The Pensive Bull

2012-01-10T20:04:00.000+08:00

Nitpickers of the new DOT campaign are entitled to their own kind of fun - nitpicking. As for me, I’s having fun of my own.

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It’s a City... and It’s Global!

2011-12-16T16:08:00.000+08:00

Where am I? And why am I being pretentious?!

Because I’m at Bonifacio Global City! Never liked this place during the times when it’s only attraction was the once celebrity and socialite ridden Embassy. I never go to such places.

Mama's Halloween Kitchen

2011-11-09T05:51:00.000+08:00

Tonight, Mama prepares to configure her witch’s brew. Divine, she huffs and she puffs… in her kitchen she prepares to cast her spells in welcoming the merry making of the dead. Tig-kalalag in Isabela, Negros Occidental – the festival of souls commercially known as Halloween, nationally Araw ng mga Patay, religiously All Souls Day. But with a vague idea of what the Roman Catholic dogma defines on the subject, or lacking the knowledge of how it colored the culture in foreign lives, I simply expect this day to be a concert of local gastronomic delights, all cooked up under my Mom’s baton – luhag in Hiligaynon, sandok in Tagalo.

The Legs Review

2011-11-02T20:58:00.001+08:00

When a friend of mine came to Cebu to conduct a seminar, I played my best role again aside from being bitch, diva, and bully. That is, being a good host. Friend requested to be shown the gay bars of Cebu, and I obliged.

I just have to make this declaration: I am no fan of gay bars. The paid gogo-boys wear too much make-up and their costumes are so predictable. I would rather sit through a Chinese acrobatic circus than watch these men contort their bodies in redundant dance moves as they bid for my attention and paper bills.

Ode to Laughter on Campy Zombading

2011-09-07T01:10:00.003+08:00

I insist, dear five readers, that I don’t do movie reviews. That’s because I’m so bad at naming names and their personages, and I dread the science of film making as much as I detest teaching it. But for days now, the itch to write about a comic breakthrough (I told you I can’t do movie review) has been quite disturbing. Before I down a bottle of Caladryl Lotion, I blog.

Zombading Patayin sa Syokot si Remington, started with a curse...

Im So Back!

2011-04-01T22:57:00.001+08:00

I'm baaaaaccckkkk!

New and improved. Whatever that means.

I Say Narcolepsy, You Say Necrophilia.

2007-08-11T17:24:00.001+08:00

Sorry. I don’t mean to show off on some medical terms. I leave that to doctors. Some of them only has those words to display their vocabulary. Hah?! You don’t know what they mean? My last name is Lloren. Not Webster. Go grab him.

So there we were, Praxedes and D’Bully, sitting in one of SM Megamall’s theatre for the screening of Joey Gosienfiao’s Nights of Serafina. The movie was one of the series of films being shown last week as Cinema One honors the said director. Hey, I admire the guy. He’s an icon, to say the least. You can’t blame a fan for paying Php120.00 to watch a film that has been shown several times on cable. To think that this one is also said to be a pito-pito movie (made in seven days). Ok, no more apologies. I’m just a fan. Yes?

Sitting in orchestra (here is one for another blog: Megamall still dichotomize between special and regular cinema seating), I noticed a video projector set up behind us. Praxedes was quick to fear that we are up to watch the same television version of the movie. Honestly, it was a kind of fear that edges on the horrified state as, though we came for the opus of an idol, we came for Mike Magat who was said to be showing more than just his torso. We expected that at Php120.00 we will see more blood and sex. How do they call it? Director’s cut. We feared correctly. Yes, we were made to watch exactly what one may see for free on television! Front, butt and expletives deleted.

Cinema One, why?!

But we were determined not to be disappointed. In times like this, it’s mind over matter. In this case, it’s intellectualization over the unintelligible. Simply put, in our bid to salvage our reason for braving the traffic on Edsa to get to Megamall, we tempered the disappointment with abject rationalization. Let’s just say we still want to believe that this film is the epitome of camp (only after Joey’s Temptation Island) and, therefore, is one for laughs and Mike Magat’s pecs is one to recall on those lonely cold nights. The latter was indeed a justification. Mike Magat, I must say, was one of the best pieces of meat that came out of Divisoria Market. Unless you don’t know, my dear hordes of four avid readers, Mike Magat used to work at the said wet market as a porter (it’s a kinder word compared to its Tagalog equivalent - kargador).

Who is Serafina? She’s a mannequin in a catatonic state. A mannequin because, among others, she could crack her ever-pouting lips whenever she attempts to speak, cry, or - God forbids - laugh. Catatonic because her acting requires strings attached to her limbs for actuation. A puppeteer may have been more expensive in those days that Joey instead opted for her to animate a character. Or maybe she was just such an obedient actress she followed Direk Joey’s every instructions right down to the nine. He may have told her, “You’re a mowdel (yes, there is a w). Walk, talk and eat like a mowdel.” She gladly obliged, thus, we see her being raped or slapped and she still comes out as a magazine print. She was pushed against the ground in a rape scene. The attacker had second thoughts when tears fell from her eyes so he leaves her be. She stood up and did a cat walk. She was running away from a pursuer along the street. She came to an alley. She couldn’t decide which way to go. She acted this out by a sudden stop from running, arms reaching forward, paused, then turned the other way with the other arm reaching forward. Yes, it’s a choreography by the Aldeguer Sisters. Serafina could win an Urian for Most Promising Performer by simply falling asleep within the whole duration of an entire film. Which in turn led me to think that the guys who fell for her would find the morgue more stimulating than a girly bar. I assume Mother Lily could have saved more production money by having cardboard cut-outs play the role.

O, I’ve been so mean to this actress I should accordingly hide her identity under her “real alias”, Georgia Ortega. Where is she now? I think I spotted her among the crowd of zombies in Night of the Living Dead. She was perfect.

The story line is quite the usual. John Apacible as heir to a rich logging family who travels to Manila to meet his bride (none existent) and to hire a labor arbiter (Mike Magat). In Manila she stops by a road to admire the woman in the billboard. Before he drives off the same face was on the page of a magazine that blew against his car’s windshield. And, surprise, the woman who owns the magazine is the woman in the billboard, the woman in the magazine, the woman now standing beside his car to pick up the magazine. She was having a pictorial meters away. She says in a monotonous low voice consistent in all her deliveries, “Sorry, nilipad ng hangin ang magazine ko.” No, I don’t suspect the director was imploring a film technique. If he was, it has something to do with economy. Making several things happen in one place at one scene shortens the story line, which cuts scene sequences, which shortens production and post-production, which results to shrinking the budget, which by the way characterizes a pito-pito movie.

With this meeting along the road established, you can rightly presume what happens to the rest of the movie. Don’t fail me.

So much could be said about this film for being camp. Every other guy was wearing chaleco if they’re not in padded coat! And Oscar Dela Renta is in the credits?! Yeah right. Using binoculars, the two pesky kids admire Serafina standing at the terrace while they were just five meters away from her location. Another floozy character punctuates her every line with annoying laughter. That was her idea of a slut. There was a party. And as such in a provincial setting, the rich would hire a band, the kind that plays in fiestas and parades. While they play some jolly old country folk tunes, our subject characters were modern dancing along the mansion’s portico. My head ached as I tried so hard to synch what I see with what I hear.

Gosiengfiao films are also known for explosive lines and I had a blast of gas when Serafina drawls, “Alam kong nabili na nya ang aking katawan. Pero walang karapatang bumili ang di marunong gumamit.” Referring to John Apacible who was impotent. That gorgeous body is inutile. He may have a chiseled body compared to Mike but Mike is an animal. I’m all hands down to Serafina for letting herself get insnared by a butcher instead by a logger. At least, the movie was quite successful in this character contrast. You have an impotent Olympian god on one hand, a rough but ravishing mortal on the other. I’d go for an anatomically complete human.

This will not stop me from watching Gosiengfiao films. What I see in his films is a man who enjoys his craft. When one is having fun with his pursuits, a genius comes out. Then the audience has no choice but to react with spontaneity, whether by irritation or admiration, disgust or commendation. And as I was trying to find a statement that would sum up my impression of his movies, I serendipitously found it while watching the Lifestyle Channel: a comedian trying to simplify his impression on a Ron Howard sci-fi starring John Travolta as an alien villain. She goes, “The movie is so bad, it’s so good.”

True.

Wake Me Up When It's Over

2007-07-25T19:31:00.001+08:00

We finally have a Skycable at home! Welcome us into this millennium. (supply canned applause here)

I can’t remember what I watched on the first day of its installation. Tonight, housemate Rollo insisted we tune in to saccharine Hallmark. He was hoping we could catch something so family oriented it would keep his thoughts from Palawan 2. When we tuned in, lo and behold, there was Oprah. Tonight’s topic was about going green. The title was enough for me to doubt whether Rollo would have a respite from Palawan 2 tonight. Happily, going green refers to environmentalism and has nothing to do with being green and green blooded.

I have nothing against environmentalism. Who would have? Some of my best friends are environmentalists (I’m trying to remember who). It’s these Americans whining about the trash they make. I just want to tell them, “Hey, you started it.” Just come to think of it, they want us to save on styrofoam plates because it’s too much trash. But last time I know, they popularized it together with junk food! The Europeans don’t have much use of styrofoam plates because every time they party it’s fine dining. The Japanese use elegant earthen wares and revere their wooden utensils like a good animist. They sacrificed their shinto gods in cutting trees for plates. The Chinese are equally reverent when it comes to their ceramics. The middle easterners altogether eat in one gigantic plate. As for us Filipinos, Mother Earth is thankful we are poor. So poor that we cannot afford to throw our melaware plates into the trash. Most of us are so careful with them that they become heirlooms.

Before every commercial, Ms. Oprah would call upon her staff to distribute to the audience packages of bric-a-brac as an environmentalists’ starter kit. What I see is another batch of trash and Oprah’s the culprit. And every time she announces that a new set of giveaways are to be handed to the audience, they throw their selves into hysterics. It’s Wowowie, only with a Hollywood touch but lacking the tear-jerking audience narratives.

Oprah introduces products that are environmental friendly. We can all get them from her website. Sorry, Oprah Miss Dear. We already have ukay-ukay. Beat that.

If there was ever an observable success in this show, it was Miss Oprah making me resurrect my plans to become the next big thing in Miss Earth.

At Channel 2nd Avenue, the show was worse. A tabloid news was reporting on contestants drowning on a radio network’s water drinking contest, a seagull entering a convenient store and taking off with a pack of crackers, a tough talking infant girl, a fourteen year old paparazzi, pet burials. It’s Rated K without Korina’s annoying cheeks on screen.

And now I have to change the channel. It’s Helen Degenerate Show starting.

In HBO, Ninja 2. A bunch of muscled actors with a master’s degree in non-acting pretending to be military men in a resort. With the way they act (Hi, I’m Jake. I’m a ranger.) and clothed (multi-colored beach florals!), I felt like I was watching a Chichi La Rue film.

In Jack TV, a stupid adult-humor cartoon. I think I’m staying. At least, Jack TV has raised stupid shows into an art-form.

Oops, I accidentally pressed the channel button. I’m in AXN and it’s Fear Factor. Whew! One contestant is a big, big white boy. I palpitated.

Ugh! He’s eating roaches. But those shoulders are making me stay tuned.

Want more roaches, Baby?

A question pops in my mind: would I kiss him after he munches those horrid critters?

I’m thinking.

Shampoolessia

2007-06-25T11:14:00.001+08:00

TO SILIP OR NOT TO SILIP

2007-06-20T11:14:00.000+08:00

So was the question. But it was not a question, really. It was me and Praxedes trying to figure out what to watch in Gateway. There was Ocean’s Thirteen. There was Meet the Robinsons. There was Zodiac. But the question went immaterial. Because we watched Joel Lamangan’s Silip (English: peek) anyway, in spite of... despite of...

Home in Q.C. I’m trying to write this blog Ian-Fleming-style. Drunk in front of DVD playing. It’s Daredevil and I don’t care if I’m watching it the third time. It’s just Ben Afflick in his tight leather and Collin Farrel and his sexy goatee. Nothing personal.

It was a tough choice watching Silip considering the contenders mentioned above. But a poster that shows Polo Ravales’s veins piping along tremendously chiseled arms and shoulders tipped the balance of decision. To think that I even told Praxedes that I don’t trust Joel Lamangan films. Not that they’re quite mediocre. They are the epitome of abject mediocrity. But Polo’s anatomy makes for a movie worth seeing. At least, for us. Fuck (excuse my French)! We’re such suckers for musculature.

In this movie, Polo Raveles is the alpha-male handicraft vendor, Francine Prieto as Selya, and Diana Subiri as Tess. Tess is married to Polo (who wouldn’t). Selya is the pigment of her psychosis. She imagined her, first, as a friend who keeps her company while Polo is away selling his wears (the handicraft). Then she sees her as Polo’s scheming paramour. I also have a Selya in my life but he’s definitely not an illusion. He’s real and he’s out there looking for a relationship to destroy (play Dideth Reyes’s Tukso here). The lie is out there.

I digress. Always.

Back to Silip.

Why Silip, I don’t know. The closest scene in the movie that would get to the title were the bath scenes. Yes there is an s. We know that in the province, people take their shower outside their huts. Inside a four walled structure made of palm leaves, or wood, or bamboo, devoid of roof. Here we see Tess (zzz...), and Selia (hohummm...), and Polo R. (clap, clap, clap...) soaping their selves in what seems to be a palipuran made of bamboo thatched inches apart. One can merely watch the bathers meters away without having an ounce of effort to make silip (peek) and see the glory of both male and female gross anatomy. So it seems these scenes neither count to justify the title. So what made Silip?

I suspect it’s about the movie’s plot. It’s struggling to come out of the story and all it could afford is to peek out of the spiel’s logic.

But, hey, there was one scene that made me cathartic. In a restaurant, two fried whole chickens were served. I drooled. And I drooled. I continuously drooled. I was watching Polo shirtless and I doubly drooled. One for him and still one for the chickens that were shown almost an hour since. After the movie, in Esquinita where we met Ninghao, I craved for chicken so badly I went to a nearby chicken inasal and ordered two servings.

If we are to stick to the fact that movies are meant to entertain, then Silip perhaps count as one. I had a few laughs. Well, honestly, a lot:

Tess asked the deaf-mute for a conversation. I laughed. She realized he’s deaf-mute. I laughed. So she simply said it’s ok and that he may go. The deaf-mute thanked her. I laughed. My spleen almost burst.

There was this knife. The knife in the kitchen. Kept at the very same corner. Of the kitchen. Tess used it to slit the throat of the deaf-mute. Tess used it to stab Selya. Tess used it on Polo. Every time, the knife is found on the same corner of the kitchen. Would anyone use the same knife on one’s cooking if it has already been used to kill somebody?! I’m not laughing.

One night, there was a storm. Take note: a storm. Hours later, on the same night, Selya and Tess were drinking outside the house with bonfires everywhere. That scene ended with the women laughing and dancing. I don’t know with you but I am not joining.

Tess murdered Selya. Yes, with the ever-present knife. Polo was furious. After he helped Tess dump the body, he went to the river to wash the blood off him. Tess went up to him to help him wash. He was startled by her touch. He faced her. Said, “Nandididri ako sa’yo!”

Tess, next time he does that, face him, grab his crotch and blurt out, “Bansot ka!”

Speaking of bansot (Japanese: bonsai), one scene shows tall Selya and short Polo running naked across the glades. What I see was a boy running away with his aunt. The thought is appalling.

Polo brought Tess to the hospital. She was diagnosed to have psychosis. He asked the doctor where does one get such. Watching this movie, one need no doctor to surmise where one gets psychosis. I figured, it’s the bad script. Where else?

I should stop with these litanies or I won’t be able to sleep. But before I end, though, I have one thing to say to the director:

Joel, Joel, Joel... tsk, tsk, tsk... next time I watch a Filipino film, sana wala lang lamangan.

Minatamis na almusal

2007-05-28T14:29:00.000+08:00

Ahem... tagalog ito. Pero hanggang title lang yan. Mahahalatang bisaya tayo.

We could have discussed about the abuse on the ozone layer which made this summer unbearably sweaty than the past years. We could have toasted Trillanes for making it in and, as of the last report in ABS-CBN, out of the senatorial race. We could have demonstrated our level of intelligence by deciphering the basis of morality from the writings of the French and German thinkers. But we don’t have to. We know we are intelligent.

So here we were in Chelu on a Friday night. Oblivious on whether there were enough cute guys to test our market value. Or whether there were enough gays in the area to say this is the night to see and be seen. Tonight, I’m with my friends. My very intelligent friends. And since we have not been seeing each other for days, a pseudo-reunion is in order. So we settled on gossip. And it’s not about our friends nor ex-friends. O, no. We are not going to make celebrities out of their absence. We, instead, gossiped about ourselves.

Rollo, although surprisingly out of his usual hang-out in Palawan 2 Cubao, was always on the prowl for boys. His eyeballs was almost jumping out of their socket as he hunts them out of the crowd. I whispered to Praxedes that Rollo would again be successful in fishing out the tabula rasa from the perceptive ones. We used this Aristotelian idea of the mind as a clean slate to refer to boys who have nothing in between their ears. It works for Rollo though as he could simply write his name on their empty minds and these boys will remember him forever.

Praxedes was still in euphoria remembering the guy of his birthday eve a couple of days past. Big, brawny, and the flawless skin that makes you doubt if he was indeed a provincial lad fresh from the tuna shores of General Santos. Brandon is a masseur from Utopia Spa. His was the torso that spans wide enough to contain the lengths of a mathematical equation on the workings of the universe. Praxedes remembers very well how the lights went dim when the guy bent over him as he laid down for the sinful massage. Like a nimbus cloud looming. Whew! Irefragabile!

No exaggeration. Just plain adulation. Under the pangs of envy.

Far inside Chelu a guy facing me while embracing another was looking at me with smiling eyes. I hissed back with a sharp stare that says, “Hey! I am not the porn star of your fantasies!”

I’m bad. Proudly.

Ryoichi, was with a date. The guy will remain a date.

Like Ryo, Nighao was also with a date. His date wasn’t some new conquest he would usually pride over us. They used to be friends since late nineties and, in fact, I thought the guy was already out of the country just like the rest of the gays who have retired from the scene. They may have had sex or two but we can always assume that when it comes to Ninghao without having the guilt of being wrong. O yes, we’ve also retired from the scene. From time to time. Only to come back to Malate anew as if the place has the irresistible call such as that of nature’s.

Chelu was celebrating their fourth year. Beer was four for Php100.00. It was enough for me to carouse with my ever-faithful lover, Red Horse. Had two rounds of the promo and I had a blast having eight bottles. Short of saying I was having an orgy.

At dawn Praxedes and Ninghao dragged me to Aristocrat for breakfast as I was in drunken stupor. This restaurant used to be my family’s special occasion hangout during my boyhood. Little did I know that this is going to be my breakfast place after my weekly Malate shindigs. O, I should stop the reminiscing before this turns into a commercial.

In the restaurant, I hurried into the restroom to barf and ended up in the ladies’. Went to the men’s room and threw up on the lavatory as it was still being cleaned. The janitor was watching me dirtying the newly washed marble. While I was reaching for my throat for more trash, I gave the same sharp stare at the janitor. Sharp enough to say WAGMOAKONGPANOORIN... glug, glug, glug...

Breakfast came with humongous slabs of pork and chicken adobo. Chokolate-eh is not to be missed. Ninghao ordered pansit he did not even touch. So I took the responsibility to finish it as well on top of everything else that was served on the table.

Ninghao’s ex who happened to cow-towed with us to Aristocrat insisted that the cake I bought here for my birthday is called chocolate sans-rival. Obviously, because it’s sans-rival inside, chocolate outside. Duh! Like I care what it’s called. Like men, you don’t even ask their name. You just eat them.

He kept insisting. I said I don’t know. The last time I told him that I was giving him the sharp stare that growls STOPWITHTHE SANSRIVALCHOCOTHINGY! Then there was green ooze dripping out of my mouth.

Praxedes was more pacifying with this name-ordeal. He stood up, went to the bakeshop and asked about the cake.

No. I’m not telling you what he found out. Wala lang...

Ninghao dearie, please get a hubby who can put discussion on the table. One that’s beyond baking. It would save Praxedes the walk to the bakeshop next time we’re having breakfast.

TRYING HARD TO BE KIND

2007-05-19T16:54:00.000+08:00

My sleeping pattern consists of closing my eyes, opening it again after three minutes, open my computer games. Play. I get drowsy. I play some more. I open my blog site. I blog. Then, BLOG! I fall asleep.

Usually, this happens between 4 and 6 in the morning. So imagine me wandering dreamland by six half or seven. By that time, you’d already been taking your shower, breakfast, or morning papers. Either those or you’re still struggling with your morning erection. Assuming you’re male.

This morning, I changed my sleeping pattern. Not that I skipped the gaming and all. Prior to hitting the sack, I watched three Bruce Willis movies none stop. There was Fifth Element for the nth time. Then Hart’s War starring my stalker, Collin Farrel. And Tears of the Sun (no comment... just hand me a tissue). After two dick-flicks (remind me to mention where I got that word) and one tear jerker, I proceeded to gaming. Then blog. Yes, I am making you covet my life.

A couple of weeks ago, as I was keeping Ryoichi company for a two-day confinement in Cardinal Santos, I brought along some DVDs to watch. One was Infamous. It was about one of my favorite writer, Truman Capote, investigating on some gruesome small-town massacre and thus coming up with a book In Cold Blood. Truman was portrayed as a darling of his circle. A confidante to some socialites, if he’s not writing. However, Truman can be a vulture. One friend of his confided about her husband’s affairs. Truman assured her, “O, your secret is safe with me.” Not so. I read about this secret in his unfinished book, Answered Prayer.

Truman is all wit, total flamboyance, and in Infamous, seem possessed with reluctant sincerity, suspicious honesty, and malignant magnanimity. I want to be like him. In fact, I envy him. If I am to believe that mutants exist, the X-Men variety, Truman is one. His power to manipulate is of super-human proportions: he can extract information from the most hardened of criminals; and make a murderer fall in-love in the process. Me? I can only manipulate my DVD-player with the help of a well-written instruction manual.

O, yes, I did write about my friends and their secrets. And it’s been a long time since I gossiped about them. Ok, maybe this time I will try to be gentle, or nobody will show up on my birthday next year:

Ryoichi had a near-fatal vehicular accident. But that’s not his secret. He’s still loveless. Don’t tell anybody.

Praxedes recently celebrated his 34th birthday. For some, age is a guarded secret but none with my friends. We’re proud to have aged gracefully. If ever Praxedes has a secret, it’s one I desire. The brand-name of which is Brando(n).

Gab has no secrets at all. Gods! My life could be considered an open book, but its a mere magazine compared to his.

Nympha. He has no secrets. Honest. Go see his PC movie files.

Rollo is all secret. And he scatters them all over Palawan 2 in Cubao.

Ninghao... uhm, we wont even have to mention this one if we are to talk about secrets.

If only my friends are famous, then I could be infamous.

Look, I’m trying to utilize the little kindness I have. But then again, I’m not blessed with one.

Perhaps.

Ilonggo Summer

2007-03-30T12:31:00.000+08:00

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I’ve been tossing and turning in my seat as to how I should start this travelogue. Should I open with a question? A good start for a newbie, but not for me. How about a quote from a famous writer or a popular line? Yukkk! I thought of letting the material get regurgitated for some time and put it in print some other time. No! It’s summer and there’s so much to write.

Oriental Gardens, Makati. March 28. So I write, anyway.

My apology for the disorganized narration. I suspect this one would. So much went on last week since Nympha and his hubby went with me to Boracay. Yes, it was my first, so you can simply imagine my excitement. Bought our plane tickets months before, booked our hotel even earlier. Last 16th of March, we finally pushed for the trip in spite my swollen tonsils and raging fever two nights before. In fact, I was still burning with fever two hours before the plane left. You might ask, why push for the trip considering the fever and stuffs? Considering Boracay, the months of waiting, I ask, “What fever?”

So this is Boracay? White sand caressed by sea waters that stretches from, ahm, white sand, washed-off green algae, aqua, blue... o, just look at the pictures. And where are the boys?! The rippling abs! The bulging guns! The chest! There was none. There was only Nympha and his hubby in an impending altercation. Did I say that? Ganito yun...

We booked a Cebu Pacific flight to Iloilo. Back and forth it’s only Php3,200.00. A direct flight to Caticlan would be more than double the price. To Caticlan we took the bus. According to the hubby (I have yet to coin his name here) it would only take two hours. In the bus, upon paying our tickets, we were told that it’s six hours. Six! Yes. The “konduktor” wasn’t asking me for sex, I’m sure of that. Nympha, the Empress of Oriental Gardens, was furious. Flames were blazing out of his eyelids.

When we arrived in Boracay Terraces (Php9,000.00 a night which we got for only Php7,000.00 for all two nights) the two won’t speak with each other. Nympha even wants to check-in to another hotel. The hubby left and never showed up till early the next day. Regardless of not feeling well, I was the one running to and fro the hotel lobby doing the checking-in. Outside, Nympha was smoking under a gazebo. Hubby was meters away contemplating murdering a nagging queen. I think there was also sunshine, the fabled beach, the spectacular scenery. At that moment, I can’t recall.

On our first night, Hubby was gone. There was only Nympha and me hunting down dinner. Not knowing the place, hungry and exhausted, we spent almost a thousand bucks dining on what seems to be ribs and grilled fish curved out of a styrofoam.

Then back to the hotel. I was burning with fever again.

The next day, Hubby showed up. I’m not going to play cupid again so I left them to explore what I missed yesterday.

One can describe Boracay as a paradise but one has to refrain from using sojourn and respite from city life. There was WIFI and I was emailing everyone on the sands just a couple of meters away from the shore. FYI: there are more than thirty flights in-and-out of Caticlan. Your boss can hunt you down for having a vacation without completing your MS Outlook tasks.

I went further to see what’s on the other end of the island (our hotel is on the farthest end near Bluewaters and Fairways). Upon reaching the other end, I was almost crawling. There was pain all over me. I have to walk a kilometer or so to get a tricycle ride back to our hotel which, I was told, was seven and a half kilometers away. Luckily there was an option. A sailboat. I hired one and I had a fifteen minutes blast... for a whopping Php500.00!

Second night, I can only have mineral water as I was under medication. Again, have to hit the sack early because of fever.

The last morning, the bitching tonsils was calming down and I was back to my happy feet. I grabbed Nympha’s and his hubby’s arms, beach towel, and digital camera. I realized, we were in Boracay and swimming in the beach is allowed, picture taking is legal and running across the street shirtless is the norm. I can still salvage this vacation.

At D’Talipapa, lunch on crustaceans and all kinds of mollusks. What seems to be a mall in the island is creatively called D’Mall, so go figure what’s D’Talipapa.

My trip back to Iloilo was quite pleasant. I can’t put myself to sleep as I was enjoying the scenery. My seat was at the very front of the bus with its wide window that commands a panoramic view of the provincial road and rustic life. Awesome.

As part of my unwavering resolve to take back two days of spoiled vacation in Bora, I decided to stay longer in Iloilo. I checked in at Iloilo Grand Hotel. Like New York’s Grand Central, this hotel is grand and central. With it’s palatial facade, it’s smacked right at the center of the Central Market.

The next day, WIFI over breakfast at the lobby, senatorial candidate Mike Defensor and his staff swooped into the hotel’s lobby. There was a deluge of fans. Clicking of cameras left and right. Call it commotion but I was not interested. As if teasing me with his soon-to-be divine presence, this candidate stood two feet beside me as some old ladies were clamoring pictures with him. I remained immovable as my determination to send some people to hell without my forgiveness. But then again, I am just human. See pic below.

In Iloilo I met some friends who were an exact replica of my gang in Manila. My night-outs were spent in intelligent conversations mingled with orgasmic laughter. My evenings were like Malate. I have to say, no exaggeration, that Iloilo’s weekend nightlife is second to that of Manila.

The taxis are polite with drivers that surprisingly hand change. And these taxis come in the choice of a Vios, Innova, or brand new latest Sentra. I’m still not exaggerating. Did I say I had Japanese smorgasbord for Php200.00?! No, I did not see any ukay-ukay.

I was invited to this old house where some rich family was throwing a treat for some religious activity. I thought the quaint house was a restaurant. The family owns it. In fact, last August, the great matron of the family who is now based in Singapore brought here some sixty Singaporean guests which include the governor of the central bank of Singapore and the Chief Justice of Singapore for the wedding of one of the daughters. I was late.

What is it with provincial food or air that everything in sight comes vividly? I went to my sister’s place, Barotac Viejo, and marveled at how the evening stars appear as constellations without the aid of a Palomar Mountain super-duper telescope. And the flowers explode (yes, I’m exaggerating) with not just yellows and reds but rather in imperial yellow and scarlets. I think it’s the constant grilled fish diet. And fresh oysters.

And, O, they still do post the professionals in the family. Right there against the facade of their houses.

After an overnight stay at my sister’s far flung town, I went back to the city. Bored, I happened to text a high school friend that I’m in Iloilo. He is now living in Bacolod, married with two kids. His reply: hop in a catamaran and cross the strait of Guimaras. My reply: Ok. Be there in four hours.

Before I left Bacolod, I stopped by my father’s grave. Yes, I had a father. And I also have a heart.

I left Iloilo on Cebu Pacific’s 9 PM flight, Saturday. That evening, my Iloilo gang were texting me that the bars at Smallville were flooded with people.

Good thing I was back with my Manila gang in Malate. Otherwise, one more night in Iloilo immersion would have made me decide to stay foot and brush up on my Ilonggo.

Hmmm...

DA MI QUINTA AUT DA ME TRICENTUM ILLI.

2007-03-09T02:56:00.000+08:00

Inside Gateway theatre we sit. We waited. And we waited. We waited for the showing of 300.

Once it begun I exclaimed, “Be careful with what you’re waiting for. It might just get started.” I palpitated. I ogled. I cringed (hand me a better word, I ‘m lost). If not for the airconditioning, I could have sweated buckets. Man, I came. That was one fuc’n moveh!

It was again another night for the XMen (Porto being the ex of Ryoichi, and Ryoichi being my ex). Prior to watching the movie, we converged in Rasa, one of those restaurants around Araneta Coliseum. It claims to be Singaporean. I am not really sure what makes a cuisine Singaporean. Like the Indians, they use too much curry. Everything is yellow. There’s a flash of Chinese and a hint of Indonesian. But before their independence, I think, there is something Malaysian about this concoction. Wait, how do I even know this or that is Malaysian? Indonesian? I digress.

So there we were in Rasa…

Ryo was with a date. Again. Nice guy. Not that he kept laughing at all my stories which, everyone knows, I deliver with panache. He’s just nice. Praxedes once met one of Ryo’s friends whom he wrote about in his blog recently. Obviously, Praxedes was smitten by that Gemini man. Yes, I think that’s how I would call that other friend of Ryo: Geminiman.

Geminiman is definitely attractive. Intelligent. Conversant. Somebody one might call a renaissance man. Sigh, though. He’s not even gay (is that my tongue stuck to my cheek). When he left us that night, Praxedes could only exclaim, “Hay, ang mga lalaki ni Kiko…”

O, there was also the dean of a school in Dasmarinas! That one’s a cutie, too. But I digress.

So there he was. That latest date of Ryo. I think he’s a lawyer. He reminds me of Ryo’s date three weekends ago. Well, he’s not really a date since the guy merely dropped by our table in one of the bars in Malate. He’s like a once-dated guy. I think he’s a chemist. Nice dimpled smile. Poor kid, though, I was giving him the bully stare. He came in at the wrong time. I was already dancing with Red Horse. When he left, Porto said I don’t have to worry about that one. “Mawawala din yan.”

Again, I digress.

So, there he was again. The date of Ryo. The lawyer guy. Well, he left us in between dinner and movie (that’s like after-dinner-on-the-way-to-the-movie time-frame) so there’s really nothing much to say about him except maybe for the good shirt-tie combination. He begged off from joining us since, according to him, he has an appointment (say ment with a grin). In spite my warning, he left: “Ok. Go and we’ll talk about you.”

We didn’t.

300. 300 overly-defined sexy warriors (see them in the movie and you’ll understand why the flatulent adjectives). There are also the numbers of limbs cut, chopped and pierced. There were hundreds, even thousands, of human corpses skewered and piled up like walls. The way they were killed made me doubt if these were humans really. Baygon and Raid should use the fighting scene for a convincing anti-roach commercial. Blood here. Blood there. Blood everywhere. And those chests! They look like they’re ready to be launched. Are those standard Spartan war issue?

Shit. Give me five or give me 300 of those.

LOST IN FLOWERS...

2007-03-03T01:45:00.000+08:00

VERBA. VERBUM. VERBI. Or Kill Me.

2007-02-06T03:18:00.000+08:00

Convivium… distinguere… animadvertens… aperuerit…

It’s not a chant. Those are Latin words playing in my mind over and over like an after-taste by some rancid food as I stepped out of the office at two in the morning. I have to stop or I might hit a weird combination of these words and accidentally cause the earth to open up and henceforth a company of incubi emerges from the cracks.

February 5, 2007. Oriental Gardens. I finally got home early. And it’s winter in the Philippines.

Pray it's not like this when I drive back to Baguio on the 24th.

The past days at work have been a killer as equally deadly deadlines fall on my table like rain. Throw in a pint of pressure and a boss who’s contemplating resignation if these pressures from Sri Lanka don’t get a stopper. The other Thursday, I worked 22 hours straight. I downed two bottles of Red Bull to keep me on my feet. Only to find out that on my 19th hour, though my body was well alive and my eyes wide open like I was on shabu, my brain could no longer distinguish between Latin, Tagalog, and English. I have to beg my boss to send me home. But prior to that begging (which I am not known at doing) I was thinking of my Baguio trip the weekend before. Me in my hotel room munching strawberries as I watch cable tv. Me at SM-Baguio on wifi overlooking a fog-swept landscape. Prior to that, me having sushi at second level terrace of SM-Baguio. Rollo and I at Café by the Ruins. The unrelenting flirtation at Nevada Square notwithstanding the threat of being shot by some frat guy. These happy thoughts kept me from hurling the computer out of the window unto a passing car down Ayala, 42 floors down below.

Nevada Square flirting!

An eyesore but I enjoyed it anyway. Again, I'm not complaining.

It's not Japan but I still had Uni.

Mac and Me and Wifi. And that scenery... ah, life.

Hindi ako nang-iinggit. Talagang akin lang ito.

Dressed to flirt.

Today, at last, we were done with our client’s demands. Without completing my daily minimum hours, I picked up my bag to go home. If a 16th Century theological treaties arrive from Sri Lanka, it would have to wait another 500 years to be edited. But before I could walk out of the office, my boss came back from a teleconference. The client has been happy with our work and is sending us new projects such as editing ancient musical scores in Latin, French and German. BUT! They are sending back some of the Latin documents we edited last December as the Greek phrases would have to be edited by us. That part of the news sent shivers down my spine. But then, boss said we would have to train somebody else to specialize on Greek. How reassuring…

Before he left, he went to my table. Seeing that I was killing time, he said “O, since wala kang ginagawa, simulan mo nang pag-aralan ito.” Then a Greek grammar book fell on my table.

I wanted to die right there and then! But instead, I breathe deep and slow, thinking of my next trip to Baguio this 24th for the Panagbenga Flower Festival with family and friends (what’s a flower festival without the fairies). That kept me from hurling a boss to a passing car down Ayala, 42 floors below.

Or, give and take two weeks, when those documents come back, it would be me hurling myself on the cars down Ayala, 42 floors below. Or I’d be happy to smack into a call-center agent or two with my dead and delectable body.

I'm not complaining. I just miss advertising.

Buddha would be sad to know that the tree under which he gained enlightenment was felled down to make an obesce likeness of him.

To make lions roar, kill a tree.

You know cassete tapes when you see lots of them. And they still exist, yes?

SYA, SYA... SUMIKAT MAN KAYO MINSAN.

2007-02-02T18:23:00.000+08:00

My horde of reading fans has been clamoring for the most trifling of issues next to: that I reintroduce the characters of my entries. Some of them have been in confusion as to who’s who was I talking about when I was sending names aflying across the pages. Duh! What could I say? Some of them can be so slow. Ahem...

Sure, sure… never disappoint the fans. Even if a horde of them means only three. So let me go through the pains of laying out the credits. And, for those who are still in the mediaeval method of intellection (relying on pictures rather than words for a more potent understanding), pictures are herein provided withstanding libel suits and all.

Well, part of my New Year activity is looking back at the people who colored my life. Resisting selective amnesia, I remember them. Against my mean character, I recall their good deeds. Considering my ungratefulness, I honor their so-called purpose in my so-called life (but that does not mean I am here defining the total purpose of their lives, if any).

List not alphabetically arranged. No order of importance hinted either:

Seamstress first came to this blog as our host in Olongapo. He has recently moved to Singapore. I think I should change his name as he has been recently engaged to a flight steward. But considering the foregoing lifespan of relationships, I think I’d let the name stay (should I, therefore, call everyone “seamstress” following that statement). Seamstress is going to be missed. The generosity (he let us use his pad for days though he wasn’t around). The Ms. Universe smile (while Ryo and I were in the middle of a brawl, his motherly countenance brought peace to the rest of the world). The smile that never fails to welcome us in Olongapo.

Intelligent. Big in humor. One of the only two bitches in my circle whose diatribes I wouldn’t get into with. He bounces around like Praxedes of Kaluskos Musmos (if you’re not 35 or above don’t bother). Cuddly and visually healthy, he once quipped, “Gregg, don’t you get tired of being intelligent? Because I am. Next natin i-achieve ganda naman.” Not in this life, Dear. Not in this life. But he knows he was my crush when we first met, 1996. His Art Consultant calling card caught my attention. Hmmm, an artiste.

You go around Malate and you call everyone Sis. Or Tita. Or just blunt bakla. No matter which address you call them, the term is just a term. No matter how dear. But when I call this one “Ateh!” everyone knows I’m calling my sister. Biiig Sistah! Because Nympha and I have stock to each other through thick and thin enough for our lovers and ex’s to suspect that we once did “The DEED.” C’mon, girls! You don’t want another tsunami. I think we will stick with each other till the time we have to check on each other’s doses of anti-rheumatic medicine or check on the progress of our yarn-works projects. And if that has to happen, I'm telling why I name him Nympha.

You have your exes, your exes’ ex. And there is Porto. Porto, the Portogezo, said he has the Portuguese genes. Whatever that means. This kid has annoyed me so several times but I still keep him close just like my inner-circle friends. Because Porto, after his relationship with my ex, Ryoichi, has displayed that innocent countenance that endlessly clamor for a mentor, a teacher, a guardian. That’s me. He calls me Baybag the way Ryoichi would. And I respond to him as I would to Ryo. Because somehow, that innocence is Ryo’s the first day we met back 1996.

I used to have a personal secretary. “Gigi! Check on my bank account. Call Chenes. Call Chuva… Gigi, we’re moving; call moving company.” But when I moved out of my place in Amorsolo, Gigi was no longer under my employment. I was at a loss. What could have been done in a day or two did not happen even in two weeks. Rollo Dolphino – poet, academician, housemate – came to the rescue. I remember very well: he came to my place in an FX, profuse in sweat as he came all the way from his teaching job so I could have some of my things transported to where I now live. And during those depression days, Rollo came in handy to give me a knock on the head with what-he-calls “The Art of Conscious Forgetting.” And, yes, thank you for bringing me to Farenheit.

There are friends you would want to be close to when you’re drunk and some whom you wouldn’t want to be around with when they’re drunk. Especially when a friend gobbles up loaded bownies. Unless you would want to be mistaken as his lover when he starts a commotion in the middle of Orosa St. ("Iniwahn moh ahkoh!") Ninghao is one friend. Well, he’s my only friend who is like that. Why I name him Ninghao is because ninghao is the only Chinese word I know. And he’s the only Chinese I know who doesn’t know Chinese. Maybe that’s the reason why he couldn’t keep a long-term relationship. His guys get disappointed when they find out that he’s faux Tsinito. He’s reliable; at the same time a liability. He’s loyal but can be fickle. Funny and pesky. He has been sensitive to what I may have told him sometimes, especially when he thinks I was the only one who could listen to him. But I never stopped telling him. We had so many memories together. And most of them are un-publishable.

Ning, thank you for coming home (as if you had a choice).

I was 27. He was 20. I doubted if our relationship would last. It sailed off to eight years. Then a fly pooped on our cake…

Shoo, Fly, shoo!

He got engaged to a Japan-OFW I once called in one of my blog entries as Nameless. He would drop Japanese phrases then enough for me to call him Ryoichi. But he really speaks Chinese better than Ninghao. For some reason we did not become lovers again but rather remained best of friends characterized by intense closeness. One that has raised eyebrows and jealousy from our current lover(s) and/or date(s). No, it’s not a Brian-Michael of Queer as Folk thing. Theirs is fictitious. But no matter what everyone suspects, as no one may understand, the bond between me and Ryo is a phenomenon that has yet to be decoded. He’s my nephew; I’m his big bully brother. And to his admirers, I send this message: admire him, hate me. You can’t do the former without the latter.

I used to call this one Anabelrama as he seems to be capable of murder if somebody would think somebody else is prettier than his daughter. Lately, because of his “charitable” tendencies towards men of lack and want, he demands that I call him Mo. Teresa K (for kalikot). My blood best friend since high school, though Brunei-based, comes home to the Philippines, ruins my sleeping and working schedule so he could paint the town menstrual red. He’s a man of superlatives (don’t take him seriously when he finds this and that super cute and super graveh!).

Queenship is earned by heredity. Or one can zip through a beauty pageant. But this friend of mine got his through babble. Gab is Praxedes’ tenant. But Praxedes, more than a landlady, also dabbles as a rumor mongering neighbor depending on what role-play he and his lover is portraying in a particular night of epic sex. But I envy him. He can do this back-breaking gyration of gay-bar strippers dancing on Guns and Roses.

Some other characters come in and out of my stories. These are some of those who made my life burst in colors. I will continue to write about them. That’s their risk for getting into my life.

And in the year past, I thank them for being there and watch me make it, lend a hand so I could make it (again), and cheer me up so I could win that prize. Well, with what they have done for me, I could honestly says – bullying aside – that I can’t thank them enough.

Here comes 2007, and I owe them another thank-you’s.

RURSUS (ante introductio amicorum)

2007-02-01T21:16:00.001+08:00

How Do You Say Party in Latin?

2007-01-09T03:01:00.000+08:00

Gods, that was tough! I mean, that Season of Partying. In fact, I woke up this morning running in the middle of the street
vociferating, “I partied! I survive! Thank you, Cosmos!”

January 8, 2007. Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, Morato – my new home. Where wifi and power supplies are free. And extension cables are offered (no, provided is an understatement).

I thought I was the ever-partying animal everyone thought. But those series of partying every weekends made me think whether I was about to be sent to the gallows. You know. That feeling of being paranoid at what’s going to happen next in your so-called life after having too much fun and good cheers. Schopenhauer said that life is full of chaos and frustrations, the good times are merely respite from such. Or was it Nietsche who said that? Hey, I am not complaining. Don’t get me wrong. Let’s just say I am still in disbelief at having too much fun. I am saying it over and over again so I guess by that you now understand my predicament. Or maybe you didn’t have fun at all this past season you just can’t relate. Duh! Is that my fault? Unlike you, some people are happy. Now go kill yourself.

As a matter of fact, here are some pictorial documentations to make you drool, keen with envy, hate your patron saint for not giving you enough fun as I had. Slip into abject self pity. Pictures that will make you mull over suicide.

Let me not include my Malate weekends in the list below. My Malate-weekends, as I would consider them, are not exactly Shopenhauerian (or Nietscheian) diversions but rather some form of social obligation. You can also say, “Duty to the national economy.”

November 24th, last year. I grabbed my bag, a toothpaste, a flannel for my face, pajama, my shoes and… guitar (yes, it’s from a song)… I said to my reflection, “Let’s get out of this place.” I went to Subic all by myself. Well, technically I took a ride in Seamstress’ car on his way back to Olongapo. Seamstress is an Olongapo-based friend of mine who have just recently moved Singapore. I’ll be joining him in Olongapo and another friend Olongapo-based friend, Sambo as we last-hurrah before he moves to Singapore. Praxides, one of my closest friends here in Manila, is becoming intrigued as to what causes me to be always in Subic. He was suspecting that I left some secrets back in Olongapo which explains my unexplained trips there. He was suspecting I left something under the sands of Subic’s beaches. Not really, my secrets are safely tacked away in my closet in Villa Espana. This weekend was spent on sleeping in the mornings, gobbling plates and plates of adobo, sleep again, and all-night partying. We reenact the same scene the next day. It’s a simple life. But, ahhh, that’s the life.

Yes! I have found my calling!

Following weekend, December 2nd. Bagbag was scheduled to leave for Haiti in two weeks’ time. My sis-in-law and brother organized a weekend getaway with the rest of our friends and Bagbag’s at Filipinas Shell’s vacation compound in Pililia, Rizal. I thought the location was just in the suburbs outside Metro Manila. On our way, the environment changed from the skyscrapers of Ortigas, to the suburbs of Antipolo, to the pastoral scenery of Laguna de Bay. Suddenly, there were palay being dried on the road. I took it as a sign that we’re not in Kansas anymore. But the compound, perched near a power plant, is implemented with a pool, fully airconditioned vacation houses with rooms larger than my pad. Lovely. There were food, music, alcohol, lots of laughter.

Sayonara, Bagbag Ko!

Seven days later, December 10th. In appreciation to my sis-in-law and brother, Bagbag organized dinner for them and some friends in Dampa, Farmers Market, Cubao. Sis-in-law and bro didn’t make it due to some prior arrangements. But The Friendseses were always present. Bagbag and I took the occasion to hand out our Christmas gifts. Crabs galore and coffee cum intelligent conversation till almost 3 AM at Zirkoh, Araneta!

This time, we ate something cooked.

Next Sunday, December 12th, as if dispedida parties are becoming a trend, Rollo, my housemate, threw his own at our pad in Villa Espana. Nah, he was just leaving for an extended holiday vacation in Iligan City. I underestimated this one. The girls stayed till 3 AM unmindful of the dawning Monday. I, in particular, had so much fun I’m buying Rollo a ticket back to Iligan as soon as he comes back to Manila.

Hey, you people, it's 3 in the morning! Go home!

December 22rd, before Christmas officially hits the calendar, The Frendseses has to have its Christmas Party. Where else but at the lofty abode of Her Fabulousness, Empress of Oriental Gardens, Nympha. Was so tired and missing my Bagbag, Red Horse downed me early. I woke up all alone in the sala. Everyone has left. And in the camera I found a pic of me sprawled on the floor.

Ok, who's not here? Let's talk about them.

Again, the song: …a toothpaste, a flannel for my face, pajama, my shoes and… guitar… I said to my reflection, “Let’s get out of this place.” This was December 24th and I was catching an FX ride to Tabang, Giguinto, Bulacan where I’m joining my high school best friend, Anabelrama, and his family for Christmas. At last, I’m going to have a family-oriented Christmas complete with a Mom, sisters, a Tita (though I have lots of them in Malate), niece (my goddaughter), and so many other smiling faces on the night of Jesus’ birthday… fine, I am not going to have a theological debate on this one.

Xmas Mom and Niece

An impromptu reunion with highschool classmates. Scared everyone with my newfound bulliness. Har har har...

December 31st, I was late to the most important parties I have to have this year. Nieces, nephews and in-laws were already at my brother’s place in Novaliches since afternoon while I was still watching Zsazsa Zaturna in Gateway Mall with Anabelrama. But late is still better than never. This New Yeaar celebration with my family will linger in me for the rest of the year. I reserve the details on how this one transpired. Beyond words.

Just lovely. Wont miss this one for the fireworks of Ayala.

In between these dates, there were gathering -- great and small – that I have missed or slipped into my shrunken schedule, Houdini style. What concerns me are the ones I missed. My failure could damage might my reputation as a party animal.

Wait. I think I know what's Latin for Party. Samba?

Hapiiiiii!

2007-01-01T23:00:00.000+08:00

Ok ok ok... I'm not bullying anybody this time. And that's not a new year's resolution. As I said I was having so much fun this past season that I just want to share it with you guys. Here is something new in my blog. A comic strip to show off what I can do in my Mac. Nyahahaha...

Happy New Year to all!

INSIDE A VOID AND I FOUND A SINEGWELAS TREE. QUAECUMQUAE…

2006-12-26T20:04:00.000+08:00

I wanna sulk in the corner. I want it to rain. A drizzle will do. Then I could just snug under the sheets and turn into fungus the whole day. Maybe for the rest of my life.

Quaecumquae…

December 15, 2006. Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, People Support, Makati. It’s 11 pm in the evening. Umiskapo ako sa office with the blessing of my boss. So, is it still iskapo?

Bagbag, this morning, flew off to Amsterdam. Then to France. Then to some island in the Bahamas, a little island France hasn’t nuked yet. Echoes from the lifestyle of the rich and famous? Not!

Bagbag is on his way to his next assignment as a UN medical volunteer. His destination would be Haiti. There, coup d’etats have been raised into an art-form. The Philippines’ merely pales to compare. As a UN Volunteer, my hubby will be serving the UN forces as a physician. Why my Bagbag? He’s the only physician in the Philippines who specialized on voodoo. No, he’s not from Surigao. Marikina, rather. But, hey, an international physician nonetheless. That’s my Bagbag.

There I see my Bagbag go somewhere... but not away.

Last night, Bagbag and I were both Lea Salonga immersed in last-night-of-the-world histrionics. But I refused to let go of some tears. The very same countenance I was harboring when my sister died a month ago. Honest. Serious. With unfeigned sincerity. Gods! Why do I feel that nobody believes me? C’mon, throw me the benefit of the doubt here. My hubby is away for six months and I could be depressed anytime soon. I may be your next-door type of bully but I still have a heart. I was born with one, if you may ask.

Quaecumquae…

Apologies aside, I’m actually a softy before I became a toughie. The mushy me ended up in the monastery somewhere in Mendiola. When I began wearing the bully character, I was made to believe that such persona is governed by some rules that have to be played inside out. Ordained under Rule No. 66, a bully should – must! - never show an emotion in the physiological level. The bully is only allowed to keep it inside, but must never let blood rush to his face in times of embarrassment (in fact, must not know the word embarrassment), get rattled when nervous, weaken in the knees in times of adulation, loose footing on solid ground at the sight of a crush, teary-eyed at the sight of Danish black chocolate. A bully has to keep his passion out of people’s sight; hold it with restraint and name it instinct. A gut-feel. Recall your classical studies and you will recognize that a bully is your 20th Century version of a Stoic (it’s time to open your dictionary, honey). Wait, why am I talking about myself?

Quaecumquae…

I don’t even quite sure why I’m writing this entry. Months after I was blogging, I heard somewhere that blogging is the electronic version of a diary, only open to the public. Or simply an upsurge of emotion poured over the keyboard, consequently ending up in the net. A journal.

Is it? I didn’t know that. I thought blogging was a way to show off. Joke (but I can also be serious about that statement).

As theorized, blogging happens when one has to unload bothersome thoughts, ideas, what-have-you’s. However, that idea doesn’t seem to stick with my present predicament. I feel empty. After Bagbag left, there seems to be a deep void existing between me and beings around me, whether animate or inanimate (go get that dictionary again, dearie). I can’t seem to feel my friends’ company, or realize that I was in a café. O, is that a bottle of beer in my hand? If I was having sex, I could be so faking it. At some point, borrowing from Praxedes, I lost my happy feet. No inspiration. But I’m still writing.

When inspiration fails, there’s always talent. Huh!

Quacumquae…

December 25, 2006. Tabang, Guiguinto, Bulacan. Took me some time to finish this entry blamed solely to a line-up of parties. Lat night, Christmas eve, my high school best friend, Anabelrama, and his family adopted me for Christmas eve. Imagine me having a wholesome Christmas in provincial Bulacan complete with a mom (Anabelrama’s mom), a niece (Anabelrama’s daughter), and two sisters (Anabelrama and Anabelrama’s wife). Had so much fun trying to keep Bagbag away from my thoughts by downing anything on the table. Provided it doesn’t move. After gift giving, everyone slept and I was left making some finishing touches on this entry. The cool air, the cool light, and the cool music (ILOVE Limewire) altogether made me realize that I have so much blessing to count this year.

A sumptuous gift from Anabelrama

This morning, I was having coffee at Anabelrama’s backyard overlooking a stretch of rice paddies. At the middle of the yard was a sinegwelas tree. I remembered my childhood in Negros. There was one at my mom’s garden. Unlike this one standing at the backyard, it was enormous. And like the sinegwelas trees I have seen, it looked old, sick, and dying all year round. Or all of the above.

Man, they’re so ugly. Which is good. I have seen so much beautiful things during this season. I, seeing this tree, suddenly contemplated on the essence of ugliness. They bare fruit.

Whatever…

PS. I only have two Christmas greetings: a) Happy birthday, Jesus!; and b) Ang Pasko ay nasa Puso. Merry Christmas, Puso!

Take your pick.

De Questio

2006-12-14T22:53:00.000+08:00

I think I should start my own advice column. I don’t know how you call it when it appears in a blog though. But an advice corner nonetheless. Someone asks you a question about life then you write him back with lines so magical they can raise the country’s GNP. Usually, advice column subscribers would write about problems so heavily inane they get thrown off their career path solving them. Before they grab a rope for their necks, they write you asking for a piece of advice as a last resort. You feign concern. You give your 60 cents worth of advice. You write back in an attempt to brighten up somebody’s dark life with a tinged of tender loving care. Then you smile back having thought that you have them constrained from committing suicide using only the power of saccharine words, no matter how trite, yet circumspect. As if.

December 8, 2006. Lunch break at The Patio, PBCOM Tower. I’m not sure where and when I’m finishing this blog. It’s time to rant.

Friends surround me. They color my life. But sometimes they can color your life with the wrong hue. Blue mixed with black. Or menstrual red and puss yellow. Unintentenionally. Lately, some pasaway unknowingly just did so. It’s not like I’m complaining. Understandably, friends, like anything that you have, do not usually come with sunshine as traditionally thought. They can be chili red hot annoyingly spicy (sic, grammar escapes me) or simply diabetically (sic, I said I’m grammatically indisposed) honeyed.

Weeks ago, Rollo was telling me how he has been turned into a conveyor belt of some friends’ emotional baggage. Friends texting him in the middle of the night needing solace from their emotional plight, commonly in terms of relationships (failed or yet to fail), problems involving career (failed or yet to fail), imagined dilemma, or maybe GMA (the president). This happens when he was about to play hide and seek with the lambs in dreamland. He turns them down and he gets emotionally blackmailed. But most of the time friends simply have the good intention to ask for company in hanging out at the bars, movies, malling, cruising, and all other bonding activities. That’s kind of lovely and dear. Well, not most of the time. By the age of thirty, we get to have those moments when we all just want our space and respite in front of a playing DVD or some time to complete a yarn work on the Last Supper. Not to mention times when we don’t want anybody to know our “whereabouts”.

I get my fair share of Rollo’s dilemma. Once, a friend called me for an advice. Nope, not just an advice. Say company. Over beer. Sounds fun but knowing that this is all about some emotional distress, the discussion of which will certainly take the whole stretch of the night, I suddenly felt the aches of old age. I told the friend that I would be at work tonight. Yes, ‘till maybe 1 AM. The next day, my roster of friends came to less one.

For two weeks now, another friend is in the quagmire of relationships. I was solicitous enough to send my sincere comfort via SMS. I know how it felt having a troubled relationship. That's one I can sincerely sympathize. So last weekend, I texted the friend inquiring as to how he was holding on to dear life. He pretended he was his nephew with this response, “Nasa Arlington na po si Tito. Di na nya kayang mabuhay pang wala si…”

I know that wasn’t true. But for a millisecond I believed it to be true. Instead of being alarmed, I felt offended. This gal is such a good friend of mine, but rattling me with such lines just doesn’t seem to slide well with me. I think my readers know what I mean.

So I switched to bully mode. I texted the “nephew” back that it’s a good thing his “uncle’s” dead. None of my friend is a weakling. He texted back that the burial will be on the coming Sunday. I replied, “Drop by Bed in Malate on your way to your grave. Let’s have one bottle for the road.”

A week prior to that, another good friend of mine wanted company. This time I was really at work till late nights. So instead, I kept him company via text. He wanted to talk about his conquest (that was how he put it), which to others could be understood as achievement. I wasn’t so serious about everything he was discussing then and I was, admittedly, off tuned for joking about everything he was raving not knowing that the dame was already drunk. The next time I received a text response, he was threatening to throw me a bottle of beer. Thank the gods; between us did only Globe Telecoms bridge a vast distance.

I’m not known to conceal the characters in my blog but a clue is always available. They’re both Chinese. There.

Based on the foregoing instances, one can simply picture how I would empathize with my advice column subscribers. If you could call mine empathy. But definitely an advice column. Prepare for heart wrenching insults, unbridled bad jokes, uncalled-for laughter. As reaction to my taunging reply, you may A), B) go violent (at a distance), or C) you can finish off your cuticle between you teeth. But don't tell me I didn't warn you.

Question! (I just have to raise one in order to synch this entry with my title)

Have you watched Casino Royale? Did you see James Bond rise from that beach like a ripped Aquaman? Did you see him being licked by Ms. Shusmita Sen? How bout that morning after bed scene with that tramp? And yes! How do you like him screaming “Yes! Yes! To the right! To the right!” Did we have the same feeling? Did you like what you saw? Huh? Huh?

Now that’s a plenty of questions to justify my title.

Will somebody hand me a rope and a chair?! Quick!

I hate that girl.

I’m supposed to end. But while finishing this entry at Starbucks, Greenhills, Bagbag’s pesky camera phone caught this sight:

Youth itself is beauty said Oscar Wilde. And delectable, I must add.

Domus Amicorum

2006-12-01T17:59:00.000+08:00

That bitching spirit has been dormant for quite some time now. I'm still that bullying friend everyone thought about. But somehow, these past days, I have been in so much pleasantries I could not get myself into that bullying mode. Yes, it is a mode rather than a mood. How could I be so mean when, at a short notice, friends would converge to honor you or those who are close to you. Say for instance, last weekend.

Bet your ass, Ninghao?

Bagbag is due for his UN Volunteer assignment in Haiti in fifteen days. My sister-in-law wanted to throw him a farewell party. But my brother offered Shell refinery’s staff house in Pililia, Rizal, provided all of Bagbag’s friends would be there. My brother wanted to fill up the whole place with so many of our friends. He thought the pool is too big for my three nieces. The lawn is too big for that half-poodle-half-oyster of a dog. The staff house is too big for only the eight of us if no friends would come. Or maybe sis-in-law just wanted to worry about how many disposable plates are available for the next meal. As they say, the many-er, the merrier.

If not for Gab, we could have starved.

No more beer... pero maraming kalat.

Plenty of food but no plates.

Too big for the nieces.

This is how the guys gyrated last night.

With a butt like that we definitely need more room.

I’m still having a hang-over from that dispedida. The longest I ever attended. I’m short of words to describe it. Bagbag was teary eyed when he saw the slide show presentation of the photos I made in Baby Macy (that’s my MacBook). So here’s something, an attempt on poetry, to subtly express what I and Babag felt.

Domus Amicorum

You would fill your hearts with joyful sentiments
And wish they’d be free from the spoils of sorrows.

You would spread your tables with fabulous recipes
And wish nothing but only the gourmande’s choice.

Around your garden you sprinkle seeds of blooming colors
And hope that no winter shall welt them away.

In your album of memories you only long to see smiles.
Happily they stare back at you with shiny teeth and ever arching lips.

You keep the good, you cherish the true,
You keep things proceeding in as much the pleasant way.
The things you hold shiny and new.

But nothing lasts.
Nothing is always you .
The surest of all occurrence is end.

And in the midst of these frustrations
A good heart can always find
A room full of laughter.
A roof raised by warmth.
A kitchen churning a pot of good counsel.
A living room laid with tender care.
A bedroom of benevolence.

You find yourself in a house full of friends.

Friends? Family.

Thank you guys. Thanks for Ryoichi, Praxedes, and Cyclopes for taking in my durian burps all the way back to Manila. That’s what you get for not telling me which road and corners I should take. And Nympha for driving all the girls off that night to a gaybar. Bagbag and I had a break from all the aching laughter whenever the group are together. Ang kukulit! But I had my laughs for sending them off to a gaybar that’s waaaay off the distance I estimated. Ninghao was ever fun and loud. Good thing there was no neighborhood to disturb.

Bel Ami productions presents...

Just about to clear the table for that foursome.

"So, nag-enjoy ka ba, Pare?"

Mga pare, trip trip lang ito.

Ayaw pa namin umuwi and we're blocking the cars!

Ah, yes… to my sis-in-law and brother for organizing this trip. You made us all understand what family is all about.

We look forward to Bagiou rhis Feb.

Salamat, Inay at Itay!

Bon voyage, Bagbag!

FOR PORTO AND WHO ELSE!!!

2006-11-16T01:51:00.000+08:00

Here's a song Porto and I are singing while smiling so wide our cheeks hurt. And this song is also dedicated for the millions out there who landed on the wroooooong dude!

So hold your lighted candles up and sing with us...

SINCE YOU BEEN GONE
by Kelly Clarkson

Here's the thing we started off friends
It was cool but it was all pretend
Yeah yeah
Since U Been Gone

"Now I can have straight friends without having to be ashamed you used to pretend as one of them. Yukk!"

You dedicated you took the time
Wasn't long till I called you mine
Yeah Yeah
Since U Been Gone

"Since you've been gone I got sexier friends!"

And all you'd ever hear me say
Is how I pictured me with you
That's all you'd ever hear me say

"Yeah, I pictured us in Puerto Gallera. That sucks!"

But Since U Been Gone
I can breathe for the first time
Im so movin on
Yeah yeah
Thanks to you
Now I get
What I want
Since U Been Gone

How can I put it? you put me on
I even fell for that stupid love song
Yeah yeah
Since U Been Gone

"Eeeek! Who was that singer again? Thank gods they're not playing her in the gym."

How come I'd never hear you say
I just wanna be with you
I guess you never felt that way

"Oh, yeah you did say that. And I fell for it. Shit!"

But Since U Been Gone
I can breathe for the first time
Im so movin on
Yeah yeah
Thanks to you
Now I get
I get what I want
Since U Been Gone

You had your chance you blew it
Out of sight, out of mind
Shut your mouth I just can't take it
Again and again and again and again

"Dang, I'm so fuckin' movin' on (ngek, that line was so brothah)!"

Since U Been Gone
I can breathe for the first time
Im so movin on
Yeah yeah
Thanks to you (thanks to you)
Now I get
I get what I want
I can breathe for the first time
Im so movin on
Yeah yeah

"Now I can simply cook for myself without having to please you. Twerp!"

Thanks to you (thanks to you)
Now I get (I get)
You should know (you should know)
That I get
I get what I want
Since U Been Gone
Since U Been Gone
Since U Been Gone

"Thanks to you I got what I want! My Bagbag."

Bow.

Sic Et Non

2006-10-26T01:50:00.000+08:00

Is this a vlog or a blog? Sic et non. Yes and no. I don't actually know how to title this entry. O well, I don't even knowhow to start this entry anyway.

Makati. Started this blog in the office. Ending it at Oriental Gardens. And, shit, it's almost 2:30 AM and I still don't know what to say.

Maybe because I had so much fun since Thursday of last week. It all culminated last night as our Muslim brothers are having a hearty meal. Considering the fasting they have gone through, I think hearty is an understatement. Which makes me think, no words could describe the euphoria of being filled of seafoods with friends, fully drunk with the boys, and full of my Bagbag's assurance. As these pictures could tell.

Two weeks ago, an unprecedented communing with core friends. Praxedes, Ninghao and I went out for some drinks blamed wholly to Melenyo who rendered the whole of Manila, and beyond, powerless. The fans are powerless against the evening heat, and we are powerless against boredom. So off we assembled down Malate ‘till the break of dawn. And it’s not even a weekend. The only guilt I had for coming home as the dawn was breaking were the calories I have to burn for eating anything that we find inanimate that night: chicken skin (4 little paper bags), balut (5 pieces), sweetened spicy pusit (5 plastic pockets), Aristocrat bibingka and puto bumbong downed by a cup of thick choco. Should I mention beer? And how many calories does one earn from laughter? Me, Ninghao, Praxedes… ten years of friendship and we’ve never gotten tired of laughing at each other’s foibles.

From Chelu we moved to Aristocrat as Ninghao, who was getting drunk, was beginning to huggle for ownership of the bar from Jeffs Cafe (his real name is Jeff but I don't know his last name so we call him after the other bar he owns).

Across Aristocrat, we took in the first light of the day at the sea wall. Nah, nothing romantic can be conjured in the company of two bitches. We just wanted to poke fun at the time-counting traffic light. Honestly, Ninghao just wanted to poke fun at the male joggers... or maybe more.

Yesterday, Eid’l Fitr, in solidarity with our Muslim bro’s, Bagbag and I planned out a dinner of uninhibited gluttony over crustaceans. My immovable resolve to commit this particular deadly sin has found its venue -- Farmers Market in Cubao now has its own Dampa.

We were joined in by one newfound friend and another not-so-new: Porto (who is now
Ryoichi’s ex) and Maria Leonora T. (he kept singing this Guy & Pip soppy theme to Porto).

We have to hurry on dinner as there were paparazzos in the vicinity. On the second floor railing overlooking our table, two girls were taking picture of us using their cellphones. And we're not even famous. I'm annoyed.

After watching a movie, we found ourselves in Oyster Boy downing beer and, ahm, oysters. The other day, passing by this bar on our way to Palawan, my friend Miranda Priestly (when he calls me in my cellphone, I know he's checking on our next event at the Rainbow Project) thought that Oyster Boy is a gay bar. He got the impression from the word boy. I had this blood curdling feeling. Boys with oysters. Hermaprodites gyrating on Guns 'N Roses.

I'm going to puke. Bye!