So you want to be a journalist?

There are many things in life that I have wanted to be, and still want to be. A lawyer, an actress, a mom, a model, a wife, a property agent, a plastic bubble...

But then I get my hands on something like this, and I know what I truly want to be. I want to be a writer. I want to be a creative writer, I want to be a journalist. A humourous journalist. Maybe this is why all the writers that I have admired seem to have that common denominator; humour. Humour comes easily to some, but it's a little challenging for others like me, who seem to have a knack for 'the crimson blood curled in a velvety fashion' type of language.

Wit is mostly inborn, and it seems like the British are very blessed with it. Singaporeans tend to be a bit more... uptight, for lack of better word. We access and re-access what we write, what we think, what we say... and that kind of takes the originality and character out of most things that we say/do/think because we are just so desperate to be politlcally correct. Which could possibly be a reason why our media tends to be great at the news items, but not so entertaining when it comes to... entertainment.

Here's a great example of entertainment. Of writing, of humour, and of something in life that I want to be. Or in this case, write.

P.S. I got hold of this because basically the guy who wrote it was with Henry in Russia and Henry was there at GQ Bar with him.

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Gentlemen's Food

By Mark Ames ( editor@exile.ru )
I'm a GQ man. As more cultured readers know, I've had a regular column in the Russian edition of GQ for nearly three years now. I'm handsome, stylish, confident, and successful. Men want to be me, and women want to carry the weight of my burdens. My elitist contempt radiates across Eurasia from the magazine's glossy pages, but it's not the mean-spirited contempt you might find in the pages of this free rag rather, my GQ contempt says, "What can you do for me?" and "I'll give you ten seconds to wow me, starting five seconds ago."

So you can understand that I was not displeased when I heard that GQ had opened its own 24-hour elitist bar/restaurant, appropriately named GQ BAR. Finally, my own secure place to escape the noise and riff-raff.

I had the mud-caked Moskvich gypsy cab I rode in drop me off about two blocks away from GQ Bar, located a block from the Balchug Kempinski hotel. A GQ man should have a driver and a Lexus SUV. Unfortunately, my Lexus is still in the shop. At least, that's what I've been telling myself for about six years now, and will continue to tell myself and anyone else for the next six years.

If I was a plebian rather than a GQ man, I might have noticed the fine details about the restaurant's tasteful interior. As a GQ Man, I barreled past the door goons with contempt, and they reacted to my contempt as they always do: parting like the Red Sea.

Waiting for me at the far table on the room on the left was a group of international publishers from the world of glossy magazines. I can't tell you about the substance of our meeting you probably wouldn't understand it anyway, and besides, what can you do for us? but I will tell you that our waitress did not know the difference between whiskey and bourbon. When I asked for "Maker's Mark" she grimaced as if I'd just stuck my thumb into her ass. Poor peasant girl, I hope when they fire her, they let her down easy.

As for food, I have no fucking idea what we ate or what the prices were. They gave us chopsticks to eat European dishes like Lamb's Tongue (which I didn't touch), gnocchi with kidneys (tasted a bit Kal-Kan-ish), liver with mashed potatoes (m'm-m'm! I felt like a Senator!), another plate of thinly-sliced flesh with a demi-glace which no one bothered explaining, and finally a plate of dumplings that looked nice, but lacked substance. Sort of like me.

The international publishing titans paid for my meal, so I have no idea what it cost. And frankly I don't care. If you're a GQ Man, you don't bother with such silly trivialities. In fact, you don't bother even writing a review that offers relevant details to readers. If you want that kind of information, go read one of those plebian magazines like Afisha. But if you want to live vicariously through me and to envy me, then re-read this review. Either way, whatever you choose, I really couldn't care less. I'm too busy being great.

GQ Bar
Balchug Ul. 5
956-7775
24 hours
Metro: Tretyakovskaya

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Noise: Miami Ink on Discovery Travel & Living