a blog with cultural bulimia.

Friday, May 28, 2004


Today is my last hospital visit to take care of warts (mostly gone now) that grew on my face like wild mushrooms. Not two. More like 20.

Right when I was ready, willing and in need of a job, I was afraid to even leave my room. Self-imposed exile. Afraid of the disgusted reaction from my friends.

Like wearing a tie, or not having facial hair, the warts would not affect in any way my performance at any job. It was all about the perception that existed in other people's head.

It's a shallow world the one we live in. I'm part of that world, no denying. It's a constant battle trying to get over preconceived notions of beauty or why they matter.

Will it be the ultimate sign of maturity?

My prototypical ideal has been liberated from being the all-American Ralph-Lauren model to being accepted as the man of the eagle. Some of my (intelligent, in my opinion) friends still make fun of me: there goes Mr. V's type. Some of my (intelligent, in my opinion) friends still idolize the 'Chelsea look'. It's hard not too when pretty much every gay media outlet - as well as the straight ones - broadcast image after image of buffed hairless six-packed unattainable gods. It makes for a close to impossible to satisfy group of people. The Chelsea look.

Now, when I say Chelsea I do not mean the geographic area contained between 14&23 west of 6th in NYC. Since that's where the gay Mafia lives and/or socializes, it's the center from which these notions are imposed on the less enlightned.

THERE IS a Chelsea mentality in Boston. THERE is a Chelsea mentality in Brazil. And most certainly there is one in Singapore. The Chelsea boy does not need to live in Chelsea, not even in NYC (but in Brazil they are called Barbies).

The power of the media, bombarding images of unattainable ideals, creating fake desires in people's mind.

I hope the Guardian UK is right about the potbelly as the new gay ideal.