November 11, 2005

Meet The New Breed of Man


the Mythic Hero archetype
Originally uploaded by BellePhotos.

Apparently, my darling friend Oshun tells me that Metrosexuals are officially passé. Uncool. Untrendy. Un-in. Dare I say it, sissy even. Manicured nails, GQ mags and David Beckham are out. Cigars, The Economist and Sonny Bono are in.

It’s Ubersexual to you, buddy. Think George Clooney, Pierce Brosnan, Bill Clinton and Donald Trump (Donald Trump?? Great. We now have a generation of men aspiring to achieve the world's worst comb-over).

The Metrosexual lasted a grand decade and personally, I'm giving this Ubersexual man five years tops. Today, I'm not here to expound the virtues of the Uberdude. I’m here to predict what's about to crawl out of the woodwork next. That's right ...

... Meet The Confusexual

This new man is totally, absolutely, utterly, hopelessly, shamelessly … confused. He is in a total state of bewilderment. He struggles to grapple with what society (and by society, we mean women and social commentators who spend their time playing Scrabble and dreaming up ridiculous new terms which they then declare are ‘in’) expects the ideal man to be. He winds up with … zilch.

He gets frustrated. He resents being tagged like some cow. He fantasises about retreating to the mountains and spending his days yodeling and pondering the meaning of life.

His hermit-like existence will come to an end the day categories cease to exist. The day we leave men and let them be whatever, whomever the hell they want. The day The Man finally emerges from the ashes, like a long-forgotten phoenix rising from the uh … pond.

Meet The Man

The Man is comfortable in his own skin. He doesn’t give a rat’s arse for labels. The Man’s philosophy in life is “Who The Hell Cares?”.

He can be metro one day and uber the next. He can go renaissance this week and turn into a SNAG the week after. He can saunter around town with dirt under his fingernails today and flaunt his murse (which, apparently, is what they call a male purse) to a play tomorrow.

The Man can do and be any goddamned thing he wants to be. Corporate giants peddling their wares might be cheesed off with a new demographic that’s so incredibly undefinable but will The Man care? Not one bit.

And you know what? Neither will The Woman.

November 06, 2005

Metrosexuals: Mascara Maketh The Man


Men used to be either one of two things: dead or alive. Then it was dead, alive, straight or gay. Then bi … and a whole lot of other bizarre (and highly disturbing) sexual orientations …

And now there’s the Great Metrosexual. A man who:

1) Spawns on urban ground – because that’s where Prada and Versace hold their forts

2) Cooks with great flair – his culinary repertoire boasts of more than beans from a can or boiled kai-lan tossed in soya sauce

3) Appreciates literature, cinema and/or other arts – does not consider Jackass to be the Be All & End All of good entertainment

4) Has an eye for interior design – does not place a vase of plastic flowers on the coffee table with pride and say, “No one will be able to tell the difference!“

5) Knows wine – knows his Chardonnays from his Rieslings, his Cabernet Sauvignons from his Merlots

6) Is a lover of music – understands that there’s more to jazz than just Michael Bublé or Kenny G

7) Enjoys men's magazines – is not ashamed to be seen reading “3 Secrets To Flawless Skin: Exfoliate, Exfoliate, Exfoliate” in the LRT

8) Is groomed to perfection – knows that a ‘face mask’ doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with hockey or a fancy dress party

9) May or may not be gay – is a charmer and will never use pickup lines like, “If I told you you have a beautiful body, will you hold it against me?”

Apparently, the term ‘metrosexual’ first made its appearance in a 1994 article called "Here Come The Mirror Men" by Mark Simpson. So I guess it’s not the carefully molded product of the 21st century I once thought it was. But things are sure coming to a head, especially when sensationally famous male icons (read Beckham, Pitt and Cruise) are proud wearers of the metrosexual tag.

Is this the way of the future for men? Time magazine, in a recent issue, claims it’s what women want. All I can say is, “Uh, do we really?”

Do we really want a man whose talons are more immaculate than ours? A man who’s on a first-name basis with every hairstylist in town? A man who USES MASCARA?

One day, we will wake up and hear, “Honey, does my butt look big in this?” and we won’t know if we said it or he did. Good freaking grief.

Sure, it’ll be great to have a man who can feel emotions other than “I’m hungry” or “I’m horny”. It’ll be rather nice to have one who will happily cook and clean without acting like he’s just been sentenced to the gallows. One who actually responds to your distress calls, listens to you and empathises with you.

But do metrosexuals really exist? Straight ones, I mean? Or are they simply another group of mythical creatures painted by money-grubbing corporate types in order to formulate a new demographic of shoppers? Kind of like the successful man who “has it all”, the super career mom who effortlessly juggles “work and family” or the 40-something year old woman whose face and buttocks are as smooth as a billiard ball.

Mark Simpson hailed the metrosexual as an advertiser’s walking wet dream. Perhaps that’s all they really are - an unattainable ideal designed to get men to go out and … SHOP. Shop for skincare products. Shop for haircare products. Shop for self-help books. Sign up for yoga classes. Buy designer labels. Jewelry. Shoes, shoes, shoes.

We used to be able to count on men to be the uncomplicated sex. They were the ones who were easy to please (just show up naked, with a bucket of chicken and don’t block the TV … you know how the joke goes). Their sole purpose in life was to earn money for their wives to spend. They needed no bathroom shelf space – all they did was brush their teeth and shave. Sometimes, they smelled (refer to "What's the difference between a man and a chimpanzee?").

We can’t count on them to be this way anymore. They’re turning into women. They’re turning into US. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery but seriously, I’d rather they just stop burping for entertainment.

One day, we’ll turn around in bed and find ourselves peering into a face covered with a hydration mask. It’ll all be too much and we’ll shriek, “Be a man!!!!” and he’ll say, “I only wish I knew what that meant.”

November 05, 2005

Will The Real Writer Please Stand Up?


“Everyone’s a writer,” somebody grumbles. What makes one a real writer? If it’s merely the ability to string a coherent sentence together, then I suppose yes, everyone’s a writer. That’s kind of like saying that Jessica Simpson’s an actor, isn’t it?

I’m going to bring my question closer to home: Am I a writer? Well, I’ve written stuff. Some have been published, others not. Some are pretty good, others suck. Some I'm proud of, others I'd rather jump headfirst off the Twin Towers than have people read.

But what does one have to do to earn the right to be called a writer?

Is a writer someone who’s published something? That would mean that the thousands of mentor-wannabes out there who’ve scribbled 32-page get-rich-quick books would be writers too. That’s a horrifying thought. If not, are we talking about those who’ve published a novel? What about those who’ve written crap novels?

Is a writer one who writes well then? If so, who determines how well? A panel of judges who may or may not have published crap themselves? Is one a writer only when one has been recognized by an authority? What about one whose writing is very popular with the masses (most of whom are probably ignoramuses) but is slammed by book reviewers?

Are you a writer if you write brochures and direct mailers for a living? Or are you a writer only if you have the capability of churning dozens of pages on your word processor at a go? In which case, advertising copywriters who usually don’t write more than 3½ words a page would be ruled out completely.

Okay. This is my stereotype of a writer:

1. is intellectual looking (wire-framed glasses, tousled hair, wrinkly clothes, the works)
2. has eyes that pierce right through your soul
3. is absolutely witty and fascinating in everything he says
4. is keenly observant
5. uses obscure words most people don’t and pronounces them with great aplomb
6. reads books that are NOT on the MPH bestsellers’ list (which currently features nothing but Dan Brown – why in hell, I haven’t the foggiest)
7. is philosophical
8. questions everything
9. can be a bit of a renegade
10. has opinions about everything
11. is passionate
12. is a lover of foreign films (would rather nuke him/herself than be the first in line to catch some formulaic Hollywood garbage like Mr & Mrs Smith)

Truth be told, I hardly conform to the list above. I don’t wear glasses, am not particularly fond of wrinkly clothes, have read Dan Brown (in my defense, I found it to be total drudgery), have a perpetual problem with spelling 'manuver' ... 'manuovre' ... 'manure' ... whatever, and once mispronounced the word ‘ingenue’. If it’s any consolation, I have not / will not ever watch Mr & Mrs Smith.

I still don’t have the answer to my question. I’m now wondering why I brought this up in the first place. So, I am going to chicken out and unceremoniously plonk an untimely close to this post. It’s an anti-climax, I know, but on the plus side, I spare my brain cells the agony of having to choke up some profound conclusion and I get to keep my ‘writer’ label intact.

November 03, 2005

Breast. Feeding. Yes, You Heard Right


Afternoon tea
Originally uploaded by GeoWombats.
Yup. That’s what I’ve been doing, hunched over in front of my PC in the office. Writing a guide on breastfeeding. Anyone who’s known me for even close to 7 seconds will respond with: “You? Write a guide? On breastfeeding?!!”. I might as well have announced that I’ve been writing a book on gorilla-scalping.

“What do you know about breastfeeding?” they ask incredulously.

Well, the closest I’ve ever gotten to developing anything even remotely resembling maternal instincts is touching the dog-eared tip of an Anne Geddes photo (in the process of tossing it into the dustbin). I am not married, have no kids and I am physically incapable of making cooing noises or performing any of those infantile antics adults usually perform to entertain babies. So I guess the answer to that question is obvious: nothing.

But after a couple of months on the project, I’d like to share 7 things I have learned:

1. Breast milk is best for baby.

2. Contrary to popular belief, breastfeeding does not make your boobs sag. It’s them blasted childbirth and gravity that turn your boobs into hanging tubes of flesh (yes, and this is supposed to make women feel better how?). I’m not entirely convinced about this but my boss and/or some doctors on the editorial panel may be reading this, so this is purely self-preservation.

3. Breastfeeding’s like really fulfilling and makes you feel like super-mom and all that.

4. You’ve gotta breastfeed the baby a zillion times a day and another zillion times in the dead of the night.

5. You can’t yell at your husband or call him a good-for-nothing #@%@@#!! while you’re breastfeeding the baby because this will disrupt the bonding process. You should also not be watching anything disturbing like horror movies, porn or any Mariah Carey music video while breastfeeding.

6. If you breastfeed right, your baby’s poop should be mustard-yellow in colour with tiny little seed-like things in them. It may be watery and look like diarrhea but rest assured, it's not. Well, not unless he’s pooping 24/7 and stinking up the house, in which case you should bring him to your friendly neighbourhood paed.

7. You may or may not know this but babies bite. Hard.

My Love Affair with Monsieur Gym


take me as I am
Originally uploaded by Gabriele®.

In my oblong leather purse sits my gym membership card. It’s a symbol of my commitment. It represents determination, discipline, motivation, rebirth, a reincarnation of the mind, body, soul, spirit…

…Oh, stop waxing lyrical and let’s be Frank here (we can be Lucy tomorrow – hahaha!).

My gym card is just a piece of plastic that simply means that money is taken out of my bank account every month so that I can crawl through the jam at 6.30 every morning, pay two bucks for parking, sweat my butt off on a machine, stretch my body until my flesh split, shower in a locker room with a gaggle of middle-aged housewives exchanging siew pau recipes and fight with other wet-haired girls for the hairdryer.

Vanity, vanity… all is vanity.

This love affair of mine is not unique. It’s triggered by the shocking revelation that:

a) my metabolism has, for some bizarre reason unknown to man, plummeted to new depths. Depths that I never even knew existed. Depths lower than a snake’s belly.

b) which means that I can no longer stuff three bags of Chickadees down my throat and still fit into my skinny jeans

c) which means that if I ignore this situation, there’s a high chance I’d wind up looking like Gutsy Girl (before she sat on the thief and became the ambassador of a slimming centre)

d) which means that I have to peel myself off my swivel chair and participate in this activity most people call exercise

e) which means I have to join the gym because I find it impossible to warm up to the concept of running around in circles at the playground

So I joined the gym. I went in every single day. My gym card began to smoke because I swiped it so much. I worked my ass off on every one of them big machines. Then I fell sick, took a break and never went back. I lasted a grand total of three months.

After my glorious failure, I was eaten up by shame. I was such a disgrace. I couldn’t bring myself to go back. Going back would be tantamount to admitting that I was wrong and that I needed the gym. I was too proud. So I did what anybody would do after coming out of an intense love affair – I went on the rebound.

I bought a treadmill. I called one of those Smart Shop numbers on TV and ordered an Ab Trainer (it guaranteed rock-hard abs in just 30 seconds a day!). I bought several sets of dumb bells. I bought a whole lot of stuff, all of which I never used.

It was when I caught myself mulling over a slimming advert and wondering how many inches I could shave off my thighs that I realised how much I wanted him back.

I wanted my gym back. The track pants sticky with perspiration. The squishy water bottle. The locker key with the number tag. The fluffy face towel. I wanted them all back.

And most of all, I wanted the card back.

Now, when I look at my card, I’m reminded of my renewed commitment. This time, things will be different. This time, I won’t bail out.

This time, it will last.

Forever.

November 02, 2005

Confessions of a Noncommittal Blogger


Malacca, malaysia
Originally uploaded by winnieywp.
I go into a Blog Frenzy every few months. Yes, I do. It's usually triggered by stumbling upon someone else's blog, followed by a wave of guilt after realising that I've left my own blog all dormant and cobwebby. Which explains why I've posted half a dozen blogs today. Mostly stuff I've scribbled (ie. typed) over the weeks and stored in my pen drive.

Decided to put this photo for good measure. They say a picture's worth a thousand words. I figure this one will be worth a couple of months of non-blogging. Cheers.

Great Truths about Money & Immortality



Originally uploaded by give_blood.
1. I have all the money I need … if I die by 4 o’clock today. (Henry Youngman)

2. You can’t have everything. Where would you put it? (Steven Wright)

3. Money was invented so we’d know how much we owe. (WK)

4. I intend to live forever. So far, so good. (Steven Wright)

5. I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying. (Woody Allen)

6. Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons. (Woody Allen)

7. What’s the use of happiness? It can’t buy you money! (Henry Youngman)

(WK) = Who Knows?

"To love is to suffer ...


Atheist 9
Originally uploaded by Planet Pixel.
... To avoid suffering, one must not love. But then, one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer; to not love is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be happy, one must love or love to suffer or suffer from too much happiness.”

Woody Allen
American Actor, Author, Screenwriter and Film Director, b.1935

I Take Issue With The Word Sweet

To me, “You’re so sweet” implies:

1. nice, benign, pleasant, mundanely pleasant.

2. unexciting, sugary, weak, harmless, no edge, edge-less.

3. no threat, threat-less, dull as dishrag.

4. someone who spends her afternoons folding miniature stars from fluorescent colour papers, pouring them into a jar and decorating it with a pink ribbon so that she can give it to her little boyfriend on their 3rd month anniversary.

5. tiny smiles, agreeable, acquiescent, yes yes yes all the time.

6. eyes peeking out under thick bangs.

7. domestic, fluffy pink slippers, fluffy pink T-shirts

8. naïve, innocent, young, child-like, angelic

9. halo hugging skull

10. doormat, pink fluffy doormat

11. prim, proper, knee-length gingham skirt, ponytail, pink cardigan buttoned to the chin

12. scrunchie

13. crying at soppy movies

14. happily ever after

Most people consider "sweet" to be a compliment. Am I peculiar because I seem to take it as an unintended insult?

What’s the difference between a man and a chimpanzee?


sock monkey #2
Originally uploaded by flyingfish77.
One is hairy, smells and scratches his arse. The other is a chimpanzee.

Hahahaha!! I’m sorry. This is juvenile but I couldn’t resist.

WANT is a Four Letter Word


d70_2005_1022b
Originally uploaded by 8pril.
I know what I want, yet I don’t know what I want. I know what I should want. I am perplexed because many a time, what I should want does not coincide with what I truly want.

I am at odds also because there are many reasons why I cannot have what I want - what I want may not be unrealistic, unreasonable and not entirely good for me – in which case, I may have to tweak a little what I want so that what I want becomes what I can have. What is the point of having a list of wants that simply cannot be met?

Therefore, it is necessary to attach another criterion to my list: what I want and can have. Some people may carelessly term it as settling for less. Is it? Maybe. I do not know.

Is it better to hang on to desires that will never be met (and enjoy the enviable reputation of being an idealist, a dreamer, one with remarkably high standards and expectations) or would it be better to trade them for desires that can be met? They would then, by default, become less ideal, less lofty, less perfect.

I might have to contend with wearing the label ‘pragmatist’ – not too awful a predicament but not too grand either.

Is it better to have grand ideals and have everything fall short (because they are next to impossible to meet by anyone or anything) or is it better to have realistic down-to-earth expectations and increase your chances of meeting them? I do not know. An idealist would opt for the former while a pragmatist would go with the latter.

I guess the answer lies in our inherent natures. Perhaps the question is not what I want and what I should want or what I should not want. Perhaps the true question is whether I am ultimately an idealist or a pragmatist; and whatever it is I identify myself to be, am I content being that way?

Complication, Thy Name is Cake


Straberry Sponge Cake
Originally uploaded by
Kaippally.
Why do I complicate things? Is it due to my unacknowledged fear of facing reality? Do I hide behind a façade of abstruse explanations and cleverly formulated rationalizations so that it appears as if I have a valid reason for behaving the way I do? Do I complicate matters to flabbergast other people (who usually have no idea in hell what I’m jabbering about anyway), make myself look all deep or purely to inject some entertainment value in my life?

Just got into a lengthy (read pointless) discussion with Him over the issue of cake, after which I completely pissed him off. While I won’t indulge in the gory details of our discussion, suffice to say that it wasn’t actually about cake. It was about the significance of cake.

It was hard to carry on such a conversation, especially when he wouldn’t keep quiet and kept interjecting with, “What are you talking about??” in a tone which first hinted of curiosity, then bewilderment, then incredulity, eventually morphing into impatience, sarcasm and finally, downright annoyance.

I cannot lie. I felt slight stirrings of satisfaction in me when I heard him starting to buckle under his gargantuan effort to stay sane while trying to understand my ramblings, be the bigger person and give into my ridiculous whims.

It’s strange. I feel like I’ve succeeded whenever I confuse and/or annoy somebody. Why does this seem to give me greater dissatisfaction than say, actually coming to a mutual compromise and chalking up some progress?

I know what he’s thinking right now. He’s thinking that I’ve gone completely nuts. He’s also wondering what in the world I mean by cake – is it a code for some other confectionary? He’s trying to figure out how to handle these vile mood swings of mine. He’s formulating a strategy for the next time I decide to go berserk on him. He’s thinking next time, when she gets like this again, I’m going to just ignore her until she starts to talk some sense ... or being a typical man, he’s probably wondering if he should have cake for dessert.

Give Me Skinny or Give Me Death

I am a lousy conformist, that’s what I am. Despite my self-righteous diatribes about standing up for my principles and being the unwavering Rock of Gibraltar when it comes to staying put in the face of popular opinion, I confess that I’m secretly feeble-minded.

Exhibit A: I can rant for hours about how skinniness does not equate beauty but at the same time, I fret whenever I feel the waistband of my jeans cut into a lump of flesh that seemed to have developed overnight. A slight bulge is enough to send me into a wild tailspin. My mind is instantly deluged with desperate schemes to lose the excess flab – from eating a raisin a day to working the treadmill for two hours a day until I lose the weight or drop dead (whichever decides to come first).

I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed because I feel happy when people come up to me and say, “Oh my god. You’ve lost weight!” I nonchalantly reply, “No lah, it’s just that I look thinner in the dark with these strobe lights.”

I’m ashamed to admit that it thrills me to hear, “Aiya, where got fat? You’re so blardey skinny!” Of course, no one can accuse me of being a stick insect but this thrills me none the less.

Or the common, “Fine. You show me exactly where your flab is. Show me!”, after which I proceed to pinch about a bucket of lard from the folds of my stomach. They then go, “Aiya, that’s what you call flab? I’ll show you what real flab is!”

I don’t think you want to know how the rest of the story goes (not unless you’re bulimic and wretching is something you enjoy). Besides, this is irrevelant to my point.

My point is, I’m weak. I cave into the opinion of the masses. I may proclaim that beauty lies within, that physical beauty fades but true beauty lasts forever and all that jazz, but I have left out the fine print: beauty lies within... for other people; physical beauty fades but true beauty lasts forever... for other people. Not for me.

Give me long, slim legs and silky long hair and flawless skin and a knockout figure. Give me a brilliant white smile, sparkling eyes and a 24-inch waist. Give me a swanlike neck, delicate ankles and a behind that can stop traffic.

Of course, charisma, intelligence and confidence are important. I’m not denying that. I want those things too. I work hard at those things. But losing a few points of my IQ will never be as enormous a catastrophe as, say, newly discovered orange peel on my butt.

So because I’m weak, I shall continue going to the gym in hopes that I will one day be the proud owner of a body that resembles Halle Berry’s. Because I’m not strong enough to tell the world to “Put a sock in it! A little pudge never hurt anyone!!”, I’ll continue to stand sideways in front of the mirror and spin into a panic at every little bit of protruding flesh. Because I’m weak, I will resist the mad urge to devour that last piece of chocolate mud pie. Because I don’t have the guts to go through life with excess weight and not give a rat’s arse what people think.