Fame (?)

Saturday, January 20, 2007

When I first started blogging a year and half ago, I basically just wanted a place where I could dick around, express my deep-seated ill-will and general hatred towards my ex girlfriends, and a place where I could whine about how big a douche my boss at work is without the risk of getting fired. For these reasons, I never bothered plastering my site with photos of myself. I mean for one, I have very low self-esteem and I don't think posting a picture of myself on my site for thousands of people to see and email me shit like "Dude, where's your neck?" or "Please stay away from my kids" would do any good to it.

Also, I do not have even an iota of respect for people who try to gain popularity on the internet via their pretty pics; fuck, now that I think of it, I have zero respect for ANYONE who fame-grubs on the internet. (Please, let's all forget that I started calling myself "Rising Internet Star" after I got my first few mainstream media mentions. Fuck you.)

In the incipient stages of my multi-million Peso media empire (I'm lying here, just play along), before I could afford myself all the exotic women and the wonderful drugs I am addicted to (still lying; if my bosses are reading this. Especially about the drugs), and before tens and thousands of people discovered and read the numerous blog pieces that propelled me to superstardom (biggest lie of all, sadly), I tried to experiment a little and tried putting pictures of myself along with some of my entries. I thought "Hey it couldn't be THAT bad. Afterall, I've lost a lot of weight and the estrogen pills I'm taking really improved how my skin looks. I mean they also significantly increased the size of my man boobs but hey whatever."

Things went smoothly at first; my fame grew exponentially over a period of two months so did the number of people offering me their hand in marriage and the emails from girls warning me that if they ever catch me following them again on Taft Avenue or if they ever catch me sitting outside their window at night eating a bag of potato chips while rubbing my bird, they will call the Police. 

I, however, decided to take down all the pictures I had on the net after some guy decided to put up a now infamous hate site for yours truly and chose nothing but the most unflattering pics of me he can find.

After the brouhaha died down, and after I grew more confident with my sexuality, I decided to put up pictures of myself in the site again. Not only that, but I've also decided to create a Friendster profile so complete strangers can ogle at my pics and leave me sexually suggestive messages and testimonials.

I'm kind of glad I did too because recently, I've been getting recognized and approached by people who read my site. I know for a fact that the people who did approach me will hate me and never read my site again for even mentioning this and I also know that it's more proper for an Internet semi-famous person such as myself to just play it cool and not act as if it's a big deal. But it is. Have you ever been approached by somebody who recognizes you for your art (again, just play along)? I didn't think so. Asshole.

Anyway, I think I should get used to this and just learn to act within decorum because seriously, I'm not good at handling this shit. Like yesterday when I was at the Gym's sports lounge, abusing their free WiFi, having a beer and pretending to talk on my cellphone to a business associate abroad, two girls recognized me.

How? Well one thing you have to know about me is that when I talk on the phone and introduce myself to the party I'm talking to, I use my first and last name:

Me: Hello, I need to speak with [name]

Other party: Speaking. Who's this?

Me: It's Mike Villar.

or

Me: I don't fucking care if he's meeting with the Pope, just get him on the phone! Tell him it's Mike Villar!

Other party: You do not have enough credits to make this call please reload your prepaid account—

Me: FUCK YOU!

It's not that I'm proud of my last name too, I mean if anything, my last name sounds like it belongs to a Puerto Rican who earns $2 an hour cleaning swimming pools. So yeah, apparently the two girls overheard me on the phone and realized that I am Mike Villar: Rising Internet Star. The younger of the two girls approached me on my table:

Girl: [wearing a sweaty tennis outfit] Hi are you Mike Villar? The blogger?

Me: [putting my phone down, pretending not to hear her and subtly typing my blog's URL on my laptop's browser] Oh sorry, were you talking to me?

Girl: Yes, I just  wanted to ask if you're Mike Villar the blogger

Me: Um, yes that's me [sliding over my laptop to her, showing her my site] I'm actually writing an entry now. 

Girl: Cool! I just want to say that I love reading your work and you're so oddly funny!

Me: [acting all bashful and shit] Really? Thanks! So how old are you?

Girl: I'm 17

Me: [disappointed at the fact that she's not of legal age] Oh how about her? [pointing to the other girl who looks older]

Girl: She's my ate, she's 19

Me: Doesn't she want to talk to me?

Girl: No. She hates your site and she thinks your mean and totally unfunny.

Me: [depressed all of a sudden, drinking an entire bottle of San Mig Light in one go]

Girl: So how long have you been–

Me: Not now. [fighting tears]

 

So that didn't work out the way I wanted it to. And what sucks is that after the two girls left I tried to milk the situation further by trying to hit on the moderately attractive waitress who serves drinks in the lounge:

 

Me: Fans. They amuse me sometimes. [smiling at the waitress]

Waitress: Yeah. [Totally uninterested] Which basketball team are you on?

Me: [a little pissed] basketball? no! I have a blog and it's kind of a big deal on the internet.

Waitress: What's a blog?

Me: Well it's basically a website about me.

Waitress Oh I see [unimpressed]. And sorry, You're too short to be a basketball player.

Me: Well you know what they say, "It's not the size of the boat, it's the motion of the ocean"

Waitress: That didn't really make any sense.

Me: I Know. [5 seconds of awkward silence] What time do you get off? You wanna drink with me?

Waitress: I don't think that's a good idea–

Me: Blow Job?

Waitress: [leaving]

Me: Hey wait! I just want to talk! come back! please?

 

Ah, good times.