There has been a scandal in Hong Kong involving my idol, Ah Giu (B&W photo in earlier post "The Twins effect"). Local celebrity Edison Chen had a problem with his personal computer, which was then taken in for repair. Before returning the computer to him, someone in the repair shop copied all his files, including 1300 photos and movies of him having sex with various girls, including 4 celebrities, including Ah Giu. These photos are now everywhere, and before I even had a chance to search for them, someone sent some to me. It’s a very odd occurrence, watching a carefully crafted image shatter in front of you, and discovering your idol is just another animal, just the same as you and everyone else. It’s strangely heartbreaking, particularly as Edison Chen is such a hollow, untalented and uninteresting celebrity. After the shock, I realized that I too am naked under these clothes, I too have had sex, and I too recently took my computer in for repair even though it contained homemade pornography, and that actually, it’s nothing shocking.
Why is the penis so sacred? Why is it so titillating to see photos of African women with their breasts exposed? Why do we get an uneasy feeling when a child is walking around naked in front of strangers? An exquisite patch of pubic hair following the curves of a woman’s mound is intoxicating, but so is the curve of her jaw, or the corner of a boy’s mouth, or the nape of a child’s neck. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I feel sensuality has been distorted into something violent somewhere, and humans confuse aggression with sex with passion with love with attraction.
It’s strange, now my idol has been exposed to have an actual, clearly visible vagina, and a seemingly un-romantic and non-utilitarian use for it, what has been exposed is not really her body, but more my and the general public’s two-dimensional passion for her.
I have been famous two times in my life. The second time was when I moved to Cheon-Ju, a small city in South Korea, where I was the only young, Western person most people had ever seen in the flesh. I had attention everywhere I went - it was like being in the Beatles, or a zoo animal. On a good day it would be a crowd of high school girls squealing, and on a bad day it would be hoards of little children spilling into the public toilet to watch me pee. I quickly learned that nobody actually liked me, they all just had an image in their head of what I was and, in most cases, would get very offended if it turned out I didn’t want to go to karaoke with them or be the special guest at their birthday party. Since then I’ve always tried to treat celebrities as human beings.
But, who wants to be a stinky old human being? Who wants to be reduced to Winston in “1984”, without either the bravado or the insight to follow a truth either real or concocted?
It’s that old demon reality again, clawing away at the rotting veneer that is my façade - the only definition I have of myself.
Why is the penis so sacred? Why is it so titillating to see photos of African women with their breasts exposed? Why do we get an uneasy feeling when a child is walking around naked in front of strangers? An exquisite patch of pubic hair following the curves of a woman’s mound is intoxicating, but so is the curve of her jaw, or the corner of a boy’s mouth, or the nape of a child’s neck. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I feel sensuality has been distorted into something violent somewhere, and humans confuse aggression with sex with passion with love with attraction.
It’s strange, now my idol has been exposed to have an actual, clearly visible vagina, and a seemingly un-romantic and non-utilitarian use for it, what has been exposed is not really her body, but more my and the general public’s two-dimensional passion for her.
I have been famous two times in my life. The second time was when I moved to Cheon-Ju, a small city in South Korea, where I was the only young, Western person most people had ever seen in the flesh. I had attention everywhere I went - it was like being in the Beatles, or a zoo animal. On a good day it would be a crowd of high school girls squealing, and on a bad day it would be hoards of little children spilling into the public toilet to watch me pee. I quickly learned that nobody actually liked me, they all just had an image in their head of what I was and, in most cases, would get very offended if it turned out I didn’t want to go to karaoke with them or be the special guest at their birthday party. Since then I’ve always tried to treat celebrities as human beings.
But, who wants to be a stinky old human being? Who wants to be reduced to Winston in “1984”, without either the bravado or the insight to follow a truth either real or concocted?
It’s that old demon reality again, clawing away at the rotting veneer that is my façade - the only definition I have of myself.
