i want to be famous and rich! very, very rich!!

"the road to fame (and fortune) is paved with shame. and lots of whoring!" -- mahatma gandah.

last night, as i was browsing through the unbelievably fabulous photos of the homes of the rich and famous, i was wondering how  come these people, some of them are not even as talented and as brainy as moi, accumulated so much money to afford their hedonistic lifestyles that even marie (let them eat banana cake) antoinette would surely envy, enough to turn her pale, pale skin to green.

i want to be them.

not in my next lifetime, but now!

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anyway, as my insomnia attack worsened, i thought of clever ways to attract fame. and in the process, fortune. don't they always go together?

as any media savvy would tell you, under our contemporary crassy culture, the road to fame is paved with shame. therefore i need a scandal or two to propel me to.......stardom(?)!

but at forty five, with receding and greying hairline, bulging belly and creased skin, how am i going to come  up with a credible scandal? who would believe me? admittedly, i am no longer an ingenue. my shelf life is way, way over.

as i kept thinking, sleep became even more elusive.

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oh well, i can't do all the thinking and strategizing all the time. i need an inspiration. i need an expert advice. i need enlightenment.

so i summoned my evil twin step sister mahatma gandah, who was out in the dark doing, what else, dark deeds, to help me come up with ways to gain fame. or infamy. whatever. mahatma gandah (you have to mention her full name, otherwise the magic won't work), still wiping a white, sticky cream that smelled of the sea on her red, shiny, pouting, thick lips, obliged with an evil smile. what are sisters for?

it was already four in the morning when she arrived at my flat. way past the magical witching hour. the deadline to take home your prey for the night. i can already hear the old reliable neighbour shouting "pandesal!", rousing everyone except me. while the tired, old, disheveled balut vendor was heading home with an empty basket. alongside the whores who smelled of sweat, body odour, cigarettes, red horse (or shioktong) and cheap perfume.

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here's mahatma gandah's fail-proof, fame-bait scheme:

accuse someone of making untoward "overt sexual advances leading to psychological incapacity." ano daw? evil step twin sister shusshed me. "i can't  understand it either," she said with a purr. anyway, she added, the "unthinking, soap opera, showbiz gossip and scandal addicted masa won't understand it either. the vaguer it is, the better it sounds. di vah?"

i agreed.

but who should i accuse of? what are the circumstances? "leave it to me, bebe," mahatma gandah said, giving me her most evil smile.

you can accuse the driver, who looks like rudy fernandez down to his smooth, reddish complexion, of "overt sexual advances." the one who drove you to one of the country's biggest teevee stations when you had an interview last week. you can say that he, what was his name again? dan? you can say that dan tried to touch your fingers when you gave him the fare. that he even gave you his mobile phone number willingly without coercion when you asked for it after giving him a one thousand peso tip. that he even replied - sure - when you texted him if you could paint him in the nude.

brilliant! i exclaimed.

then you can call your former bureau chief who now works at the country's top teevee network to interview you live on his primetime, ok, way past primetime show about the whole incident. i can sit beside you too. we can both wear black down to the flat, ballerina shoes, no make up, our hair tied at the back, pony tail style. we will be sobbing all the time while you are telling the story to the audience - luzon, visayas and mindanao!

but nobody watches his show? even his mom is asleep during that time!

it's alright. it's a good start. don't despair. don't be a negastar. you're interrupting my thoughts. then you can follow it up with another interview with your two other international teevee news anchor friends. the ones who are working in hong kong and singapore.

hmmm.

but wait, i protested. these three are all famous business news anchors. they won't care about a scandal like this. we need a business angle.

again, mahatma gandah shusshed me, as if i were a petulant child who was having a tantrum after she was not allowed to eat an eight-inch hotdog for dinner.

they will take it. remember that their shows survive on ratings? so this is it. anyway, it has a business angle. you used to be an international business and economic journalist as well, right?

hmmm.

wait, she shrieked. i feared she might wake up the whole building.

why don't you accuse a famous banker from a big global bank instead? or the head of a multilateral, supranational financial institution like the imf?

but the imf head is now a woman, i protested.

even better, she replied.

we both laughed. why not?! that will even be more explosive!

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then when you are famous, endorsements will follow. you can endorse everything: jollibee, mcdonalds, kfc, floorwax, ky jelly, xerox, condoms, chlorox, ajax, tide, breeze, bear brand, cerelac. whitening creams. shampoos. soaps. shoes. bags. eye creams.

ice cream? i asked. magnolia or selecta?

gaga, i said eye creams. you should have your ears checked. they're full of wax! came her quick reply. then: omg! she shrieked again. the list is endless. then we can build or buy a house in santorini, mikonos, maldives, el nido, rome, paris, turkey. you can even buy an island just like dr. moreau.

who is he? is he a famous surgeon who can transform my face into an elle fanning? i asked.

google, dahlin. google. she said, disgusted.

and the men!

yes, she exclaimed.

brad pitt, i shouted.

ewww, she said, eyeing me suspiciously. he's old, very much taken by you know who (with this, she pouted her lips anew like maleficent minus the horns and the sharp cheekbones) and so very ninetys.

what about nicholas hoult?

good choice.

he's brainy, bookish, handsome, sexy, artsy, but does not take himself seriously just like that other british actor whom you liked so much.

hugh grant! her eyes swooned while mentioning his name.

plus, i added, he played a vampire in a hit movie. a funny, love sick vampire.

$$$$$$$$$$$

after that, when my showbiz and endorsement whoring career is over, i can run for a public office and win!

yes, she agreed. you will be at home there with your empty brain and whoring personality.

hahahahaha.

then mahatma gandah bidded adieu. she had to resume her haunt. she said she had not fed enough.

"as i grow older, i need more cream to keep me young," she lamented, pointing to the lines on her face.

it was already six in the morning.

the sun was up.

we kissed. then she left.

now alone, i tried to go to sleep. i counted sheep. i danced. i called up my swiss banker to inquire about my accounts. but sleep continued to elude me.

ah, there is no rest for the wicked. indeed.

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have fun, everyone. it's the weekend! remember, one more day and it's monday again! i know. i've been there, i've done that. and look at me now. hahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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song for the day: i wanna be a billionaire

(ps: photos that appeared on this post were taken from different websites. no copyright infringements intended. please inform the author if you want them taken off. thank you.)