Seeing that I can't seem to upload images here in blogger, I'm resorting to a non-paparazzi, no-image-content post. I was reserving a very special back-to-school special, but it looks like that has to wait until the image uploader glitch is finally fixed.
Anyway, back to business.
Some people who walk this earth simply lack perspective in life. To me, they are two kinds of people. There are those people who lack perspective because they cannot help it. And there are those people who lack perspective because they are downright stupid, in one way or another.
I can forgive lack of perspective only if they do because they cannot help but to be lacking of any of it. It’s possible, I think. These are the Siddhartha Gautamas of our society. They grew up and got used to certain things, beyond their own choices in life. They were born and raised in a particular lifestyle such that when certain changes are introduced, they are unaware of the realities these changes entail. It is not as if they were conceived and were, right smack in the beginning of their life, given the choice on how to live their life. They could not have helped it.
But if a person lacks perspective in life and falls under the second category, those of stupid people, I cannot extend the same mercy to them. I can only extend so much forgiveness and understanding, you know.
In this kind of society that we live in now, it is no wonder that I am unforgiving of the people who lack perspective in the same air that we all breathe. It is one thing to not know and not understand. It is another to know and yet pretend not to understand. Again, stupid.
The Siddhartha Gautamas are replaced by the Paris Hiltons—the people who know nothing better. Those who act unaware, naïve, and dumb simply because it looks cute. Persecute the society that glorifies beauty over intelligence. Just the same, it is a truth we have to contend with.
Here in Manila, I know of people who “lack perspective” in life because they want to appear as affluent as possible. For some reason, a certain degree of inexperience and naivety has become the new status symbol.
I heard this one girl saying that she did not know how to cross the street. Any street. She also said she absolutely DOES NOT know how to RUN (yes, THE basic skill we all learn as precocious kids), because it makes her sweat. Hearing this girl say all this crap made me want to slap her out of her foolishness. Grrr. As if. Was she really thinking anyone would fall for her pa-cute anecdotes? Some would, but not me. Eat sh*t, I say.
This other time of long ago, I accompanied a gay acquaintance to the market. He was all coño and sh*t, no biggie as that was his usual but annoying self. There we were, in a store full of other sukis and a tindera who smelled of the goods she was selling.
“How much po ito?” Asked my gay acquaintance to the tindera.
“Singkwenta.”
This fag suddenly gave me a look and asked, in all that situation’s glory, even at the top of his squeaky voice, “What’s singkwenta?”
I stared back in disbelief. “Idiot,” I thought.
Am I painting a clearer picture of these people totally lacking perspective all of whom I absolutely hate? If you’re still lost in my figures of speech and other lame euphemisms, I advise you to read the next article I stumbled upon (thanks to Kitty Go's book, Chic Happens). If you still don’t get what I mean by “irritatingly lacking of perspective” and my ill-feelings towards these mongrels after you read it, I guess I’d have to grab a noose and start hanging myself.
The great depression
Philstar.com
by Celine R Lopez
11 September 2005
I'm flat broke. Even though my parents disowned me years ago (well, financially, at least, save for the random Fendi bag and pair of Louboutin shoes during their generous moments), I've never been this broke. I almost had an asthma attack (which I don't have) when I found out that my checking account only had 3,000 bucks. I mean, really. That can't even buy you a decent pair of shoes and maybe will account for two dinners at Pepato or a really drunken night out. I had to re-assess my plans for the future.
Causes for poverty: Moving out of ancestral home on my own meager Play-doh, funding my new fashion venture Loungerie Lux (which I hope all you readers will be suckered into buying), my addiction to anything Rhett Eala, Greyhound, couture, the latest must-have bag (the Balenciaga classic and Fendi Spy bag could have easily paid for a year's worth of rent), traveling almost every month and foie gras. Any financial analyst would just ask me to pick out his in-grown toenails if he saw my financial report for the year.
My boyfriend reads Fortune, Time, Newsweek and considers Golf Digest his tabloid. I read Us Weekly, People and Star and know more about Paris vs Nicole than the state of nation. It shows our goals in life: him to be a citizen of the world, me to be a starlet. Needless to say, my direction in life needs some manoeuvering. I'm 25, not quite the enfant terrible anymore, almost on the precipice of ceasing to be a darling ingenue. In a few years, I'll be in limbo and just be in my thirties. Let me correct that: broke and in my thirties. In other words: has-been. [Ouch! Haha.]
This month, I can actually say that I went to Australia and all I got was the W Angelina and Brad back-issue (which my friend Pepper actually paid for). So when I wear boho from now on, I'm not actually pretending to look poor like Mary Kate Olsen. I'm pure dumpster. I deserve this, really. I did this to myself.
My brother is incredible at making money. In his mid-20s, he bought a Jaguar on his own, two BMWs and a gold Rolex watch for my mother. I, on the other hand, am fantastic at spending it. Years ago, my mom tried to teach me to invest, so she gave me a sum of money to work on. Work on it I did. I tanned at the Ritz-Carlson Millennia (taking a junior suite, at that) when I felt very depressed and bought lots of Gucci, Prada and a sweet pair of earrings. Happiness and memories are priceless, says a credit card company, and I guess I'll take their advice. That was my investment. Needless to say, my chance for my mother's financial mercy was nipped in the bud.
So now it's backfiring. When I was looking around for a new apartment to re-assess my independence -- which is quite pathetic when you just start doing it in your mid-20s -- I realised how my high-maintenance lifestyle (which I don't deserve and gain from this magnificent concept called credit, which also led to the great depression) has really come to haunt me. This is officially my first apartment on my own. My first one -- when I was still the darling of my mother's eye -- was infront of Central Park in New York next to Barneys and Bergdorf. A stone throw's away from the Plaza Hotel. A charmed life despite my apartment's rather modest size.
It's funny when you start looking for a place. You start out real small. Well, I did, rather. I wanted a one-bedroom. That's all. I searched the metropolis and saw some of the most hideous pieces of real estate, if you could call them that. One was rather appealingly described as a penthouse loft. Well, it was more like a brothel/closet. It had a massive bar and a spiral case that led to the bedroom, and that was it. I was getting used to the idea of slumming -- dismal quarters stained with quarter-life-crisis angst from my predecessors. Then I found my dream building.
It really pays when your best friends are real-estate developers. It felt like it was home the moment I stepped in. The fact that my best friend lived there was a plus, much to his chagrin. Then I saw the humble one-bedrooms and comforted myself that yes, this will be my home. Mine and mine alone. Until, of course, just for kicks, I checked the two-bedrooms which I looooved -- for me it was the Playboy mansion. I was so ready to sign up and when I struck a deal with the realtor, I was in heaven. In apartment-hunting you start out small but end up suckered into something bigger and better.
Then, a few days later, I was told that the owner of the apartment was a reader of my silly column. Suddenly and mysteriously, the price rose. I leave that to speculation, but I was broken-hearted and turned down the deal. Then, just at that very moment, another unit came up; it was the biggest two-bedroom in the building and so much cheaper. What did I ever do in this life? I was so happy that I almost wrote my check out in calligraphy.
So now there you have it -- I'm a sham in chic clothing. I would rather starve than pass up Chanel pumps. This is the kind of horrible person I am. I don't even know how I got to be like this. I grew up with my grandfather, who was darling but not fabulous, if you know what I mean. He was really simple. I think my dad did this to me. He is fabulous. When we were a poor little scion family back then, he would still buy his Gucci while I was in desperate need of milk. Thus my faux-anorexic frame. Just kidding. But there is truth to that exaggeration. He was and still is the biggest label whore. He named me after his favourite fashion house, for heaven's sake. I was almost named Gucci, actually. Imagine being named Gucci in the 80s when that scandal broke. I would have never forgiven him.
So I cannot call myself nouveau poor because I was never rich to begin with. Just living way beyond my means, like all the poseurs out there. That's why I always warn you, don't be fooled by the scion. We were raised to learn how to look privileged and charmed even in the most dire of financial circumstances, like an anemic checking account.
When people turn their noses up in the air and continually say they're old rich like a voodoo chant, it just means that: they were rich once and poor now. The real deals just are. They're not obnoxious about it. So if you're a gold digger, take my advice. Don't be fooled by the flash. It may just be mirage. You may get that odd LV token of love in the beginning of your rather spectacular courtship, then you start modeling to pay for his gambling debts. Then you start seeing your beloved killing his siblings or what have you's (ie, children from outside the famille) for their inheritance. It's just plain gross. I mean, they feel entitled to it, but the truth is, it's not even their money. It's a gift. A legacy to put to good use. My mom put it in my head to bring my own bacon home.
I take pride in being a working girl. I hate being called a socialite. What is that anyway? I like to have fun in overpriced outfits, but please don't call me a socialite. Just irresponsible. And I'm now taking my future into better figures (seven, hopefully). I hope that being my new entrepreneurial and wholly independent self will make me the real deal and not just another cliched sham.
Now, do you GET what I mean? Are you not irritated?
Tell me you DO NOT hate her and people like her. Shithead of a “LOPEZ” (saying LOPEZ as if I’m supposed to be impressed by the so-called STATUS and VALUE of the otherwise lackluster surname). I literally want to go on a shooting spree. So is that what she really thinks of life below the poverty line? TOTAL LACK OF PERSPECTIVE. Talaga lang?
If a FACEPROUDRACE shirt of you bears LAY ME ON A BED OF ROSES, CELINE LOPEZ, I’ll have another made for you. It doesn’t fit you, dear. Mine would simply say, EAT SH*T, CELINE. CURSE YOU AND YOUR KNOW-NOTHING GROUPIES. It doesn’t rhyme, I know, but it SOOO works, right?
Anyway, back to business.
Some people who walk this earth simply lack perspective in life. To me, they are two kinds of people. There are those people who lack perspective because they cannot help it. And there are those people who lack perspective because they are downright stupid, in one way or another.
I can forgive lack of perspective only if they do because they cannot help but to be lacking of any of it. It’s possible, I think. These are the Siddhartha Gautamas of our society. They grew up and got used to certain things, beyond their own choices in life. They were born and raised in a particular lifestyle such that when certain changes are introduced, they are unaware of the realities these changes entail. It is not as if they were conceived and were, right smack in the beginning of their life, given the choice on how to live their life. They could not have helped it.
But if a person lacks perspective in life and falls under the second category, those of stupid people, I cannot extend the same mercy to them. I can only extend so much forgiveness and understanding, you know.
In this kind of society that we live in now, it is no wonder that I am unforgiving of the people who lack perspective in the same air that we all breathe. It is one thing to not know and not understand. It is another to know and yet pretend not to understand. Again, stupid.
The Siddhartha Gautamas are replaced by the Paris Hiltons—the people who know nothing better. Those who act unaware, naïve, and dumb simply because it looks cute. Persecute the society that glorifies beauty over intelligence. Just the same, it is a truth we have to contend with.
Here in Manila, I know of people who “lack perspective” in life because they want to appear as affluent as possible. For some reason, a certain degree of inexperience and naivety has become the new status symbol.
I heard this one girl saying that she did not know how to cross the street. Any street. She also said she absolutely DOES NOT know how to RUN (yes, THE basic skill we all learn as precocious kids), because it makes her sweat. Hearing this girl say all this crap made me want to slap her out of her foolishness. Grrr. As if. Was she really thinking anyone would fall for her pa-cute anecdotes? Some would, but not me. Eat sh*t, I say.
This other time of long ago, I accompanied a gay acquaintance to the market. He was all coño and sh*t, no biggie as that was his usual but annoying self. There we were, in a store full of other sukis and a tindera who smelled of the goods she was selling.
“How much po ito?” Asked my gay acquaintance to the tindera.
“Singkwenta.”
This fag suddenly gave me a look and asked, in all that situation’s glory, even at the top of his squeaky voice, “What’s singkwenta?”
I stared back in disbelief. “Idiot,” I thought.
Am I painting a clearer picture of these people totally lacking perspective all of whom I absolutely hate? If you’re still lost in my figures of speech and other lame euphemisms, I advise you to read the next article I stumbled upon (thanks to Kitty Go's book, Chic Happens). If you still don’t get what I mean by “irritatingly lacking of perspective” and my ill-feelings towards these mongrels after you read it, I guess I’d have to grab a noose and start hanging myself.
The great depression
Philstar.com
by Celine R Lopez
11 September 2005
I'm flat broke. Even though my parents disowned me years ago (well, financially, at least, save for the random Fendi bag and pair of Louboutin shoes during their generous moments), I've never been this broke. I almost had an asthma attack (which I don't have) when I found out that my checking account only had 3,000 bucks. I mean, really. That can't even buy you a decent pair of shoes and maybe will account for two dinners at Pepato or a really drunken night out. I had to re-assess my plans for the future.
Causes for poverty: Moving out of ancestral home on my own meager Play-doh, funding my new fashion venture Loungerie Lux (which I hope all you readers will be suckered into buying), my addiction to anything Rhett Eala, Greyhound, couture, the latest must-have bag (the Balenciaga classic and Fendi Spy bag could have easily paid for a year's worth of rent), traveling almost every month and foie gras. Any financial analyst would just ask me to pick out his in-grown toenails if he saw my financial report for the year.
My boyfriend reads Fortune, Time, Newsweek and considers Golf Digest his tabloid. I read Us Weekly, People and Star and know more about Paris vs Nicole than the state of nation. It shows our goals in life: him to be a citizen of the world, me to be a starlet. Needless to say, my direction in life needs some manoeuvering. I'm 25, not quite the enfant terrible anymore, almost on the precipice of ceasing to be a darling ingenue. In a few years, I'll be in limbo and just be in my thirties. Let me correct that: broke and in my thirties. In other words: has-been. [Ouch! Haha.]
This month, I can actually say that I went to Australia and all I got was the W Angelina and Brad back-issue (which my friend Pepper actually paid for). So when I wear boho from now on, I'm not actually pretending to look poor like Mary Kate Olsen. I'm pure dumpster. I deserve this, really. I did this to myself.
My brother is incredible at making money. In his mid-20s, he bought a Jaguar on his own, two BMWs and a gold Rolex watch for my mother. I, on the other hand, am fantastic at spending it. Years ago, my mom tried to teach me to invest, so she gave me a sum of money to work on. Work on it I did. I tanned at the Ritz-Carlson Millennia (taking a junior suite, at that) when I felt very depressed and bought lots of Gucci, Prada and a sweet pair of earrings. Happiness and memories are priceless, says a credit card company, and I guess I'll take their advice. That was my investment. Needless to say, my chance for my mother's financial mercy was nipped in the bud.
So now it's backfiring. When I was looking around for a new apartment to re-assess my independence -- which is quite pathetic when you just start doing it in your mid-20s -- I realised how my high-maintenance lifestyle (which I don't deserve and gain from this magnificent concept called credit, which also led to the great depression) has really come to haunt me. This is officially my first apartment on my own. My first one -- when I was still the darling of my mother's eye -- was infront of Central Park in New York next to Barneys and Bergdorf. A stone throw's away from the Plaza Hotel. A charmed life despite my apartment's rather modest size.
It's funny when you start looking for a place. You start out real small. Well, I did, rather. I wanted a one-bedroom. That's all. I searched the metropolis and saw some of the most hideous pieces of real estate, if you could call them that. One was rather appealingly described as a penthouse loft. Well, it was more like a brothel/closet. It had a massive bar and a spiral case that led to the bedroom, and that was it. I was getting used to the idea of slumming -- dismal quarters stained with quarter-life-crisis angst from my predecessors. Then I found my dream building.
It really pays when your best friends are real-estate developers. It felt like it was home the moment I stepped in. The fact that my best friend lived there was a plus, much to his chagrin. Then I saw the humble one-bedrooms and comforted myself that yes, this will be my home. Mine and mine alone. Until, of course, just for kicks, I checked the two-bedrooms which I looooved -- for me it was the Playboy mansion. I was so ready to sign up and when I struck a deal with the realtor, I was in heaven. In apartment-hunting you start out small but end up suckered into something bigger and better.
Then, a few days later, I was told that the owner of the apartment was a reader of my silly column. Suddenly and mysteriously, the price rose. I leave that to speculation, but I was broken-hearted and turned down the deal. Then, just at that very moment, another unit came up; it was the biggest two-bedroom in the building and so much cheaper. What did I ever do in this life? I was so happy that I almost wrote my check out in calligraphy.
So now there you have it -- I'm a sham in chic clothing. I would rather starve than pass up Chanel pumps. This is the kind of horrible person I am. I don't even know how I got to be like this. I grew up with my grandfather, who was darling but not fabulous, if you know what I mean. He was really simple. I think my dad did this to me. He is fabulous. When we were a poor little scion family back then, he would still buy his Gucci while I was in desperate need of milk. Thus my faux-anorexic frame. Just kidding. But there is truth to that exaggeration. He was and still is the biggest label whore. He named me after his favourite fashion house, for heaven's sake. I was almost named Gucci, actually. Imagine being named Gucci in the 80s when that scandal broke. I would have never forgiven him.
So I cannot call myself nouveau poor because I was never rich to begin with. Just living way beyond my means, like all the poseurs out there. That's why I always warn you, don't be fooled by the scion. We were raised to learn how to look privileged and charmed even in the most dire of financial circumstances, like an anemic checking account.
When people turn their noses up in the air and continually say they're old rich like a voodoo chant, it just means that: they were rich once and poor now. The real deals just are. They're not obnoxious about it. So if you're a gold digger, take my advice. Don't be fooled by the flash. It may just be mirage. You may get that odd LV token of love in the beginning of your rather spectacular courtship, then you start modeling to pay for his gambling debts. Then you start seeing your beloved killing his siblings or what have you's (ie, children from outside the famille) for their inheritance. It's just plain gross. I mean, they feel entitled to it, but the truth is, it's not even their money. It's a gift. A legacy to put to good use. My mom put it in my head to bring my own bacon home.
I take pride in being a working girl. I hate being called a socialite. What is that anyway? I like to have fun in overpriced outfits, but please don't call me a socialite. Just irresponsible. And I'm now taking my future into better figures (seven, hopefully). I hope that being my new entrepreneurial and wholly independent self will make me the real deal and not just another cliched sham.
Now, do you GET what I mean? Are you not irritated?
Tell me you DO NOT hate her and people like her. Shithead of a “LOPEZ” (saying LOPEZ as if I’m supposed to be impressed by the so-called STATUS and VALUE of the otherwise lackluster surname). I literally want to go on a shooting spree. So is that what she really thinks of life below the poverty line? TOTAL LACK OF PERSPECTIVE. Talaga lang?
If a FACEPROUDRACE shirt of you bears LAY ME ON A BED OF ROSES, CELINE LOPEZ, I’ll have another made for you. It doesn’t fit you, dear. Mine would simply say, EAT SH*T, CELINE. CURSE YOU AND YOUR KNOW-NOTHING GROUPIES. It doesn’t rhyme, I know, but it SOOO works, right?
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3 comments:
This reminds me of a friend who complains this way "McDo na lang tayo maglunch kasi wala akong pera e. As in!" Those were days I wanted to scream at her. In turn when I say I have no money, that can only mean I cannot afford even the cheapest Mcdo meal. Sigh! People!
I know! Why don't they just all go back to preschool or something?!
Have you read the djmontano blog, his ex Brian Gorrell made? There was an entry there that made my head tick. Brian Gorrell was saying that they were living it up in boracay one time, eating at fridays during lunch most of the times and having expensive dinners that made him think to cut back his expenses. He actually suggested to venture out to d mall and eat at Andoks for a change...but apparently this dj guy couldn't bear to be seen in d mall, much more in andoks. Price of lunch should range 300 pesos per person (at least! That was his requirement) Imagine that?!! They have a shrewd concept of poverty, and I'm sure they're the ones who'd most likely suffer tenfolds. They're plainly DRAMACIDALS.
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