You are currently browsing posts tagged with Michael Jackson
RZA of the Wu-Tang Clan has made a kung-fu movie, Wu-Tang vs. the Golden Phoenix. [New York Magazine]
Six-time Nathan’s Hot Dog eating champion Takeru Kobayashi may not be making the trip to Coney Island this weekend to try to steal the title from defending champ Joey Chestnut. [Consumerist]
The inmates at Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center choreographed a new number to remember Michael Jackson on the first anniversary of his death. [YouTube]
Hiromi Ozaki, a student at The Royal College of Art, has designed a “Menstruation Machine”. Yes, there’s video. [Wired]
Filed under: Anniversary of Michael Jackson's Death, Asian Models, Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center, Competitive Eating, Dancing Inmates, Dancing Philippine Inmates, Gong Fu, Kung Fu, Michael Jackson, Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest, Philippine Prisoners, Photoshop Disasters, RZA, Style Rookie, Takeru Kobayashi, Tao Okamoto, Tavi Gevinson, Wu-Tang Clan
North Korea would like the United States to pay it $65 trillion for years of hostility [Gawker]
The Korean War started 60 years ago today. [Wikipedia]
Kimora Lee Simmons has been spreading fabulosity to South Africa. [Sowetan - thanks, Michael!]
It’s been a year since Michael Jackson (and Farrah Fawcett!) died. Cebu inmates, take it away. [YouTube]
Once again, the prisoners at the Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center, where 70 percent of the inmates are convicted of serious crimes like murder, rape and drug trafficking, make maximum-security incarcerasian look really awesome with another Michael Jackson dance video, this time to “Dangerous”:
The prisoners’ first Michael Jackson video, choreographed to “Thriller,” has received over 30 million views since it was uploaded two years ago.
So much will be said of Michael Jackson today that the succinctness of this jokey video’s parting message seems almost profound.
Bye. Bye, MJ.
Jackson is the reason that a perfect stranger sang “Dirty Diana” to me over morning coffee, why I danced under a restaurant awning at lunch–and why I feel shocked and empty now.
Say what you will about the man–he was the greatest performer that ever was, and a bearer of some shames we may never understand–he will never be forgotten.
We’re ladies. And we’re genetically programmed to love compliments. We like it when you notice our hair, our clothes, our shoes, our skin, our bods, our earrings, our eye makeup, our cute moles, our weird cowlicks etc. and say really nice things about them. Nice respectful things (wolf-whistling, cat-calling, and yelling out your car window–need we say it even?–don’t count).
What also doesn’t count as a compliment is telling us that looking at us gives you a ragin’ boner, which is precisely what Nightline co-anchor and 20/20 correspondent Martin Bashir (he of “Living with Michael Jackson” fame) told the Asian American Journalists Association last Friday at their annual gala in Chicago. New York magazine’s Daily Intel reports that Bashir said to the room of professionals:
“I’m happy to be in the midst of so many Asian babes,” he said onstage, with his 20/20 colleague Juju Chang nearby. “In fact, I’m happy that the podium covers me from the waist down.”
Don’t get us wrong. We love boners. We love inconvenient boners (like the kind you’d get in 7th grade) and boner jokes. But there is such a thing as BONER PROTOCOL. If we’re about to get it on with you, you can probably talk about your boner. If we haven’t gotten it on with you, but you want to AND–very important, folks–we want to, too, boner talk is also probably okay, depending on the timing (as is always the case when it comes to dick, right?). Basically, if sex is a distinct possibility and there’s a boner involved, it’s probably alright to talk about it. Notice how we say “probably.” What that boils down to is this: Don’t talk about your boner unless we say otherwise.
Yeah, we know, life’s a boner. But those are the rules.
Furthermore, we Asian ladies don’t really cotton to the group compliment, okay? We are sick of being seen–even appreciated–en masse. We don’t want to be viewed only as a group. That makes us feel interchangeable and un-special. We want you to see my cute mole, her weird cowlick, and that chick-over-there’s uniquely fine ass. We want, basically, for people to tell us apart.
Bashir, who is of Pakistani descent (and should know better), boned things even further by going on to say that a speech should be “like a dress on a beautiful woman — long enough to cover the important parts and short enough to keep your interest — like my colleague Juju’s.” Guess he didn’t know how to take his own advice.
That said, we kinda wish we had been there to hear it. Because we would have known what to do with that boner
cut it off, alright.
[via Daily Intel]
So I’m going to admit to something I rarely even let myself remember, and don’t feel is in my best interest to share, but this is a safe space, and if I don’t tell you I can’t share the other thing I want to share blah blah blah!
So when 1999 turned into 2000, I competed in a pageant (YES–SHUT UP) for the title of “Miss Little Saigon 2000.” I’m not proud of it, but I can’t be fully ashamed. I was poked and prodded by family to do it, and the prize was some ridiculously wonderful thing like gobs of money and trips around the world (yes, we’re all sellouts), and quite frankly, I desperately wanted to get a traditional ao dai dress made…
…and a little frock from Prada. Got both. Phew! ANYway, when the big night came it was the spectacle of spectacles: me walking along a T-shaped runway alongside 20 other girls that were all much skinnier, oh-so delicate, and far more “Miss Little Saigon” than me. I took one long survey of my competition–all of the beautiful girls with their porcelain hands and teeny wrists and sequined eveningwear–and instantly knew I was going to lose. Their Vietnamese speech was perfect, their demure laughs so dainty! I didn’t have a chance. Or did I? I was different–no! unique, with curves (fat) on my waist and personality (jokes that no one laughed at) working for me. I bit my lip and hoped hard. Maybe the judges would have a soft spot for me.
But as my eyes cruised to the judging panel and saw a mess of plastic surgery-mangled noses, skinny wrists, steely eyes, and bedazzled gowns, I knew that would not be the case. The head judge looked at me, clucked her tongue, and shook her head. Was this the end?
Yes. I totally lost. Hell, I didn’t even make it to the semi-finals. L’sigh.
But seven years later, I still blame those bitches in the judging panel, all of those huffy and overly made-up snobs, for my demise. It should’ve been me!! IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME.
Which is why I was so pissed today when I saw that one of those bitch judges apparently made it on the cover of the new issue of Jet:
I HAVEN’T FORGOTTEN, BITCH!!! REVENGE WILL BE MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
If a zombie who couldn’t dance and who had a spastic shoulder startled you in a dark alley, would you scream?