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.

Outsider Information

When noticing a specimen of the XY classification, a lot of women’s eyes usually dart towards the windows of their soul. Some women like to scrutinize the whole house to see if there are any imperfections on the paint, surveying here and there for the presence of lumps or bumps. There are those who like to examine the structure to see if it’s well built or lacks built. Some like to inspect the doors by checking their swing, observing whether they could be easily closed or if they insist on crudely hanging wide open. And then there are those naughty ones who like to check out the mailboxes to determine whether they’re spacious enough to house enormous packages.

I, on the other hand, like to check out the landscaping.

Nothing else captures my attention quite rapidly more than a well-dressed man. Eyebrows instinctively shoot straight up at a glance of impeccably cut trousers. Eyes can’t help but stealthily follow the gait of the well-heeled chap (obviously not in chaps). The neck cranes to near impossible lengths just to get a better view of the interesting detail on the shirt’s collar.

Most of the time though, my stares fall on the bums of gay men. Then there are those golden moments when a straight man righteously deserves the Color Me Impressed Nod, thus making me believe that there is hope in men after all.

The Band of Outsiders Spring 2009 collection was one of my favorite menswear shows from the recent New York Fashion Week. The fact that the boyishly charming Max Minghella modeled for the look book makes my love for this label soar even more.

Here are some of the looks that topped my list:


Of course, the girls are not to be forgotten. Boy, the charming kid sister of Band of Outsiders, also showcased some lovely clothes that I want to have hanging in my closet:

(Photos nicked from Style.com)

Well now really, how can a label go wrong with a name like that?

(Bande à part/Band of Outsiders, Jean-Luc Godard, 1964)

In Between Acts

Emotions are overflowing in this side of life. Quick! Help save my soul by placing a paper cup beside its leaky corners.

This is just a mere bump on the road, dear readers - all two of you, myself included. I’ve been incredibly busy the past week. Work has been terribly unforgiving. And my heart has been refusing to slow down to a normal pulse.

In the meantime, here's a visual representation of my mental state:


I've got a new entry hibernating in my mind. Just keep coming back. It'll appear soon.

One for the Books

What does one do when a member of the opposite sex has unknowingly and abruptly seized a sizeable chunk of one’s normal thought processes? And not just any member of the opposite sex at that, but a rare species that is highly unattainable for he is unavailable? One sulks for a few days then goes to search for another object of obsession.

So search I did. Now, I bid goodbye to a toxic fixation and welcome a very healthy fascination - bookshelves!

Ah, bookshelves. If you read a lot, you’ll have a strong compulsion to treat your books like your very own offspring. I have a couple of rules for those who borrow books from me. First, dust jackets of hardcover books have to be with it at all times. Second, do not fold or scratch my books or/and its jackets or I will do unto you as you have done to the book by creasing you alive. Third, minimal abuse on the book’s spine, please! I don’t mind a few lines on the spine, just as long as it’s still recognizable when the book is returned to me. Fourth, do not, under any circumstance, fold the back pages while reading. I will hurt you if you do this. Lastly, writing or highlighting of books is forbidden. Except for books that have duplicates. But that is usually reserved for me, unless I give you the book. See? I’m a pretty reasonable lender of books. All that really matters is their safe return. I still have a lot of books squatting on other people’s bookshelves. Newsflash, friends! They’re all feeling really homesick. I know so; it’s a mother’s instinct. Now please, do return them already.

Now back to bookshelves.

Last week, I moved to my brother’s room. This move signifies freedom for in all 23 years of my existence, I have shared a room with my older sister. Now I am free from the horrors of rudely interrupted slumber due to an alarm I didn’t set, of being locked out of my very own room, of being kicked out of my very own room, of fighting over the remote control and so much more. Now, I welcome the land of spacious closets, of not being yelled at by my sister for my hoarding tendencies, and most importantly, of bookshelves galore!

If I had seen you last week, you probably saw me beam like a proud momma while telling you how I organized my books alphabetically and separated them by genre. I wasn’t aware that an anal side of me existed until these bookshelves came into my life. Now, a love affair has bloomed, and you know what happens when love flourishes in this day and age - you stalk it on the internet.

Here are some really drop-dead gorgeous bookshelves for you librarians out there:






At least when I wake from a bewildering dream of having walked down The Aisle, of not being greeted by any groom, of continuing the ceremony despite the absence of a groom, of a very lively wedding reception where everyone else was enjoying themselves except for the groom-less bride, then finally, of being left alone in a hotel suite wondering, “How the hell am I gonna consummate this wedding?” – at least when I wake from that kind of bewildering dream, two syllables can calm me down – “bookshelves”.