The 2008 Holiday Gift Guide to Get On Kaity's Good Side

Christmas is coming up in ten days! My birthday is coming up in twelve days! What better way to celebrate these countdowns than to make a Christmas/Birthday Wish List of Things I Will Never Get, right? Right! So, here we go:

1) A large weekend bag that can accommodate all the excess baggage I have in my life. After all, how can you relax during a weekend getaway if you didn’t have your neuroses, sandwiched between a pile of T-shirts and toiletries, within arms reach?

If I could only get one though, I much prefer a wide-mouth doctor’s bag so that my childhood dreams of becoming a pediatrician would at least be realized sartorially.

No. 166 overnight travel bag

A-Z Collection, Autumn/Winter ’08 Accessories

2) DVDS!

I’ve been wanting, needing to watch any film by John Cassavetes for a while now but I’ve never chanced upon any of his titles in the lair of video pirates. I tried my luck in HMV in Hong Kong but luck was a man masquerading as a lady. So if any of you friends in the States are feeling extra generous, please do ship Criterion Collection’s Five Films by John Cassavetes my way, yes?

3) Books!

For some reason, all the books on my wish list are unavailable here. Why, Fully Booked? Why, Powerbooks? Why, A Different Bookstore? Why?

The Act of Seeing: Essays and Conversations
by Wim Wenders

On Seeing and Noticing
by Alain de Botton

I urge you to read On Love (US Release) by de Botton. It reminds me of those college philosophical handouts though I assure that it won't put you to sleep.

Meditations in an Emergency
by Frank O’Hara

Everything is Cinema: The Working Life of Jean Luc Godard
by Richard Brody

The Art of Looking Sideways
by Alan Fletcher

4) Topsiders/Boat Shoes

Quoddy Boat Shoes

Sperry Topsiders

I can imagine myself wearing these shoes while sitting on a yacht,sipping a glass of chilled champagne amidst the backdrop of a sky that's painted with orange, pink and purple hues. Armed with a fool's confidence that only drink can give, I seem to have boldly declared to take on the challenge of sailing the world’s oceans in 60 days, completely neglecting the tiny, inconsequential fact that I can’t swim to save my life.

5) Givenchy Nightingale in Black, Medium


Dear Daddy,

I promise never to buy any other bag if you buy this one for me. It’s a win/win situation right?

Love, Kaity

6) The newest 13-inch Macbook


Lets hope for the best. I have a good feeling about this one.

7) 300 gig external/portable hard drive + housing

8) Bespoke leather shoes

“Bespoke” has been a favorite word of mine for two consecutive months now. Every time I play around with this word in my head, I can almost smell a distinct kind of woodsy, masculine odor, the kind of smell that I associate with quiet elegance and refinement.

On the other hand, leather oxfords are something that I’ve been obsessing over for the past few months.


Though I’ve yet to find the perfect pair, which doesn’t render my toes useless by the end of the day. Lo and behold, I stumbled upon a blog that pointed me to the direction of a man who produces made-to-order leather shoes. We shall see what happens with that. Lets all hope I come out of that store jumping in the air and clicking the heels of the dandiest pair of shoes known to man.

9) A men’s watch

For some reason, I favor the bulkiness of men’s watches over the small, delicate ones for women. To match the bulkiness of my stomach, I guess.

Stowa Watch

Nixon 51-30


Junghans Chronograph

10) A brown leather briefcase



This is a result of watching too much Mad Men.

11) Rollerblades!
P.S. Gino, I’m a size 6, okay? Thanks.

I find it amusing how most of the stuff on this list is geared towards men’s fashion. On more than one occasion, my sister has told me that I dress up like a gay man. I take that as a compliment.

Get the Picture?

(Simone de Beauvoir at the Cafe des Deux Magots, Robert Doisneau, 1944)

(Cafe de Flore, Dennis Stock, 1958)


(La Chinoise, Jean-Luc Godard, 1967)

"But" is the harshest word that you'll ever know

I’ve been a delinquent blogger, haven’t I? Well, you know what happens to delinquent bloggers – blogcombers by the virtual ocean of nonsense and quick read demons cruising on the Infobahn at 10 MB per second, who take minutes off their precious Time Wasting Schedule, end up creating reasons in their head as to why they hate this particular blogger for not updating. (But then again, I may not be that special but lets just pretend that I am for a second.)

As Mary J. Blige obligingly put it, there ain’t no need for hateration. But yet, it exists, especially amongst lovers. One would be hard-pressed to find a significant other whose certain mannerisms/beliefs/grooming habits or lack thereof wouldn’t eventually be the cause for one’s hair to stand on edge. I came across this funny, albeit a little bit off-putting site that...

...Is a picture book about the moment in a relationship when you realize you don’t love someone completely, because there is one little thing that keeps bothering you. When it bothers you so much it actually makes you physically cringe, you know it’s time to say; “I love you but…”

As I said, some are comical confessions:
Then there are those that make you go, "Hey, waitaminute. That hurts..."There you go, folks. Once again, the innernet was successful in altering the settled state of my mind (although that really is a point of contention). Am I making any sense? Probably not cos it's 1:48 am and my ass is still stuck on my office chair!

It’s As Clear As Dishwater

I seem to have been collecting nothing but unfinished sentences these past few weeks. I’ve accumulated handfuls of thoughts without an ending in sight, nothing but a string of words that have been punished with the ever dubious ellipse for being incomplete.

Anyway, here’s a sweet kid who was able to finish his thoughts:


"Stuck"
Client: Thorntons Chocolate
Agency: SHOP London
Directed by Harmony Korine

Now, lets all pray that the ever elusive Aha! Moment will finally arrive.

Let's go? Let's go!

This Charming Man

Louis Garrell. It’s not a name that slides smoothly off the tongue. The only way to get from the first to the second syllable of the second name is by way of The Gag. No, it’s not the kind where you’re always the butt of; rather, it’s a choking, guttural sound that the French constantly make to get their points across. It’s no wonder then that the French come off as snooty people. If you had to hack and gag all day, and have choking on your saliva as a possible cause of death, you too will be snooty as hell.

But before I digress to the point where I can’t find my way back, lets return to the very handsome topic, which has prodded my lazy ass to update my corner of the virtual universe --- Louis Garrel. Now if you don’t know who Louis Garrel is, do yourself a favor by watching The Dreamers, found in your friendly neighborhood DBD store. Still not willing to budge? Here are three reasons: threesomes, incest and naked young bodies. Aha! Third reason made your eyes grow bigger, didn’t it? Oh, you perv.

Some months ago, I was browsing through Hedi Slimane’s Photo Diary (if you haven’t been there, you are doing your eyes a complete and utter disservice), and lo and behold, who do I see there but the object of my lust, posing like a god while enshrouded in a cloak of cigarette smoke.




Now THAT, folks, is a work of art! I’m getting shivers all over and it’s not even cold in the office. And he sings! Oh, he sings! If you’re in the mood for quirky threesomes and guy-on-guy action (oh, you know you always are), try to see Les Chansons D’amour.


All this gorgeousness and charm is leaving me a little bit light-headed. I need to lie down for a bit.

A Room with a View

After a total of twelve and a half hours of being airborne and adrift in whiskey dreams, I have finally touched down to good ol' Manila.

Ah, home! Sweet home! Now, I'm just waiting for the sad, sad fact of having nothing to look forward to for the next couple of months, years even, to set in. But before I let the mushroom cloud of bleakness permeate my being, allow me to reminisce awhile about the astonishing view that welcomed my eyes everytime time I stepped outside my hotel balcony.

What, pray tell, awaits my eyes behind those curtains?

It really doesn't disappoint does it?

It gets even better when the sun retreats to its hiding place.

Whenever talks of dream houses or condominiums would come up between my friends and I, I'd always be vocal about my adamant need for a balcony. I don't necessarily have to enjoy the expensive view shown on those photos above. Looking at the tin roofs of my neighbors houses or trying my best to make out the silhouettes of buildings through the smog of the city will do. The main reason for my desire of a balcony isn't merely a shallow need of having a view while enjoying a calming cigarette break. Rather, it comes out of the desire to bask in the semblance of being on top of the world, of momentarily clutching a moment where it seems that anything and everything could be, and is, possible.

Moments like these rarely happen in this life. Most of them occur while intoxicated. So if a thing, a material object made of iron and cement can grant such moments, without alcohol or unmentionables catalysing there onslaught, who could blame me for desiring it?

Paris, Je T'aime

During my highly introspective (i.e. emo days a.k.a “God, please take me away already!”) years of being in between graduation and my first ever foray into the world of 13th month bonuses and SSS applications, I was heavily wishing I was born with French blood. It was a whole year and a half of getting familiar with the gods of Nouvelle Vague and having embarrassing conversations with myself in the most basic French phrases I was able to commit to memory. Simply put, I was suffering extreme racial envy.

If anyone would ask me the about the Top 5 Most Defining Moments in My Life, my trip to Paris back in 2006 would definitely take the top spot on that list. For once in my sluggish existence, I had the drive to list down all the places that I just had to see for myself. Whether it was a cemetery where someone I looked up to was laid to rest, or a location of a scene in a French film that I loved, I diligently took down all their addresses and wasn’t allowing myself to fall upon the lazy excuse that I would probably stumble upon them by chance.

Looking back at it, the challenge of finding those locations with only a map in hand and my non-ability to read them was the real adventure. (Warning: Cliché coming up.) After all, it’s the journey that matters, not the destination. Even though I was apprehensive at first about traversing my way solitarily through the maze of foreign streets and confusing subway lines, I began to enjoy the semblance of freedom and independence all of it symbolized.

Of course there were a couple of wrong turns here and old strangers wanting to talk over mugs of steaming coffee there, but I was very inflexible in my goal to stick to the itinerary. And because I stuck to the itinerary, I found myself standing upon the burial place of the poet who, although confuses me from time to time, has managed to carve a spot in my heart for himself - Charles Baudelaire.

During the moment I came across his burial place, a young French man was reading one of his poems in the language that Baudelaire had originally written them in. I can still feel the chills that went running down my spine during that cloudy afternoon - that was how beautiful the moment was. Even though I couldn’t understand what that kid was reciting, I stayed on to drink in the experience and ultimately be intoxicated by it. All I could muster was a sigh, a sigh that was pregnant for longing of a life that breathed of liberté, égalité, fraternité.

An intimate poetry reading by Baudelaire's grave.

I left a note on that jar. Can't remember what I wrote though.

Today, what was once a severe case of Francophilia has finally been given the proper treatment to alleviate it. There still are some residual effects though, such as randomly blurting out French phrases, having a penchant to pick old 60s French pop as the soundtrack to an otherwise dull day, seeing Jean Pierre Leaud or Louis Garrel everytime I close my eyes, being amazed at the acceptance of Nicolas Sarkozy and Carla Bruni’s relationship (only in France!), etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

This afternoon, I will be boarding a plane to London, a close neighbor of Paris. Unfortunately, I won’t be having the privilege of greeting “Bonjour!” to the city of lights, the city that has changed me in ways that I can’t even begin to explain. This is mainly the cause of all this wistfulness and weepiness. And there lies the trouble of pining for the days of yore, of the bittersweet act of waxing nostalgic.

Painting Chinatown Red

If there is one absolute thing that I cannot be deprived of, it would be sleep. Anyone who knows me well enough understands and accepts the fact that if I get less than 8 hours of sleep, it’d be as if all hell has broken loose. But if one major factor existed that could get me to stir from my quota of forty winks, that would be food.

Last Saturday, I went against my body clock even though it was pleading for more hours of quality time underneath my fluffy blanket. I finally had the opportunity to experience the Big Binondo Food Wok and as the tourist guides so aptly put it, nibble my way through Manila’s Chinatown.

Now those who love authentic Chinese cuisine should never ignore this enlightening and incredibly filling occasion to traverse through the town that knows how to tickle the seasoned palate. Never mind the horses’ piss on the street or the vehicles that can suddenly ram into you and render your limbs useless – your mind, and most importantly your stomach, will be duly satisfied.

Mr. Ivan Man Dy, the man about Chinatown, feeding our minds and our stomachs.

The first meal of the day and it didn't disappoint.

The best siopao my taste buds has ever encountered.

The best people to go on a feeding/cultural frenzy with.

If you've got the free time to do so, I strongly urge you to experience this one-of-a-kind walking tour. Not only will it leave your belly very happy but you'll surely appreciate the diversity that this wonderful, albeit crazy, country possesses.

Let Me Illustrate It For You

There’s nothing quite like two of your favorite things in the world coming together. Whether it be the Adonis of your eye lounging in an claw-footed antique porcelain bathtub filled with rich, melted chocolate or the director you’d die for helming a script written by your favorite writer – pulses will surely start rising.

Two obsessions that can swiftly send my underwear in a twist are the melding of menswear and simple, clean black and white illustration. The spring/summer ’09 collection of Folk was incredibly successful in doing just that.

These just easily capture the relaxed image of the brand:








Now aren't those a brilliant use of illustration?

The Lives of Others

I have always had a habit of looking into other people’s houses. And worry not; I don’t possess a naughty habit of deriving pleasure from observing people in various positions of entanglement, all from a very strategic vantage point (behind tall foliage). Rather, it’s the kind of habit sparked by the human being’s natural inclination for curiosity, usually uttered in common parlance as nosiness.

Ah nosiness. It keeps the world going round. After all, to be human is to be nosy and vice versa. This insatiable interest in the affairs of others is the reason why we pore hours upon hours reading celebrity blogs, a habit that I’m sure you want to keep hidden along with the skeletons in your closet. Just the mere act of you reading this entry portrays a certain curiosity in the lives and thoughts of others, maybe spilling over even to their kinds of living spaces.

A person's living space reveals a whole ocean regarding that same individual. Someone whose got a walkway lined with wooden prosthetic legs and whose wall is graced by the mounted head of a Whitetail deer is surely very different from someone whose 1920s boudoir houses a vase of fresh daffodils and a bowler hat made of white wool. Such a habit of noticing the differences is the root of the nosiness I was talking about earlier, of peering through the windows of strangers' houses and noticing the details that remain motionless but speak in such high decibels.

Just imagine how much my curiosity was piqued when I came across TheSelby, a site that grants my PG-rated voyeuristic dreams. The man behind the site, Todd Selby, roams inside people's homes (invited, of course) and takes photographs of their spaces. Here are some that have caught my eye:

The space of Kenyan (prop master) and Grace (model, photographer, illustrator):


The living quarters of Erin Wasson (model, stylist, designer, cool female):


Last but not the least, the work space of Alexander Wang (fashion designer):

(All photos taken from TheSelby.com)

Now this is voyeurism that won't leave a nasty sty in your eye.