watermelon mt.
I packed up and left Hong Kong about a week ago. It was the least frantic packing-up-and-leaving situation I've enjoyed in a long while: I organized my stuff more than an hour before I had to leave for the airport, I didn't have to wear any extra layers of clothes that wouldn't fit in my suitcase, and my luggage was a mere 100g overweight! I spent my last minutes in my hovel serenely drinking tea and writing emails, the very picture of travel-togetherness, then, like a jackass, I floated downstairs and into a taxicab without my laptop A/C cord.
The machine was dead within an hour, and when I got back home, I balked for several days at the US$80 price tag for a new cord from the Mac store, then telephoned all around the astonishingly bunk-ass Albuquerque Macintosh retail scene looking for a secondhand one, then finally figured out that I should order one from Ebay, then bid on one using my dad's Paypal account (covertly), then had to wait for it to arrive. I've been using my parents' gravestone-sized, pop-up-ad-plagued slabtops for a damn week! I've felt hobbled! Parents just don't understand [how to install Flash players and download Firefox].
So I spent a week without a comp and the access to my iPhoto that I need to write LJs; therefore, I've forgotten about most of the urgent wack flight complaints I wanted to blog about except for this Delta Airlines announcement I transcribed into my notebook: "Relax and unwind with one of Delta's chic signature cocktails, a 'Mile-High Mojito' or a margarita." A minibottle of Jose Cuervo and a third of a can of corn syrup margarita mix in a plastic cup constitutes a "chic signature cocktail"? CHIC. I gnashed my teeth 'n' air-raged (and emphatically declined the barfmaking chic signature cocktails). American airlines, with your incessant testing of human beings' capacity to endure suffering, why don't you and your greezy-dictioned stewardesses all kiss my ass? "Are you okay with sitting by thumurgency exit with your chic signature cocktail?" Get off my jock!
Oh, one more thing: any Minneapolites reading this? I spent my nine-hour layover lurching blearily around Mpls, and would like to know: what's your motivation for actually paying for your light rail tickets? Is it the famed Minnesota Nice that makes you do it? I ended up cursing my impeccable good citizenship after I inserted a $20 into the ticket machine and received 18 Sacajawea dollars (which now bear the image of Martin Van Buren, btw, wtf) in change, then encountered no ticket takers or turnstiles for the rest of the day.
My last few weeks in Hong Kong were less than delightful: I was sick of modeling and having some difficulty getting though days without plunging into a snarling galactic snit. There have certainly been times when I would've just laughed or even relished being slathered in ugly and unhip makeup and ordered into ricockulous poses; I'm laughing now, but when I was in the middle of all this shit it felt degrading like never before:
"Pretend you climbing up rainbow! Pretend you sliding down rainbow! We will add the rainbow later! Big pose! Smiling! Bigger!"
That decal covered my entire arm. When the job was over, I was instructed to remove it by peeling. So much epidermis came off with it that I think the whole mess might've been a pretext to obtain a DNA sample. (I am not the father!)
On this day, the makeup artist shoveled some powdered shit into my eyes, they started to sting and swelled up into labia majora-lookin' slits. There was no mirror in the makeup room, so I trundled off to the bathroom for an inspection and, surprise!, discovered the horror that the hairstylist had wrought upon my head. (PS Nice mustache, bitch.)
I went to bed like this. Makeup and all.
I got a lot of inspiration from President Obama. When he has to do a crappy modeling job, like his campaign for Pink Wedding, he just smiles and tries to maintain a pleasant attitude.
Anyway, I eventually made it out alive, wounded in vanity alone. ¡Albuquerque! Viva el hogar familiar.
Speaking of which, confidential to my fellow Q-denizens: vayan ahorita mismo a Pro's Ranch Market on Central and Atrisco. Es un awesome Mexican supermercado con food court adentro: se puede comprar "street" tacos, pescado fresco, y todo tipo de licuado. Hoy probé licuado de mamey (the only flavor I'd never heard of) y coctél de pescado, pulpo, y camarón. Riquísimos. While you're in there you can get all the Bimbuñuelos, Jarritos, tortillas frescas (y blandísimas), nopales, ceviche preparado, and other Mexcessories that you need to get you out of bed al NM amanecer. And if you're going to sell elotes on the corner of Zuni and Wyoming (like the abuelito my mom chattily asked, "¿Qué vas a hacer con cinco libres de cotija?"), you can buy your cheese, chile and mantequilla there too.
If you're not from Albuquerque, you suck, but I'll show you a couple of Pro's Ranch Market pics anyway.
The green stuff is nopal, cactus leaves.
The machine was dead within an hour, and when I got back home, I balked for several days at the US$80 price tag for a new cord from the Mac store, then telephoned all around the astonishingly bunk-ass Albuquerque Macintosh retail scene looking for a secondhand one, then finally figured out that I should order one from Ebay, then bid on one using my dad's Paypal account (covertly), then had to wait for it to arrive. I've been using my parents' gravestone-sized, pop-up-ad-plagued slabtops for a damn week! I've felt hobbled! Parents just don't understand [how to install Flash players and download Firefox].
So I spent a week without a comp and the access to my iPhoto that I need to write LJs; therefore, I've forgotten about most of the urgent wack flight complaints I wanted to blog about except for this Delta Airlines announcement I transcribed into my notebook: "Relax and unwind with one of Delta's chic signature cocktails, a 'Mile-High Mojito' or a margarita." A minibottle of Jose Cuervo and a third of a can of corn syrup margarita mix in a plastic cup constitutes a "chic signature cocktail"? CHIC. I gnashed my teeth 'n' air-raged (and emphatically declined the barfmaking chic signature cocktails). American airlines, with your incessant testing of human beings' capacity to endure suffering, why don't you and your greezy-dictioned stewardesses all kiss my ass? "Are you okay with sitting by thumurgency exit with your chic signature cocktail?" Get off my jock!
Oh, one more thing: any Minneapolites reading this? I spent my nine-hour layover lurching blearily around Mpls, and would like to know: what's your motivation for actually paying for your light rail tickets? Is it the famed Minnesota Nice that makes you do it? I ended up cursing my impeccable good citizenship after I inserted a $20 into the ticket machine and received 18 Sacajawea dollars (which now bear the image of Martin Van Buren, btw, wtf) in change, then encountered no ticket takers or turnstiles for the rest of the day.
My last few weeks in Hong Kong were less than delightful: I was sick of modeling and having some difficulty getting though days without plunging into a snarling galactic snit. There have certainly been times when I would've just laughed or even relished being slathered in ugly and unhip makeup and ordered into ricockulous poses; I'm laughing now, but when I was in the middle of all this shit it felt degrading like never before:
"Pretend you climbing up rainbow! Pretend you sliding down rainbow! We will add the rainbow later! Big pose! Smiling! Bigger!"
That decal covered my entire arm. When the job was over, I was instructed to remove it by peeling. So much epidermis came off with it that I think the whole mess might've been a pretext to obtain a DNA sample. (I am not the father!)
On this day, the makeup artist shoveled some powdered shit into my eyes, they started to sting and swelled up into labia majora-lookin' slits. There was no mirror in the makeup room, so I trundled off to the bathroom for an inspection and, surprise!, discovered the horror that the hairstylist had wrought upon my head. (PS Nice mustache, bitch.)
I went to bed like this. Makeup and all.
I got a lot of inspiration from President Obama. When he has to do a crappy modeling job, like his campaign for Pink Wedding, he just smiles and tries to maintain a pleasant attitude.
Anyway, I eventually made it out alive, wounded in vanity alone. ¡Albuquerque! Viva el hogar familiar.
Speaking of which, confidential to my fellow Q-denizens: vayan ahorita mismo a Pro's Ranch Market on Central and Atrisco. Es un awesome Mexican supermercado con food court adentro: se puede comprar "street" tacos, pescado fresco, y todo tipo de licuado. Hoy probé licuado de mamey (the only flavor I'd never heard of) y coctél de pescado, pulpo, y camarón. Riquísimos. While you're in there you can get all the Bimbuñuelos, Jarritos, tortillas frescas (y blandísimas), nopales, ceviche preparado, and other Mexcessories that you need to get you out of bed al NM amanecer. And if you're going to sell elotes on the corner of Zuni and Wyoming (like the abuelito my mom chattily asked, "¿Qué vas a hacer con cinco libres de cotija?"), you can buy your cheese, chile and mantequilla there too.
If you're not from Albuquerque, you suck, but I'll show you a couple of Pro's Ranch Market pics anyway.
The green stuff is nopal, cactus leaves.