And these happened so far.
After six years of staying wiht Livejournal, I am now moving to a new blog platform.
Please visit the new address
of my blog at Wordpress. I am now at keanoidd.wordpress.com
All the entries and comments here at LJ have been exported there.
We had a lovely time together, LJ. For many years, I nursed you like a lioness her tiny cub, and, now, it is time to move on.
Hanggang dito na lamang, at maraming salamat.
I discovered a new show, and it's available on iTunes.
Face Off is a competition for special effects make-up artists who are challenged to create different looks using make-up and prosthetics. Think RuPaul's Drag Race with a lot straightness involved and tons of budget thrown in.
What is appealing about the show is that the producers cast the authorities in the field for their judges. They have a three-time Oscar winner who did the effects for Pirates of the Carribean, the guy who designed for Buffy the Vampire SLayer, and the concept director of Independence Day and Underworld.
The contestants are an interesting bunch as well. They may all come from the same background, but it matters very little, especially since the show focuses so much on the actual work being done by the contestants. There is, of course, the gratuitous tension among contestants, but, at the end of the day, only the value of the contestants' work is evaluated.
I think it is a very well-thought out show, and it shows a lot of potential. I hope it picks up and gets mainstream attention.
I am very excited. We are having two big parties over the next couple of months!
This party will be all about lips. The best lipsticks will need to jump out of our stashes. Time to give our lip colors a last run right before we throw them out to make room for the new season's collections!Unleashed.
Inspired by the African wildlife, we unleash our wildest animals. Time to let the animal prints roam. Hunting season is on!
It has been a while since I talked on this page, so I will be very rusty.
Today, I filed my very first sick leave at work. It is a disappointing experience, since I take so much pride in keeping perfect attendance at work. Even when I was flying to Manila for chemo over weekends, I would be back at work the Monday immediately following, and people at work did not even notice that my bones felt like they had shards of broken glass being shoved into them.
Today was embarrassing, though. I cannot go to work because of sore throat. Yes, just my annoying throat prevented me from going to work. Not intense migraine, not spirit-breaking root canal, just sore throat. I know, it is terribly embarrassing.
You see, a significant chunk of my work involves constant meetings over the phone. I talk for half of my day just to get my job done. Bone pain only requires firm resolve on my end to keep the show going; however, a sore throat prevents talking altogether. I feel so amateur succumbing to a sick leave just because of a scratchy throat.
I will be back to work tomorrow, and I hope this blasted throat gets better. Staying healthy is part of what I am being paid to do, and I feel embarrassed that I allowed myself to get sick.
Happy Christmas, everyone.
This is a tribute to Ma'an Fara
's video for Christmas.
(Please ignore the horrible chest make-up. I did everything in under one hour, within my first hour of being up on Christmas Day. My chest surgeries will be the end of my drag stardom. Hahaha.)
“I’m speaking from the point of view of a teacher here in the Ateneo. As I grow older, I realize more and more over the past two or three years that you cannot do everything. You have to choose your battles, you have to choose the things that you want to focus on, you have to give up some, not because those things you give up aren’t important, but you have limited time and limited energy. When you are not focused, I have realized in myself that I don’t do the things that I do as well as I could have if only I have time and focus. Our energies are afraid, our energies are dissipated, and you end up being superficial. You are spread out too thinly and you realize it might give you the impression of being busy and being occupied… and you realize, ‘I think I’ve wasted my time.’ I think it’s a realization of somebody growing older.”
- Fr. Adolfo Dacanay, SJ on what he’s learned for the past year
by Fr. James Donelan, S.J.
The English poet John Milton once wrote that those who serve stand and wait. I think I would go further and say that those who wait render the highest form of service. Waiting requires more discipline, more self-control and emotional maturity, more unshakeable faith in our cause, more unwavering hope in the future, more sustaining love in our hearts than all the great deeds of derring-do that go by the name of action.
Waiting is a mystery—a natural sacrament of life. There is a meaning hidden in all the times we have to wait. It must be an important mystery because there is so much waiting in our lives.
Everyday is filled with those little moments of waiting—testing our patience and our nerves, schooling us in our self-control—pasensya na lang. We wait for meals to be served, for a letter to arrive, for a friend, concerts and circuses. Our airline terminals, railway stations, and bus depots are temples of waiting filled with men and women who wait in joy for the arrival of a loved one—or wait in sadness to say goodbye and to give that last wave of hand. We wait for birthdays and vacations; we wait for Christmas. We wait for spring to come or autumn—for the rains to begin or stop.
And we wait for ourselves to grow from childhood to maturity. We wait for those inner voices that tell us when we are ready for the next step. We wait for graduation, for our first job, our first promotion. We wait for success, and recognition. We wait to grow up—to reach the stage where we make our own decision.
We cannot remove this waiting from our lives. It is part of the tapestry of living—the fabric in which the threads are woven that tell the story of our lives.
Yet the current philosophies would have us forget the need to wait. “Grab all the gusto you can get.” So reads one of America’s great beer advertisements—Get it now. Instant pleasure—instant transcendence. Don’t wait for anything. Life is short—eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow you’ll die. And so they rationalize us into accepting unlicensed and irresponsible freedom—premarital sex and extramarital affairs—they warn against attachment and commitment, against expecting anything of anybody, or allowing them to expect anything of us, against vows and promises, against duty and responsibility, against dropping any anchors in the currents of our life that will cause us to hold and to wait.
This may be the correct prescription for pleasure—but even that is fleeting and doubtful. What was it Shakespeare said about the mad pursuit of pleasure? “Past reason hunted, and once had, past reason hated.” Now if we wish to be real human beings, spirit as well as flesh, souls as well as heart, we have to learn to love someone else other than ourselves.
For most of all waiting means waiting for someone else. It is a mystery brushing by our face everyday like stray wind or a leaf falling from a tree. Anyone who has ever loved knows how much waiting goes into it, how much waiting is important for love to grow, to flourish through a lifetime.
Why is this so? Why can’t we have love right now—two years, three years, five years—and seemingly waste so much time? You might as well ask why a tree should take so long to bear fruit, the seed to flower, carbon to change into a diamond.
There is no simple answer, no more than there is to life’s demands: having to say goodbye to someone you love because either you or they have already made other commitments, or because they have to grow and find the meaning of their own lives, having yourself to leave home and loved ones to find your path. Goodbyes, like waiting, are also sacraments of our lives.
All we know is that growth—the budding, the flowering of love needs patient waiting. We have to give each other time to grow. There is no way we can make someone else truly love us or we love them, except through time. So we give each other that mysterious gift of waiting—of being present without making demands or asking rewards. There is nothing harder to do than this. It tests the depth and sincerity of our love. But there is life in the gift we give.
So lovers wait for each other until they can see things the same way, or let each other freely see things in quite different ways. What do we lose when lovers hurt each other and cannot regain the balance and intimacy of the way they were? They have to wait—in silence—but still be present to each other until the pain subsides to an ache and then only a memory, and the threads of the tapestry can be woven together again in a single love story.
What do we lose when we refuse to wait? When we try to find short cuts through life, when we try to incubate love and rush blindly and foolishly into a commitment we are neither mature nor responsible enough to assume? We lose the hope of ever truly loving or being loved. Think of all the great love stories of history and literature. Isn’t it of their very essence that they are filled with the strange but common mystery—that waiting is part of the substance, the basic fabric—against which the story of that true love is written?
How can we ever find either life of love if we are too impatient to wait for it?
For all my fellow idiot-busters, this strip is for you!
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
I want to have another party here at home for the holidays, and I cannot decide what the theme would be. Last time's Eyelashes Party was such a success that the pressure for the next theme party is immense. Also, I haven't fully recovered yet from the financial damage of my dress, make-up, and wigs for that party.
Any thoughts, dear friends? The kitschier, the better!
2. Contact lenses?
4. Pregnant women?
5. Ball gowns?
6. Internet meme?
7. Impersonations? (My personal favourite.)
10. Gay Pride?
Seriously, any thoughts would be welcome!
I have been watching The A-List New York for the last few days, and I can say, with patent certainty, that this terrible show has become one of my guiltiest pleasures. It is a bad, bad reality show, but the level of entertainment it provides is sickening.
This show is cray-cray.
The show follows the lives of six gay men who are supposed to be the upper crust of New York's lifestyle circuit. They all claim to be the cream of the crop, but only two of the seven gay characters display an acceptable level of breeding. I also doubt that all of them are rich, because they all go to places none of the real socialites visit.
My favourites are Ryan and Derek. Ryan is a married salon owner, and Derek is a model turned casting agent. I think Ryan has money only because he is married to a finance manager, and Derek has money because, well, daddy has money. These are the two whom I think are better-bred (not necessarily well-bred).
I love Ryan because he is genuinely kind, and I love Derek because of his bone structure.
The conflicts of these men's lives are so ridiculously juvenile, I cannot help but find out how they resolve the matters or elevate them. Their dialogue is so dumb, it pains me to listen to them speak. However, like the putrid smell under my finger nail that I keep sniffing, I cannot part myself from watching this show.
This show is so gay, all pronouns must be changed to, "she." The characters are so gay, they fart rainbows. THis show makes me so gay, I exhale glitter.
January is as exciting as pie. Drag Race Season 3 will premier!
My, my, my. They are working it this season. The teaser is life-threateningly intense!
The cast of Season 3.
There is a Filipina in the mix! Her name is Manila Luzon! She is from New York, and she is the wife of RuPaul's Drag Race Season 2's Sahara Davenport! A real case of ki-ki!
She reminds me of Ciara Sotto and some beauty queen/actress whose name I cannot remember.
I haven't picked out my favourite yet, given that their interviews
aren't as meaty as I had hoped.
Her Majesty, RuPaul.
I don't know about you, but I am already going to lose sleep with excitement over Season 3!
I will be the first to tell anyone that Lost had a brilliant first season. The storylines were taut, and the characterizations made me imagine that I was watching the stories of close friends unfold. Season 1 of Lost got me hooked for the good direction, wonderful writing, and the amazing cinematography.
Fast forward to the suceeding seasons, and Lost has reduced itself to a money-making enterprise fueled by the writers' insipidity and the directors' pandering to pedestrian sensibilities. Episode after episode, the people behind Lost betray our confidence in their capability to deliver a decent show. At one point, they decide to take the direction to time travel and blowing the island up.
I have just started watching Season 6, and I am relieved that this is the last season. No more keeping us up at night for a catharsis that is not at all cathartic.
I have applied for a leave for the next two weeks, and I had intended to use the time to relax at work. I know, it sounds bizarre, but my idea of going on leave is to go very, very slow at work instead of staying at home or going on vacation, dying of paranoia at how many issues are bursting beyond my control until I get back.
I went in at 1.00PM today, and I was out before 4.00PM, and it felt so good. Going home early gives me the illusion that I am so good at my job, I can afford to leave before 5.00PM.
Yes, dear friends, I am on leave for the next two weeks. Issues, please stay away from me.
I am working with a non-native English speaker, and he is leaving the country in a few days. Our immigration contact advised, "Please be sure that your passport is valid until you are able to get back home to India."
To this, the Indian gentleman politely replied, "My passport is valid until 2017. I think that is enough time for me to reach India."
This time last year, I was shopping for my outfit at the office for Halloween. I came to work as a slutty feathered showgirl, and I had everyone's attention since I was the only one in drag. I can still remember the looks on those old women's eyes.
See my transition through my years of doing drag. I was never a beautiful drag queen, and I am still a work in progress.
My best drag performance still.
The 2010 Eyelashes Party.
Put it in a love song.
The family that drags together stays together.
Hush, hush. There is no other way. I got the final say.
She murdered Big Bird and soaked him in grease.
During chemo, with tristantrakand.
Wearing my sister's gown, styling mine.
For the Olongapo Pride March, hair and make-up by a friend.
Again with tristantrakand, Halloween 2006.
I am only sharing this because I am skinny in this pic. Yes, I used to be blond.
The very first time I ever did drag.
My birthday 2010.
Boobs inspired by Gina Pareno
She's got something dirty on her mind.
She's got more legs than a bucket of KFC.
I'm getting sexier by the minute.
My ugliest look in drag EVER. I was drunk here, anyway.
Waiting for midnight with Deutsche Bank's M.
Channeling Sporty Spice.
Christmas, and I decided to be the mirror ball.
She just got her cherry popped.
My passion for Procter and Gamble has been ablaze ever since I took a course at the Ateneo sponsored by P&G. The class was nothing more than sales management, but the gems I picked up from that class taught me what sets P&G apart from other multinationals. Working with the cream of P&G's crop, I feel nothing but pride to be interacting with people who are bringing improvements to our lives.
This morning, we were asked to attend online the 2010 Shareholders' Meeting of P&G. I personally think that it was a brilliant move from managment to let us into that meeting; the speeches made me feel very proud to be involved with the company's intelligent, responsible, and human endeavours. Every tiny action performed by every individual is geared toward touching people's lives, and improving life.
P&G is committed to saving one life every hour by 2020. Clean water will be provided to communities that have little to no potable water. Water cleansing tablets will be distributed at cost (10 cents per tablet) to save lives of millions of children, especially those communities in Central Asia. A factory is in the works in Singapore to address the needs of these communities.
P&G hires only the best people in every community, and lends their services toward improving life and touching millions of lives. The commitment to save one life every hour will happen, because the best people in the world, propelled by the most driven company in the universe, will make it happen.
I feel blessed to be involved with the best multinational organization in the world.
There is an unmistakable elegance about shoes: their unparalleled eloquence to express one's personality invites the world to peek into one's soul.
Brian Tenorio's Eight-leather Monster.
My love affair with shoes began from when I was a small boy. My mother would take me to the department store once every year to buy one pair of leather shoes. Those shoes had better last the entire year, or else I would upset my mother who worked on a budget calculated to the last centavo. Since the shoes were priced very modestly, this pilgrimage to the department store was guaranteed annually.
Every single year, I would face the gut-wrenching responsibility of picking, among the hundreds of options, just one pair of shoes. It was very difficult to pick; in my eyes, all the shoes were stunning. However, I could have only a pair, only one. It was then that I wondered, "How would it be like if I owned more than one pair of shoes?"
My first pair of designer shoes came as a birthday gift from a then-boyfriend. It was a pair of black leather shoes made with a single piece of leather, following a silhouette with an oblique edge. The shoes outlasted the relationship before they were lost to wear and tear. I have gotten over the loss of the relationship, but I still ache for the demise of those shoes.
Once, I travelled to Hong Kong for a vacation, and happened upon a store that made python skin shoes. It was my first time to actually see shoes made with python leather, and I had to still my beating heart. Within the few minutes that followed, I emptied my wallet commissioning the shoemaker to deliver three pairs. That purchase cost me half a year's rent, but those shoes and I had a wonderful run for many years.
My all-time favourite pair of shoes was made with python skin that was treated with indigo dye; the shoes wrapped around my feet better than the skin might have hugged the python. On top of the scandalous colour and the sinful material, the silhouette of that pair was made to slice shadows. It was the pointiest shoe I had ever worn, and it challenged flat surfaces with its hazardous toe. Despite its death-like grip on everyone's attention, I preferred to wear it even in my most mundane days.
Among the more notable pairs that I own are gold sheepskin, orange croc leather, and a Chelsea boot in black and chrome/silver. I attended a fashion show once, and practically had to beg my friend to get me the six of the eight pairs I wanted from the show. I got what I wanted, and wore all pairs in the first four days.(They were very cheap pairs, don't worry.)
My fascination for shoes is yet to take a back seat. It is a love growing in intensity as I advance in age and taste. Apparently, the boy in the department store from years ago is still longing to try on more shoes before he finds interest in other pursuits.
My shoes do not just have a personality, they bleed character. Every color, material, silhouette, and attribute of my shoes point to some truth about me. My shoes are an amplified reflection of everything that is me.
As I said, shoes have an unrelenting desire to betray one's personality. To see shoes that I wear is to accept an invitation to the insanity that is my life.
Writing is a pursuit not suitable for the happy; happy people have the most uninteresting stories to tell.
There is very little to write about happiness. When one is happy, one eventually stops drawing attention to one's internal struggles. The world seems like a bright and beautiful place, and the happy relish this slice of paradise and barely find anything worthy to discuss. Happiness draws one out, toward the world, as it were. Pain, on the other hand, reels world into one's center.
Pain is a writer's bedfellow. All writers search for that one point in every story that piques an audience's interest. What, pray tell, could be more evocative, than a broken heart or an unfulfilled desire? Writing inspired by the joys of curtain shopping hardly qualifies as evocative.
Writing must command its audience into participation; happiness stirs as much emotion as a wooden spatula hanging on a kitchen wall. Fear and hurt attack an audience like an wounded lioness her hunter; happiness glides through its audience like breezy air on a humid day.
Writing is a pursuit for those familiar with pain, those who, at some point, have spat pain in the face and lived to tell the story. The most poignant writing involves stories that are framed by an experience of despair, emptiness, meaninglessness, and unfathomable sadness.
The sad have the most to offer in writing. The writing of the sad are the most legible testaments of the human condition.
I may have tried the best chocolate in Asia. Pave Chocolates in 93 East Coast Road holds the darkest hot chocolate I have had in my life. It is heaven in a cup; it doesn't hurt that the staff are intensely friendly and accommodating.
My apologies to tristantrakand
for forgetting to take you there when you were here. Kisses to bubbletangle
for insisting on having a date tonight. [DATE???]
I am still ovulating from the sip of hot chocolate I had tonight.
Pave also sells the best hazelnut butter in the universe: it is sugar-free, and preservative-free. I can imagine how well it would go with warm pandesal.
OMG. I cannot wait to get pandesal. Hazelnut butter mixed with dark chocolate spread over warm pandesal. (Excuse me, I need a napkin.)
In the spirit of celebrating the 70th anniversary of P&G Philippines, I am sharing this quote from P&G's Director for Global Human Resources.
"Let me know when employees of P&G are rude. Rude people do not belong to this company."
I received my P&G access after waiting for almost six months! Well, compared to my friends at work, my application took much less time than most.
I now have absolute access to P&G systems! Back to the Proctoid groove!
I had a good deal with idiots at work today. I encountered extremely demanding morons who were practically snatching money from my company as if they were entitled to it. Given that I love my company as much as I do, I wanted to spit at their faces and tell them how embarrassed I am that they are behaving the way they do. If their managers saw how they were treating the company, they would feel ashamed that they hired these greedy cretins.
I just hate, hate, hate when people take advantage of someone being kind to them. Note to you, penny-starved social climbers: the company is too kind to you; you do not DESERVE any of these things. You have a job because the company is kind to you. If you feel like you have to steal from the company to compensate you for your services, hey, the competitor is hiring.
Anyway, I just needed to get that out of my system.
I was at the gym tonight, and there were a lot of men stripping buck naked like it was a nude beach. One of the things that caught me by surprise when I was new was the relentlessness of walking naked at the gym lockers. I know, I know. I'm being provincial for finding naked people in the locker room weird, but I am a Filipina raised conservatively by my mother. So I secretly watch these naked boys dangle their stuff. Ho hum.
I was cooking adobo tonight, and half of the pork ended up in the trash. I left the kitchen with the pork sauteing in its own fat, and, when I got back, the bottom pile was reduced to carbon.
I was fuming mad that the pork went to waste. It was really good meat that I picked out from the supermarket, with the fat perfectly layered between the skin and meat. It was the most perfect pork belly I have seen in a long time, and it burned.
Food has been wasting in this household for way too long. Tubs of rice have been thrown out because they spoiled, piles of vegetables have been sent to the garbage because they were rotten, and heaps of leftovers have have become the refuge of generations of mold.
My patience is at an end. I hate wasted food. Wasted food is money in the trash.
Error running style:
I work very intensely during weekdays. I pull my usual lazy self together, get dressed, put on a happy face, and work like a cow to make my company, my bosses, and my friends at work happy. I take my job seriously up to the point that I take it as a personal insult if other people make my job unnecessarily difficult.
With that intensity, I expect a reprieve when I get home. My house is where I regroup and decompress my tightly wound self; like a phone to its charger, I re-energize myself when I am at home.
This is the reason why I hate, hate, hate when there is trouble at home. If my sanctuary is disrupted to the point that it becomes stressful, I feel like going on a rampage. I feel like something I had worked so hard for during the week is stolen from me. I feel cheated of the prize that I had anticipated all week.
Today, I planned on going to the gym for a much-needed workout. I brought all my accoutrements, gym bag heavy with the whole workout enchilada. Then, we had a sudden change in plans due to a dinner guest. I decided to go home instead, hoping to relax. Imagine my disappointment when I was forced to deal with tantrums.
I do not really ask for special care when I get home. I do not want a slave at my beck and call. A simple let me be environment is more than enough.
Ugh, I was so annoyed that I skipped dinner, and now I cannot sleep, which annoys me more. Call me bratty, but this already threatens to become a sucky weekend.
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