Back to National Bookstore with the Dunhill Junkies

“Don’t you just love New York in the fall? It makes me want to buy school supplies...I’d send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address.” –Joe Fox, You’ve Got Mail

I am not in New York nor is this fall. As far as I know, I still am in Quezon City, stuck in the hot-morning-wet-afternoon season, and notably at the portal of a new school year.

I have talked about going back to school after a well-deserved vacation. I have gone on and on about how it is like going back to reality. “Stop it, Christine. You’re making me sick already,” I tell myself as I realize that I may be exaggerating things just a little bit.

Well, okay, enough of ranting about the resumption of classes.

One thing good about this time of year though is, yes, as Joe Fox said, that the air makes me want to buy school supplies. So, as any traditional Pinoy would, I headed off to National Bookstore to buy me some notebooks and pens.

I went in National Katipunan at around 6PM that day and, as expected, it was packed, so much so that I easily developed a bad mood. I was banging and bumping people’s shoulders to get them out of my way. Even the poor salesladies got a taste of my wrath. Good thing I had my earphones on. God knows what kind of back-stabbing, retaliatory comments I would’ve heard if I hadn’t.

With the two Corona notebooks, three gel pens, and one patent pissed-off look, eyebrows meeting each other and lips curled to a hostile frown, I went in line at the cashier. While the cashier was scanning the bar codes of my items, there were three things.

1. I took out my credit card because I didn’t have enough cash on me and was too lazy to visit an ATM
2. I took my earphones off so that I could hear whatever it was the cashier could probably tell me regarding my purchase
3. My ears being able to hear the free world again, I found myself in the middle of eavesdropping in a totally interesting conversation.

“Alam ko na kung ano ang gift mo sa’kin!” Said an effeminate-sounding male voice, “Isang ream ng Dunhill.”

“Isang ream ng Dunhill?” Asked the female voice the effeminate-sounding male voice was talking to, “Ano ka?”

“Oo, yun na lang ang birthday gift mo sa’kin. Isang ream…” Suddenly the effeminate-sounding male voice hesitates, “Ay wait, baka makita ng mama ko, hindi pa naman ako legal sa bahay.” The bitch, then, rambles on with, “Naku uuwi na nga pala Papa ko! I hate my dad!”

I didn’t hear nor see the female’s reaction to that, but I guess she was amused and agreeable to the proposal. “Isang ream? Hmmm... Sige, isang ream pero assorted…”

“Assorted? Sige…”

“Oo, assorted. Dunhill tsaka…Philip [Morris]!”

“Philip? Yuck!!” The bitch expresses his utmost disgust.

The female giggles as her CLASSY joke cashed in with her equally CLASSY effeminate friend.

“Marlboro na lang…” The effeminate-sounding male voice suggested. But, realizing the TACKINESS that was in his own suggestion, he comments, “[Marlboro?] Eeew. As in EEEW!”

I felt my right eyebrow raise itself.

At this point, these two voices were just that…voices. I didn’t know what they looked like as I never stole a glance…YET.

As Dunhill was APPARENTLY the Louis Vuitton of cigs, I expected the effeminate- sounding male voice to be a sophisticated-looking mestizo with plucked-thin eyebrows, a vest, and skinny jeans reeking of either Tim Yap or Rajo Laurel. As to his companion, I expected her to be a tall, skinny, rebonded-haired girl, with those hobo fashion ensembles. To put it simply, in my mind, these two were the kind of people who dress up like they're going to some club eventhough they're just heading off to buy school supplies. Those self-proclaimed fashionistas, if you know what I mean.

Expectations high, I turned my head to see who these two characters were.

The then anonymous voices were reconciled with their corresponding faces. To put it kindly, I was disappointed. Talk about let-downs. The talk was simply too big for the faces. Even BIGGER than the girl.

YOU? DUNHILL? Really? Are you freaking kidding me?

I looked away, signed the credit card receipt, grabbed my items, and stepped away.

That was one of the few times I left National pissed off and disappointed. Well, how could I not be?

It was bad enough that the place was jam-packed and the lines were long. Hearing the Dunhill conversation made it worse.

My god. How could a person who looks like this talk so condescendingly about an AFFORDABLE cig brand and so candidly about an unreasonably-priced cig? As if he was so used to basking in a pool of other unreasonably-priced things? Well, tell me. Does he strike you as someone who smokes Dunhill? I mean, if I saw this freak before I eavesdropped in their conversation, I would instantly think that he is someone who smokes, yes, but gets his supplies by “bumming” from his friends’ stock, because his Mama doesn’t give him an allowance hefty enough to have him afford even a stick of the cheapest cig in the market. Simply put, he is a smoker who looks like someone who can’t afford the habit. Talk about social climbing. Crap.

I don’t smoke so I wouldn’t know if there really is a difference in smoking different brands of cigs. But I think however smoother or more expensive a brand of smoke is, you can’t use it as a status symbol. If you look JOLOGS, no one will give a shit if you smoke tobacco leaves of gold. You are and will always be a cheap, social-climbing, wannabe to me.

To the Dunhill junkies, thanks for ruining my back-to-National trip. God forbid I see you there the next time I buy school supplies. Because if I do, there’s a big possibility na silaban ko kayong dalawa (I just might set the two of you on fire). Have you not ever seen the government warning on those packs and packs of Dunhills you buy? No, no, no. It doesn't say, "Smoking can kill you" nor does it say "Smoking is dangerous to your health. Well, yeah, to some extent, they do say that, but if it were up to me, I'd have it this way:

WARNING Cigarette smoking is dangerous to social-climbers. When the cancer from the nicotine does not kill you, I SURE AS HELL WILL.

Froshie Shocker: A Sight WITH Sore Eyes

OKAY. BACK TO REGULAR PROGRAMMING.

Back to school, back to reality. And as I promised, I will continue my hunt for douchebags and what nots, even in the confines of the halls of school.

I have not so much as dipped my toes into the academic waters yet when one fabulous find immediately came my way.

It was in the afternoon of the frosh orientation. I was part of the logistics group that: 1. prepared the tables and chairs in the dining hall for all the froshies to have lunch in, and 2. distributed the packed meals the student council ordered for the froshies.

By lunch time, I was a bit tired from pushing those tables and chairs to have the fourth floor of the college library appear as if it were the Great Hall ala Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and helping out in bringing the food up several flights of stairs. It was a good workout, though.

So there I was, hot (as in nainitan ako) and sweaty, when I noticed a stranger with a familiar face.


I went about my lunchtime duties that day but never really failed in observing "his highness". As I was enjoying myself with my ocassional glances of "HRH (his royal hotness)", noticing his, erm, physique and such, several questions came in mind:

What color are those beautiful eyes hiding behind those shades?

Is the hall too bright for HRH?

Is HRH too humble to reveal himself, his hot self behind those lenses?

Has he been crying?

OR DOES HE SIMPLY HAVE SORE EYES?

I kept on asking myself these questions and I swear I heard laughter in my head, as if someone cued it or something. If it was actually too bright in there for HRH or that he had sore eyes, I don't freaking care. I absolutely don't care much for the arrogance that he most obviously was exuding.

Did anyone ever tell you, your royal hotness, that when indoors or when attending some indoor event, just like the frosh orientation you oh so generously graced with your oh so hot presence, that as a sign of respect, you should always take your sunglasses off, even though you think they look SOO good on you?

Crap. I was really ticked off. I even thought it couldn't go worse than that, but when I saw the froshies reading their assigned cases for the afternoon and saw HRH reading with the rest of them STILL with his shades on, I wanted to die. Or maybe those shades were prescription? Again, I don't freaking care.

I do care, though, with what is going on with your face/skin. Seeing the facial troubles you are now experiencing, HRH, I definitely don't want to be you. Call 1-800-Calayan or something just so you could take off you shades already. Honestly, if you want anonymity, I suggest not a pair of sunglasses. I say go crazy with a brand spanking new ski mask. That way, you stay incognito and look as if you're exuding a bad boy image, and we don't get to see your face. See? We all win.

Living Below the Poverty Line, Celine Lopez Style

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?

Eminem: Spotted in Vigan

It has been several days since I got home from my second summer getaway for 2008. I came from my Ilocos trip last Sunday in a slightly disturbed state of mind. June has sneaked up on me. In just several days, my head will find its way back in between my law books. Coming home last Sunday was a wakeup call to the reality that is going back to school.

I cringe. And yet, all of a sudden, I smell the stench of evil satisfaction.

I took my digital camera (which I call my “husband”) out of my bag and immediately, I could not contain my excitement. I come home from a wonderful vacation to a very harsh reality. But at least, there are always going to be my paparazzied finds to console my otherwise dejected soul.

The vacation was everything BUT boring. A nice break from the monotony I have been used to at work for the past few weeks. The sights and scenes were indeed magnificent.

But of course, inevitably, I came across people who ticked me off by the mere existence and sight of them. I might have been ticked off, but the idiots surely made my day.

Take this shithead as an example:

We might not be literally right smack in the middle of the summer. But the sun is still shining oh so brightly. The heat is still scorching. So if you want NOT to get a tan, I suggest a 70SPF sunblock, not a god-damned jacket, shit. Or is he simply cold? Cold from the icy 2PM sun? The whole look’s irony is super annoying. I would’ve understood a bit if this were a female. You know the type. Those girls totally conscious of ruining their glutathione-induced fair skin. But hell, this shit is a guy. Crap.

Moving on.

The beach seemed to be filled by iconic fashion humor that sunny day. The following images contain, not adult material, but people who are adults, were on beach, and were in what we call MATABUNGKS outfits.

“Matabungks” comes from Matabungkay, or a beach somewhere in Cavite, madly popular in the early nineties, during those days places like Boracay and Palawan were still in anonymity to the vacationing public. Since those days, Matabungkay has become too, erm, stale for our taste. Okay, so by stale, I actually mean baduy. The Matabungks outfit is, hence, an outfit that is just that—baduy. Why baduy? Come on. It’s the beach. Why in God’s holy name would you swim in a cotton tank top (or worse, in an over-sized cotton T-shirt) and shorts, when you have perfectly suitable swimwear underneath? Conservative much? Don’t want to show skin? Ladies, if you all are too damn uptight to reveal even the slightest pore of your chipetik epidermis, here’s an idea: Don’t go to the beach. What’s the point, right?

This group’s outfits were not the only things that pissed me off that day on the beach. Notice that they have guys with them in their cool group (See inset, where one of them was caught wearing the guy version of the Matabungks outfit, white sando, oh yeah!). As I was going into the water, I noticed that these shitheads were smoking in the water. Yuck, right? As if they did not appear uncouth enough, I even saw a cig butt floating in the water. Gawd. Squatter. Know-nothing, uncivilized, creatures of vacationers.

If you’re not that much convinced of my assertions of what kind of people this group is, I should also mention that, they had their cottage filled with liquor, cigs, and a hookah pipe. Yes, a hookah pipe. I know, right? So appropriate for the beach…an open, family-oriented area.

Plus, the guys of the group looked like this:

Basketball shorts as board shorts, worn-out flipflops, bad-ass beer bellies, oily hair… Get what I mean? Say it with me. SQUATTER. IS-KWA-TERRRRR.

Okay, so much with getting irritated by idiots on the beach.

From the sands of Blue Lagoon, we trotted to the historical streets of Vigan.

But as our trip wound down and as we were strolling along Calle Crisologo, a celebrity made an apparition…

Not only did he lose himself in the music. He lost himself in the orange-white-yellow hoodie and cap joke of a number he had on. And, I lost my self in laughter (in my head).

So yes, this entry has come to an end. I have run out of paparazzied finds to laugh at and share. Time to face reality. Back to school. Well, it’s not ALL bad news. Maybe I could paparazzi someone in school and make this reality something to my enjoyment. Harharhar. Professors and classmates beware.