I was laughing my head off whilst watching American Idol last night. The show's judges are beginning to sound like a broken record - ha, ha - with their incessant "we just wanna know who YOU are as an artist," and the attendant reply from the contestants - "I just wanna show you who I am."
Where I come from, we're too busy making a living to try and figure out such indulgent matters. Sure, it may bite us in the bum later on in life, but we've got a great sense of community because "we" is always more important than "me."
Gosh, so early in the morning and I'm ranting... I need my pills.
Speaking of pills, I busted my hip on a "James Bond" yacht the other day. The boat's so cool, it's even got a noble title: The Marquis. Isn't that grand?
I still remember the first time I went up on The Marquis. It was Floatilla '09. It had that new-car smell that makes you giddier than poppers. The boys were so busy congratulating themselves for having been invited, they - sorry, we - all ended up trashed on "only white wine and champagne" - apparently de rigueur in such posh environs. (Thank goodness I left my Corona six-pack at home. The last thing I need is a faux pas.) I've got plenty of photos, but Monsieur B, who owns The Marquis, has a strict "no photos on Facebook" policy. So the vulgar cock shots and party pashing pics will remain private.
Seriously, it's always a treat going up on The Marquis. This time, Monsieur B's partner, Mr. H, did the inviting. It was a much smaller group this time than I had earlier anticipated. There were only eight of us. I'm getting tired of mono-alphabetical nom de guerres, though, so I won't even bother naming the guests. Besides, I was made to promise not to take photos, quote anyone, or tell stories, so...
There's really nothing to tell, then, except - oh, yes - I was ranting and raving about "me" vs. "we."
It's GANNABAN, not Gabbana, bitch.
Having been raised in the northern Philippine valley of Cagayan to pious folks whose six children had to have Biblical names, I had the good fortune of being bestowed the title "Rabbi." Hallelujah, it's on my birth certificate. Of course when I figured out that I'm a homo and "Rabbi" isn't someone whom hot guys wanna go out on dates with, I promptly dropped it and stuck with my still-Biblical-but-more-benign middle name, "James."
I "sacrificed" my first name, which I didn't mind, really, coz having sex with someone called "James" apparently doesn't give guys the heebie jeebies the way fucking "Rabbi" does. James it is, and James gave me my mojo.
So back to The Marquis and to having fabulous friends who invite me to fabulous yachts and fabulous homes and fabulous parties. It's great. But it makes me want to be "Gabbana," not GANNABAN, which is one sacrifice too many. After all, even Barbra sacrificed just the one "a" to become more fab. In other words, I fear not being fabulous enough just being me.
Now I'm beginning to sound like a contestant on American Idol.
"You've got charisma," Monsieur B ventured, "and that's something you can't learn or buy."
"Thank you," I deadpanned. I don't think Monsieur B knew exactly just how much his statement meant to me.
He made me realize at that moment that I need not be anyone other than JAMES GANNABAN. Asia's Most Hyperactive Gay Boy
I was so overcome with joy, I ran towards Chris to jump on him. He wasn't prepared, though, so he managed to grab only my hand, and then that slipped, too.
So I fell on my ass. Hard.
I was waddling like a penguin because of the pain. I had to visit the doctor the next day. I was given an analgesic balm and four different kinds of pain killers.
Candy-popping pain killers apparently makes you fart, so I was also given something I hadn't yet seen before: pills for flatulence.
Now, let's talk "fabulous."
OK, so I'm sneaking a photo in...