first time

part iii

So when I found Robert Piguet's Fracas sitting forlornly on my dresser, dressed with the dust of years of neglect and bad memories, I looked at it with hope. With hope that all the women of the world were right when they said that Fracas was their one true love; a classic that transcends all time, all bounds of fashion and fad, a true tuberose that bespeaks of elegance, femininity and timeless beauty. And so hopes sometimes become dreams and dreams become reality and here I am bathed in my Fracas, remembering to the detail the first time I drew in its ominous fumes and was choked back by a flower I knew nothing about. I imagine had I loved it the first time, I may not have looked elsewhere. I may not have one true love, but can tell you of the many others that have left their indellible marks on me.

The power of scent is unmatched by any other sense. It keeps memories locked, unseen in old vaults and yet unleashes them in vivid form and in great detail when called upon by the nose. It's Proust's memory with madeleine and tea, it's Grenouille's obsession to douse himself with the smell of humanity, it's giving a first bad encounter another chance to show that it is actually a multifaceted composition. Scent brings you to new worlds, real or imagined just by a note, or an accord; a whole bouquet. What other sense could bring you to tears as you walk into a bar and all of a sudden smelt your beloved long gone grandfather's tabacco and whiskey wafting above the end of a workday? What could bring back the sharp feeling of loneliness and fear of boarding school other than the fragrant steam rising from a cup of darjeeling and milk? What could bring more joy and happiness than your son's scent left on a sweater sitting on the front passenger seat of your car? The power of scent conjures up not only emotions and memories but something beyond all of these that is somehow incomprehensible to our feeble minds. We are only so fortunate to have the addition of an olfactory - although not as complicated as a blood hound's - but functional enough to take us beyond the here and now.

7:27 AM | |

damn the united states postal service

Whatever the bloody hell happened to the motto that went something like "Through rain, snow sleet or hail" they're supposed to get the damned mail delivered. So here we are. No sign of sleet, snow, nor impending rain. Perfect days, no traffic, just regular. Two days later and still not a single piece of junk in the mail. Highly impossible! I've not seen a day since I've moved to the United States when our mailbox was empty. I highly, highly doubt we've not had mail for two days!

Somewhere out there is some incompetent idiot whom I've been told is "new" on our route (yes I filed a complaint, three times today, trying to get to the bottom of this stupidity and nobody anywhere can tell me why we happen to have the stupid one delivering our mail).

Reason why I'm fuming is because we're expecting two different checks in the mail. We needed it yesterday and they would have arrived it if hadn't been for the idiot who didn't deliver our mail. But of course we still haven't gotten it. This isn't the only beef I have with the USPS. Last time, my sister put in for a change of address when she moved to Reno. Not only did they forward her mail to her new Reno address, they decided to forward mine as well even if PAULINE looks nothing like LAUSANNE when written down on paper. I had bills that went missing for three weeks as they criss-crossed back and forth between Las Vegas and Reno, and I had the dastardly job calling up credit companies explaining to them how the government's postal service are all a bunch of illiterate yoohoos, and really, it wasn't my fault my payments were late. They also often deliver mail that belongs to some guy two streets down from us, or our packages have ended up at some person's house around the block. Lucky for us, they were nice enough to hand deliver it to our door.

How does the post office hire and train these people? I imagine them chugging down one too many comped drinks before interviewing a potential employee. I mean what the hell - we see a new mail person on a regular basis meaning they either 1.) have a fast turnover rate or 2.) are so desparate they'll hire any willing US citizen that can drive a right-hand drive postal truck - never mind if they can read or follow a map of their delivery route. One of these days it won't be a postal worker shooting it up inside the local post office...

10:19 PM | |

first time

part ii

And so you become world-wise in these matters. You even read books on it, compare notes with others and find that each and everyone has a slightly and even completely different experience. You hear different stories about how some men are driven mad, following women off buses, into department stores and being reduced into blithering idiots. You also hear about how some people no longer speak to each other because the experience became so offensive. As with most things, it is usual that everyone experiences something different, something intangible, evocative of emotion and memory, even nostalgia, and always, elusive in nature.

Some people are hard-pressed to describe it, simply because at times, there are no words to describe it. Others, become absolutely profound and eerily precise when speaking of their encounters. It is hard to imagine a world without it as it feeds a part of our senses and allows us to continue to live - in magic, in mystery, in fantasy in the everyday and faraway of our lives.

When you look back at it, there actually is more than one first time. Each new one you engage with has a first time. Sometimes you hardly remember the first time, sometimes the first time was better than the subsequent times after that; sometimes going back to an old one is either havoc or heaven. And quietly in the background, that first impression still lies quiet, in waiting. So sometimes when you revist the past and think on how that first time offended you, assulted your senses, you give it a second chance - this time with eyes more open, mind more accepting, senses more attuned. It either makes you leave it forever or you embrace it with open arms and profess a true newfound love for it.

2:57 PM | |

first time

part i

The first time is like a bad first impression; so you abandon it, but it scratches the surface of your memory every now and again, irritating you into consciousness in the middle of a moment of tranquil reverie. It had been pungent with force, as if pushing your senses into a corner, like a schoolyard bully hovering over your crumpled ego; it had you over the edge, questioning why on earth anyone would like it, much less commit to it unwaverlingly, like it was their daily cup of coffee.

So the years pass and you grow up and old, having forgotten about that first time. Others come, new ones are discovered and fuel your daydreams, no longer disturbed. The world becomes a wide open space, adding to your experience, adding to your shelf of collections: an erotic Asian night with the heady notes of incense and black orchids; a jaunt in a Provençal field of lavender on a summer afternoon, the air thick with insects and floating wheat pollen; a lazy sunday afternoon in Paris, in bed with a tall glass of lemonade and the afterglow of sweaty skin; a walk through an Arabian souk and later in a harem with hookahs and loukoum; and an African adventure deep in the fragrant woods where violets spread across the soft floor and mingle with sandalwood and oakmoss.

12:39 PM | |

it's a load of bull

Numerous times a week, my boss forwards me a bunch of things. Sometimes it's all just a bunch of crap: forwarded forwards, jokes, company goals, etc. Sometimes there's something acutally relevant and everything to do with what I do. Case in point: how not to communicate with a load of bull in your message. The premise is, the simpler the message, the more marketable you are. Forget "leverage", "bandwidth", "empowerment" or "paradigm shift". Stay simple and true, and you're bound to be seen as CREDIBLE. So, I go to Deloitte Consulting to test out the Bullfighter that they claim will do a clean-up job of your bull-laden copy. After the download, I'm treated to a dramatic Flash production of a Spaniard bullfighter, taking down words like "synergy", "thoughtware" and "extensible". At the end of the little film, a steaming pile of you-know-what is stopped dead in its tracks.

I proceeded to test out this Bullfighter and found our company's copy virtually bull-free. Just goes to show we don't know how to use industry jargon to sell in the first place and we've never understood it ourselves at any rate. Testing other copies from various websites and you'll get a varied mix of words that are considered bull. Take the blog entry below for example: world class - "A tired expression that has lost its meaning. Give it a rest. Whenever someone says something is world-class, it isn't." So, they suggest the following replacements: "best", "superior", "excellent". Hmm... I don't remember when the last time the words best, superior or excellent were associated with credibility. It makes me think on the other hand, of competing brands of detergents or stain removers; of superlatives trying to outdo each other rather than focusing on the most important thing at hand - getting the stain out. At this point in the timeline, it's hard not to get jaded and it's a fierce job trying to go above and beyond the height of great copy writing.

11:30 AM | |

all in a day's spam

I, by no means, aspire to be a world class spammer. I don't even want to be in the best spammer national division. I just do what I'm told. So, on a three-times-weekly basis I prepare spam that will go to about 100,000 e-mail addresses within minutes. This is today's business world. This is today's most lethal marketing tool. Lethal, but effective? I'd rather doubt that nowadays. Although you can twist and turn marketing ploys any way you want them, just the way you need them, I highly doubt I would be clicking on things in my e-mail at this point in time. Markets are down, viruses are up, and economies are turning to mush so the marketing world seems to have been turned on its head. I deliver the spam, but it doesn't necessarily mean I eat it myself.

I think the whole concept is absurd - bombard the masses with a message and wait for the magic to work. Problem is the magic's worn off. You may be lucky to get a 33% response, even luckier if 1 or 2 percent of that actually translates into a sale. It doesn't even matter if your message is the wonder stuff - it may be pregnant with the best lead-ins in the world, but if nobody reads it it's like a tree making a crashing sound in the forest and no one's there to hear it. It may even be obliterated before the reader even sees it. It will just be suspended in virtual space, shiny, new, unread, yet hanging about in someone's Junk E-mail box, waiting for the death knell of Purge Deleted Messeages On Program Exit. So. Why do I waste my time doing spam? Because, somehow, somewhere out there, there are still people unarmed with I Hate Spam programs and may manage to click on a piece of marketing detritus which will suddenly transform into a click into a landing page which might just magically become a cash register ringing at the online shopping cart. It's a campaign of hope, of desperation when times are tough and e-mail marketing comes with the smallest bill out of the tri-media giant that seems to gobble up more advertising dollars than anything else in the world. It's a sad case for marketing, but I can tell you there are sites out there that tell you that it does work, that spam is valid, that yes, the world is still full of idiots just waiting to click on that well-meaning message which just may be well-loaded with a Sobig virus and unleashing it upon his entire company's servers. Yes, thanks to him, spam is still all that. So. Three times a week, the spam gets delivered. Then. We watch, we wait. Listen very carefully now.

10:05 AM | |

victims of fashion

Japan, would it be safe to say, had the highest number of victims - of prey - who fall into the arms of the fashion monster that dictates what is shinhatsubai ? From the multi-color LV monograms to - what I think is ridiculous - designer sports apparel, it's all like a great big dose of GHB - when it's all done and over with, you've been screwed and you didn't even know it.

Don't ge me wrong, I love fashion. I love the creativity behind it, the historical references, the theatrics, the show, the whole presentation. But at a time when economies are down, suffering and in turmoil, how practical would it be to buy a $300.00 Yamamoto designed Adidas shoe that can't even perform beyond a normal athletic shoe for a third of the price? Or, why waste money for something extremely trendy when you know it's going to be in the "What's Out" column next year, right next to the shinhatsubai. Fashion screws us over, time and again, year after year. We've all been there and done that already - yes, go ahead and pull out those high school pictures and let's see how great your fashion sense was - so why can't people learn that fashion is fleeting, is a moment, a breath in time? That designers just dictate their fancy, their whims, their capriciousness onto the willing fashion victims of the world?

Well, I suppose it's difficult. Unless you have an inherent sense of style and the ability to control your desire for fashion, you wouldn't know what "classics" would be and what would last well into the next decade. You could end up looking school marmish, or uptight librarianish. Much easier to give in to that hot look from Valentino, Versace, Cavali or Dolce and Gabana. But what's so difficult about resisting the urge to be fashionable? Usually, it's these Italian all-out sex-as-fashion with a touch of Roccoco styling that somehow just gets lost on me. Check the ad campaigns. I don't know exactly why, but I look at them and begin to think the whole thing's ridiculous. Yes art, yes creativity, but somewhere along the way I sense an unpracticality, a fantasy at work that somehow just falls flat because it can't seem to push it along to the end. It's like a story where there's a big loophole, or an element that somehow just makes the whole thing fail because it's like a bicycle tire that's been patched but won't hold so the tire still keeps losing air until it's finally flat and dead. Unless of course you look at the whole thing from a marketing point of view and the only people that buy them are the Hilton sisters (can they read?) or rock stars and celebreties (who cares if the plot sucks, I get paid 20M anyway!) that can afford it, then they're right on track. But I, being normal everyday person who can't afford it, simply can' t be sold on an ad that features Aguillera in corsetry looking like a weathered, out-to-dry Cyndi Lauper. I personally don't want to live out that fantasy, thank you very much.

So, take Gap as being on the other end of the spectrum. They still sell the fantasy, but on a livelier note. They sell it to the masses of everyday people that have less spending power. They don't visually bathe in the luxury nor smack too much of greenbacks. But. It's still a mulitmillion dollar ad - just to get me to buy this fall's stretch cords. The $68.00 question is, will cords be in or out next year? Well, for 68 bucks, it can't be such a painful mistake the next time you look back in retrospect. It certainly will be cheaper than a three hundred dollar Adidas trainer mistake. In the end each individual will have to decide if they want to be trendy today and out of a whole lot of spending cash tomorrow, or be an average person with the cords. You could always mix and match your high and low brow - that way you could sit on the "In" and "Out" fence without being either. You can say you have unique style along with the millions of other Japanse youth who are well on their way to creating Japan's Gross National Cool. Anyway you look at it, we're just victims to fashion and we're screwed in the end.

8:12 AM | |

take me to the waking world - now!

There was a point in time when my head was empty of dreams. For months and months I had no dreams, or perhaps had no memory of any of it when I awoke. I felt empty, rather uncreative as I often think of my dreams as fuel to creativity, it is after all, the mind still at work beyond the daily grind. I usually have interesting dreams, fascinating to say the least. Perhaps more likely than not, influenced by films and books, my great anxiety and fears, they often turn to extremely hellish nightmares or fantastical absurdities. I've only started dreaming again recently, but these days I tend to think it's brought on by stress more than films and books, so of course they go to the hellish spectrum of things. I have had more dark dreams these days and have to often force myself awake, telling myself that it simply just isn't true.

Take last night's dream for example. The dream began with visit to a doctor. A pediatrician I imagine as it was Dylan who was being looked at. They convinced us that Dylan needed surgery for some part of his body that I believe doesn't actually exist in the real world; something almost like a livery or kidney, shaped like a kidney, but hanging in Dylan's cavity like that thing hangs in the back of your mouth before it turns into the esophagus. We were looking at this body part of his, not on a film of x-ray or on an ultrasound machine, but somehow, we could see his insides on a monitor, as clear as television. It had to be removed or scraped or some proceedure that seemed extremely vague. My husband didn't like the idea but I thought it best for his well being as the doctor convinced me. The day for surgery arrived. I felt apprehensive, panicked, uncomfortable. But we went forward anyway; to the lobby, through the halls, led by a smiling nurse to a strange operating room, in a strange hospital. The room was rather small, all it fit was the bed, an I.V. pole and a sink on the left wall. It had a mint green cast to it, the bed the walls, the sink were all a faded, pastel mint green. The bed was the usual height but short in length, as if specifically for small children, and the Doctor was in plain clothes, sans white robe or scrubs or the usual garb. She had short mousey blond hair cut into a bob; was around 40-ish. Seemed more like a school teacher. She tried to allay our fears and talked us through the proceedures like a pro. Dylan was on the bed propped up as the bed had been adjusted as if a chaise longue. He was apprehensive at first, then when I reprimanded him, turned alarmingly calm, laughing and seemingly making jokes which was a big surprise because he usually, instinctively hates doctor's offices/rooms in the "real" world. I told him he was such a good boy.

We were told we had to step outside and wait as the surgery was going to be performed and they would just call us if there were complications or when it was finished. Complications? I remember thinking, questioningly. They never went through that part of the story beforehand. At any rate we tried to busy ourselves while waiting for the surgery to be over. As in dreams, time leaps forward, backwards, this way and that in no particular chronological order. I had no sense of time, but it felt like a whole day had been spent. We visited with friends. We had lunch. We talked. Then we finally thought that by this time the surgery had to be over but the hospital hadn't yet called us. We rushed back to the hospital, feeling there was something terribly wrong, straight to his room and as we burst in, we found nothing but an empty bed. I felt ill, anxious, afraid, nauseated all rolled into one. No doctors, nurses or anyone around. No sign of Dylan anywhere and as the tears started rolling down and as the anxiety and fear broke through, I pulled the pillows, the sheets not believing our son was missing or gone. Then I pull up a bloody shirt - the shirt he was wearing right before surgery. The blood had caked and dried to a hard dark stain on the shirt. There was nothing else to indicate what had happened or where they had taken him. I feared the worst and as I bawled my eyes out, reiterating my son's name, we found hundreds of other parents outside, wandering, searching for their missing children. Had the hospital staff eaten them? Had they sent them to South America or sold them for body parts? Where were they? Were they alive? Would we ever find out? Why didn't I know from the beginning that the whole scenario was a little shakey - tiny hospital rooms, unrobed doctors and over-friendly nurses - it wasn't the proper operating room, it wasn't the proper proceedure (what about checking in, signing waiver forms, donning on the old hospital robe, where was the friends and family waiting room)? This is the point in the dream when you are screaming as the fear heightens, and you realize you've made the biggest mistake of your life, and you want to turn around and do it over without the mistake this time, and all at once, trying to shake yourself awake, trying to move a single body part in order to breach the dream and once again regain consciousness of your true reality. I awoke with a fast beating heart, as is usual with these dreams reminiscent of some bad horror film. I lay there and reached out to Dylan, felt for a heartbeat or a breath of reassurance, received it, and just stared at him in the dim, early morning light. All I could think was that he had no chance, simply did not have the ability to say a word, to protest in his fullest capacity before those so-called doctors did what they did. He was simply powerless against evil adults while his parents foolishly left him to their hands. Aye, what a dream.

Later on in the day as I recounted the accounts to both my parents and my husband, they all told me that it played like some movie and perhaps, I had watched one too many. Then, I began to remember the association of surgeries and body parts. September 3rd - I will be undergoing a small surgery to remove some lumps from under my arm. An outpatient, and perhaps done within an hour type of surgery, I will still be drugged up throuh I.V., though half-conscious, and may watch as they cut up my arm pit to remove 3 or 4 pea-sized growths from under my skin. I suppose that's where the idea of surgery, intravenous poles and blood in the dream came from. As for the anatomy, I'm presently reading Barbara Hodgson's The Sensualist: An Illustrated Novel, about an art historian and expert in medical illustrations who is on the hunt accross Europe for her missing husband. The book is interestingly illustrated with anatomical diagrams, body parts and the five senses. There is a lot of talk of bones and muscles and flesh; thus conjuring up the look of body parts through a monitor in the dream. I managed to take these explanations as the full culprit for uneasy dreams and dismissed the thought of bad omens. Sometimes your own dreams are freighteningly worse than someone else's twisted tales of horror and shock.

3:49 PM | |

and all that jazz

For the longest time, we hadn't been out to see movies, meet in bars, talk to the educated, the opinionated and the regular people that have lives beyond the four walls of home and work. So, at last, we seem to be getting out more and enjoying the friends we did have before having a child. Watching more films, enjoying more food and drinks, and what's more, a great break from Goodnight Moon and The Hungry Caterpillar.

Chicago was a pretty decent production. I don't know about best film, but yes, better than most of the slop being put out there these days as "film". Loved the Fose production when it came out to Vegas - the inherently sexy costumes and dance numbers, and the great lyrics/dialogue were pregnant with humor, satire and just plain relevance through an observation of society. The film was done just as well without the awakward cut from scene to musical number, after all, musicals in this day and age just don't seem to fly. I did however, enjoy Allen's Everyone Says I Love You , specifically Tim Roth's albeit short, portrayal of a murderous criminal. Pirates of the Caribbean was a fun film, if you don't want to think too deeply about plot and story. Johnny Depp, as usually, manages to carry the film through. Finally got my hands on a copy of Hero (how long does America take to release decent foriegn films? sheesh) and though Yimou doesn't often have epic (physical) battles in his films, he does indeed have epic stories lush with color and beautiful scenes. I far prefer this one to Farewell My Concubine and Ju Dou just because the cinematography was so easy to enjoy and the story wasn't so deeply painful and tormenting as usual - yes, I found Happy Times not as light as it would seem - in fact, I thought it quite sad. But yes, Hero is a beautiful sight to see and story to hear.

9:17 AM | |

blasted worms and such

From black-outs in the east to floods in the local neighborhood, from blaster worms to thousands of e-mails with sobig, it's been a long ass-haulin week and a half! Who would have thought our age-old battle with mother nature would one day come to a head with a battle with technology. If you feel paralyzed and stressed out waiting out a flood because you can't cross the street to get home, just think how you feel when your server is being bogged down with hundreds of e-mail messages all carrying malicious viruses to cripple, crash or bring down your system! All in a day's work. It's frightening to think that I would be immobilized without a connection to the Internet or to my mobile phone, but as long as we can still take a nice dip in the pool on a hot summer day and eat a slice of Red Ribbon Mango Cake topped with lots of creme, it'll give us a reason to put on a big smile. I can't wait for the long weekend and maybe a trip to the North Rim of the biggest hole in the world - the Grand Canyon.

I have mixed feelings about the Grand Canyon. On one hand, it truly is a marvel of nature for water to have shaped the earth in such a way. On the other hand, you get there, you look down into it, then go, "Oh. It's just a big hole in the ground that spreads for miles and miles." It does merit another trip - to the north end where lies the road less traveled. I've only seen it from the South Rim, as has 9 out of 10 of the entire population of the United States. So, it should be interesting and should look wildly different.

12:20 PM | |

the players weaken

In a moment of weakness, the two cousins start showing signs of fatigue. The long, greuling adventure ahead was still to unfold. Later on, they seemed revived and gained their second wind as they absorbed each attraction and each furry character on the lot. More rides, more carousels, more woodland creatures and vermin to ogle. But let me just say, the stroller pushers are always the first to give, always the first to take a rest, always the first to call it quits. By four p.m. the adults were ready for a snack and snooze. But unwaveringly, we trudged on until the final moment, the moment of magic.


The Electric Parade has always had a place in my memory, and in my heart of course. As a child, you will think it to be a truly amazing and a wonderful spectacle that will leave you ooing and ahing for as long as you can remember. If you, like hundreds of others, have the patience to wait and brave the crowds that line the streets of Disneyland 15 minutes before 9 p.m., you will be well rewarded. I still remember when I first saw this parade, and the second time I saw it years later, and as an adult I awaited it eagerly for the third time, along with our Dylan. I wanted to see the parade as much as I wanted to see what his reaction would be to it. I had guessed that he would be ultimately wowed, and as the music started up and as the parade began to round the corner from where we sat/stood, he stared steadfast. As soon as the floats, carriages, and brightly lit people/characters passed right in front of us he began a chorus of "Wow"s that lasted through the whole parade! This time, the parade was a mere distraction as my attention was focused on his wonderment at the spectacle before us. No pictures or film will do it justice. It's just one of those things that you have to be there for.

9:58 AM | |

fourth of july

Code Orange did not deter us from the big Walt. The morning started with a parade of officers and a blinding shower of red, white, and blue, some flag-waving, then it was off to Fantasyland for a ride on It's A Small World, Toad's Wild Ride (Wind in the Willows), Snow White's Scary Ride, and King Arthur's Carousel. The day before, Dylan had his shot at Nemo's carousel at the California Park. He didn't want to leave the place. So it was back in line for another dizzying ride on the fish and seahorses. Dino and I opted for the Maliboomer, a free-fall type ride that slowly takes you up then drops you what feels like 75 feet down. Stomach stays up while the rest of you physically gets pushed down. There are plastic face shields that look to be puke catchers, just in case you opt to ride right after that hot-dog.


With a long day ahead, it was a nice respite to step into the airconditioned Baby Changing Station, where nursing mothers could nurse, potting training tots could continue with the training (mini sized toilets and all!), and where Dylan went for a diaper change on a clean changing table for a change (yes, public toilets never seem to have the disposable sheet liners for the changing tables - why? when there's a dispenser for them). He liked the big chair and I enjoyed the cool air - a break from the increasing heat outside. But the older lady in charge was ready to usher us out when we were done. I asked her jokingly if Dylan could take a nap there, but she didn't think it too funny when she replied with a resounding "NO!" Not too friendly service. And yes, I do think they should consider a "Nap" ward and a nice little lounge for parents to take a break and sip some tea or something. For the price of the ticket, one would think that that service SHOULD be included!

9:38 AM | |

in the arms of beautiful women

Vacation season is almost over. The flurry of activities though, are not exactly. It's been quite an interesting summer; from social events to weather, we certainly had our fill. Our little cousin, Rona, by way of age, is certainly not little anymore. Her debut came about last June 21st, and was a lovely, albeit cold affair. A garden party of sorts with the white tents and table settings, my aunt's house on the hill almost did not weather the cold front that hung about the air. Enveloped in a fog, the heaters roared under the white tents and tables, giving some warmth to the sleevelessly-dressed. Thank goodness for a dance floor and some loud music, Dylan showed off his jumpy moves with cousin Kendra, and we all joined in and danced our jackets off. He also showed his penchant for the ladies, simply ignoring the boys and entertaining the women round the tents. The night ended with more dancing and imbibing in warm spirits, specifically the kind with Ketel One. A good time was had by all, and the children were soon fast asleep without a fuss.

8:13 AM | |

all i need are wifebeaters

Yes, gangsta style still hangs in the air of fashion. Guns, gangs, and game will put you in the spotlight of a hip-hop/rap video (don't forget to add a dash of bling bling and a shakin ass or two). Dylan's new haircut gives him that thug edge - all he needs are some white wifebeaters, a couple of gold teeth, a bumpin car, and he can jump around a Juvenile video. It's a convenient home-buzzed haircut and we like it - we just need to get some shorts that go OVER the underwear!

8:11 AM | |

catch-up

8:00 AM | |