November 2, 2013
If I had ever thought or said before that Ke$ha is not a pop star worthy of my time, whose album I won’t even bother to steal from the Internet, I have Gawker to thank and all those ‘Kesha Is Not An Idiot’ type of articles that this animal sent me through the years, for turning things around for me, for letting me see what I’ve been missing all these years: glitter!
I may have professed loathing for her when she first came out but I wasn’t so loathy as to ignore Tik Tok, her catchy first single which I DID bother to steal from the Internet. I thought, that was it! No more stealing Ke$ha singles from the Internet because I have a musical reputation to uphold and it will not be tarnished by some low-rent Lady Gaga whose main gimmick is a dollar sign on her name.
But then Your Love is my Drug was released as a single and it tore through the fabric of my undeniably classy musical taste. It absolutely ripped it apart, my classy taste, the one I have so long cultivated. With the arrival of Your Love is My Drug, I seriously thought about the importance of having classiness in my taste and quickly came to the realization that I should not have classy musical taste anymore. I love a Ke$ha single, fuck a classiness. But even with the release of this song, I still wasn’t convinced. Even with all the ripping apart, my Ke$ha appreciation hymen remained intact, or tried to be.
And then Warrior came. I liked Die Young. At this point, I was positively ready to take my place in the Animal kingdom. The album Warrior turned me into an animal. Specifically, a pretty pony. But despite finally converting into some sort of animal, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see her live. When it was announced early this year that Manila was included in her Warrior tour (with only two cities in Asia), I had to be hypnotized by two animals who have long seen the majesty of Ke$ha’s music, to see her live, and since I have almost no care for reputations anymore, I acquiesced.
I loved it.
Sadly, the Philippine animals seemed too tame. I simply didn’t comprehend the non-wildness of the crowd at some of the big hits. Save for a few groups of girls, I was not comprehending the lack of hysterics at Blah Blah Blah and Dirty Love. There was golden opportunity to reach for Ke$ha’s panties and it was squandered by the iPad-waving jerks nearest the stage. All that those iPad-wavers managed to do was take a million pictures of this gorgeous pop star who was live-singing her ass and vag off in front of them. I hope those people’s iPads had a great time!
Ke$ha is not a wig-snatching type of pop diva. I don’t think she has great, grand delusions about placing so high atop in pop music royalty. When you Google ‘pop music’, her name doesn’t even come up on the first search page; it comes in the second just before Chris Brown but just right after Adele. It’s not a woeful place to end up in but you get the feeling that she could get to the first with Britney, Madonna, Katy, Rihanna and Lady Gaga. With much better songs and marketing in the future, maybe she could totally evade the fate of Willa Ford.
It wasn’t quite the spectacle that bigger divas like Beyonce and Kyle Minogue are capable of; there were two scruffy, buffish backup dancers, lots of glitter, disco balls and some balloons, but no stage backdrop and very little wig and costume changes, which are what we/I expect from my crazy divas. But being in such close proximity with a wild-dancing pop star and her two pelvic-muscle baring dancers, it felt like my face and senses have had enough but can’t help but want more: more glitter, more pelvic thrusts, more underwear-only costume changes, more getting-laid pep talks.
Just before her concert, I tweeted her, told her I’m ready for her cock pop. Minutes later, I was followed by a Ke$ha-looking account which I thought was the real Ke$ha. I was ecstatic. But now as I type this, I have recovered from my great, grand delirium; it wasn’t Ke$ha who followed me but a fan account that does not seem to understand that to describe one’s self as a ‘parody account’, one must parody. I thought me and Ke$ha had a chance at real friendship. I was very close to her during Warrior Tour and I had very soft feelings about the modesty of the concert’s attendance, but it turned out she didn’t actually follow me. This is a good thing. I do not want the baggage that comes with a pop star Twitter follow. I’m happy to leave those types of baggages to actual pop stars. I can sleep at night just knowing she and I share the same fascination for strip clubs.
June 16, 2013
I hate you all!
May 8, 2013
Things happened today in Manila, Philippines: a person who has had it with this world committed suicide via the trusty killing machine, the MRT, and caused traffic along EDSA where I pass by daily, and it allegedly happened around the same time I was on commute (In my opinion, people who commit suicide in public places, especially in Philippine public transportation, and in rush hours, are not thinking very reasonably) — totally unnoticed by me; blackout in the gloriously hot Metro Manila and I wasn’t as affected as affective people who are highly affected by all things that happen in this world and maybe also elsewhere, because I was using a laptop (so my work went uninterrupted) and I was spared from possibly grave air-con-related inconvenience because I was fine with the combination of early morning extreme air-con cold and sudden mellow, moderate office heat; and lastly, there is a election-related liquor ban being imposed because, maybe, the people who think about these things (congressmen? MMDA?) are very simple-minded because I, also sometimes insufferably simple-minded, just fail to see the sense in this, although I don’t feel like this ban is going to affect my being because there is leftover liquor in the ref and I’m lately not caring so much about being very drunk as to be roused from what I humbly think is a very senseless, snicker-worthy reason and occasion to ban liquor.
As the second child in a family of the kind that I have, there is strong evidence to support the occasional suspicion that the universe is evidently, undoubtedly indifferent to the idea of me. Maybe of you, too. Based on these observations of mine, too, I seem to be indifferent/want to affect an air of indifference to many disgraceful, mind-blowingly senseless events, but the universe, which would not suffer to be out-indifferenced by any fool, is way more indifferent and don’t I forget it.
April 21, 2013
Dave White, author of Exile in Guyville: How a Punk Rock Redneck Faggot Texan Moved to West Hollywood and Refused to be Shiny and Happy, is the kind of gay who thinks he’s a special kind of gay, who thinks that by frequently silently judging gays he despises, which he claims he would hate too had they been straight, he’s exempt from being the kind of gay other gays would also find despicable. Except that the world he lives in (Los Angeles) and the world in general has no shortage of haters and haterades. We each and everyone of us fill the world’s quota of someone’s hate. And this is true even or especially within “The Gay Community” (“Gay Community”, to me, will always and forever evoke an image of a subdivision filled with gays with really excellent gardens and exclusively non-tacky decors, with the exception of only a very few tacky, unaware gays who will of course be treated as anomalies by their super classy gay neighbors).
In DW’s community there are these types of gays:
1. Entitlement queens
2. Disco faggot douchebags (‘I’m not saying that house music is the internationally recognized sound-signifier of the faggot douchebag, but there’s a very specific type of faggot douchebag who only listens to house music, and so as a genre it’s a little guilty by association’)
3. Gays who kick your car
4. Dress-all-stupid queens
5. Gay bears
6. Gays who are like the gays in Will & Grace
7. Crystal meth queens
There are so many, but in other worlds there are these other types of gays:
1. Big word gays – gays that use multisyllabic nonsense because it makes them feel like they are wise gays.
2. Spiteful gays
3. Gays who hate Anne Hathaway
4. Gays who hate the Catholic Church
And there are many more. Feel free to create your own list.
Dave White is a film critic whose boyfriend is MSNBC’s Alonso Duralde who I like because in his review of Precious, he praises Mariah. As he should! Because of an all-consuming, mad love for his lover, Dave tries to overcome all odds and transfers to Los Angeles, leaving his beloved Texas. Among LA’s great barriers to Dave’s achievement of happiness and contentment are the aforementioned entitlement queens, reckless drivers, shouty neighborhood gays, and rude bookstore clerks. Such are his LA life’s difficulties that you can’t help but think, ‘You are so brave, Dave.’ In between battling these great obstacles, he goes from one temp job to another because he will not suffer the oppressiveness of a permanent job.
Clearly, he’s a bit of an entitlement queen himself. His real problem is that instead of 14 hours of couch-surfing and snacking, he gets only 12.
Actually, Dave White is a fun person who is not a typical gay. He calls gays faggots, which is a slur, and you get the feeling he gets away with it every time he uses it with/to his boyfriend and friends. He’s ruthless with the gays — you know how when someone who’s also a flaming homosexual refers to his fellow gays in a hissy, spiteful way because he feels like it? He’s like that with gays he dislikes and to chubbies and bimbos, too, because he’s fair. With seemingly little regard for human feelings, he talks about them in his diaries scathingly and hilariously, whether they’re directly harming him as to warrant the hissiness or they’re just existing near him. He doesn’t care for euphemisms. He will call a fat person a fattie and he’ll tell funny anecdotes about them abandonedly. In short, Dave White is a precise, funny and beautiful describer of people.
My favorite chapter is ‘Motherfucker’ because it contains one of the most breathtaking paragraphs I’ve ever read in a memoir:
‘Yes, I watch crotches. I’m a faggot. I was put on this earth to do a whole lot of that and I don’t want to shirk my responsibility to humanity… I have a soft spot for sex workers.’
Dave White is real.
If Queens Burroughs and Sedaris could kindly step aside, please. There’s a new queen in my community.
April 11, 2013
‘My thing is that I have to be myself and if that means that in that moment I don’t hear you, I don’t see you and you don’t exist to me at this moment, then that’s what it is.’
Mariah Carey, best
person singer in the world, may have accidentally articulated how we (or just I) should feel about peoples and things that need rebuking off of our aura, when the quarrelings with Nicki Minaj led to things such as this quote which she eloquently and generously elucidated in an ET interview.
My interpretation of this is: Be yourself. If within yourself something doesn’t exist in your specific moment which can be totally whatever, don’t exhaust any of your senses by hearing, seeing or smelling something that is not existing in your moment. And then let it be.
A practical application of this is: instead of making a ‘Whateveeeeeeer!’ comment in any of your social networks “‘friends’s” posts, which you have to admit the internal struggle to not do can sometimes seem so insurmountable, you just nonchalantly block everything off because, hello, you have just been guided by Mariah’s non-existent beings moment management. Learn.
April 8, 2013
Jessica Zafra, my very good, true and trusted amiga (!!!), published my book review of The Virgin of Flames in Jessica Rules the Universe and I’m here right now to immortalize the moment because it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside:
You may not be familiar with the people in Chris Abani’s The Virgin of Flames, but they are the sort of personalities you would love to gossip about. Instead of figuring what this novel is all about, you may be better off marveling at the oddities of the characters.
The novel follows its protagonist, Black, around Los Angeles as he tries to come to terms with his hauntingly ugly childhood through his art. He is a 30-something muralist on a quest to find himself in the vibrant city. He is introduced to the reader while trying on face paint, doing things with his face and basically being odd because he is An Artiste and a true weirdo. And nothing validates a weirdo more than a set of equally strange friends. He is surrounded by so much weirdness, sometimes you wish this were about them instead.
Black, to some readers, may seem too weird and foreign. He is a multiracial artist who likes a transsexual stripper, likes his Johnny Walker, and in his spare time dresses like the Virgin Mary. Is he gay? Is he a conventional weirdo? Two-hundred odd pages on and you still may not have figured him out. He keeps building the mystery. Towards the end of the novel, he even tries to learn how to tuck his penis in his butt the way a transvestite does—a real treat for guy readers. But if this were about his quest to discover his true sexuality, it may have been over in the first hundred pages. Besides, those who are not in the habit of wearing tanga to make a living would attest that dick-tucking is something you do exclusively for fun. Clearly, Black should make for an interesting read. But maybe you’d rather hang out with his penis or the sidekicks.
Bomboy Dickens is the primary sidekick. He spouts the novel’s most interesting bits of dialogue, but he’s sadly relegated to the role of comic relief. If it crosses your mind that The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is getting a worthy successor, it is due to the snappy retorts of Bomboy and his conversations with Black. Alas, Abani’s aim is not to appeal to your funny bones.
Also there is Iggy, Black’s landlady. She’s bald and she keeps a tattoo parlor and bar called The Ugly Store that has a mural filled with racist, politically-incorrect inscriptions. She keeps a midget servant who loves to quote Raymond Chandler. Iggy, she is also not like you and me.
Black’s penis, on the other hand, does not speak; nor does it have idiosyncrasies like Bomboy and Iggy. Its appearance is infrequent but its presence is major. It’s also sort of a plot-mover. Sometimes it alone drives him forward and mostly towards Sweet Girl, the immigrant Thai transsexual he’s inexplicably drawn to. Inexplicably because Black, who gives off a strong heterosexual vibe, is aware that the person he finds hopelessly alluring is also a man. Yet he persists. He is mightily attracted to Sweet Girl the lap-dancer, and that’s going to be the way it is. The intensity of Black junior’s erections dictates where this attraction is supposed to go. But this is not a love story, and Abani is resolute about not having any resolution.
Our hero obviously has Big Issues That Need Addressing rooted in his childhood traumas. If he hasn’t tired you out yet, maybe the flashbacks to his childhood will spring you back to life. His AIDS-afflicted mother is vicious—she makes the young Black perform self-flagellation in front of an altar, while his father is a confounding, ghostly presence—there, not quite there and finally, not there at all. Suddenly you think you know what this freak’s real issue is. You think you can finally feel satisfied with Black’s coming to terms with his misfortunes because he’s dealing with his feelings at last and working toward straightening out his life! But no.
If you’re exactly the kind of person who enjoys sneering at artist types, being unable to relate to them, this book may serve as an eye-opener or an entertainment featuring a gallery of freaks. You may not find anything to relate to, but its strangeness is a thing to behold. I don’t think I could trust anyone else to describe for me the rituals of strip-dancing and the art of tucking balls and shaft in one’s butt other than the seemingly demented Chris Abani.
The Virgin of Flames is a different kind of tale of self-discovery, one that doesn’t care much about reaching any discernible discovery. If you’re tired of tales of ditzy young girls and boys trying to find their luck in Hollywood, New York, or some other glamorous city, try this and have a balls-clutching experience. If you’re exasperated with small-town persons finding their way in the big, mean city, you may find a trip to Black’s lap-dance and alcohol-addled junction wildly entertaining. If anything, you’ll learn how to tuck your balls in your butt should the need for that ever arise in your boring life.