JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

In the Victoria & Albert Museum: a bed once renowned for its size, whose name and location I I forgot to take note of.

Yesterday my column in the Philippine Star (Three texts and you’re on) was about the heightened role of technology, particularly text messaging and social networking sites, in romantic relationships.

Here’s a snippet:

Consider the role of texting in modern love. Text is no longer just the means to an end (i.e. the way to arrange a meeting), it may well be the end. After exchanging three flirtatious messages, the two of you are a couple (I exaggerate, but only slightly). Then you conduct your romance via text. If one of you fails to answer a text message within the allotted time, you have broken up.

One downside of technology is that everything gets done faster so there is more time to get bored, and boredom often begets stupidity… (Keep reading.)

I got some intriguing reactions to this column, mostly from friends who had their own stories about emotional/sexual/psychological villainy perpetrated via text, chat, or Facebook. Clearly this piece is crying for a sequel.

Have you ever met/hooked up/cheated on/been cheated on by someone you met through text, chat or Facebook? Tell us all the nasty details, please. Without real names. We might know or meet the people in your story, and we want to hang on to our frayed shreds of trust in the human race.

Venting is good for everybody.

Do Not Disturb Sam, aged 5, submitted by her mom brother. “Sorry the pic is a little blurry but you’d be trembling too if a five-year-old who reads Jessica Zafra pointed a gun at you.”

Aha, flattery! A time-tested tactic.

Nubbin, submitted by his human Dave. “The look says, I will kill to clear my name but I need to groom myself first. I’ll get back to you later.”

Take two from Monique: “I showed my mom my Salt photo in your website, then she and I ended up having too much fun doing it again.”

Here’s another shot of Monique, whose mom gets a special citation for coolness.

Quiapo fish vendor, submitted by Banahawtext. Now that’s Method.

Psylocke (from X-Men/Marvel Legends) channelling Angelina Jolie/Salt, submitted by John David.

NOT A Contestant unless you need someone to play the Navigator in Dune. Just showing off glasses that look like the comic book graphic representation of Psylocke’s power. (The camera on the Samsung Galaxy S phone has a self-shot feature but still requires some contortion.)

You have until 11.59pm to email your photos to urban.matthias@gmail.com. Hurry!

Greek statues, the British Museum, June 2010.

So Charice Pempengco went and got botoxed in order to change the shape of her naturally round face, said her cosmetic dermatologist Vicki Belo, although a later statement from the singer’s rep said the injection was not for cosmetic purposes but for the treatment of lower jaw pain.

While wading through Edsa traffic this afternoon we wondered aloud what Oprah—who has been instrumental in the rise of Charice—has to say about the botox incident.

– Should she read Vicki Belo the riot act for subjecting someone so young to this procedure and possibly dooming her to a lifetime of cosmetic surgery addiction?

– If Oprah does, then she would be acknowledging her awareness of Vicki Belo and her clinics…

– And if Oprah is angry then she would be setting up Dr Belo as a nemesis or even someone who occupies the same level of fame as Oprah…

– And that would be the best possible advertisement for the Belo clinics.

Ah.

Earlier post on Charice: I hadn’t realized the Philippines was in Scandinavia.

2200hrs. I drag myself out of my comfortable New Wave stateroom with its endless reruns of Columbo to join the Philippine media group for dinner. There are more than 20 restaurants on board and we can order anything anywhere we want (and after this maiden voyage there will be a pizza delivery service for those who prefer Columbo to actual humans). The sheer number of available options causes the decision-making part of my brain to shut down.

We go for the default setting: the Garden Cafe, the 24-hour buffet restaurant on deck serving American diner fare, roasts, pastas, and Asian cuisine. Think of the largest buffet you’ve ever seen. Now make it bigger. Apparently this is the guiding principle of the Norwegian Epic: You think you know big? Hahahaha.

Afterwards we try to burn off some of the calories by walking around the ship. We pass the gleaming Casino, which is sparsely populated because everyone is too busy partying.

We peek into the biggest gym I have ever seen, the vast expanse lined with brand-new torture exercise machines—unsullied by human sweat, Leah points out.

The Ice Bar is, as the name promises, an ice bar at sea. You put on a parka and make like you’re in the Arctic. The place is packed and we don’t have reservations, so we move on to

Shanghai, the Chinese restaurant. As you may have guessed, at least half the crew on the Epic are Filipinos.

(The next day when I reported a maintenance problem in my stateroom, a tall man with a mullet showed up to fix it. After he had ascertained my nationality, he told me that his son Reycon Cabigting plays for the Jose Rizal University NCAA basketball team. Reycon has been getting a lot more playing time since Coach Vergel Meneses took over, the proud father said. I don’t follow collegiate basketball—Does anyone know how Reycon is doing?

Later the Pinoy media wind up in Spice H20, the dance club. Vince and Leah, who stuck around at Spice, report that the DJ plays a good mix of music from the 80s to Lady Gaga, the intention being to make everyone dance. Unlike other DJs who are more concerned with showing off their esoteric musical knowledge.

Three English ladies dressed for dancing get into our elevator. “So long,” someone in our party says, whereupon the three English ladies break into a chorus of “So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye.” Giddy intoxication is one thing, but spontaneous public performance of tunes from The Sound of Music is too weird for me.

The following morning the guys report that their butts had been pinched.

Once again I spoke too soon. Here are the latest entries to our Who Is Salt? Channeling Angelina Jolie/Salt contest.

We’re going to need more caps.

iamstoned. Expression courtesy of Germany’s defeat to Spain in the World Cup.

Irvin’s sister Abby. That pout! With my worst allergic reaction to lipstick the lippiest I can hope for is Manilyn Reynes.

Janus does not need the wig to kick your ass.

Lulu does not appreciate having her photo snapped while she’s internalizing the character.

Monique as Salt: Zuma-Zhang Ziyi!

Rina: “Put those hors d’oeuvres down. I won’t say it again.”

Brava! Keep sending your photos to urban.matthias@gmail.com. We’re accepting submissions until Monday.

It’s been six days since we launched our Who Is Salt? contest and I’m beginning to despair of finding the right Saltines.

Sylvester has potential, but he’s not even trying. Where’s the wig, the pout?

At least Melody scares us, but she’s in the wrong movie. I’m thinking The Grudge.

Even out of focus Dinky has the fierce look, probably to compensate for being called Dinky, but once again we see no effort.

Resty S made a fab effort—the wrong kind. You’re a wanted fugitive, your whole life has fallen apart, you’re being shot at, your own colleagues are calling you a traitor to your country—and you’re smiling! The look should say, “I will kill to clear my name,” not “I have boobies.”

Thanks to Melody and Resty S for being great sports. You’re in the lead and we’re waiting for your challengers.

Email your Salt-ish photos to urban.matthias@gmail.com. We’re accepting entries until Monday the 26th. Remember to look like this:

Salt opens in movie theatres on Wednesday, July 28.