Baduy!

Sam Milby and Toni Ganzaga star in their first movie. I really don't give a shit about Sam and Toni. That is, until I was asked if I want to watch them.

For chrissake.

I've nothing against Sam Milby. Okay, maybe I'm envious of his fame and his ethereal smile. But I wish he could tone the smile down a bit? I know he's a Close-Up model and he has to live up to expectations but honestly, everytime I see him I am reminded of Jack Nicholson as Joker in the first Batman movie. The only thing missing is the white make-up and the green costume. Come to think of it, doesn't he also look like Jim Carrey in The Mask? Hmmm...

As for Toni, she used to be my crush. That's because she was not the showbiz type. Well not anymore. Mukhang pera din pala ang lola mo when she decided to move to ABS-CBN. Shortly thereafter, GMA 7 became the number one network. Ha! Buti nga, na-karma. And what's with that "I missed Sam" statement when she got back from Barcelona? Eeew! Showbiz! Boooo!

Anyway, I have a lot respect for women, having grown up surrounded by them. But times like these, I kinda lose respect for women when they are suckered into watching movies starring the hottest manufactured loveteam. And mind you, these women aren't the EDSA Tres, masa-types. They're actually the Makati-yuppie types. I can't understand how they can all of a sudden throw any semblance of taste in the trash.

So, in a vain crusade to prevent Sam and Toni from making money out of the innate kababawan of every Pinay, here are my reco films that can satisfy a woman's mushy side without having to surrender to their baduy demons.

Gone with the Wind A five-hour saga that follows the life and love of Scarlett O'Hara during the American Civil War. After going through hell, she finally finds Rhett Butler, a man that truly loves her. But Rhett dumps her anyway because she's too maarte and a certified manggagamit. When she realizes no man could ever love her like Rhett, she makes paawa to Rhett. To which, Rhett lets out the best movie line ever, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." Or in local parlance, "Bahala ka sa buhay mo, babu."

When a Man Loves a Woman Andy Garcia plays an airline pilot whose wife (played by Meg Ryan) is a not a hopeless romantic but rather a hopeless alcoholic to the point of being admitted into rehab. Well, she gets cured but not after giving Andy one heck of a headache throughout. It's a painful, stupid kind of love where you're left thinking if any man could ever love such a woman. Well yes, it's rather stupid but Andy and Meg? Come on, no comparison to Sam and Toni.

Leaving Las Vegas Another tale of star-crossed lovers on the path to self-destruction. Ben (Nicolas Cage) is a jobless alcoholic who is determined to drink himself to death while Sera (Elizabeth Shue) is a Vegas prostitute. It's a painful, hopeless situation where love blossoms nonetheless. They completely and utterly accept one another despite knowing in their hearts their love will inevitably die with Ben's passing. Sera sums it all up when she says, "We both realized that we didn't have that much time. I accepted him as he was and didn't expect him to change. He needed me. I loved him -- I really loved him." Ah, that hurts.

Brokeback Mountain In this movie, love is truly blind. It can't even distinguish between genders. Amidst all the controversy and the "eews" and "yucks" of those who watched it, Brokeback is nothing more than a story of love at the wrong place and at the wrong time. (Maybe even the wrong universe.) If you haven't yet read the short story by Annie Proulx, I suggest you do. There you'll encounter vivid imagery of Ennis and Jack's playground ("The tea-colored river ran fast with snowmelt, a scarf of bubbles at every high rock, pools and setbacks streaming. The ochre-branched willows swayed stiffly, pollened catkins like yellow thumbprints...") as well as graphic description of their trysts. ("The room stank of semen and smoke and sweat and whiskey, of old carpet and sour hay, saddle leather, shit and cheap soap. Ennis lay spread-eagled, spent and wet, breathing deep, still half tumescent; Jack blew forceful cigarette clouds like whale spouts...")

Mr. and Mrs. Smith This is included here not because of it's profound interpretation of love. It's just way cool to watch the two most beautiful people on earth shoot each other. Way cooler than sitting through Sam's plastered smile and Toni's square jaw. (Come to think of it, bagay nga sila. Parehong puro panga.)

A Walk to Remember Alright, this is one downright kababawan, American-style. But at least the ending is different from the typical romance flick. Mandy Moore's character dies, so it's not a happy ever after one. Also, the screenwriters are at least creative in the sense that they were able to think of kilig ideas such as the boy naming a star after his lady love. O ha. Maiisip ba yan ng Pinoy screenwriter? Wish mo lang.

Titanic Another squirmish movie with a squirmish screenplay. But at least you'll get to see a giant ship sinking and thousands of people dying, yehey! The special effects make Rose and Jack totally forgivable.

So there. If you still feel the urge to watch Sam Milby and Toni Gonzaga, well enjoy. Just prepare to see a lot of their panga, okay?

Too much to chew on

I went to the dentist this weekend for cleaning and some patch-up work on an old fill. I learned I'm dying. Well, sort of.

See, that's the problem with dentists. No matter how serious you are with oral care, it's never enough. They'll always see something wrong with your teeth. Right off the bat she tells me my gums are showing the earliest signs of gingivitis. Next, she tells me my teeth need braces. Still not satisfied, she calls in an assistant to jot down the condition of my teeth.

One left, canis with abrasion...

Two left, extended abrasion, canis...

Three left, canis...

Four left, canis with abrasion...

She went on and on. After the endless repetition of boggling terms, she tells me, "Sir, 22 of your teeth need to have fills as they are showing signs of decay."

What? Nasisiraan ka ba ng bait? I brush gazillion times a day with flouride, crystals and calcium enriched toothpaste and you're telling me my mouth's a decaying mess?

Of course, I kept my composure and tried to save face. I cooly asked, "So how much is each fill?"
"Sir, 800 per surface. Pwedeng sa isang ngipin dalawang surface pa, depende sir."

At that point my below-average math skills didn't take long to figure out I'd need 20,000 bucks just to get my teeth fixed! Neknek mo! Bibili na lang ako ng iPod video noh!

I was tempted to argue that our teeth is the toughest thing in the human body. That humans successfully evolved over several million years without toothpaste or dentists taking care of our teeth. That she's just a greedy monster trying to make money off of my ignorance.

But anyway, she's gone through five years of school to get to that conclusion about my teeth and that I'd have to give it to her. Still, she made me feel I have cancer of the mouth and I'm about to die soon.

To top it all, I paid her to tell me that. Geez.

A novel by Danny

I've checked my highschool yahoogroup mail and whatdayaknow, one of the most creative minds in our batch has finally decided to write his first novel. Go Danny! Am so rooting for you. Anyway I'm mightily proud of my highschool friends. Delusional this may be but most of our teachers back then thought our batch will go a long way.

Fifteen years hence, we're spread out across this vast planet. From the freezing wilderness of Norway to the outbacks of Oz (Australia, mate!). True to the prophecy, we've conquered the world!

Our batch is also one of the brightest. The youngest editor in the Philippine Daily Inquirer is one of ours. Our valedictorian is not only one of the top ten finishers in the physical therapy board, but is also making a name for himself in the field of photography in NY.

We have scores of doctors and engineers, all accomplished. So much so we can actually build a hospital. The engineers will put it up, the doctors and nurses will keep it going. Oh-ha!

Heck, we even have a military officer (one of the best in his batch at the PMA) who can have his men wounded in battle be treated for free in this imaginary hospital! (Wait, this is getting morbid, sorry.)

And there are of course, the creative minds like me, Tristan and Nie. Ha! I don't see any reason why this world won't be our oyster. Slurp.

Now back to Danny. I kinda envy him for finally mustering the will to write a novel. Which brought me back to my lame attempt at writing a future fiction for the Palanca Awards. Here are the first few paragraphs:

Lorenz staggered to his feet. Even before his mind could sputter back to life, the heavy, rancid stench of dried blood and burned flesh tore through his mouth and nose. Stomach turning, he threw up instinctively. But not a morsel of sour, partly digested food came out of him. He just gagged on his own syrupy spit. He hasn’t eaten for days and only God knows how long he’d been lying unconscious among his dead comrades.

Oh yes, God. He stopped short of cursing the heavens. He almost forgot. God’s the reason why he’s in this macabre, surreal state of affairs. He must not forget that.

"Tubig" was the first thought, the first word that materialized in his brain that moments ago was dead. It shut itself out in the middle of battle, unable to cope with the carnage it was witnessing. It couldn’t come to grips with the images of men, once fathers, brothers, best friends, being reduced by machineguns into nothing but bloody strips of meat. Bullets madly ripping away at their bellies, emptying them of their guts. Heads bursting open. Blood, pieces of skull and brains exploding into a ghastly fireworks display. Those who weren’t instantly killed soon followed but not before their squeals became indistinguishable from those of pigs being slaughtered in the old days when fiestas were all about food. Back when the Vatican Republic was still known as the Philippines.

I got bored writing so wasn't able to continue. The gist of the story is, in the final battle between Christianity and Islam, the Philippines became the Vatican Republic, leading all Christian nations into a titanic struggle against all muslim countries. I know, it's too controversial but hey, it's fiction, right?

If anyone wants to develop the plot, be my guest. Just make sure you won't be another Salman Rushdie, okay?

Date with the Devil

Zoom! The week just flew by, whew!

Had two shoots, and had to work on a holiday. And so, I got a free day yesterday, yoohoo! Ended up watching The Devil Wears Prada.

Lesson learned, it's refreshing to go in a movie without expecting anything. While I am vaguely familiar with the book by Lauren Weisberger (who used to work for Vogue, by the way), I haven't had any interest in it because I thought it's just one of those fashion bibles who'll only be of use to the fashionistas of the world. (Read: it's shallow stuff.)

But geez, sitting beside gay couples and giggling office girls who snuck out of work, I was pleasantly entertained. It may not be an Oscar material but I immensely enjoyed Meryl Streep as Miranda Priestly, the "dragon lady" editor-in-chief of Runway, a fictional representation of Vogue, I'd like to think. She was awesome. Every turn of the head, the craning of her neck, the pout of her lips, the arch of her eyebrows, the slow, lilting delivery of downright demeaning yet witty dialogue was done in absolute perfection. Without her, the movie would have been a definite sleeper.

Anne Hathaway, on the other hand, plays yet another ugly duckling transforming into a fashionista swan as Andrea. All I can say is, she was neither here nor there. Then again, I can't think of anyone else playing the role. Maybe Kate Hudson in her younger days.

Anyway, I can absolutely relate to the world of Runway and Miranda Priestly in several ways.

First, though I haven't worked for a devil-incarnate, I exist on the same plane as that in the movie. See, in advertising as in fashion, everything is a matter of opinion. The thing is, it's whose opinion that matters. What I think does not amount to millions worth of re-shoots and re-edits. Nobody gives a hoot what I have to say. On the other hand, what my boss (and his exceptional taste for beauty) thinks can either make or unmake a brand. Or worse, my career. Also, I am perfectly aware that advertising is as useless as Britney's bum hubby, Kevin Featherline. But most in the industry don't think so. Most believe advertising has a divine purpose. Whatever that purpose is just escapes me. That's why I was floored how Meryl Streep delivered the lenghty, delusional discourse of Miranda on how a shade of blue in one fashion show had supposedly altered the course of humanity. Brilliant.

Second, I too am caught in a really shallow, superficial industry. Where Balenciaga bags, Manolo Blahnik shoes, trips to Paris, and an obsession with weight and sizes, is more the norm rather than the exception. This is advertising, after all. Where anything ugly and unpleasant does not exist. Where you make 30-second films that should depict the reality of the filthy masses but still has to be aspirational. Duh.

Third, aside from ugliness and imperfection, time is another element that is not supposed to exist in advertising. Never dare make plans. You can find yourself suddenly staying the whole night at the office--on a Sunday. This is a world as unpredictable as diarrhea. You'll never know when you're supposed to go. Or stay.

However, the similarities end there. Between, the reel and the real world, I'm not in this job just to prove something to a devil of a boss. I found myself here because I chose to, not because my resume accidentally landed on a creative director's desk. I love my job and the sacrifices that go with it. And although advertising is as useless as fashion, it's not advertising that I love. Rather, it's the thrill of creating ads I enjoy, not the TV commercial or the print ad or the radio itself. Much like the journey of life. It's not how far you've gone. It's how you got there.

Mom, the bionic woman

Ma, you'll look like the bionic woman on this! Promise, I'll buy you one.

I'm quite surprised nobody has thought of this before. It's freaking cool! My mom, who finds it difficult to walk long distances because of her stroke would really be amazed by this. Here's the write-up:

"Industrial and furniture design make our lives more aesthetically pleasing and comfortable, but in rare cases like this, good design can actually change lives. Those who have been left paraplegic by tragic accidents can regain some quality of life with this brilliant piece of engineering – the standing wheelchair. It allows people to stand upright, thus viewing and experiencing the world from their former perspective."

Reminds me of Dean Kamen's overly-hyped invention, the Segway whom its spin doctors said will usher in the end of the automobile. Well, it hasn't happend yet. And if ever automobiles will die out, it will not be because of the Segway but because of the ridiculously high oil prices.

Going back, the upright wheelchair above is so much better than the traditional wheelchair. I'd have to agree, sitting on one has a psychological effect in that it makes you feel like you're just half the person you used to be.

With this, you're on the same eye level as everyone else. Though you're still physically challenged, at least you're on equal footing with everybody, so to speak.

Another cool set of wheels for the physically challenged is this:

If there are a couple of reasons good enough to put off buying a new car (apart form the current fuel costs), I think these set of wheels for mom are.

Bear with me

Tsk, tsk, the rains can really mess up your mind. Here's a feeble attempt at poetry brought on by the rain. I hope I'd be forgiven for such a transgression. I'm just in a contemplative mood. Or in plain language, walang magawa at walang maisulat. Tomorrow I promise, I'll be back to my usual, babbling self.

One second summer

When the heavens are soaked with sadness
I do nothing but surrender to the melancholy of it all
In a dull and ancient day as this,
I long for the the warm sun of months past

I bathe my spirits in azure memories
I regale my mind in the wonder
Of lilting waves tickling every sinew of my being
At last I am transfixed,
no different from the frozen gaze of the masters' obras

Then a smile breaks, though faintly
I hurriedly turn to see
I murmur a prayer
Please let no one be witness to my fleeting joy
Lest I become a madman in their eyes

As a gentle drizzle unfolds into a crescendo of torrents
I am hurled back to the unforgiving bleakness
I beg you, pour it on
For I have already spent an entire summer in a second

Is there a Michaelangelo out there?

Oh God. I didn't think I'd be this serious. But I've done the overnight test (you know, if something's stuck in your head, sleep over it). Actually, it's been more than a night. And I'm still thinking about getting a tattoo. A BIG tattoo.

I've scoured the web for info. These are the things I found out:

One thing's for sure, it's quite painful. And it's gory 'coz there's going to be bloodletting. Even if the tattoo needle only penetrates one-sixteenth of an inch into the skin, that's still going to hurt. But it's unlike the deep, piercing pain of an injection. It's more like intense scratching.

I've no problem with this as I have a high threshold for pain. Here's a side story: I can still remember as an eight-year old my mom took me to this faith healer in Carmona, Rizal to have my decaying molar extracted. See, my mom grew up in the province and she was quite a believer in the mystical powers of such healers. Anyway, it wasn't an issue to me as my mom repeatedly assured me it'll be painless. Well not until you arrive at the healer's hut and notice his only tool is an old pair of pliers. Yep, no pain-killers, no injections, nothing. Add to that, there's this bucket full of extracted teeth from maybe hundreds of his patients.

Anyway, I couldn't remember the pain. But I do remember the sound of my molar crackling as the faith healer slowly twisted and pulled out my molar off its roots. There was little blood, too. He just made me gargle saltwater and he's done. I think my mom paid him 2o pesos.

Now if I was able to go through that as an eight-year old, I wouldn't have any problem with getting a tattoo.

I also learned a third of those who get tattoos end up regretting having had one. Mostly because they had them young. When the poor bastards left college for the real world, they had a difficult time finding real jobs 'coz of their tattoos.

Still, not a problem with me. My job not only allows weirdos in the office, it actually encourages strangeness. And it pays well at that.

Now I have a big problem with the tattoo artist. I'm not so sure if there's anyone in the Philippines who can ink tattoos as awesome as these:

Just look at the artwork. It's so way out there. Totally, absolutely beautiful. I need someone who's as good or even better than Miami Ink's Kat Von D. If I can't find someone of her caliber in this country, I might not get a tattoo at all. Unless by some twist of fate Kat Von D visits the Philippines.

I need such levels of artistry because as I wrote in my recent post, I want Athena making love with Ptah on my arm. Only a portraiture tattoo artist such as Kat Von D can pull that off beautifully. Also, there's no such painting or drawing of Athena making love with Ptah so the artist has to draw it. Add to that the design should have that Rennaissance look, as if Michaelangelo himself painted it.

Hay, such high standards, I know. Well you can't blame me. I'm surrounded by artists. I've sort of imbibed their tastes. And we're talking about my arm here. I don't want some ugly design picked from a catalog. I want a work of art on my body.

I guess I won't be getting a tattoo after all. Not because I'm no longer into it. It's just that I don't think there's someone out there who can execute the design I have in mind. If you can point me to someone, I'd be happy to be convinced otherwise.

In defense of my kind

Another reason for Pinoy men to cower in shame.

According to an international men's magazine survey, Filipino men are quite pathetic in that we have the distinction of being the most sexually active--that is, in solitude. It says majority of Pinoy men "spank the monkey" almost six times a week. Compare this to South Koreans who claim they get the real deal four times a week or to Italian men who claim they bring their partners to orgasmic highs ALL the time.

Assuming all the respondents are telling the truth and that Pinoy men are not just being modest or that Italian men are really that good in bed, I have a theory as to why Pinoy men have plummeted to such depths in satisfying their most basic need.

See, getting laid in this country is a pretty tall order simply because Pinays have impossibly high standards. Blame it on the proverbial colonial mentality. The ideal guwapo is not at all Pinoy-looking. He has to be tall, tisoy and generally has caucasian features. Notice that most Pinoy models are half-breeds. Either Eurasians or Amerisians. Though there are showbiz Pinoy-looking hearthrobs such as Piolo Pascual and Jericho Rosales, they are more the exception rather than the rule.

Also, most Pinays are quite pintaseras. They don't have the grace nor the modesty to keep their mouths shut. They often blurt out, within earshot of any male, "wala namang guwapo dito!"
Either that or you hear them say, again within earshot of average joes, "Ang daming guwapong taga-Manila sa Boracay! Saan kaya sila 'pag nandito sa Manila?" It's the same nasty thing said in a different way.

And when Pinays go abroad, they again tell to your face how ugly Pinoy men are by shrieking, "Ang daming guwapo sa Europe! Kahit nagwawalis ng basura, guwapo!" To which, I am often tempted to retort, "Did you know 99% of serial killers are caucasians? It's a genetic thing."

Though I won't dispute that Pinoy men are not the most handsome in the world, I have one thing to say to the typical pintasera Pinay woman:

Akala n'yo magaganda kayo?

I wanna get inked

I'm seriously considering getting a tattoo. Seriously.

Not a small one that you can hide whenever you don't feel looking like a Sigue-Sigue Sputnik member (one of the more popular jologs jail gangs) but a really big, Yakuza-looking one that will cover my whole forearm. Not only that. I also want a big one on my chest that spreads all the way to my shoulders, neck and my whole my back.

Why the fascination with tattoos and why BIG tattoos at that?

First, having a tattoo is one of those life-changing moments. Suddenly whether you like it or not, you become a gangster, a drug pusher, an ex-convict and all the dark characters associated with tattoos. It's also one those things in life you can't undo. Yes you can have them removed with laser surgery but you have to live with ugly scars. That's why I want it big. Pangangatawanan ko na! And that's why I especially hate it when I see people who think they're cool just because they have itsy-bitsy tattoos on their toes. It's like going into something with half a heart. So if you have a barely noticeable tattoo, let me shatter your delusions about coolness. It's not cool. It's fucking sissy.

Second, there are bad tattoos and there are good tattoos. Bad tattoos are any one of the following:

Tribal. Please, if you're a Starbucks drinking, party-going, condo-living, car-driving yuppie who can't even spend an hour in the jungle, drop the idea. It's so overused and it's so pretentious.

Skulls or Death. Again, pretentious and overused. And if you can't hurt a fly, don't own a Harley and you have biceps the size of chicken feet, don't even bother.

Eagles, Lions, Tigers, Snakes, Dragons. Your insecurity shows. You're just trying to project something that you obviously are not.

Cartoon characters. Should I elaborate? Please!

On the other hand, what's a good tattoo? Well to get a good tattoo, you need to find the best artist. One who won't just start lacerating your skin with whatever design you want but rather someone who'll tell you that your idea is crap and he'd rather design something suited for you.

Next, your design should have a personal meaning. Remember your tattoo will stay with you for as long as you live. It shouldn't be something that you'll hate one day. The rule of thumb is, it should remind you of someone or something really significant in your life. A personal triumph, a painful loss, a promise fulfilled or a loved one who has already passed.

I'm glad I haven't gotten any tattoo in my younger years. I might have gotten something really dumb and was just a spur of the moment thing. Now that I'm older and have a deeper understanding of myself, I pretty much know what I want.

And what design do I want?

I want a demon seemingly coming out from my flesh, tearing my chest apart, it's tail jutting out from my back. See, we all have a dark side. We all are capable of doing bad things. Having such a tattoo reminds me of the not so good things I've done in the past. And it should also remind me to not do it again. To not let the devil come out. Something like this:

On my forearm are the images of Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom and Ptah, the Egyptian god of craftsmen, rebirth and creation. They will be intertwined, as if making love. They represent the work my hands do. That is to create something out of all these ideas cramming my head. Something as beautiful as this:

Still, why this sudden idea to get a tattoo?

'Coz I watched too much TV this weekend. First I watched this guy, Alain Robert. A French free climber. Free, meaning without the aid of ropes or safety nets. And he climbs not just rock faces but buildings! Why such insanity? 'Coz of his simple philosophy: we'll all die anyway so might as well live your life in the most daring, most unique way.

Second, I watched Miami Ink. A TV series about a real-life group of friends who maintain a tattoo shop in Miami. Apart from elevating tattoos into an art form, they also made me realize that people who get tattoos get them not for the looks or just plain wanting to be cool. Tattoos, I learned, are very deep, emotional things. That they can be powerful statements of your philosophy in life.

Me, being naturally silent, still need to be heard. I want to impart something to anyone. Either something about me or about my observations of the world around me. (Isn't it obvious? I'm a blogger!)

I now see tattoos as living life to the fullest and shouting out to the world that "hey, I'm not just a statistic! I have something to say and I say it differently!"

And so, I hope I won't end up in Miami anytime in the future. Because in all likelihood, I'll go home with huge tattoos all over my body. (To the complete and utter shock of Boo and my parents, obviously.)

Supermaids

There seems to be no let up with Israel's war with Hezbollah. And so, GMA has ordered the evacuation of all Pinay domestic helpers in Lebanon with the promise of "enhancing" their skills once they get home so they can return to work in a safer place not just as ordinary DH's but as "Supermaids."

For P5,000 to P8,000 bucks, a DH can undergo a one month training on culture, language, first aid and other necessary skills that will enable them to command a higher salary of US$400 a month from the current monthly standard of US$200.

Ano ba?! This is just another knee-jerk project of the government na naman.

I think to make our overseas Pinay domestic helpers really super, they should instead undergo self-defense training. Karate, Jujitsu, Arnis, Taekwondo, hell, even boxing!

Because being a DH is one big gamble. Just look, you go off into a foreign country armed with all these culture-eklat training but instead you end up being treated, or rather, maltreated as a farm animal. You are made to sleep with pigs, eat leftover food and are locked up for weeks whenever your amo goes on vacation.

How many times have we heard of horror stories from our Pinay DH's? Why teach them culture and etiquette when most of the people who employ them don't know the difference between being civilized and being barbaric?

I say send our domestic helpers to the US Navy Seals training camp. Teach them survival skills, teach them how to survive brutal torture and if worse comes to worst, teach them the most efficient way to butcher their abusive employers.

Let's see if any fat, hairy, smelly foreign employer will ever mess again with our domestic helpers.

Tired of the rat race?

Slurp. Here's my dream bike. Presenting the 2006 Trek Madone SSLX. Full carbon-fiber components, OCLV Boron frame, Shimano Dura-Ace shifters, deraullers, crank, pedal and cassette, Bontrager tires and Bontrager carbon wheels.

Same bike used by the Discovery Channel team in the the Tour de France. Light as a feather. Retail price: $10,000. Yes, it's half a million pesos.

More expensive than a Kia Picanto. A tad cheaper than a Honda Jazz. The only difference is, neither a Picanto nor a Jazz can give you a pair of sexy legs, a beautiful butt and washboard abs. There's also no need for gas, too. Oh, you can park it right beside your cubicle if you want to.

Can't get a chick with it, you say? Think again. Lance Armstrong and Sheryl Crow were steadies for the longest time.

Between a Ferrari and this, I'd choose this hands down.

The iPod (introvert's Pod)

I wish we have one of these in the office. It's a complete multimedia pod combining, audio, video and even the internet into one nifty design. Borderline autistics like me would find this the ultimate sanctuary when ideas can't seem to flow into our heads. It's like saying, "shoo, don't bother me" in a really cool (and expensive) way.

I know, when I get to set up my own agency I'll use these to lure the most brilliant creatives into my creative hotshop. (Dream on , Gerry, dream on.)