17 posts from September 2008

I am in pants.

Pants, rants in pants-- it revolves in a spherical dome. It's close to three and I am in pants/religious threads, it's no rocket science. More of a.. meant to be. And what's up with rocket science? Can't it be "the Science Of Sleep"? It was as hard to delve into as rocket science. Shh. Unimportance. I am a floating idiot at the point being-- collecting the scattered debris of whatever's left from the sluggard scenarios for the past months. Exercise books of penned confusion. Thick Science-field bibles in a rainbow palette. Monochromes to me, still. Calculator "What's-the-use" thingamajig. Hold on-- I love calculators. I was taught to do the "3..2..1 Bang" skit on it. Whoever came up with  such dope? Radical. And back to the real world-- I target at least (read: the most minimum, to uphold a tad bit of the self-proclaimed reputation): 8/10As. Hmm. I do not have curves. It saddens me as a hormone partaker. But it excites the covert, in-disguise man in me. And I can't explain the nervous-anxious vibes until 007: Quantum of Solace comes out because I love Daniel Craig. Yes. His head is out of proportion but-- and how did I ever get to Daniel Craig's head proportion from self-renovation talks? Goddamnit. Distractions. I am also working out a part devious, part genius (lie) plan (with schedule!) to compensate the 10-month brain coma for 09's (gasp) major exam. Working: for the Chanel Small Petite Tote trustfund (aha, the 2.55 is.. out of reach.); night tuitions, minimal Interweb access.. Pfft. Who am I kidding?

[MUSIC] Roxanne - She's Got The Look

No, I am serious-- I'll do it. For future Dr. Me/assassin me/cupcake-baker me/ninja me. Whichever.

An ode to absence.

Apologies. I was out in the real world. Rampaging like a child who covets cake over the threads rack-- inflicting a meager damage to le bank account (read: there goes the Chanel trustfund..) and embracing inner Catwoman desires in the oil-slicked faux leather pants. Hmm. Natural. What's secured in le closet (in the span of 48 hours..): solid black mens belt, noir swing skirt, lamé pants, leather suspenders (read: gift), Aquasource intense moisturizer(!), light charcoal bleached raglan and chain-strapped headgear. Little luxuries-- two-digit luxuries. And perhaps-- a Mju camera come nightfall, because dear God; I am depleted of life snapshots. I can't be arsed to write, until.. now-- because: (i) Fashion Week is here-- and it gives me preternatural kicks (read: Gareth Pugh! Balmain!); (ii) out and about-- 25th, 28th in the two-winged retailer, pre-frolic face spa (ridiculous, I am turning into a girl, shit.) and a dine-out at the Curve in a couple of hours.; (iii) intermittent hostile headaches-- Mr. Mononucleosis is back; swollen glands abound.. agh. Extra-stoked on: October's self-renovation. Health regimes on the touchline, trans-fat ban (it's going to be hard..), and slapping on le sunblock to decline premature aging(?)-- things I shouldn't be thinking when I have approx. four decades before I turn 60. Yes. Testosterone rants: (i) Atletico Madrid halted win-streak: lost 1-0 to Sevilla-- Fabiano scored a screamer.; (ii) the Blues sinked Stoke 2-0, The Two Bald Men on the scoresheet: Bosingwa, Anelka. Good job, lads.; (iii) the Gunners losing to Hull (Hull!) at Emirates (at Emirates!) 2-1-- and all three goals were from Hull. Shame. I was expecting a goal romp. Watch out, Wilshere. We might import thou 5"-framed arse to the Bridge.; (iv) will miss Chelsea-Cluj clash: lack of tech-access in Malacca. Hmm.. 4-0? And, before else: Selamat Hari.. ah, Goddamnit-- there's a "Y"! Selamat Eid.

[MUSIC] David Holmes - Benedict's Return

What I have been up to (for fashion enthusiasts):  Fashion Week.

Dear God, I'm arsed.

It's about, what.. two weeks?-- from finals, and I am in an alternate continuum. In sombre commas. Penciling adjectives of.. unadulterated sloth aesthetics, against a rectangular of another world of texts and CSS scripts. I don't have a care in the world at the point where I am at. Where? Please don't ask. I am a face of a thousand questions. Science bibles to conquer, femme-clad hormones to revive (read: man in the making.), a vacuous '08 interval to writhe through. Unscathed. I have lost a lot of care to first-hand perceptions. Education. How far will I go? What am I going to be? I can't be an assassin. It could be that I wasn't kidding. Because Counter Strike child maestros don't kid about lengthening in a vertical to hold Magnums in both hands. Shrink? A tad bit depressing. No? In class, a round of scenarios reshuffle. Home lad talks about.. prostitutes. I listen, nod. Cackle out loud, at times. Unintentional. I ask for help in numerical conflicts. He helps, he gives up sometimes, but he tries not to. I am a simple person. I don't understand/love the need to indulge a short lifespan with.. numbers, wasted idiots, rules, long-winded self-help talkshows or depression. I don't live for shit like that. I have built-in rancour towards shit like that. People are apes. Idiots. Numbers are penned confusion on paper. Formulas are a vortex. Rules are for the coward batallion. Suicides? Go to a bar. Down cheap tequila. Send a card to PostSecret. No-- don't tell me it isn't as simple as that. It is. Apes make it complex. I am not an ape.

[MUSIC] People In Planes - Black Widow

But as sad as it is-- perceptions matter. And I am going to circulate in a Science-clad outer field.

What the fuck was that?

No, no-- I don't mean the Ronaldo dive after Frank's faux-tackle. Hilarious faggot. It was what it was-- a caged affair, cock-ups in ample amount, injurious tackles.. a normal one, since both teams have singular motives; Blues craves to go ahead nine points clear; Devils ain't settling with four points (with a game in hand). Right on-- the cons. Minuscule gaffes were.. the utmost repulsive thing.. besides the 1-1 draw (repulsive!). Cons: (i) Cech, John, Alex, no communication-- ball ricochet: Park Ji-Sung's goal. Albeit how luck-coated it was, the alleged "titanium" back line were left in a stupor. Stupid. Don't do it again.; (ii) Joseph John? Yes. You. Fucking learn to pass.; (iii) Blue lads ball control pre-interval was off-the-charts inferior. Passes were a mess, Mikel and Ballack have no cohesion-- Mikel should be the holding man. Chelsea is, in the most obvious manner, missing 'the Bison' Essien. I echo the world.; (iv) Bosingwa. Yes. You, now. Fucking learn to get a decent cross in the box. Kick-ass runs down the flank, there's speed, there's the unibrow-- it seems perfect now, doesn't it? Get a fucking decent cross next time.; (v) Anelka is a waste of time. And cash. And games. If it were me, I'd put.. fuck, I'd put in Di Santo. Or perhaps we'd get 3-4 more goals if we put Hilario as the main striker. Fucking radical of an idler. Where the fuck is "4-goal Anelka" in Milan? Apart from the firsthand sluggards in blue shirts-- flashes of brilliance did emerge, albeit intermittent as it is. Post-interval was stellar. The Blues reigned supreme with the ball, getting crosses into the box (read: Anelka is a twat.) and sneaking 7 sunshine-colored cards into the United sheet. Flashes of brilliance (read: Pros.): (i) I loved A. Cole and Bosingwa both as flank-runners. Strong builds with speed.; (ii) Thank the Lord for Alex! I, perhaps like others.. fidgeted a bit when he came on for Carvalho. Ricardo's an insane defender-- and Alex.. is Alex. But when he stopped Fletcher's 85th minute shot with his stomach (don't mind afterward pain-- do it for le Blues!)-- off the chain. Word.; (iii) King Salomon the saviour. Dang, to think that we might lose this lad to Arsenal/Barcelona. Others had a quiet run, Ballack and Lampard, Cech has lost his magic a tad. Credits to Fletcher, Park and Evra for the hard time. I don't like how the Blues held the match-- but at least we drew to United. And not to.. Stoke. Cue loud cough.

[MUSIC] the Fratellis - Tell Me A Lie

Mancs 6 - 0 Pompeii. Mr. Redknapp sure won't sleep well tonight. Arsenal 3 - 1 Bolton. As usual, come-backs and kick-arse counter-attacks. Brilliant one, Gunners. But here's the best news: Atletico Madrid 4 - 0 Recreativo Huelva. What the fuck-- I was in awe. Jawdropping-inclusive kind of awe. Aguero is the shizz.

Tune in.

September 27th: Kris Van Assche (dear God, I love this man to bits.) and Gareth Pugh, in consequence. September 28th: Rick Owens (read: Leather Jacket King.), Nina Ricci: I'd love for Olivier to gain back the love I had for him before this and-- wait for it! Balmain. Grr, Decarnin. September 29th: Dior, Maison Martin Margiela (cue high-pitched screams), Vivienne and Yohji also feature on the same date. I bet a $100 that it's going to be one, fine, Parisian 29th/9-- dear God, look at the line-up. Finger crossed for: alternate-continuum aesthetics at Margiela; Galliano.. being Galliano.. (and, Vivienne being Vivienne); and Yohji to suffuse calm, calculated elegance back into our heads. Yes. September 30th: Balenciaga (mm, Ghesquiere girls are swooning..), Watanabe, Viktor & Rolf, Ann Demeulemeester, Comme Des Garçons, and last one to show is Gaultier. I am restless on le workchair for Rei Kawakubo, Ghesquiere (read: More foam on the shoulders? Architecture accents for Spring? Questions, questions..) and Demuelemeester.. because she brings it. Please, do, revise her Fall/Winter '08: Reincarnation of Jack Sparrow on the Parisian planks. October 1st: Karl Lagerfeld, Ungaro, Costume National, Lacroix, Bernard Willhelm, Hussein Chalayan and Givenchy. October 2nd: Haider Ackermann (mm..), Sophia Kokosalaki and Yves Saint Laurent. I love it because there's Stefano Pilati in action. October 3rd: Chanel, Valentino, Rue du Mail, Vanessa Bruno and McQueen is last. October 4th: Elie Saab, Chloe, John Galliano. October 5th: Louis Vuitton, Lanvin, Miu Miu.

[MUSIC] Basement Jaxx - Intro Reprise

I am tuning in for: Christophe Decarnin at Balmain (because his F/W was extravagant.. and embellished, cough.), Stefano Pilati(!) for YSL-- God damn his tailoring..; Ghesquiere at Balenciaga, avant-garde shapes and multifaceted opulence galore; Margiela at Maison Martin Margiela (cough, enough said) , Kris Van Assche and Lagerfeld.

Backstreet threads, sins..

To the left: Katie Shillingford's(!) front-cover mix for Lee, with photog Nick Knight. Kick. Arse. Arose to texts from le Em-- I suck at being punctual, ever since I discovered "bed", "blanket" and "air-conditioner". Fret not-- declined series of idle-boned self, revived with a quickie in the bath, slapped on a floral frock (because I had nothing else.) I am a man in the making-- but at times hormone-tastic desires come about; floral dresses are a good back-up plan. Carpooled to the Twin Towers, le famille in tow with le Em and I at the back, sunshine-clad seats with faces a monotone. What? It was 6 o'clock on the hour hand when I manhandled the bed. Bijou Bazaar was.. skirting on the mediocre, so-so side; Jeumpa D'Ramo (read: although, hot as le Hell) was more loose, laid-back.. even if contact is shoulder-to-shoulder. But heck, it was kick-ass. Exchanged kisses with le e-store owner, picked up a midnight blue (read: obsession du mois!) number, white buttons a foursome-- and scored a salmon pink, demure frock for fifteen. I love inexpensive luxuries. Sarah drove us around, stopped over at Doll Store (indie folks, familiar?) for quick round-ups of the t-shirt imprints. And kung-fu shoes (read: flat slip-ons?). Adorable. Note: the word "adorable" here does not involve actual hostile back-flip kick actions or Chow Yun Fat. Clearing up the non-elegant aesthetics I might provoke. Ha. Hoarded the indie mini-stores in Sungei Wang. It was.. packed with scene kids. In checkered pants.. leather jackets (Level One Indie Kid) and fedoras. And I was a bit underwhelmed. Because I wasn't in tight pants/plaid shirt/holding a Mars Volta compact disc but, the leather jackets sold are fierce. Mm, a trip back late in October, perhaps? Walked through the heat's reign to Pavilion-- didn't get to see if Yves Saint Laurent had opened. Le lad and I walked back to the Twin Towers afterward. Past ska/scene gatherings at the sidewalks.. and permissible heat stroke. Dear God, thanks. I wouldn't have survived. And.. brought home a plaid shirt for Malacca's trip back. Because zinc rooftop is the foe. Heat! Zzz..

[MUSIC] Manchester Orchestra - I Could Feel A Hot One (err-- been repeating it for three hours..)

Next up: Blues/Devils clash, Paris Fashion Week (inhale! exhale! inhale! long exhale!) schedule. And, glad Kate Lanphear's immaculate neutral mix are warming up to le readers. And! News on Vogue Paris Dream Team (Melanie's with child.. ooh), Ryan McGinley-Sigur Ros collaboration. How. Fucking. Radical. Is. That?!

Lass, wipe the drool.

I couldn't forget about it either-- (read: editorial to the right, Numero 95 with Rhoda in 70's get up.) after facing a duo of vexatious beings, a lad who's.. entangled in homosexual perplexities, 8-hour gore in the lace-ups and I was a lithesome of uncouth. Back then, though-- what, August 24th? Good God, the pain. September 18th, though.. was a tad bit more let-loose, sporadic at the least. I slapped on an oversized t-shirt, in the lightest of charcoal-- opted for best-friend bandage skirt and noir tights to go. I'm on commute, and the 5th train home isn't the best ride a lass could have. Read: Hawaiian shirts (dear God, help us all), underarm odour overload, babies.. lightning bolts and flash floods. Uncomfortable. Queued, exchanged kisses with John (he makes the world a better place), with him squealing asking me to grab a necklace to get a limited goodie bag. Perused the racks, grabbed a leather jacket(!) to self-objection (read: I don't look bad-ass, don't look like a possible biker either. Damn.) and settled for nothing. Sad, isn't it! Quests I had in mind: (i) zip-hem tregging (second-skin jeans); (ii) a Balmain-inspired leopard print whats-that-thing; (iii) leather pants. Failed. And then John (a part-time matchmaker, I didn't know) dragged me to the Homme Zone to introduce me to le lad who waves, smiles at me each time I come into the store. I don't know the exact reasons-- I don't have le man-magnet face, no.. not a tad bit. Part simpering-- I refused, ran a bit, like a full fledged self-effacing femme.. that I am not. I do that, a lot-- unmannered lithe to humble, a beast to an English woman who makes tea. Unconscious mutations. What the fuck did I just write? Good God. But I waved and smiled back. Because his arse deserves, at least, a smile. Let's name him Charlie (the lad, not the ass.)

[MUSIC] The Windupdeads - Reverse of Shade

I don't do fashionable, tight-jeans men. I've been a 'hang-jeans men' for quite a period. Intriguing.