Livin’ la vida ho-hum
May 2, 2004 | 12:00am
I’ve had writer’s block for the past two weeks. This is not good considering the vapid nature of my "literature." It only means one thing – I am boring.
This is horrible since I write to buy couture. The only creative thing that I have been able to muster so far was the flimsy excuses that I offered my patient editor on why I have been without a Sunday piece. And mind you, those were delivered without a glaze of wit, just desperation.
What have I written about so far? Booze, cheating exes, shopping, being broke, my dysfunctional family, intoxicated blackouts, horrifying blind dates and dieting. Very pulp to say the very least. Perhaps it is true that youth is wasted on the young. I need new material, still in the same shallow pond of muck that I wade in.
A friend suggested we visit a strip club and take it from there. With the burlesque trend in full swing I saw it as a fashionable option.
Unfortunately as I was naively anticipating an exquisitely sculpted nymph in full Crazy Horse regalia, I saw a coterie of Jane Fonda wannabes in neon spandex stretching around like they were in yoga class. No tits or anything, just diet soda at the cost of a mere P300. The only exciting thing that happened was watching one of the dancers gyrate as if in an amative state to Chicane, now that takes talent to pull off. So bored, I started dancing when my friend stopped me and told me that I might be mistaken for a GRO (which I was for some generous Japanese men from Broke-yo). I was no longer intrigued, just poor from the overpriced soda and dizzy from the real good seafood platter that I attacked while watching the Chicane acrobat and wondering about the sexist implications of having to pay P500 to enter this convent of boredom. Marriage should really be boring if men use this to escape. Of course, I was assured by my friend that the real action happens on the other side of the building where it all begins with an aromatherapy massage. It was all just too sad for me, I left the grand palace of lust (and over-priced softdrinks) and wallowed at Hen-Lin for some really cheap siomai. Many chicks always wonder what stripclubs are all about, maybe some are raunchier, but nevertheless no matter which degree of sleaze you’re in its simply tragic.
The following days proved to be mirthless, an opera of the absurd: me sleeping too long into the day, missing meetings (completely sober, no excuses), alphabetizing my DVD collection, trying to give my one-year-old dog a new name, reprimanding myself for surrendering to carbs, and color coding my cabinet. The trouble with being shallow is that the pond does dry out pretty fast. I tried to go out and chugged as many vodka tonics (most boring drink but least calories as well!) as I could in 10 minutes. I prayed to Grey Goose to whisk me away from this evil place. An hour later, tolerance would not budge and realized that I was cursed in the era of yawn.
My mother told me I was in this tizz because I had no carbohydrates in my system, that my seratonin has packed its bags and moved on. I began to believe her.
I watched an average of three movies a day, putting on the subtitles for extra entertainment value. I ate junk in between vowing that it would be the last time every time. I became a trash junkie. I blamed my writer’s block to taking too much sauce, so I laid off and decided to live New Age style. In order to escape from the banality of it all I decided to read my collected stories of Chekov while listening to music of screeching birds and monkeys. Drunk from mineral water and high on Cheez Balls, only one chapter remained dogeared.
My computer desk which has been my most cherished companion now seemed as welcoming as the Green Mile. After downloading all the Agent Provocateur screensavers, I still had nothing. I was on my 16th blank document on Word and yet I was still shamelessly procrastinating.
I tried other methods like talking to old friends, gossiping with my mother, googling my friends and it all boiled down to one simple thing: My life is as fascinating as a visit to a gynecologist. I couldn’t wait till elections really to participate in whatever revolution will occur after and relive my activist days. Now that would be something edifying for a change. I lived a groundhog life of Starbucks, Massage, Nuvo and North Park. Blessed but predictable indeed.
I have yielded to strip clubbing and sobriety, and yet these have only emphasized something that I have already known. I am shallow and now I am paying for it.
This is horrible since I write to buy couture. The only creative thing that I have been able to muster so far was the flimsy excuses that I offered my patient editor on why I have been without a Sunday piece. And mind you, those were delivered without a glaze of wit, just desperation.
What have I written about so far? Booze, cheating exes, shopping, being broke, my dysfunctional family, intoxicated blackouts, horrifying blind dates and dieting. Very pulp to say the very least. Perhaps it is true that youth is wasted on the young. I need new material, still in the same shallow pond of muck that I wade in.
A friend suggested we visit a strip club and take it from there. With the burlesque trend in full swing I saw it as a fashionable option.
Unfortunately as I was naively anticipating an exquisitely sculpted nymph in full Crazy Horse regalia, I saw a coterie of Jane Fonda wannabes in neon spandex stretching around like they were in yoga class. No tits or anything, just diet soda at the cost of a mere P300. The only exciting thing that happened was watching one of the dancers gyrate as if in an amative state to Chicane, now that takes talent to pull off. So bored, I started dancing when my friend stopped me and told me that I might be mistaken for a GRO (which I was for some generous Japanese men from Broke-yo). I was no longer intrigued, just poor from the overpriced soda and dizzy from the real good seafood platter that I attacked while watching the Chicane acrobat and wondering about the sexist implications of having to pay P500 to enter this convent of boredom. Marriage should really be boring if men use this to escape. Of course, I was assured by my friend that the real action happens on the other side of the building where it all begins with an aromatherapy massage. It was all just too sad for me, I left the grand palace of lust (and over-priced softdrinks) and wallowed at Hen-Lin for some really cheap siomai. Many chicks always wonder what stripclubs are all about, maybe some are raunchier, but nevertheless no matter which degree of sleaze you’re in its simply tragic.
The following days proved to be mirthless, an opera of the absurd: me sleeping too long into the day, missing meetings (completely sober, no excuses), alphabetizing my DVD collection, trying to give my one-year-old dog a new name, reprimanding myself for surrendering to carbs, and color coding my cabinet. The trouble with being shallow is that the pond does dry out pretty fast. I tried to go out and chugged as many vodka tonics (most boring drink but least calories as well!) as I could in 10 minutes. I prayed to Grey Goose to whisk me away from this evil place. An hour later, tolerance would not budge and realized that I was cursed in the era of yawn.
My mother told me I was in this tizz because I had no carbohydrates in my system, that my seratonin has packed its bags and moved on. I began to believe her.
I watched an average of three movies a day, putting on the subtitles for extra entertainment value. I ate junk in between vowing that it would be the last time every time. I became a trash junkie. I blamed my writer’s block to taking too much sauce, so I laid off and decided to live New Age style. In order to escape from the banality of it all I decided to read my collected stories of Chekov while listening to music of screeching birds and monkeys. Drunk from mineral water and high on Cheez Balls, only one chapter remained dogeared.
My computer desk which has been my most cherished companion now seemed as welcoming as the Green Mile. After downloading all the Agent Provocateur screensavers, I still had nothing. I was on my 16th blank document on Word and yet I was still shamelessly procrastinating.
I tried other methods like talking to old friends, gossiping with my mother, googling my friends and it all boiled down to one simple thing: My life is as fascinating as a visit to a gynecologist. I couldn’t wait till elections really to participate in whatever revolution will occur after and relive my activist days. Now that would be something edifying for a change. I lived a groundhog life of Starbucks, Massage, Nuvo and North Park. Blessed but predictable indeed.
I have yielded to strip clubbing and sobriety, and yet these have only emphasized something that I have already known. I am shallow and now I am paying for it.
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