
- COULD ONLY BE a once in a lifetime opportunity. Well, at least for now.
- Uma Thurman. OH. MY. GOD.

As I’ve said, I’m not divulging any more details unless I get my act together.

And before you start bombarding me with messages of temptation of doing BOTH, no, it can’t be both this year.

Some of us have other important things to do, such as stay within the allocated "number of days Bryan is gone away from home" quota.

God I hate decision-making.

My head is spinning. I think I need a tranquilizer of some sort, like, pronto.

I just remembered that I need to lick my parents’ ass so I can move out NEXT MONTH. Enough with procrastinating.

That’s right. I need to work on my plan on how I’m gonna get my familia de horreur AKA parentals to say:

"Yes, Bryan, we won’t have any hard feelings if you move out of the infamous birdcage. Spread your wings dear son and fly. Fly! Fly! Fly to your new pad."

With the Paris option, how am I are they going to cope?

My parentals will go straight to Asian hospital for cardiac arrest if I told them I want to move out in about 2-3 weeks AND go to Paris afterwards.

UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I’ll update you guys in a couple of hours. I’m 12 hours overdue for an article I’m writing. I need to finish it first before I start doing my cheesemax.

Be sure to visit later.

By the meantime, email me bitches! bryanboy@gmail.com.

Baboosh!

Model Citizen

I thought I’d do one last whinge before I get some serious skin-tightening beauty sleep on my Pratesi-covered mattresses.

Ever since I started this blog, I’ve received far too many emails from you, my dear readers, on how I should come visit you for some serious R & R: reckless recreation.

We all know that geography is no boundary when it comes to my fans. Who knew there’s internet access in friggin Zimbabwe? Who knew I have fans who live in Ecuador? Even folks from Winnipeg, Alberta and Littleton, Colorado, they’re all feeding themselves with verbal diarrhea coming from my little third world rectum.

As much as I’d want to visit each and every one of you, one should realize that 99% of all the countries (and that includes friggin Iraq and Afghanistan) in the world show their disgust every time they see this snot-colored piece of document that we, citizens of the brown, the l’exotique and the natives, are born with.

That’s right bitches.

Immigration officials, visa officers, diplomats and consular services representatives wordwide frown upon anyone who holds the above-pictured passport because of all the bad deeds our ancestors did, dating back when the passport got invented.

You probably won’t believe the number of citizens of this third world hell hole cesspit would do anything just to get out of the country PERMANENTLY and ILLEGALY.

And it’s fucking true.

All the stereotypes you’ve heard from your neighbour are correct.

For instance, did you know that ALL Filipinos have some sort of a relative… or a distant relative, living in the United States of the Democrats, the Republicans and the Damned?

People from my land, the land of clear blue skies, coconut trees, weather la tropicale and boring malls would do anything just to get out of the country? It doesn’t matter whether they marry a sex-starved pensioner from Europe or smuggle themselves in cheap nylon suitcases one body part at a time: a lot of people will find a way just to get out… and most of them did.

What’s even worse are illegal immigrants who are a drain to a foreign government’s resources: benefits and welfare scroungers.

So here I am, a model citizen, suffering the consequences of my fellow shitizens.

Each and every god damn country in this planet now requires a friggin visa before allowing us to breathe oxygen in their country.

Some visas are easy to get, particularly the ones where no one from my country usually go to: India, China, Mongolia, etc, while most embassies now require us to give our entire lives documented in paper: bank statements, credit card statements, income tax returns, proof of assets, house & car titles, letters from our employers or proof of our businesses and everything else that you can think of.

And yes, they even want your first born child… or your bed sheet thread count if you’re impotent.

Now I don’t mind giving out such paperwork if I wanna go to a full blown shopping and reckless recreation expedition but doing so each and every time I want to go somewhere (or getting one visa after another one expires) is a fuckin hassle.

The documents are one thing but what’s worse is the drama dealing with the embassies.

Waking up at some ungodly hour just to submit your application at the embassy is one thing.

Queueing for hours is another thing.

And having incessant chit chat with someone who wants to pry on your personal life is another…although I have to give everyone credit for not asking me my guilty pleasures, the number of people I’ve slept with and the number of times I got my hair coloured in the past.

When one of my gal pals went to a European city last year for around 2 weeks, the local embassy took around 3 weeks to a month just to process her visa application… and the embassy had her passport the whole time!

Most of these embassies employ hardcore snob-to-the-max Filipino administrative assistants who would give you the cold shoulder as if you’re a mere pleb when in reality they should be the ones hailing you because of the economic benefit they’ll get from you when you spend your dosh at their local shoppingeries.

I guess one should never forget that there are still citizens such as myself who loves living in the land of the brown, the l’exotique and the natives.

Why would I want to live somewhere else when I’m living like a fucking queen here?

I have drivers (alright, crappy, dumb drivers), I have maids.
I have Vuitton suitcases and Chanel shades.

I never fly economy
Because I hate the sound of ‘mommy’

I don’t want your fucking jobs
Coz my dry cleaning bills are worth more than your handbag!

There goes my singer/songwriting skills. Now you know why I’ll never make it to the R&B section of your local music store.

It’s true though… I’ll never, ever, ever give up whatever I have here just to live anywhere else.

Going on holidays and vacations are fine, but knock-knock-cliche-snap-snap-reality, there’s no such place like home.

So yeah, if you want me to visit your country, go ahead and write to your government and ask them to friggin waive the visa requirement for model citizens such as myself.

Otherwise screw you cause I’ll only go where the wind blows.

Baboosh!

My Pratesi and rivotril are waiting are for me. Good night/morning/afternoon everyone! bryanboy@gmail.com or +63-915-785-1492 if you need me.

Shove it!

Here’s a little act of kindness (and of course, publicity) for those who give it to me.

*rolls eyes*

As some of you know, I ocassionally check sites that refer to my site from time to time. I like to keep track of what’s going on around the world, where my site is being talked about, etc.

You see, I’m a certified A-grade hoarder. I hoard clothes, bags, accessories and such.

Heck, I even hoard love, attention and hate mail.

Anyhoo, there’s another entertaining thread on some Filipino forum somewhere. Trust me, there’s quite a few hilarious posts there.

One thing in particular is this ‘Foxistar’ person who is certainly sure that I want to be a girl but even a sex change can’t change the truth… no amount of money will make me a girl.

It looks like this fucker knows me more than I know myself.

(BTW, I’m not sure whether or not posters can re-edit their posts once they’ve posted on the boards but I wouldn’t be surprised if s/he took it off. Anyway, at least I know… and have seen better)

A sex change?

Me being a girl?

Why on earth would I want mussels on my crotch when I love being a boy, I love my cock, I like jacking off and being jacked off?

I’m not THAT deranged to turn myself into a vagina.

Yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck.

In any case, isn’t it just adorable?

What’s even more amazing is when this wart-faced douche bag emailed me earlier today.

Then I replied… and he replied…

And finally…

If I was a handbag designer, there’s no way I’d email "ugly, gay, almost famous" people who WANTS TO GET A SEX CHANGE out of the blue and bribe them with handbag endorsements in exchange for free publicity.

The right way to do it bitch is to at least kiss my ass, worship the third world soil I’m standing on and tell me I’m fucking gorgeous, fabulous, sexy and all things patronizing that you can think of. Once I’ve promoted you, then you can start the backstabbing and the filth.

Not the other way around.

Alas, you did quite the opposite.

I hope my efforts in giving you publicity pay off.

I just fucking love it. People will go to great lengths just to use you… kiss your ass, say bad shit about you, etc.

Fuckin bastards.

When the only thing I want to do is to have fuckin fun.

Nevertheless, I’m glad there are people out there – and these are the people who really MATTER – friends and genuine people – who know better. People who will never judge me based on what they see initially, but based on their own personal experiences of/with ME.

You know who you guys are and I truly appreciate each and every one of you.

I know I OWE absolutely no one any explanation – as you guys have told me over and over again – but it’s things like this that I can’t bear. Don’t worry, I’ll most definitely fine-tune myself and learn to adapt based on my experiences.

Back to the handbag bitch… who’s the bigger loser now?

Me, obviously.

Because I’ve let myself used and gave what s/he wanted.

But frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck.

Shit happens.

Look mate, your handbag concept is nice, in fact, a handful of your bags are quite cool, but your attitude fuckin stinks. Whether or not you get something out of this post you at least owe me a couple of handbags.

May you rot in handbag hell.

*runs off to get a Fendi Spy bag in white mink*

La La Lacoste

As Fashion Week in New York goes into full swing, photos are flooding in, particuary the ones from Lacoste.

Follow-up

I knew s/he’s gonna reply in a heartbeat. S/he’s on crack bryanboy.

THEN WHO THE HELL WERE YOU TARGETTING?

Coffee anyone?

Loves it!

Baboosh!

As always, y’all know my email address. bryanboy@gmail.com.

Nuclear Wintour

Dang!

You *have* to see this. Look who fell off her seat at the US Open.

Priceless.

Baboosh!

Testosterone Galore

Oh my fucking god.

The Cosmo Magazine Bachelor’s Bash was a blast.

I unleashed the inner Seventeen-magazine (ok… more like Teen Beat with JTT and Andrew Keegan on it… yuck..) reading teenage girl from within.

Never in my entire life I have publicly screamed my heart out like a fuckin desperate bitch.

And never in my entire life I have seen a vast number of faggots and females screaming their hearts out like fucking bitches in heat.

But yeah… I’m telling you, I probably spent a good half hour screaming "oh my god (because a lot of them were buttons, buttons, buttons – thanks IMS-E.)" and shrieking with my hands up in the air telling "I love you" to any random guy with a bulge on their crotch.

Whereas the girls behind me were going "Marry me _____!!" or "I wanna have babies _____!"

Loves it.

The place was friggin full, crowded and hot – my top was literally drenched with sweat when I went out of the tent… thank GOD I brought "back up" outfits with me in the car. No way I could’ve survived the night without changing clothes.

Let’s play pictionary for a bit.

Bah!

What’s strange tho is I probably didn’t even see half of whatever happened there because I didn’t wear my contacts.

I was TOTALLY disappointed when I saw that Dennis Trillo person. I know he looks short in TV a`he looks fit.

But I didn’t expect him to be 4 feet 1 inch tall!

And the straight twin brother of my little "everyone-knows-he’s-homosexual-all-he-needs-to-do-is-to-come-out" eye candy thing wasn’t there either.

Enough of this ghetto local showbiz obsession nonsense. I revealed far too much about my deadly showbiz sins already. How so so lower middle class.

I look forward to next year’s bash.

Whatever happened after the bash is best kept to myself. All I know is I got home at around 7:30AM.

Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax

# – Bryanboy loves people from Bendigo, VIC – Australia, Lambeth, London – UK, Burnaby, BC – Canada, Hildenborough, Kent – UK, Graz – Austria, Baulkam Hills, NSW – Australia and Sunbury, VIC – Australia. Bryanboy loves y’all and I wouldn’t hesitate to give each and every one of you sexual favors had I been to there.

#2 – Has anyone in this planet taken a sleeping pill/benzo which comes in small blue tablets with "P94" on one side of the pill? A friend gave me two of these last night and boy it helped me sleep! It was better than rivotril! I don’t know what they were called.

#3 – I can’t believe there’s nowhere in this city where one could go to (for booze/dancing/nice music/chill out/whatever) at 5-6AM. Anyway, me and a couple of friends ended up at Capone’s post-Fluxxe. Capone’s is this bar/small club where preppy Filipino (also known as "coño") kids go to.

I’m not feeling good today for some strange reason.

I feel sooo drowsy, cold and clammy.

I’ll update later. Email me as always, bryanboy@gmail.com.

Baboosh!

Fuck the Playboy Bunny

Oh fuck it.

The Cosmo Magazine Bachelor Bash will start in less than 2 or 3 hours and my gal pal Tina is giving a massage to her beau.

Which means my Playboy bunny ears, tail and black-tie collar piece won’t be done in time.

Screw it. Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck.

I told her last weekend that I wanna come out as a playboy bunny tonight but I guess she had other priorities.

I’m disappointed.

But it’s alright understandable.

The perils of living in the third world and not having stores that carry costume props asking favors from friends who have busy schedules.

Oh well.

There’s always a next time.

Fuck dressing up as a playboy bunny.

At next year’s Cosmo bash I’m flying to Thailand to get a friggin sex change, get a pair of tits that can give a pregnant bitch a run for her money and a vagina as tight as a 14 year old’s.

Then I’m going out as a fuckin dominatrix.

Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax

#1 – Bryanboy loves people from Auckland, NZ, Irvine, CA, La Fiance, France, La Habra, CA, my fans from Dallas, TX and Echterdingen, Germany. I love y’all… each and every one of you. Keep the love coming.

#2 – Oui, Ja, Yes, Si. He of the guilty-and-gay-until-proven-straight homosexual kind was there last night at Jenni Ep’s party lookin good. Gawd. I feel like a fuckin school girl every time I see him at La Embajada.

#3 – I got around 9,400 hits yesterday. I wonder where all of that came from. Keep spreading the word around bitches, a ton of them are from the Netherlands and Venezuela. I love you all.

#4 – Since everyone in the land of the brown and the natives aka Las Islas Filipinas is reading this blog, I’m gonna clean up my site, open up ad space and bombard those folks on dial up with ad torture. Email bryanboy@gmail.com or SMS me at +63-915-785-1492 if you want your ads to be posted here.

#5 – I need another holiday dammit. I wanna go to the beach. It’s been ages since I had maximum sun damage on top of a designer beach towel. I need to get brown and burned, from scalp to toes, on top of my virgin Chanel towel. 

#6 – A loyal fan turned my "I wish I’m plastered on fuckin billboards at the freeway" fantasy into a virtual reality. Now if only someone can turn that virtual reality into REAL 50 Feet Tall, 150 Feet Wide billboard I’ll forever be indebted.

#7 – Send more love dammit! Be fucking creative and send your love to Bryanboy@gmail.com. PLEASE AVOID PHOTOSHOP. I only made an exception to Merrill Lynch because the damn company, I’m sure, can’t take photos of all of their employees.

I think that’s all for now. Last night’s party was one of the best parties recently and it better have a part 2.

I need to get dressed. Say hi to me later.

I’m nice and sweet.

Despite what y’all fuckfaced whoring scumbags think.

I love you all.

Baboosh!

SPASIBO!

Fucking 6:10AM here.

I’m at a loss of words. Can’t function straight.

But a promise is a promise.

Booze or not, let’s play pictionary. Text to follow tomorrow.

I need to sleep.

Nevertheless, I love YOU ALL.

Especially Pepper Teeheknowswhoheis. And Rajo L., whom I never got to spend quality time to talk… but there’s always a next time I’m sure.

CRL – One phrase: THANK you.

Now back to pictionary…

Baboosh!!!!

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.

Oh well.

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. bryanboy@gmail.com or +63-915-785-1492.

Baboosh!