tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91911377588236133032025-11-12T11:13:01.859+08:00I tell true stories.Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-24716086657481589722020-07-16T00:25:00.002+08:002020-07-16T00:25:27.637+08:00

1. My dad died at 9:50am, the day after Father’s Day. I went with my brother and sister-in-law to sign papers at the hospital so the body can be released while the rest of my family prepared our home for the wake. 2. It’s a little unnerving to be fitting suits my dad will wear for his funeral. But I’m nearest his build so it was the easiest way to pick the right size. 3. We chose a large,

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-30034073958930151802020-07-16T00:19:00.001+08:002020-07-16T00:27:52.787+08:00

My Dad and I never really understood each other. I mean, don’t get me wrong, there was a lot of love there, but I think we were too different, and this of course was reflected in the type of relationship that we had. He was a man’s man, who understood and relished his role as head of the family, and to a broader extent, the community. I was this gay guy who was just trying to carve out his own

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-34348268481544399052017-01-03T11:25:00.001+08:002017-01-03T15:36:51.967+08:00

Sometime this year, I woke up one morning and realized I couldn't recognize myself. And it wasn't just how I looked physically. Something has... shifted internally. How I view the world, or form relationships, or process emotions--it's as if a completely different person is in charge now, and I'm only realizing recently how incredible that change has been. It started with a

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-53526902629304094522016-12-22T14:51:00.000+08:002016-12-22T14:59:47.412+08:00

I realized I was gay when I was very young, but only opened up to a couple of friends in high school. I never fully embraced my identity until college, when I discovered Malate and realized there was a thriving community made up of people who were just like me. Bullying was just a part of growing up, during those times when I slipped up and acted less masculine than was “appropriate

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-85626142847429481722016-12-18T17:44:00.000+08:002016-12-22T15:00:49.569+08:00

You were having tea this time, which I thought was strange, but everything else was almost exactly how I remembered it--the same coffee shop, the same seats, the same intimidating presence. Your broad shoulders have developed a firm muscular quality I don't remember them having, and shallow wrinkles have started to form at the corners of your eyes, but it's uncanny how little you've

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-17071207340008253012016-04-11T19:39:00.001+08:002016-04-11T22:26:10.984+08:00

On the day I decided to come out as a gay man to my mom, I asked my friend Mike to accompany me on the long drive to my parents’ house to what I imagined would be a turbulent confrontation. I was feeling exceptionally vulnerable at the time, between dealing with the (sometimes inhuman) demands my job imposed on me, moving out of the apartment my ex-boyfriend and I shared, finding a place

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-18595221023183633872016-03-28T16:24:00.000+08:002016-12-28T14:39:21.809+08:00

During a casual dinner in Rockwell with a few friends, my friend Monina asked, somewhat arbitrarily, “What differentiates millenials from everyone else exactly?” I had some thoughts on the subject, and shared them with the group. In trying to sum up the defining characteristic of a generation of people (which, notwithstanding the countless articles on this matter, is still a daunting

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-19766360141650582752016-03-21T16:34:00.000+08:002016-03-21T16:34:32.350+08:00

About eight or nine years ago, an anonymous blogger became notorious in the local (mostly) gay online community for two reasons: first, because of the quality of the posts he put up, and second, because he dealt with the subject of prostitution; specifically, his own life as an escort. The blog was particularly interesting because the writer was obviously an educated and sensitive young

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-20840331064190619822013-08-08T11:03:00.000+08:002016-03-18T17:42:02.000+08:00

The first time I encountered the word myth was in the context of my English class, discussed as a traditional sacred story, a form of literature, which usually expounds on the acts of gods and goddesses, and which attempts to explain social practices or other natural phenomenon. The literary form expands the natural world into something else which is remarkable and extraordinary; a

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-18136634027234150632013-07-24T05:00:00.000+08:002016-03-18T17:57:44.553+08:00

Driving along the familiar roads of Makati, I find that it is almost impossible for one to never see a homeless person begging, literally, on the street; their gray, unwashed hands knocking on windows of cars, their faces pleading for some of your change, and for food that they may eat. It can be heartbreaking sometimes, especially when the beggar is a child. But in the Philippines,

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-60113516118329764982013-07-05T10:08:00.000+08:002016-03-18T17:58:30.302+08:00

Watch Hollywood romantic movies.  Believe that everyone has a one true love.  Etch into your soul the conviction that you will find that one guy who will inevitably accept you for everything that you are.  Who will love you unconditionally and without question. Create a list of the qualities the love of your life must have. Set high standards.  Reach for the stars.&

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-40447669745048535142011-12-21T18:11:00.002+08:002016-03-18T17:58:44.177+08:00

You start with the eyes, because they say those are the windows to the soul.  A touch of mascara perhaps, some eyeliner, and slight dark eye powder to give you that smoky look. Then the cheeks. Bronzer, right on the cheekbones, to highlight (or create) sharper angles.  A little red coloring, to mimic (or fake) a schoolgirl blush. Don't forget the lips. Full lips, but not

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-74421561733553445092011-12-06T03:14:00.002+08:002016-03-18T17:58:54.119+08:00

I was a freshman in law school when my friend Mike was accepted by a university in Australia for a master’s degree. He took up Finance, under a scholarship program given by a prestigious international organization. He had a boyfriend before he left, but they broke up because they both thought that they’ll be incapable of maintaining a long-distance relationship. We’ve been close

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-4034641809770479972011-12-05T01:32:00.003+08:002016-03-18T17:59:07.441+08:00

Great news! I won in the Philippine Blog Awards for Best Personal Blog! Thanks everyone for the well-wishes and support!

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-27163287340896351312011-12-02T21:36:00.000+08:002016-03-18T17:59:15.067+08:00

Some good news for this blog... I'm a finalist for three award categories in the 2011 Blog Awards!  Yay!  And even better, there's no public voting component whatsoever. So I actually have a fighting chance of winning. :-) In any case, I've been nominated for the following prizes: Best Personal/Diary Blog Best Literature/Literary Blog Best Single Post for my

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-61845078352008557882011-11-04T17:30:00.000+08:002016-03-18T18:00:56.503+08:00

photo My hair is fashionably tousled, my jeans a perfect fit. I've put on some cologne which I know would evaporate as soon as I walk into the club.  I wait for my friends, and once together, talk about how wasted we want to become, how utterly out of our minds we should be before the end of the evening. A couple of shots before going in.  For courage. And because the alcohol

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-20565896003694399702011-11-02T19:44:00.004+08:002016-03-18T18:02:08.887+08:00

photo I was thinking about other stuff while I was in the train. Amazing how man is no? I mean, we make beautiful things, that's for sure. We make them in all sorts of ways; tangible and intangible. Like architecture and music. It's like man has the entire universe for options and when he makes something, he picks out distinct things to work with, and he ends up with something else

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-38580169743389374092011-10-18T00:13:00.002+08:002016-03-18T18:04:57.050+08:00

photo It was a typical morning. I woke up, late as usual, the sun already near its zenith, its rays streaming through half-open blinds, the day as hot and as humid as it can be. I forgot to turn off the TV. A Discovery channel host was talking about whales, his voice a deep, monotonous drone. I stood up, my head slightly aching from oversleeping, my thoughts still a blur, my knees

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-16418491063571364412011-10-17T03:43:00.006+08:002016-03-18T18:07:17.234+08:00

Image taken here. Dear Fickle Cattle, I'm a new fan of your blog.  I haven't even browsed through each tab and entry yet.  I just saw a link from a friend in FB to your blog and I became an instant fan after I read your open letter.  Honestly, I cried, I could relate to it so much.  I hope you don't mind my telling this story.  I realized I was gay

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-700388222473622312011-10-14T01:41:00.006+08:002016-03-18T18:11:47.133+08:00

Image taken here. I don’t go to the doctor.  At least, not voluntarily.  In fact, the only time you can make me go to a physician is when I’m in enough pain that I start dreaming about death.  And even then I’ll probably need to be unconscious so you can carry my limp carcass to his clinic.    Taking into consideration the fact that I live in a cramped, smoggy

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-31872077644719804582011-10-07T02:41:00.003+08:002016-03-18T18:13:54.074+08:00

Images found here. Yolanda Dominguez is a visual artist and performer from Madrid.  I ran across her work, Poses, from an interview of Yolanda Dominguez by a blogger here, and I thought it was one of the most interesting performance art pieces I have seen in a while. Now, like I have already detailed in a blog post before, I am not a big fan of performance

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-64166505631945427022011-10-04T16:39:00.002+08:002016-03-18T18:14:52.419+08:00

Image taken here. It was with a peculiar, and perhaps less than noble, fixation that I read about your crime.  A crime which was extraordinarily morbid, and sensational.  And I gathered the following details: You were thirteen years old. You stole a .22 caliber pistol.  You wrote a suicide letter; short, but it got the message across.  You went to SM City Mall,

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-30819258433497087372011-09-30T00:34:00.005+08:002016-03-18T18:15:46.560+08:00

Image taken here. Dear Fickle Cattle, I came across your blog a week ago. I cannot remember how exactly. What I do remember is that part where you said you "love email." I smiled at that line, thinking about how I, too, am fond of emails. I decided then to write you one when I get the time and when I sense a need to talk to someone. Are you wondering now why I opted to talk to a

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-36698261332555263572011-09-26T09:39:00.004+08:002016-03-18T18:20:31.601+08:00

Image taken here. "It's not that I didn't like him.  I did. Like him, I mean.  But finding someone to be friends with is a lot like finding someone to fall in love with, you know?  Sparks are important.  Even with friends.  Otherwise, you'd be friends with someone whose company feels a lot like work.  And really, that's not something I want to get into right

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9191137758823613303.post-85357978681138579412011-09-09T19:32:00.002+08:002016-03-18T18:23:55.147+08:00

Image taken here. I don’t remember when we first met.  We were young definitely, but outside of the faded images in my head of you running around the bright hallways of our school, I couldn’t remember much of anything else.  You had hair then, I think, which resembled your mother’s: uncontrollably wavy, and a deep black. I also remember you being a bit of a snob. Even as a six

Fickle Cattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10281753566416281237noreply@blogger.com43