HYPERACTIVE WITH GALLERY MANAGER, TANYA BENNETT (LOVE HER TOP; MAKES ME WANNA BE A SPIDER IN MY NEXT LIFE.)
One of the things I love about living in Sheung Wan is its proximity to cool places that have cool people inside them, who do cool things. On the one end you've got Natalie Leung and the achingly hip SQUARE STREET design collective; on the other end there's Max Poelnitz and the hobolicious PoHo Bazaar hippies.
I was on my way home tonight when I saw henna tattoo artist, Sara Mush, waving excitedly at me from inside Cat Street Gallery.
"Thanks for voting," Sara enthused, "I won The Big Henna Contest!!!" The competition was organized by California-based Siren Song Productions as part of a campaign for the 203 Henna Intensive & Retreat in Wrightwood.
"AWESOME!!!" I gushed back. Sara works her butt off, promoting henna art in Hong Kong. She networks like crazy, seems to be at every event I attend, and is a tireless promoter on social media. A nu-age henna warrior princess!
There were a couple of girls hovering over Sara, so I thought I'd give them a chance to jump in - when I thought I saw one of the sculptures move... I moved closer - and I saw, it was a waif, painted completely in gold. All that gilded gold-ness instantly brought back visions of the Prometheus sculpture at Rockefeller Center, but this one is trompe l'oeil personified - literally!!! I mean, it's a person - a waif! My mind was reeling every which way as I stared aghast at the girl... What if she needed to pee?
"Work started on her at 11am," a leggy brunette behind me shared. "And we have just finished." It was 7pm.
"James," I thrust my right hand out. "I wouldn't have had the patience to sit for as long as she did. I'd die of boredom. Did you do her?"
"Tanya," she shook my hand. "No, I didn't do her; she did," Tanya gestured to a woman surrounded by well-wishers. "I manage the gallery."
"Wow," I whistled, "I just gotta have a photo..."
I was as fascinated with the work of art as I was with the gallery manager who, with her gorgeous curls and open visage, looked like a Botticelli.
EMMA HACK TROMPE L'OEIL
August 29 - September 22
Cat Street Gallery
222 Hollywood Road
Hong Kong
I'm in the process of updating the Mr Gay HK media kit for 2013-2014. It's mostly tedious - re-looking at numbers, lay-out, new success stories, trends to watch out for, etc, etc - all in the name of grabbing potential brand partners by the balls and shaking them from side-to-side, until they relent and sign over precious sponsorship dollars for me to see my pet project through another year.
2013 is Mr Gay HK, Year 5.
I'm having a bit of a moment, reminiscing about what has been the past four years. How stories were created, how they were shaped, where I found fertile ground to plant the seeds of a campaign, and then watch it grow and intensify...
I used to enjoy this. I was really good at it, too. It's incredible, looking back at what you've done and realizing that you've accomplished some super-fucking-human feats. If I had met myself five years ago, I would have said:
Holy shit, princess - where'd you find time to get all of these done, plus manage a social persona, maintain friendships and a meaningful relationship with Chris, keep in constant touch with family, do drag, and blog??!
I was of course a lot more persistent when I was younger. These days, I wouldn't deem waste anybody's time. I'd move on as soon as I hear a No, because, I tell myself, it's not the end of the world. There are other things in life which will be a Yes, and they're just straight ahead, so keep on walking! But looking back at what I've been able to accomplish, armed with nothing more than youth and persistence and naivete, I'd say: You fucking wore people out with your enthusiasm, until they just said Yes so you would go away! I would have liked to be friends with that guy - that penniless, Hyperactive gay boy. He made things happen without knowing, fully, how he made them happen. He simply jumped into the deep end - and he'd ask questions later. But only if he absolutely had to. He was self sufficient and independent and driven and bullheaded and positive.
He was happy and energetic. He was free. Sometimes we need to force ourselves to look back, to inspire ourselves in the present, for what we need to get done tomorrow. That's just what happened to me.
POST-SCRIPT
Looking back on it, pondering, writing about it and congratulating yourself isn't enough. Pause for a moment and thank the universe for always making sure you see the redemption after every conflict she throws at you. -Ryeness
HYPERACTIVE (R) MAPS OUT A MARKETING PLAN
WITH THE MAIDS' PRODUCTION MANAGER,
ENAN LIM.
I trekked to My Musical Studio on Saturday night for The Maids' first reading and production meeting. I was a bit apprehensive, but mostly, I was excited. Apart from my frequent outings as an MC and the odd appearance onstage, I haven't really been in involved in theatre work in a significant way.
I arrived at 5.30pm on the dot. My best friend, Rye, was ceremoniously pouring white wine for everyone. "Everyone," really was juts a handful of people: Rye (Solange), myself (Claire), Moe (Madame), Enan (Production Manager), Alvin (Director), and Tina (Co-director, Dramaturg).
We jumped into the material immediately - no preamble. I guess the best way to tackle any Genet piece is not really to approach it, but to attack it.
And that's exactly what we did.
The last time I touched The Maids was in 2002, for my senior directing thesis. I re-imagined the final sequence - a gruesome but nebulous act of sacrifice - as something that might have happened within the tight, echo-bound walls of a bath room. I got an A+, but I'll never forget the countless sleepless nights I endured, trying to make sense of the ending.
Rye and I have been talking about performing The Maids as our alter egos, La Chiquitta and Fabiola, for years. Rye had always been more emotionally infatuated with the project than I ever was. The Maids is the kind of dangerous material that grips you by the balls and never lets go until it gets out of you a release that is neither satisfying nor predictable...
So this time around, I vowed not to over think it. I'll take the material as it comes, I told myself, one day at a time, and try to not to be wholly consumed by it.
...who was I kidding?
By the third line, I had become Claire - impetuous, impatient and impressionable -an accomplice to terrible acts that nobody will ever completely understand.
BUT I PROMPTLY TURNED INTO A WALLFLOWER
IN HIS PRESENCE
(I'M SHY AROUND MY CRUSHES.)
ALL I GOT WAS THIS BLURRED PIC.
SO I JUST SAT DOWN...
LISTENED...
AND BECAME ONE...
WITH THE CARPET.
THANKS TO THE 'CHICAGO MIX' BAGS OF GARRTT POPCORN ON THE SNACK COUNTER,
MY NIGHT - SLOWLY - GREW MORE AND MORE COLOURFUL.
CHEESY CHEESECORN™ TO WAKE MY PALATE UP
+ SWEET CARAMELCRISP® TO RESET MY ENERGY BACK TO #HYPR!
...IT WAS SO GOOD,
I HAD TO KEEP WORKING THROUGH MY LITTLE BAGGIE
ON THE STEPS OF STANDARD CHARTERED BANK'S HEADQUARTERS
WHILST ADMIRING HK'S MAJESTIC SKYSCRAPERS.
GOSH, THIS POPCORN - THEY WERE INVENTED IN CHICAGO OVER 60 YEARS AGO. THEY'VE CERTAINLY COME A LONG WAY!
SO IRRESISTIBLE,
I HAD TO POP THE LID
ON THE 1 GALLON TIN (PINK, NATCH)
THAT SCOTT SCHROEDER, GARRETT POPCORN'S EVP & CHIEF BRAND OFFICER,
GAVE ME FOR MY BIRTHDAY.
IT WAS A GRAND OPENING.
#HYPR HEART GARRETT POPCORN.
MONDAYS ARE MANIC AT THE OFFICE.
BUT TODAY, I'M TAKING MY GINORMOUS TIN OF GARRETT POPCORN
TO HELP MAKE MONDAYS MARVELOUS!
AFTER ALL, IF IT MAKES ME HAPPY TO EAT GREAT POPCORN,
SURELY, IT HAS THAT EFFECT ON OTHER PEOPLE, TOO!
* LIFETRONS' SUPER SEXY PORTABLE SPEAKERS,
TO BLAST UPLIFTING GOSPEL HOUSE IN HI-DEF STEREO SOUND
* MEDICINE BALL,
FOR POWERED-UP BOOTY PUMPS AND PUSH-UPS
* PARA'KITO WRISTBAND AND CLIP
TO KEEP ME FOCUSED ON GETTING #FITNOTFAT,
NOT ON SCRATCHING MOSQUITO BITES!
I got a truckload of birthday presents this year - THANK YOU. I do love prezzies and can't imagine throwing a birthday party that says "No presents, please." I mean?!? It's fun to give and receive! That's also why I don't believe in people who say they're Top Only or Bottom Only - but let's save that for another blog entry.
This year, I thought I'd give myself a present, too.
I signed up for personal training with my dear friend, Bridge, who also happens to be the 2012 Mr Gay HK 1st Runner-up. I'm tired of being fat, especially when I have to stand for photos in the middle of my Mr Gay HK winners! So I decided to get #fitnotfat.
We have a lot of fun, Bridge and myself. We're both extroverts; outdoor exercise suits us much better. And we werqout later in the evening, since we're both frighteningly busy. We gossip a lot. It's fun having the non-threatening presence (as opposed to predatory 99% of the time) of another gay man, with whom to decompress and just process the day's events. No judgment. Just two, strong, black women - gabbing.
We gab whilst we roll out my IT band - that tough group of fibers that run along the outside of the thigh. We gab whilst doing squats, lunges, chest passes - any exercise that doesn't require me to focus on counting or on some belabored breathing. I'm only ever quiet when I jump rope or do push-ups or burpees (yuck).
Unfortunately, whilst we gab, mosquitoes feast. The mozzies at Sun Yat Sen Park are notoriously huge, bloodthirsty suckers. Half the time, I was either clapping mosquitoes dead or scratching at the big, angry bites. The next day, I came prepared with a bottle of mosquito repelling spray and some ointment to rub on inflamed bites. I did the whole ointment thing all over again after I showered. My body was riddled with spots - battle scars from my war against mosquitos. I went to bed, defeated.
Enter Plug PR to the rescue, with a care package from Para'Kito. The mosquitoes are... nowhere. Don't see them. I've been a happy camper since then because all I have to do to get myself #fitnotfat is get into my werqout clothes. I have my wristband on all-day anyway, and my bag is similarly clipped. I've got a "protective shield" around me.
"It smells nice," Bridge noted.
"Citronella, I think."
"I don't even feel like I stink post-werqout coz I've got this beautiful smell around me."
"Well, that's not an excuse not to wear deodorant..."
"I used to not wear deodorant when I had a desk job and wouldn't need to be out on meetings."
"Really?"
"Yeah... It's tough to find a vegan deo. Most have harmful chemicals."
"In the Philippines, you could get tawas... I don't know what it's called in English... It looks like a rock..."
"A crystal - yeah I've seen it!"
And so forth. We mouth ourselves off for hours and hours. Meanwhile, I'm getting a good werqout in. It might be tough to believe this, coming from bossy, old me - but working on my physical shell is also doing wonders for my soul.
I celebrated my birthday last week, surrounded by the beautiful, amazing people who have made this Hyperactive Hong Kong life so meaningful.
It has been eight years since I first got here.
And I feel like I've only just begun.
DARK CHOCOLATE!
B3: BRUNO, BENJIE & BRIDGE
CHEERS TO #HYPR!
WITH MY BELOVED AD
AT MR GAY HK'S MEDIA MEET & GREET AND SEND-OFF PARTY FOR MR GAY WORLD
(L-R): RYE BAUTISTA, ANNA ADASIEWICZ, EMMA HAMMONDS, #HYPR,
LEGGY MODEL LAURA FROM GERMANY, AND HELENA CHAN OF ASIA'S NEXT TOP MODEL
The last week wasn't just a whirlwind of Hyperactive events; it was an HI (10) Tornado, where Hyperactive Intensity is calculated as follows:
HI = DW / NEo x nSH
(NEo +/+ NEp) A ^ S
That's days of the week (7) divided by number of events organized (2), multiplied by net sleeping hours (5).
The most volatile variable here, of course is NEo, which isn't always indicative of NEp (number of events participated in). In most cases, NEo and NEp are inversely proportional. After all, DW (days of the week) is a constant. The more events you organize, the less time you have to allocate to events you participate in. In my case, however, NEo and NEp are directly proportional - especially since nSH follows the Law of Diminishing Returns. It's only by keeping NEo and NEp parallel on the HI graph am I able to keep producing the amounts of A (adrenaline) required to secure a high S (success) rate.
THE QUEEN'S SILVER
BEFORE HK1K
AN EMPTY OPEN-AIR LOT
DURING HK1K
WITH MODEL HELENA CHAN
AND COLUMNIST YALUN TU IN THE BACK
AFTER HK1K
AFTER-PARTY AT MAGNUM
I organized HK1K, HK Mag's 1,000th issue pop-up "Hong Kong Hipsters" block party, on an empty lot in Fashion Walk. The event required the support of over 20 brand partners, over 100 support staff (technicians, stage managers, gophers, security, chefs, waiters and bartenders, door bitches, interns, photographers... and so on), managed through 5 Google Docs (guest list, contact sheet, rundown, budget, script and show flow), and mobilized via 5 buses, to pull off.
It wasn't perfect, but it was awesome. I think I did awesome...
I'm my own biggest critic. So many things could have gone wrong. But so many things were OK, I'm tearful with gratitude to everyone who had in hand in making it a success. Also, my mom's 9-day novena before the event obviously worked! Thank you Mommy, and thank you God.
KEEP IT MOVIN'!
MANILA
KARE-KARE
HYPERACTIVE AND A BEVY OF BEAUTIFUL AUNTIES
#HYPRFAMOUSFLOORS
THE PENTHOUSE IN THE GREEN LOUNGE
ORTIGAS, MANILA
WITH MY BEAUTEOUS BABY SISTER, LOREN
As if that wasn't enough, I had an 8am flight to Manila immediately following HK1K, for Destination, I Do! - the highly conceptual wedding of my cousin, Mark, to his lady love, Abbey.
Upon my arrival in Manila, my youngest sister, Loren, speed-ironed my barong Tagalog and dress pants whilst I greedily gulped honey lemon water, multivitamins and a whole pot of kare-kare. I knew I had to make an effort to be fit for public consumption. I was hoarse, exhausted and sleepy, which is unfair because my family deserves to have the best of Hyperactive.
The wedding invites were mock passports, the guest cards were baggage tags, the tables' centerpieces were each inspired by a dreamy destination, the cake was a stack of luggages rendered in fondant, and of course, the entire thing was MC'd by Hyperactive. At one point, I had to grab my cousin, Boyang, to share hosting duties. I was simply too hoarse to be coherent. It would suck for Mark and Abbey look back to their wedding reception and remember only that I sounded like a broken accordion.
Luckily the happy couple seemed to guess that I might be at less than my usual 150%, and so they had a Starbucks concession especially licensed to operate at their wedding reception. They're coffee lovers, you see. Naturally, they want their guests to have free access to a caffeine fix. Of course.
I got back to the hotel at 1.30am, by which time I figured it'd be futile to sleep and risk missing my 7am flight back to Hong Kong. In Manila, if something could go wrong, it will. So my sister, Loren and I, simply called for massages.
I was back in Hong Kong less than 24 hours after I left - too exhausted to even be aghast at the explosion of event detritus all over my flat.
BACK IN HK,
LAUNDRY AND A MESSY FLAT YELLED FOR ATTENTION.
DID ALL THAT JUST FUCKING HAPPEN?!
Clearly, there had just been a Hyperactive Intensity 10 Tornado.
I dutifully scrubbed and laundered and sprayed and cleaned.
Last Thursday was dinner with the British Consul General. Next Thursday is the Guest List event at Volume HEAT. And then Mr Gay HK's send-off for Mr Gay World, and my birthday. Somewhere in there, I have to squeeze a reading for The Maids. And I mustn't forgo my regular workouts, of course, because Chris is arriving next week.
July is stupid!
I am sleepless, restless and running purely on adrenaline.
And I'm still going.
Where I'm now pulling energy from, I can't even tell any more.
Can we just stop and talk a while?
FUNNILY ENOUGH, THIS SONG WAS USED FOR A COFEE TVC DECADES AGO...
The past three months have seen heightened Hyperactivity, though, because I've been planning the party to mark the year's most important media event: HK1K. It's the local strain of that global superbug known as Y2K, but better 'coz it isn't stressful on anyone - not even on myself, surprisingly. I'm usually a worrywart.
HK1K is the 1,000th issue of HK Magazine, Asia's first-ever free distribution weekly periodical for city dwellers. Every Friday, the magazine is delivered to Hong Kong's best bars and restaurants, cafes and coffee shops, supermarkets and delis, gyms and spas, clubhouses and lobbies, galleries and retail shops. And as soon as our pages hit the streets, a fanatic tribe of readers known as "HK Hipsters" religiously pick them up. This has been a ritual for the past 22 years.
On July 12, Friday, this tribe will gather for the HK1K Big Bash at Magnum (RSVP). They'll drink and dance the night away like heathens, blissfully oblivious to Mercury retrograde. Traveling backwards through the zodiac is only an illusion! The past 22 years are but a glorious pretext to worship at the altar of alternative lifestyle. Cacophonous beats urge us to gyrate - not plod, not march - into the future. See? The past has passed already. What's real is here and now, and what you want to do is up to you. Isn't that thought the sweetest ambrosia to lull your hipster soul into blessed slumber?
The next day, you'll awake unaware that the previous night's hedonism holds any more significance. That's as it should be. HK1K, like Y2K, is ultimately benign. It leaves as soon as it has made its presence felt to you. You've been through it. And although you're not sure what it is, that's ok. See? The past has passed already.
But since the next seven days are yet to come, we might as well chat about what's happening, what's appealing, what's pleasing, what's new, what's delicious, what's controversial, what demands an action, attention, what's worth doing.
Before you know it, it's once again the last day of your work week.
"Gays are the world's most evolved creatures," my trainer, Bridge, purred. "We exist purely for pleasure."
"Mmm," I concurred, breathing into a stretch. "We do love beautiful things... pretty people, art, fashion, design, travel..."
"We're at a different level than everyone else, though," Bridge frowned slightly, pulling my hands further back and pressing my shoulders down. "We seek to pleasure ourselves only. On the other end of the continuum, there are the lesbians..."
"...who value sacrifice and pain and selflessness," I finished. "That's 'coz they're women," I reasoned. "They've all got a motherhood instinct that's magnified especially when they don't have kids. They just mother everything else."
I can't claim to be a Lesbian Expert, although I have claimed many times to be a closeted lesbian. I love them. The way they smell. The way plain talk masks their surprisingly sweet demeanor. The way they're shockingly perfect hostesses, they'd put Martha Stewart to shame.
Last Saturday, I overdosed on lesbian love. It started at Roddy's, with a birthday dinner for Caro. The pungent aroma of cheeses wafted into my nostrils as I knocked on the door. Caro and her wife, Lore, had just returned from a rainbow tour of key cities in the United States' west coast.
"LA was so fake," Lore grimaced. "People were happy and energetic all the time, it made me sick! I suddenly missed Hong Kong. Here, people are rude and grumpy - just like in Belgium!"
I first met Caro and Lore at the 2010 Mr Gay HK Grand Finale. They had just moved to Hong Kong. I can't any more remember the exact circumstances, but I think Caro might have even zipped immediately to the pageant as soon as she got off of a plane... The girls have since entrenched themselves onto the scene, most notably as co-founders of LadyLit - a publishing house that specializes in lesbian erotica.
My partner, Chris, has always been better friends with the girls who, for the most part, have been surrounded by an impenetrable phalanx of gay men collectively known as The Dames: Judy, Helen, Maggie. In this nuclear family, Lore was nicknamed Jason (after the guy who recorded Especially for You with Kylie Minogue). Caro was called Queenie - the group's proverbial curtsy, I'm guessing, to the their unofficial, unelected monarch. There's a highly nuanced network of relationships at play that, in my constantly Hyperactive state, I've failed to understand. I've always felt inadequate and unfocused and stupid next to such intelligent people. Nevertheless the girls and the dames have been nothing but kind to me, especially whenever they'd hear that Chris is away on a work trip.
"Join us for Caro's birthday dinner at Roddy's on Saturday," Johan invited me on Whatsapp. "I'm making roast spring chicken!"
Eight beautiful, golden birds marched smartly out of Roddy's oven. My mouth instantly watered.
"Virgins," Johan promised. "None have ever laid a single egg."
I dug my fingers into the flesh, my teeth ravenously ripping crisp skin and succulent meat apart. Within minutes, I had nothing on my plate but a pile of dry bones. My mouth quivered with exquisite pleasure.
It was a feast fit for a queen.
In stark contrast, Betty's birthday party at LINQ was akin to a street carnival. Betty, co-founder of Les Peches and an all-around picture of PR perfection (just ask the HK PR Network regulars), presided over festivities that had the hoi polloi virtually bathing in champagne down the historic Pottinger steps.
Betty's wife, Abby, came along with dense slices of cake. I grabbed a piece and immediately plunged my face into its irresistible deliciousness. I slathered thick coats of icing down my bare chest, all too aware of the flurry flashbulbs popping to capture my antics.
Hedonism was everywhere.
If this is what selflessness, pain and sacrifice is all about, sign me up.
