Of paint-splatters and egocentric divas

So, I was catching up on my dose of YouTube fun—watching posts from friends, serials that'll never see the light of day here in Malaysia and plain ole browsing.

Now, I know that last cycle of ANTM was pretty whacked out. Yes, I'm still crushed that McKey won over my favourites Elina and Analeigh. And gobsmacked that the clueless, bow-legged Samantha actually walked in the finale's fashion show ... and the fact I had to see Whitney Thompson again. Oh, Dominique ... why have you deserted me?

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Okay, so this new season of ANTM starts off to a crazy start. Yes, this one actually topped the pseudo-futuristic Top Model Institute of Technology nightmare that'll have every science geek turn in his badge and begin pledging to metrosexual machismo.

The cycle's premiere takes place in Las Vegas. What better place to welcome the newest batch of wannabe tarts models than the City of Sin?

Since this is Las Vegas, the show started with a historic theme with Roman centurions and togas--Ceasar's Palace, et al, remember? We have the girls streaming into the place where Tyra graced them with her divine presence as the "Goddess of Fierce." Wow. Barely 10 minutes into the show and she's bringing on the crazy. Cue screaming girls here.

Any louder and they'll sound like a bunch of Liverpudlian schoolgirls who just saw the Beatles touch down at the tarmac.

The usual round of interviews followed and we're treated to your usual reality-TV fillers. The girls run the gamut here: we have a street preacher, an epileptic, a bug-eyed (No, not you Christina!) girl who confessed to liking the sight of blood and admits she finds "nosebleeds are sexy," an Afro-ed Amazon and a former burn victim. Oh, and don't forget the silly twit who brought her entire pen collection but couldn't name 5 working models. Hello, clueless! It's a modelling competition, remember?

To cut a stupid story short, they selected the lucky 13 out of the bunch of screaming maggots girls to live in the Top Model house—which, coincidentally is filled with photos of Tyra. Goddess of Fierce? Try Goddess of Narcissism.

The lucky 13 are as follows (with stricken-through names eliminated as of to date):
1. Aminat: the Amazon with the Afro
2. Tahlia: the Burn Victim
3. Natalie: Miss Sassypants
4. Sandra: the African Bitch. Much like Nnenna and Fatima.
5. Allison: Bug-eyed, Blood-Loving Girl
6. London: Manic Street Preacher
7. Fo: the Blaxican
8. Jessica: the Pretty Girl ("I've never been called ugly"). Didn't you study your ANTM Manual? Tyra hates the "pretty-pretties."
9. Nijah: the Prom Queen
10. Celia: the Ice-Blonde Glamazon
11: Isabella: the Epileptic
12: Teyona: the Alien. The size of her forehead!
13: Kortnie: the [not-quite] Plus-Sized Girl. "My body is a temple and the temple wants cheesecake!"

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Alas, the last photo shoot was a nightmare as some girls were big disappointments with the judges, while some surprised the panel with some very, very alluring shots.

The concept of this week's photo shoot is a beauty shot with a twist; the modellettes will be spattered with coloured powder and swatches of make-up, and they need to emote according to the colour. Sounds simple, no?

Not really, if the photos are any judge.


Celia Ammerman is splattered in gray. It was an interesting take on a profile shot, but you can tell there is strength and an iron will behind her eyes.

Teyona Alienson Anderson is yellow. Frankly, I don't get what is it about this photo that made Tyrant go positively moist with her "hope and change" speech. Her eyes, while looking somewhere in the distant, still looks blank and is a classic example of the make-up doing all the work.

Metallic blue was the colour chosen for London Levi. Looking like an alabaster-skinned goddess, this photo is rife with interesting little details: the raised shoulder, the delineation of her clavicle, the sombre emotion in her blue eyes. My only gripe about the photo is that in turning her head at the photo's current angle, London lost her neck.

Would you believe the judges actually had her placed in bottom three?!?

Sandra Nyanchoka wanted to embody the purity and angelic connotations behind white. What she ended up looking like is the confused love-child of Dennis Rodman and Harley Quinn.

Thank Heavens this lousy photo sent her packing.

Passion. Energy. That was what Fo Porter embodied in this exquisite shot. The arched eyebrows, the pouty lips, the way her freckles blended with the fine smatterings of red pigment and of course, she was smiling with her eyes.

Hello! What have we here? The latest MAC ad campaign? No, it was another pleasant surprise from this cycle's underdog Tahlia Brookins. Her softly sensual look makes you want to buy violet lipstick, doesn't it?

I feel almost sorry for this cycle's resident freakshow. Allison Harvard is a young photography afficionado, and she's as cute as a button. A cutie-pie who likes blood and finds nose-bleeds sexy. She tells people she's stealing their souls with her eyes. Understandably, her shutterbug hobby lends her a slight edge over the other girls, but she has "only one look," as noted by judge Paulina Porizkova.

Her embodiment of hot pink, though beautiful, is bland and uninspired. True, it looks like it belongs among the pages of Vogue or Marie Clare but still a sub-par performance for someone who started out so strongly in the competition.

Judge Nigel Barker likens Natalie Pack to Keira Knightley. My jury's still out on that one, but I'm certain that the willowy actress is yards the better model (Coco Mademoiselle?) than this cycle's Miss Sassypants.

Alas, for Miss Hack Pack. While she is a beautiful girl—and currently is the most modelesque of the girls—she has yet to master finding the correct angles to maximize her delicate bone structure. Her head-on photo looks like she had her face squashed against a shop window.

It seems emoting orange—which is fun, vibrant and almost psychedelic—is a bit too far out of her range; making her look vague and haughtily disinterested, raised eyebrows be damned.

Green with envy? Not Aminat Ayinde. The statuesque 6'11" beauty instead went for a more earthier and softer associations with the colour. She finally mastered her angles, and her lips are perfection—do I foresee lip gloss sales skyrocketing anytime soon?

*Photos credited to the CW

Of Life's Lessons

Harking on back on where I am right now, and the road that led me here I was struck once again just how often people in general deny their true selves.

It’s true. We diminish ourselves, limit our talents and blind our far-reaching minds because we want to blend. We hug the familiar with such fear of letting go that we squall like newborns when someone amputates us free. We try to nail down shutters to windows letting the view of things new and untarnished. We solder our tongues to our throat so truths remain unheard, and wisdom withered unsaid. We bind our nimble fingers from pointing to paths not tread and cripple each other when one walks too far—or too fast.

On the flipside? We close our eyes to the realities of our own limitations and contract our own self-written Icarus-like tragedy.

Or we end up like Phaeton instead, piggybacking on another's name we presume to be their equals—if not betters.

We lie to ourselves by saying we’re noble and true but honestly are they truly virtues or they just pipelines you fill in to make yourself feel good? A husband will lie to his wife about a rough day at work, simply to avoid her smelling the secretary on his shirt. A son will lie to his mother about staying back at school, so she wouldn’t know he was in detention. An employee will lie to his superiors if it’ll clear him off the hook. We tell people of the good things we’ve done, and our achievements for what -- ? For them to start attaching their lips to our anal rings and start sucking? So they could build a tiny little shrine and ply you with itik golek for next week's nombor ekor?

Whilst I’m hardly a certified life coach, I believe we could all share with a little lesson or two, no?


Life Lessons 101:
1. Not only is Life a bitch, she has puppies.
Life, in all her myriad wonders and ugliness—and much like Fagin in Oliver Twist with his fleet of street urchins—employs underlings to bring you down. Age, Time, Luck, and Misfortune—all will try their dandiest to trip you up, knock you off of your pedestal and drown you out.

Hire a dog-catcher and keep those puppies penned.

2. When Life throws you lemons, throw back bricks! (and watch out for innocent bystanders!)
Sometimes, you end up receiving one of Life’s anal probe. Shit happens. That doesn’t mean you have to smell like one, yes?

It’s a precarious line to balance, though. Remember, standing up for yourself doesn’t mean stepping on others’ toes.

3. Love is Life’s pretty little sister.
Remember that little play by a certain bard called The Taming of the Shrew? Meet the Bianca of the family. Unfortunately, like all ugly elder sisters Life will make sure Love doesn’t get to have all the fun with you.

4. Some friends are fiends spelt with an “R.”
Yes, we love having our friends. There will be times however, when our friends are working against our best interest—because it is in their best interest that we trip and fall on our unpadded asses! That isn’t to say that most of them are mean-spirited. They just can’t help flapping their gums. Asking them for discretion is like celebrating Celine Dion’s retirement.

And we all knew how that went.

Some, however are the veritable Trojan horse in our group of friends. These leeches feeding off on your trust and goodwill infiltrate your life because they don’t have one. Consumed with envy because they can’t be you, they settle for lying in close then tearing you down when the opportunity presents itself.

Invest in a little emotional exorcism for the exotics, or just clock in a good old session with your therapist (who will no doubt be itching to pen her memoirs about the fools she’s met in her course of work!). Or your best friend—who’ll undoubtedly be a lot cheaper.

5. Drama is an elective, not a prerequisite
Yes, you know how some people are naturally flamboyant (who, ME?) while some seem to court trouble on a daily basis. To the point they can’t throw a party without the police being invited. These are the people that’ll make even RuPaul and Amanda Lepore run for the trees!

Learn the difference between stress (Work! Work! Work!) and drama (calling your friends from the office phone and whining about work!).

Remember that Drama is Life’s whorish black sheep cousin—grief masked as a one-time show, staging an over-the-top trauma. For these people—or if God forbid, you happen to be one of them!—have a handy supply of horse tranqs in your bag. You’ll need it.

Of an Open Letter

Dearest Whom Ever,

I've been listening to too many critiques and they all contradict each other.

I've been called a product of misery. Does that mean I desire company?
I've been called bipolar. Does that mean I should increase my Zalasta intake?
I've been called a body-switcher. Should I eviscerate my Mr Hyde?
I've been called a rampaging berserker on the warpath. Do I turn myself into a willing victim now?
I've been told I'm multifacted. Do you want me to limit myself?
You call me cold, yet say I carry too much passion that it exhaust those around me to keep up.
You call me ugly yet trot me out like a prize filly in a show.
You call me full of shit and still you listen to my tales of romance and fancies.

So tell me again how does this finger-pointing work --- do I stand still? or do you want me to dodge your salvo like in P. E. class?

Tell me again of this seemingly incredible monster that shapeshifts, this multitasking destroyer that chomps on unfortunate souls to feed it's painful existence, this being that carries manifold mind patterns that houses too dangerous an imagination? Does it crave virgin sacrifices?

Or does it play more like this:
You call me miserable because I can exist without others.
I am bipolar because I like to laugh my troubles out loud, and become silent when I'm thinking.
You call me a body-switcher because I can separate between my heart's dictates and my mind's demands.
I'm a berserker on the warpath because I've had enough of being a victim.
I'm multifaceted because every one I come into contact with is unique in their own special way.
I'm cold because I don't waste time with feeling as opposed to doing.
You call me ugly because I reflect what is inside your soul.
I'm full of shit because that is the only scent a swill-guzzling spawn-of-a-sow would be familiar with.


Yours sincerely,
N. E. Guy

Of vexing timings

Time.

A way to measure the passage of moments as we go throughout our life and trials. There are times when we take its passing for granted, always expecting that we have more to spare.

Alas, as my 30th birthday approaches I find myself discombobulated. No, it wasn't the regret for lost opportunities for I've always one who is never given to ponder on loss and missing chances. It was more of the time it takes to be patient. While I am quite adept at playing a waiting game much like a hunter stalking his prey, I am never known for my patience. It is a paradox--a rather telling one I admit, of deeper meanings churning in my mind.

Imagine my disgust at being told to wait for a simple outing because a person needs time to focus on finding himself/herself. What was that supposed to mean? Does one need a body atlas and a refresher course in Anatomy 101? I said to myself that it is just fine; if one wants to play an emotional Peter Pan with one's little green flying suit not far for flights of fancy to the nearest club--who am I to deny that one singular pleasure? After all, I've experienced the nightlife and while it was an enjoyable diversion, such fancies are not for me. Not with my dislike for alien crowds and shallow conversations. One shouldn't look for depths of character in a place where the bathroom walls are as translucent as a Japanese paper-house!

No one would know the harsh sting of grief and loss better than I. I would not presume to lay claim to have writ a book on monopolizing such issues but I am quite familiar with the depressive malaise that follows such cruelties Life inevatably inflicts. La, a lover leaves you for someone else. Death claimed a loved one. Friends turned into rivals, and siblings into saboteurs. Betrayal, disappointments, failures and hatred are the consequences of our own discrepancies.

Perhaps I'm too harsh for those not made as I. Perhaps I'm too much of an idealist in a place where a person's word is worth nothing--just air particles vibrated to produce platitudes that never amounted to much.

Perhaps if I'm not such a besotted fool it would've been translated differently.

Of savage findings

Often did I sometimes perch myself on one of those pyramidical cylinders at the park and wondered if all I could see was all I needed to know of this life. I lost count what I did back then but I did remember that I was a foolish little boy who once played the truant to escape the humdrum school days. Or the bullies.

I was young. Impressionable. In my pride and foolhardiness I tempted my luck too many times over and have walked away from a past while not filled with regrets, was something I would be hard-pressed to admit I was proud of.

Overly melodramatic, perhaps. Frankly honest, yes.

When I looked back on things now with eyes more seasoned towards thirty cycles of the sun, I feel like laughing at myself. Was I that absorbed in my own self-importance? Lackaday. If I'd met that boy now I would've been spitting on him. And with great relish. In retrospect, it is good to realize that we were once fools. Just that some of us would prefer not to relish the process!

It was a painful realization that I realized that whatever small capacity I had for feeling--save anger and rage--died with someone dear to me. No, I will not name names, for they're unneeded--nor pertinent--at this point. It was even more painful that whatever glimmer of light I chanced upon should tantalize me with a whispered spark ... but I am swimming aloone in these cold depths. Like the Eskimos, I have my Sedna chasing me from beyond the murky deeps.

I would like to style myself as Robinson Crusoe inside my head, that I'll find that lost savage within me and cleave him to the light.

Only when darkness meets the light will I be balanced.

"Drowning for Mako"

It was a dark cold emptiness
that I had to brave for you
Frayed knots I need to undo

My limbs grow cold and unfeeling
and I start to slip under
Don't let me go, never
let me go without an inkling

Will this be a short journey?
Or am I doomed to failure
floating, floating forever

My bones grow brittle and
I start to break apart
Oh my fragile heart!
Fractured from end to end

The water fills me, it fills me
It consumes, takes me over
And slowly, I'm pulled under

My shell expands like gossamer
And my limbs now move
Like birds in sky above
A most graceful swimmer

Ah bliss! My journey is unending
yet no longer am I lonely
My totem, you're with me

Of losing stupidity

You remember the poem about Solomon Grundy? Born on Monday ... dead on Sunday?

I forgot how it all went. Handily enough, I have a new take on a certain Solomon Grundy of mine: Born on Tuesday, doped to the gills all the way, OD'd on Sunday, died on--surprise, surprise--Tuesday.

Please, judge me not too harshly for being unsympathetic. It boggles my marbles when an intelligent young man decides to throw all he had going for him for the sake of a few extra milligramme of liquid high. I hoped it was worth it. I hoped his life--what it might have been, what he could have achieved if he wasn't so out of it--flashes before his eyes. I doubt if he was lucid enough but I hope to all that is holy he suffered. Like how his family and friends suffered.

Like those people who picked up the slack--keeping mum about his whereabaouts, helping him through his withdrawal. People who helped him to the toilet when he could barely make it past his filthy, stinking bed.

Is this what it's like in the middle of a hurricane? Standing in the middle of a deceptive calm while everything spins out of control.

Who was it that was spiralling out of the centre? Was it him, or was it us all along?

Did we try too hard to tether a fey spirit, did we smother it with our concern?

It was a life marked by sadness. Not his, for he was laughing and cackling away when we tried to slap him to his senses. No ... he was having too much fun to stop.

Well ... it finally stopped for him. And we're left to pick up the pieces.

Again.