Posted on by crystal · 3 Comments

I love the internet!

Especially Google Reader.

So apparently, Johnny Depp is the sexiest man alive.

Again.

Amen to that. The boy is hot! I have adored him right from the days of 21 Jumpstreet. Apparently, he has crossover appeal and is loved by women of all ages.

Again, amen to that.

Previous double winners include Richard Gere [yum!] and George Clooney [he made it hot to be short] .

Also, Brad Pitt. Hmph. Sorry Ms Jolie, but I just don’t get his appeal. He so does not do it for me. Colin Farrel on the other hand, yum!

I have some love for the brothers as well … Denzel and Will Smith are never off my list. And Mohinder The Pretty [from Heroes], not forgetting the gorgeous Arab guy on Lost, I forget his name. And Dean from season 1 of Gilmore girls, before his hair went bad. I think his name is Paldecki.

I’m pretty sure there are some boys out there who can give these ones a run for their money *cough*cough*K3* but since they are not on TV, we will never really know.

♫♫♫♫

Beauty, apparently, is in the eye of the beholder. I have heard it said that’s just a prize for the unpretty, and I have to agree. Coz think about it. We are all forever harping about different strokes for different folks and gunk like that, yet we can’t deny that Halle Berry is hot and Megan Fox is a goddess.

Now I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed. I always thought I had unique taste. But that my yummiest stars are universally accepted as yummy stars, well, that makes me just like everyone else! The horror!

Oh well. At least I still have [my disliking for] Brad Pitt.

♫♫♫♫

Harlequin have a division for self-publishing and Mills and Boons are finally marketting African beauty. Seriously.

Also, zombie romance, the Nook, and fear of body parts falling off during coitus. Not forgetting Evil Editor. Oh, and a really cool writer whose book I haven’t read. I will buy it though.

This is how I use 2GB of bandwidth in a month. **cheeky grin**

♫♫♫♫

Why is it, I wonder, that indigenous Africans didn’t consider nipples erotic? I mean  I know they were thought to have little use beyond feeding babies, but seriously, it’s like the most sensitive part of a woman’s [and, I hear, even a man’s] body. More reactive even than lollipops and joysticks. How did our forefathers not know this?

Perhaps because said tips were exposed and alert all the time, it was hard to notice the potential for horizontal triggering. Which is just a shame if you ask me. They probably didn’t realise that sometimes, these organic baby bottles were not at full attention. I mean seriously, did no eight-packed, animal-oiled bare-chested beauty notice that when he walked past, all the nearby ladies’ elements pulled a double salute? Really?

But then again, many indigenous African societies liked to mutilate joysticks to prevent, you know, so perhaps they simply chose to ignore said pleasure spots. And since women were mainly for making babies, then stimulating certain zones would only produce baby food, which is hardly the most evocative of images. Interesting thought that.

♫ Incubus ♫ Wish you were here ♫

For more information on 3CB, click here.

Posted on by crystal · 11 Comments

Ea-sy CB…

Disclaimer: This post is rated PG 17. It contains strong language, disturbing images and flash pho… no wait, wrong disclaimer. But seriously, be prepared, it’s more than just mild swearing. Thank you. Have a nice day.

When I think about bosses, I don’t quite see them as human. To me, they are these amazing, ethereal beings with hot cars and six-zero-salaries who can do no normal thing. Except maybe hitting [on] people, coz, you know, they’re bosses.

But then I realise they’re only flesh. They have peeves and ploys and fetishes. They’re just like the rest of us … except with a hot car and six zeroes and a license to hit [on] things.

I had an interesting conversation with K7. He had just had the most blogworthy of weeks, and I was trying to get him to, you know, blog. But he couldn’t, coz his blog is, you know, bookish. In a good way. A very good way. A paying-the-bills kind of way.

I’ve asked him to guest-blog at mine, but he needs motisha. Any cheerleaders available? Mini skirts are a plus.

It showed me something though. It showed me that professionals, and bosses, are not necessarily as clinical and they appear. They have just learned to look that way. Like the Rogue King. It serves their purpose. And sometimes, when glimpses of the real come out, it’s too much to take. I should know. I’m still haunted by the image of a stern, scary bosslady expertly doing mduara at an office kitchen party. The horror!

K7, as he often does, made the point very clear for me. MJ, rest his dear soul in peace, was a legend, but he did get up to the strangest things. I was watching this video of him live in concert someplace, and I noticed one thing. He loved it! He was on stage doing the robot moonwalk routine, and his face was glowing. You could see he was totally into the dance, possessed almost. The moves flowed through him, raw and wild, like some kind of jericurled 3PO oompa loompa.

Then he’d finish the song and his expression would change. He’d stand still for a few moments, breathing while the crowd went wild, and just like that, he’d be mortal again. He’d go back to the little-girl voice, blow a shy kiss at the crowd and squeak ‘I love you all’.

Then the next set would start and he’d morph back into this larger than life piece of walking talking genius, even his voice changes. You can’t compare the angstious vocals and ATT in ‘Bad’ to the frightened mousy guy hiding his children in the Emirates. Being on stage was his strength, his passion. Being off it, he was just, well, human.

We imagine that celebs do their crazy antics because they’re celebs, but they really don’t. You could snort yourself silly on a bottle of brrr and nobody would care unless your first name was Catherine and your last name rhymed with dental floss. You could drive at age 6 and nobody would call you underage unless you were Miley Cyrus. You could, and do, get away with a whole lot when you’re not in the limelight.

I’m a writer, and this here is my space. It’s not very well concealed, but it’s a part of me I don’t show off in my other life. Because here I’m more myself, less of the serious professional person that some people think I am. So I get fairly uneasy when someone from that world leaves a comment here, because frankly, CB is a clown.

But I suppose CB is simply human, and the ones who pass by here aren’t doing it to find my CV. Unless of course they’re headhunting, like some employers do with facebook. Uh-oh!

I am always being told to stop taking myself so seriously. Which is weird, coz in my mind, CB is the one place where I take myself quite lightly. I get amused when people see CB, and imagine that I am this … well, I’m not sure what they imagine I am.

But what I do imagine is that the average person, when they meet Crystal, without the caricature or the fruit, will be somewhat … surprised … possibly disappointed that I am so … normal.

It’s always been that way, even when I was the little kid that did xyz, and people would meet me and get shocked that I looked so … standard. They half expected me to have two heads and a tail. Or at least to be a little taller.

I think inside all ‘deep souls’ resides a little Michael Jackson, dolled up in shiny clothes, grinning shyly and squeaking ‘I love you all’. The deepest of stories arise from mood, and when the mood passes and the writing is done, we all just want to lick a lollipop, suck a helium balloon, and make like Mickey Mouse on crack.

It’s why one agent says she doesn’t like writers interviews. You read a novel or poem or blog and imagine the writer must be this god-like being that plays Muse like a cheap roller drum [what d’you call that drum-on-a-stick thingie from Karate Kid and Bomas, the one you roll between your palms and these strings with balls on them spin and hit the drum? That one]

But after the interview, you learn that the Deep Ones like orange juice and weetabix and slightly burnt ugali, or that they have been divorced six times, three of the divorces being from the same spouse, and that they failed their driving test six times, or that they wrote their entire work of genius while high or sawdust and cough syrup.

Suddenly your hero is merely an  Ewok, and their immensely beautiful prose, which seems to be written in their very own invented language, turns to be Choobaka talking kyuk and asking for a bar of soap. [Yeah, I’ve been watching Star Wars again]. They’re not any less deep, they’re just a lot more … human. Hence the famous quote ‘Writers should be read, not heard [or for that matter, seen. Publishers, however, disagree, hence readings et al]’. It’s probably also why the original X-generation bloggers are so fiercely protective of their offline identities.

I’m learning not to take myself so seriously. It’s about time. I am deep, I am wise, I am mature, and I am good at what I do. But I am also silly, naive, dense, stupid, and sometimes downright blonde. So don’t be too surprised if you make a date with CB and end up with a squeaky-voiced dreadlocked kid chilling on a jumping castle with headphones singing along to Lithium, Disorder, or Halo. That won’t be princess, she’s the lighter one in the girly dress. This version is dark and lives in jeans. I’m just saying…

PS: I love the way rock songs can make the obscene sound adorable. I mean where else but in a rock song would you laugh at a line that says:

‘… I dreamed that I was lying beneath a naked woman saying something that I can’t repeat…’

This band also has lyrical gems such as

‘…wanna put my tender heart in a blender, watch it spin round to a beautiful oblivion…’

and

‘…she was cool and collected till she found him erected with another.

Shit went bad he’s on the roof again.

She flipped, he flipped the bird and then he went

on the roof where his threats ring loud and clear.

‘Gonna jump, gonna jump, gonna die this year .’

…your heinous highness broke her hymen

hey man try to quit your crying…’

I love this game.

♫ Nightmare ♫ Eve 6 ♫

PPS: The title is my homage to Jay Z and Lil’ Kim. What.

How d’you say ‘my love’ in Spanish?

Mi Amore.

How d’you say ‘my love’ in thug?

Can I hit it raw.

[then a bunch of nasty words that I can’t quite hear]

Ea-sy Papii…

Teach me more!

For more information on 3CB, click here.

Posted on by crystal · 8 Comments

Random observation

So, I am being nice to people that I don’t particularly like. Fcuk. Also, I am swearing a lot. **contents of sewer** Does this mean I am growing up? Aw crud. I reeeaaaally liked being Petra pan. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted.

Also, as asked on twitter. If your partner is ninii-ing you while his or her mind is on someone else, can you tell? And if you could tell … would you want to know? Then, if you knew, would it matter?

I’m not necessarily talking about the ex-girlfriend here. I’m talking about, for example, he just went to a stag party and saw some nubile young thing lap dancing the groom while several other ones made like the snake in Jungle Book.

Eh, yes, that one.

Your man may even have gotten a little dancing action himself. Enough to get his senses alert and soil something.

Aw come on now, you don’t expect him to throw off a working girl who’s just earning her keep. Especially when she’s clearly very good at her job.

But being the good and faithful man that he is, he did not buy the premium service, he brought it home to you. And he found you, half asleep, stocking on head, facemask fully applied [hey, he said he’d be out late, and after a stag night you knew he’d be too drunk to notice…]

Well ok, let’s be fair here. He comes home, fresh from the ultimate visual and sensual stimulation, and finds you, the woman he loves/married/who bore him beautiful children, looking just as you always do, in your regular pyjamas or night gown.

You look good, sure, or you look as you always do. But let’s face it, you don’t nearly come close to a woman who gets paid to stimulate men. Come on, she’s a professional. It’s like comparing Jack Bauer to a kid with a water pistol.

So, being the good guy he is, your man does what he does. But he really can’t help it if his mind strays to that girl with the pole … and he’s not cheating, he did bring it home to you, right?

Do you really have a right to get mad that while you are the one who enjoys the consummation, you are clearly not the fuel or even the ignition? Coz even if he does keep his mind strictly on you, fact remains it wasn’t you that turned him on to begin with. So, is that bad?

In a less drastic example. Also as asked on twitter, you two are watching Transformers [Hellooo Megan Fox!] or some flick with Angelina Jolie’s body parts, or some swimsuit pageant, or some oily ragga music video, or even just the Mexican soap you tied him to the chair to see. A steamy scene comes on, elements rise to the occasion, and suddenly you find yourself … compromised.

In this situation, is either of you really thinking of the other? Chances are you’re thinking of Alejandro’s ripped abs while he is thinking of Carmelita’s long flowing hair, teeny weeny frame, endless suntanned legs and that … thing she’s wearing that would look just terrible on you…

Now you may just argue that since you two are one flesh you should be the only source of stimulation, and that you should have no desire to see anyone else naked and blah blah blah but really now, on occasion that your menses make your hungry, or his jeans accidentally cause, you know, friction, you don’t get mad at the moon or the Levi’s right?

So why should you hate on poor pretty Megan or Salvador?

I mean as long as your partner keeps his or her mental images mental, and does not go yelling the wrong name or saying how luscious that Latina is, then really now, shouldn’t we just enjoy the moment and be glad we’re getting any nookie at all?

Let’s get even more practical. He’s been watching his crazy she-dog boss all day, with her red hot power suit and her prada heels, wielding her whip pointer thingie as she speaks and shows just enough leg to get the job done faster. Or she’s been subconsciously giggling all day at the hot new intern who can wield these cougars like a pro. Clearly, tensions are high.

So when he or she gets home, can you be absolutely one hundred percent sure that the sterling performance was meant for you? And even if it wasn’t, do you really care?

I say live and let live. As long as the gonads don’t stray, and as long as you respect one another, think what you want to think. After all, there’s a reason Charles Xavier only exists in fiction. You can love a person all you want, but you can’t control their mind. So when he’s super hot or she’s super frisky, do not ask ‘What’s gotten into you today?’ coz you just might get an answer that you don’t want to hear.

That said, it’s perfectly fine for me, the girl, to tell you Megan Fox is hot. Less okay for you, my man, to enthusiatically agree and suggest I buy a leather vest, learn to hotwire a car, or somehow fit this teeny weeny white dress plus a bunch of flowers into a leather jacket and jeans without creasing it. [How the hell did she do that?] A curt nod and incomprehensible grunt is fine, followed by promptly changing the subject. A good suggestion would be ‘So what’s for dinner?’