How to measure your baduy quotient
November 28, 2003 | 12:00am
Perfect, just perfect.
Some roach planted a hickey on my neck, a bolting headache threatens to melt my ear deposit to Cheez Whiz proportions (mental note: hangover is the devils advocate and tequila is absolute evil juice), theres no coffee in the house (Im every barristas friendly neighborhood Dick its easier to spell, but Starbucks is three planets away), the prez is seeking re-election, and Sarah is bursting with the rebirth of "aaaAAAHHH, LET ME BE THE ONE TO LOOOVE YOU MORRREEE!" Ugh. This is portable hell, so dont you "Good morning" me.
As if a portent of the day to come, my sunny side up wasnt sunny at all, its halfway between a harassed eggwhite and a constipated yolk. My horoscope sez its time that my actions mixed with decisive thinking, I never knew it meant scrambled. The egg, the portent. And even Brownie wont touch it.
As in every morning, I was confronted with the days most vital question: what to wear. Im usually a Levis-and-shirt guy (perpetually teed in People are People) and a mist of D&Gs Light Blue usually does the trick (its not a femme scent, Virginia, translated to a www.face-pic.com account, it would be filed under Try Anything Once or Unsure, and not Male or Female). But today is a particularly dreary day so Ive opted for my camo cargo, an undie shirt and my battered Chuck Taylors. Complete with a dogtag necklace, I am a feisty lothario on the warpath.
Ive Q-balled my head a few weeks ago, but now my hair is sprouting to a good inch. My hair has a mind of its own, so I scrunched the defiant splotch and now its all pointing north. My trusty Fix Stick is actually an early warning device, and the message was loud and clear: Up yours. And so with Samantha Coxs Absolutely humming inside my head, I am ready for battle.
My friend Mich Dulce tells me that fashion should not conform to other peoples taste, that it should be a reflection of the person wearing it. Translated to my enraged state of being, my getup could well spell, um, a middle finger in salute.
File me under Defiant. File me under Grunge (how so 90s!). File me under Che Gs Militia. File me under Bum and Lazy. File me under baduy. Care ko!
Which brings me to the question what is baduy? What is not? What makes one baduy? How do you measure ones baduy quotient?
I dont fancy to be an authority on fashion and style (I leave that to my good friend Frederick), but I can be an arbiter of good taste (humility lies sparse in my gene pool).
Case in point: Mr. Suave (hoy 6x!) is not baduy. Sadly, Vhong Navarro is.
Not only does his fashion sense make my epidermis itch, Vhongs unnecessary "h" is a dead giveaway. Not unless your name is Helen or Henri or Hitler, you need not put an additional "h" to your name. This alphabetic extravagance gives you jologs points, and accumulative points sum up to baduy (how do Dhex, Ehddie, Amapolah, and Shusanah sound to you?). Not unless youre a fledgling starlet doing a dub for a Rico Mambo skinflick, the unnecessary "h" makes you sound 1) lisp-y, 2) asthmatic, and 3) stupid.
Mr. Suaves brand of dressing is actually equestrian-fashion-gone-awry, but the character is just reeking with seriously hilarious chutzpah (it has an "h" really). The overgrown mustache (youd swear Forever Livings Jojova Hair Grower really works!), the F4ish hair (I went skinhead because of F4), and those pantaloons (suggestive of a labakara put into good use to "enhance" the familys jewels), the combo is nothing short of smoothie.
No, this is not a movie review (who cares a hoot about the movie?), but methinks Mr. Suave is a walking punchline (I watched it and my gums made too many public appearances). The punchlines came so often, they beat me to a pulp.
I like Mr. Suave. Im baduy, bite me.
(What makes one baduy? Tell me who makes it to your Top Ten Baduy Hit List. E-mail me at yfilestar@yahoo.com.)
Some roach planted a hickey on my neck, a bolting headache threatens to melt my ear deposit to Cheez Whiz proportions (mental note: hangover is the devils advocate and tequila is absolute evil juice), theres no coffee in the house (Im every barristas friendly neighborhood Dick its easier to spell, but Starbucks is three planets away), the prez is seeking re-election, and Sarah is bursting with the rebirth of "aaaAAAHHH, LET ME BE THE ONE TO LOOOVE YOU MORRREEE!" Ugh. This is portable hell, so dont you "Good morning" me.
As if a portent of the day to come, my sunny side up wasnt sunny at all, its halfway between a harassed eggwhite and a constipated yolk. My horoscope sez its time that my actions mixed with decisive thinking, I never knew it meant scrambled. The egg, the portent. And even Brownie wont touch it.
As in every morning, I was confronted with the days most vital question: what to wear. Im usually a Levis-and-shirt guy (perpetually teed in People are People) and a mist of D&Gs Light Blue usually does the trick (its not a femme scent, Virginia, translated to a www.face-pic.com account, it would be filed under Try Anything Once or Unsure, and not Male or Female). But today is a particularly dreary day so Ive opted for my camo cargo, an undie shirt and my battered Chuck Taylors. Complete with a dogtag necklace, I am a feisty lothario on the warpath.
Ive Q-balled my head a few weeks ago, but now my hair is sprouting to a good inch. My hair has a mind of its own, so I scrunched the defiant splotch and now its all pointing north. My trusty Fix Stick is actually an early warning device, and the message was loud and clear: Up yours. And so with Samantha Coxs Absolutely humming inside my head, I am ready for battle.
My friend Mich Dulce tells me that fashion should not conform to other peoples taste, that it should be a reflection of the person wearing it. Translated to my enraged state of being, my getup could well spell, um, a middle finger in salute.
File me under Defiant. File me under Grunge (how so 90s!). File me under Che Gs Militia. File me under Bum and Lazy. File me under baduy. Care ko!
Which brings me to the question what is baduy? What is not? What makes one baduy? How do you measure ones baduy quotient?
I dont fancy to be an authority on fashion and style (I leave that to my good friend Frederick), but I can be an arbiter of good taste (humility lies sparse in my gene pool).
Case in point: Mr. Suave (hoy 6x!) is not baduy. Sadly, Vhong Navarro is.
Not only does his fashion sense make my epidermis itch, Vhongs unnecessary "h" is a dead giveaway. Not unless your name is Helen or Henri or Hitler, you need not put an additional "h" to your name. This alphabetic extravagance gives you jologs points, and accumulative points sum up to baduy (how do Dhex, Ehddie, Amapolah, and Shusanah sound to you?). Not unless youre a fledgling starlet doing a dub for a Rico Mambo skinflick, the unnecessary "h" makes you sound 1) lisp-y, 2) asthmatic, and 3) stupid.
Mr. Suaves brand of dressing is actually equestrian-fashion-gone-awry, but the character is just reeking with seriously hilarious chutzpah (it has an "h" really). The overgrown mustache (youd swear Forever Livings Jojova Hair Grower really works!), the F4ish hair (I went skinhead because of F4), and those pantaloons (suggestive of a labakara put into good use to "enhance" the familys jewels), the combo is nothing short of smoothie.
No, this is not a movie review (who cares a hoot about the movie?), but methinks Mr. Suave is a walking punchline (I watched it and my gums made too many public appearances). The punchlines came so often, they beat me to a pulp.
I like Mr. Suave. Im baduy, bite me.
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