rudeboy

A New Gay Haven

2012-01-30T11:47:00.000+08:00

Image from here.

A colleague of mine - Santi (first and previous appearance here) - just recently came back from an off-season sortie to Puerto Galera, that ertswhile gayest of gay ports in these 7,100++ islands. I say "erstwhile" because what was supposed to be his 3 days of much-needed R&R turned out to be 3 Days of Darkness instead.

Far from being relaxed and recharged, Santi was livid with indignation as he huffed and puffed about the rude awakening he received in Galé - foremost the ordinance that forbade the playing of loud music at the bars from midnight onwards.

Having heard tales of homo horror from last year's Puerto Galera pilgrimages (the tanods' tenacity in flushing out the nocturnal hunting bekis from the batcave, among other things), I've come to the conclusion that the good local government of Puerto Galera is slowly but surely making it clear that they don't want our kind tainting their good name.

Cinematic depiction of the Great Beki Batcave Banishments.

As a matter of fact, according to Santi, one local councilwoman actually intimated just that:

Santi : But what about the party people? We're the ones who've helped

Galera become the tourist attraction it is today.

Councilwoman : Well, we'd rather prefer it wasn't so.

Ruffled feather boas aside, though, I shan't pass judgment upon Galé. Every town has the right to formulate and enforce its local ordinances as it sees fit, and if the town fathers have decided to remove the Gay from Gaylera, the Mhin from Mhindoro, say No to Homo and reinvent itself as a family-friendly holiday spot, well, then so be it.

We'll just have to take the vaunted Pink Peso somewhere else. Someplace that actually wants it.

At least we'll still have each other - until I catch you in the batcave, that is.

Thus, my drinking bekis and I have decided to take the ongoing "It's more fun in the Philippines!" meme to a more local and niche-particular level: that of the search for the next Island of Lost Souls.

Here then, ladies and gentlemen, are just some of our proposed taglines for potential candidates vying for the fabled Pink Peso. With this year's Semana Santa landing on the first week of April, there's still plenty of time for us to scout around for the next local hotspot to have the honor of ~~Gayskull~~ being the next Gay Summer Capital of the Philippines.

Kung may Puerto, may Prinsesa. (Proposed come-on: Unspoiled beaches, lush forests, and the world's longest underground gay grotto.)

Kalibo. Libo-libong Kalibugan. (Proposed come-on: the Kati-Katihan Festival. Hala Hada !)

Agi, A-Gogo Sa Agoo! (Proposed come-on: Gay Marriage aka La Union de Maricon.)

Bawal Daot, Bayot, Oo: Dao. (Proposed come-on: Military surplus/PX goods, and a brother that's not a pig !)

Makibeki Sa Macabebe! (Proposed come-on: Cabalen Aljur Abrenica giving you a taste of Pampanga's Best. Nanung burat mo, pohtang beki?)

Gen xXx Sa GenSan (Proposed come-on: The annual "Kalinlangan" festival, plus the opportunity to go way, way down south on Gerald Anderson as Poster Boy for his hometown.)

Bienvenue à Gay Aparri! (Proposed come-on: The new "Iba Ang Ibanag" festival trumps Lovapalooza with its year-round French-kissing competition.)

Sa Piling Ng Makiling Ang Mapiling Maria. (Proposed come-on: the first-ever Miss Gay Mutya ng Makiling. The winner gets to climb to the summit in heels and dethrone the incumbent diwata, who has held the crown for hundreds of years.)

Mas Mahalay sa Malaybalay. (I think this is pretty self-explanatory.)

And so far, my favorite:

I Want.
You Want.
We All Want...Dakak.

Feel free to add your candidates - and taglines - in the Comments.

And so long, Sodom and Galera.

The Orbits of Obliteration

2012-01-23T20:12:00.001+08:00

I recently made some time to sit down and watch two films that curiously echo each other. Both utilize the plot device of another planet meeting the earth, around which the characters' lives spin in smaller and smaller circles. But where the two stories diverge is the vast space between hope and despair.

I started with Lars Von Trier's Melancholia - a somber contemplation of existence on the cusp of nothingness, revolving around the lives of two sisters (Kirsten Dunst and Charlotte Gainsbourg) as a massive rogue planet emerges from hiding behind the sun and threatens to collide with the earth.

Von Trier's film is suffused with a lingering air of anomie. It opens with surreal, slow-motion vignettes of his main characters: a bride tethered by wizened branches rising menacingly from the ground. A mother clutching her child as her feet sink in a marshy bog. A close-up of a woman's impassive face as birds fall lifeless from the sky behind her. The movie then segues into the first of its two chapters, each named after the two sisters. Chapter 1 brings us the beautiful Justine (Dunst) arriving late at her lavish wedding reception. Weddings and their ensuing receptions are traditionally joyous occasions yet Justine seems bent on destroying hers. She stares distractedly into space while guests seem desperately determined to enjoy themselves. She disappears at key moments in the carefully-planned event, leaving everyone perplexed and embarrassed. She breaks out into crying fits then alternates with giddiness, driving her sister Claire (Gainsbourg) and brother-in-law John (Kiefer Sutherland) into angry exasperation.

Justine's maddening behavior is made clearer in Chapter 2, which focuses on sensible sister Claire's steady descent into a mental breakdown. Claire's agitation is fueled by her dread of the strange, fearsome heavenly body bearing ever closer down on earth, while her husband John - an amateur astronomist - is giddy with excitement, and Justine, hobbled by depression, is distant and detached.

With the exception of the terrified Claire, the characters make little mention of the incoming planet - the titular Melancholia - looming bigger and bigger in the sky, so caught up are they in the desperate minutiae of their lives. Or perhaps, the focus on seemingly trivial matters - the stubborn insistence of the main characters in steadfastly maintaining the daily, mundane pace of their earthy existence - is a defensive stance against the growing backdrop of possible annihilation from the heavens.

It makes some sense, I suppose, that the best way to defy death is to simply continue living.

The second film, Another Earth, is an independent effort (directed by first-time feature film director Mike Cahill) that won the Special Jury Prize at the 2011 Sundance film festival. Here, the filmmakers explore the questions of possibilities and variances in our lives, as a duplicate Earth - along with a duplicate you, living, perhaps, a duplicate life - appears in the skies.

The mood and tone in Another Earth is bleak and dreary, reflecting the psyche of its main character, Rhoda (played by co-producer and writer Brit Marling), as she tries to return to a normal life after serving time for killing a composer's family in a car accident. Rhoda - who had won acceptance in MIT's astrophysics program just before her life-changing accident - chooses to literally live a life of drudgery, cleaning urinals in her old high school. Perhaps she hopes that with enough bleach and scrubbing she can erase her sin. Her need for atonement leads her to a chance encounter with the composer whose family she killed, now living in squalor as a drunken recluse. She misrepresents herself as an employee of a cleaning service, and proceeds to literally and figuratively clean up the composer's life. As they inevitably grow closer - much like the twin earths - Rhoda agonizes how to reveal the role she played leading to his current existence.

All the while, the other earth hangs tantalizingly in the sky, an enigma whose mysteries start to be revealed 3/4ths of the way through, bearing the possibility that there might be another Rhoda who didn't suffer the consequences of an unfortunate series of events - and by extension, the possibility that somewhere on that other earth, the composer is living a happier life with his family intact and alive.

Another Earth is about another chance to set things right in our lives.

Melancholia is about diminishing chances left in them.

Which makes me ask you these questions:

If you were to meet a duplicate you living another life, do you think he would be living a life better than yours ?

And, more pressingly for this banner year, what would you do if there was a great possibility that the end of all life was coming closer and closer ?

Rattle and Hum

2012-01-16T17:53:00.000+08:00

This being 2012 and this being my first post for this banner year, let's kick it off with some End of the World shit.

Last week, all across Costa Rica a strange sound could be heard that scientists could not ascribe to atmospheric or meteorological phenomena.

A low, booming hum that has, so far, defied a clear and single explanation.

As a matter of fact, this strange sound has increasingly been heard all over the world, particularly during the period from August to September 2011. Knock yourselves out:

Brazil.

Montreal.

Denmark.

Taipei.

Florida, USA

The one above, from the Ukraine, sounds almost...sentient. Like some nasty, humongous, angry monster awakening:

Listen to the monster's bellows. Sounds familiar.

Or aliens.

The Tripods' horns sound awfully familiar - and menacing - as well.

Always the frickin' aliens.

Raise the roof.

Conspiracy theorists and religious nutjobs have ascribed the mysterious hum, respectively, to anything from HAARP to the ~~strumpets~~ trumpets of Judgment Day.

No, no. The other Judgment Day, Gov.

Others have proposed that it is literally the Call of Cthulhu.

"You called? I was in the shower."

Yet others have posited that it might be the Behemoth and his bff, the Leviathan, come to destroy us once and for all.

B&H, just chillin', y'all.

Bah. If Ghostbusters was to be believed, I thought the Destructor would be a little more...cute and cuddly.

Have I been lied to all this time, Mr. Stay-Puft?

But really - what is this pulsating, rumbling, ominous sound?

It sure ain't Justin Bieber singing "U Smile" 800% slower while the world burns.

Damn you, you Canadian lesbian! Damn you to hell!

On second thought, I take that back.

I have heard the sound of our doom, and its name is Bieber.

What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?

2011-12-31T18:12:00.000+08:00

A few hours till we kick this year in the balls and shove it out the door, good riddance goodbye. After some last-minute gift shopping for the kids - spanning the length of Greenhills in the morning all the way to Mall of Asia just a couple of hours ago - I was lying in bed wondering...well, having no solid plans, what to do this New Year's Eve.

Ah, but leave it to serendipity that my question would be answered by a delightful version of this lovely old ditty from two of my favorite people in the celluloid universe: the star-crossed couple from (500) Days of Summer themselves.

Although this song isn't very familiar to most of us, I've always liked its upbeat hopefulness, much the same way I enjoy the naughty playfulness of its Yuletide companion piece, Baby It's Cold Outside.

Anyway, I'm meandering. Just thought I'd leave this as my last post for 2011, instead of some whiny year-ender look back or some pithy commentary on how we're getting older and some shiznit like that.

Anyhow, here are Zooey Deschanel and Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Enjoy, and Happy ~~Nude~~ New Year!

Bonus: Lyrics. Sing along. You know you want to.

Maybe it’s much too early in the game
Ah, but I thought I’d ask you just the same
What are you doing New Year’s
New Year’s Eve?

Wonder whose arms will hold you good and tight
When it’s exactly twelve o’clock that night
Welcoming in the New Year
New Year’s Eve

Maybe I’m crazy to suppose
I’d ever be the one you chose
Out of a thousand invitations
You’d receive

Ah, but in case I stand one little chance
Here comes the jackpot question in advance
What are you doing New Year’s
New Year’s Eve?

Wonder whose arms will hold you good and tight
When it’s exactly twelve o’clock that night
Welcoming in the New Year
New Year’s Eve
What are you doing New Year’s Eve?

Nick of Time

2011-12-26T01:59:00.000+08:00

I just discovered last night over Noche Buena with the fam, that my 15- and 12-year old nephews still believed in Santa Claus - no thanks to my wicked, fairy-tale enabling brother.

Hence, I bring you the Santa story, by way of Neil Gaiman. From his original poem "Nicholas Was."

39 Degrees North Presents: Nicholas Was from 39 Degrees North on Vimeo.

Ho, ho, ho.

One Less Wolf In A World Of Sheep

2011-12-19T03:19:00.005+08:00

“We keep on being told that religion, whatever its imperfections, at least instills morality. On every side, there is conclusive evidence that the contrary is the case and that faith causes people to be more mean, more selfish, and perhaps above all, more stupid.”

- Christopher Hitchens, 1949 -2011

Bitterly divisive, cleverly outspoken, caustically opinionated and infuriatingly brilliant. Writer, author, and "polymorphous polemicist." Contributor, columnist, and essayist at Vanity Fair, Slate, and The Atlantic Monthly, among others.

Famous atheist, author of God Is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything and The Portable Atheist: Essential Readings for the Unbeliever. Rebuker of organized religion, scourge of Henry Kissinger, and not-a-big-fan of Mother Teresa (in his infamous article in Slate, he called her "a fanatic, a fundamentalist, and a fraud."
He also called her a "thieving, fanatical Albanian dwarf" at one point - and this was shortly after she died.)

As the Washington Post put it, he was "the world's most articulate unbeliever."

Christopher Hitchens was egotistical, maddening, and for all his intelligence, not always right (he was, curiously, a staunch supporter of the Iraq War which, coincidentally, officially ended on the day he died). He could be mean, stubborn, petty and callous - but his intellect was always sharp as a knife, and he was never afraid to swipe, stab, and slash at stupidity in all its infinite forms.

He was supremely, uncompromisingly confident in whatever position he took, but would always welcome debate and dissent - often at the opponent's risk. He was the living, ruthless, and often vicious embodiment of "Let's agree to disagree, even though you're an addlepated twit." Indeed, as he said in the video below (after excoriating, in short order, Mother Teresa, Hitler, the RCC, and meeting Shakespeare in the afterlife) :

“I'd urge you to look at those who tell you, those people who tell you - at your age - that you're dead till you believe as they do. What a terrible thing to be telling to children. And that you can only live by accepting an absolute authority. Don't think of that as a gift; think of it as a poisoned chalice. Push it aside, however tempting it is.

Take the risk of thinking for yourself. Much more happiness,

truth, beauty, and wisdom will come to you that way.”

Goodnight and goodbye, you great godless heathen.

Christopher Hitchens, 1949-2011

O, Hai and Dry

2011-12-14T12:38:00.000+08:00

Well, I knew I'd miss the date.

Anyhow...it's been a little over a year since I ~~quit~~ stopped smoking.

I shoulda taken bets. Still...yay, me, I guess, right?

And thanks to my latest waltz with mortality, I also haven't been drinking for more than a month now.

Again.

With all the drunken Christmas parties left and right, the timing sure sucks. And I so miss alcohol. It's so useful when trying to get into straight guys' pants.

Good thing I never get the DT's *casts side-eye at the late, lamented Amy Winehouse*

In a bit of good news, though, I finally, FINALLY shot my wad after more than a month of abstinence, courtesy again of the grim fandango. *thanks Pamela Handerson*

What?

What?!?

WHAT, DAMMIT!?!?

I may not be a lush anymore, but I am not some fucking ascetic!

You people.

Il N'y A Pas D'Amour Heureux

2011-12-06T12:08:00.000+08:00

Aragon et Nina Simone:Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux
Vidéo fidjie sélectionnée dans Arts & Talents

Il N'y A Pas D'Amour Heureux was originally a poem written in 1943 by novelist and poet Louis Aragon. It was later revised and set to music by composer Georges Brassens. While the mood of both poem and song is melancholy and pessimistic, Aragon - whose work was deeply colored by his experiences of hardship during World War II - actually focuses on both the negative and positive aspects of love. His point, essentially, is that true love is not free from sadness or pain.

Hence, the titular "There is no (perfectly) happy love."

Rien n'est jamais acquis à l'homme. Ni sa force.

Man never truly possesses anything. Not his strength.

Ni sa faiblesse ni son coeur. Et quand il croit

Not his weakness nor his heart. And when he thinks

Ouvrir ses bras, son ombre est celle d'une croix.

Of opening his arms, his shadow forms a cross.

Et quand il croit serrer son bonheur, il le broie.

And when he tries to embrace his happiness, he crushes it.

Sa vie est un étrange et douloureux divorce.

His life is a strange and painful divorce.

Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux.

There is no happy love.

Mon bel amour, mon cher amour, ma déchirure.

My beautiful love, my dear love, my torn heart.

Je te porte dans moi comme un oiseau blessé.

I carry you in me just like a wounded bird.

Et ceux-là sans savoir nous regardent passer

And those who unknowingly watch us walk by

Répétant après moi les mots que j'ai tressés.

Repeat after me the words that I have woven.

Et qui pour tes grands yeux tout aussitôt moururent.

And which have already died in your bright eyes.

Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux.

There is no happy love.

Le temps d'apprendre à vivre il est déjà trop tard.

The time to learn to live is already long gone.

Que pleurent dans la nuit nos cœurs à l'unisson.

Our hearts cry in unison at night.

Ce qu'il faut de regrets pour payer un frisson.

What it takes in regrets to pay for a thrill.

Ce qu'il faut de malheur pour la moindre chanson.

What it takes in sorrow for the simplest song.

Ce qu'il faut de sanglots

What it takes in sad tears

Pour un air de guitare.

For one tune on a guitar.

Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux.

There is no happy love.

Unlike the song, the original poem ends on a more hopeful note, acknowledging that sadness, conflict and suffering are integral, unavoidable components of love. And yet,if we are genuinely in love with a person, all the unhappiness that accompanies love becomes worth it.

Supposedly.

Il n'y a pas d'amour qui ne soit à douleur.

Il n'y a pas d'amour dont on ne soit meurtri.

There is no love which is not pain.
There is no love which does not bruise.

Il n'y a pas d'amour dont on ne soit flétri.
Il n'y a pas d'amour qui ne vive de pleurs.

There is no love which does not fade.
There is no love which does not live from tears.

Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux.

Mais c'est notre amour à tous les deux.

There is no happy love.

But it is our own love.

The Tipping Point

2011-11-30T13:02:00.001+08:00

When do you say "Enough"?

Many of us endure many things in the name of - ugh, just saying it makes me wince, but - love. But it need not be just about romantic affairs. We put up with many things in our varied relationships with family, friends, colleagues, and the general human race.

We forgive. We give second, third, fourth, almost unlimited chances. We turn a blind eye to the most obvious of deceptions and lies and somehow, deep inside, hope and hope that things will change, that he will change, that "love" is worth fighting for.

But to love is to be human, and to be human is to be fallible and weak.

And while love may start out strong, the erosion of eros starts silently, almost imperceptibly, until the cracks are too visible to ignore and the facade starts to crumble.

I've been an angry, angry man far longer than I care to remember.

And now I'm just tired.

Too exhausted to be sad enough to shed tears at a good-riddance good-bye I had known was inevitable.

Too worn-out to even reflect if I would ever regret the harsh but true words I sent.

Too weary to even worry about regret.

What a surprise.

Something as prosaic as fatigue turns out to be the tipping point.

Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T17:46:00.005+08:00

I am not a sentimental man - at least, I do not consider myself to be one. But this is a rare instance in which I feel it is appropriate to give thanks where thanks are due, and although we do not celebrate Turkey Day in these parts, I thought the date aligned itself nicely with what I have to give thanks for.

My prolonged absence from the blogosphere which practically consisted of the entire month of November can be attributed to the fact that I was felled - and felled so terribly - by some dark and lingering malaise towards the end of October. Maybe I'll write about it sometime, but right now all I wish is to banish the memory of those dark weeks from my consciousness.

Instead, we shall focus on the silver linings I uncovered in that personal whirlwind of hell I spun helplessly in for almost a month.

Even before "the incident" happened, I had been feeling a little guilty about not spending enough time with my folks, as well as the rest of my family. Chalk it up to too much work, laziness, and the smug superiority of a bachelor who's been living on his own for more than a decade.

Well, Fate, as is its wont, doth work in roundabout ways. When a fever refused to abate after more than a week, it became abundantly clear that I was being besieged by more than just a pesky flu virus. And after being tipped off by my snitch of a maid (who probably just dreaded the thought of discovering me hideously lifeless on the bed one fine day), my clan descended upon my house en masse, with my father himself appearing at my bedroom door at 2:30 in the morning commanding me to get up and be taken to the hospital right away. After regaining my composure after being startled by this imperious dark shadow against my door, I promptly put on my usual scowl and bitched "Dad, it's 2:30 in the morning. We'll go to the damned hospital tomorrow, okay? Geeez."

Tests, a biopsy, and more tedious tests followed, and the highlight of what was actually my second hospital visit (I had dragged myself to the ER three days earlier, determined to be sure that I wasn't suffering from dengue, which was my initial - and mistaken - suspicion) was the irony of my senior citizen father pushing me around in a wheelchair, the poignancy of which was only negated when he tried to steer me down the hospital's exit ramp frontally, instead of backwards. Of course the force of gravity coupled with the incline caused the wheelchair to go careening off down the ramp, with my father and a guard in hot pursuit, as I resigned myself to the fate of crashing into the open, waiting door of my truck and possibly landing inside like I was starring in some horrific Three Stooges skit.

Be that as it may, Fate, again, provided me with my very own personal nursemaid in the form of my sister, a former nursing student who went into teaching instead and was now working on her Masters and was, so conveniently, on her sem break. And so it was that I spent quality bonding time with her for two straight weeks, as I railed against my baffling and indefinable illness as she provided a steady, stable, soothing presence.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner in bed sounds like a delectable proposition, but things look very different when you're running 40 degree fevers daily. My temperature would rollercoaster like the New York Stock Exchange, dipping to predictable highs and lows as my sister duly took note of my bodily fluctuations. And as an added bonus to my body alternating between bone-wracking chills and high fevers, standing and walking became increasingly difficult, getting to the point where the few steps from my bed to the john meant an agonizing ordeal of feeling like my feet and calves were being sliced by scalpels with every excruciating movement.

I once wrote that all sick men revert into boys crying for their mommies, and I'm certainly no exception to that. My mom visited me regularly, valiantly battling her motion sickness which was exacerbated by my brother's Daytona-inspired driving, and these visits served to calm my fears and reassure me that hey, maybe everything was going to be fine. I would learn later on that during her first visit, she took one look at me and already intuited what was really wrong, but she did not share it with me then, not wanting to alarm me. Instead, she shared her suspicion with my father, which explained why, in the middle of his next visit (they took turns visiting me, like Ferdinand and Imelda not taking the same plane to ensure the continuance of the conjugal dictatorship), my father oddly asked me to align my palms.

And if you know what aligning your palms is supposed to mean, then you and I must've shared a common childhood.

Anyway.

I am grateful to discover and prove beyond a doubt that my parents still love me, and love me enough to be so worried and concerned about my health and general well-being.

I am grateful to know that even though he does not say it, my father shows his love in other ways. He brought me a thick woolen blanket that must've weighed 50 pounds, in order to stifle the chills that racked my bones at 3 a.m. He also brought me a pair of really neat titanium crutches which I steadfastly refused to use, as well as the hot water bottle I requested.

I am grateful for my sister and the time we spent together. I am grateful that she took up Nursing and that she has a kind and caring spirit, and that she sacrificed her sem break in order to take care of me, me who cannot remember when exactly in August her birthday is.

I am grateful that the rest of my family showed up and that their visits brought me some joy, adding a semblance of normalcy when my whole world was being rocked to its foundations by the abnormal.

I am grateful that my mom rallied her amigas and corralled them into praying for my recovery, with her "prayer warriors" reaching as far as my aunts in benighted Arizona.

I am grateful that Fate led us to uncover what was really going on with my body and why I was increasingly and literally getting crippled by the day, and that I was able to connect with healers who were able to give immediate answers and remedy what three different doctors and interminable lab tests could not.

I am grateful that I am better, that I am on the mend, and that what happened - while terrible - was not the thing I feared.

I am grateful to be alive, and to be reminded that no, we don't have all the time in the world, no matter how invincible we think we are.

And right now, I'm grateful just to have been able to write this, and if you read it all the way through, then I'm grateful for your interest and attention.

Many thanks.

Happy Turkey Day.

Live Long And Prosper

2011-10-17T04:29:00.000+08:00

Fascinating.

Days after I wrote about National Coming Out Day, look who boldly went where few men have gone before.

Actor Zachary Quinto (Mr. Spock, Sylar, among other incarnations), whose sexual orientation has long fueled Hollywood gossip, finally crossed the frontier in a low-key, casual manner in an interview in New York Magazine about his involvement in the play Angels in America:

"I just think revisiting that work and revisiting the themes of that work at a time when the political and social climate of the country is shifting so dramatically and so irreversibly, to really come up against the echoes of that hatred and that bigotry and that fear that still exists in our culture, just in a different context now — you know, I feel it was just a really interesting exploration for me.

Doing that play made me realize how fortunate I am to have been born when I was born. And to not have to witness the decimation of an entire generation of amazingly talented and otherwise vital men. And at the same time, as a gay man (emphasis mine), it made me feel like I — there's still so much work to be done. There's still so many things that need to be looked at and addressed. The undercurrent of that fear and that, you know, insidiousness still is swarming. It's still all around us. To revisit that world at all, it took a toll on me. It definitely was an incredible experience but it was really daunting at times."

Interestingly, in his website, Quinto attributes his decision to come out on the recent suicide of 14-year-old Jamey Rodemeyer, who killed himself after being bullied at school for being gay:

"when i found out that jamey rodemeyer killed himself - i felt deeply troubled. but when i found out that jamey rodemeyer had made an it gets better video only months before taking his own life - i felt indescribable despair. i also made an it gets better video last year (video below) - in the wake of the senseless and tragic gay teen suicides that were sweeping the nation at the time. but in light of jamey's death - it became clear to me in an instant that living a gay life without publicly acknowledging it - is simply not enough to make any significant contribution to the immense work that lies ahead on the road to complete equality. "

On behalf of the next generation, may you live long and prosper.

National Coming Out Day

2011-10-12T16:08:00.001+08:00

Why, yes, Virginia, there is such a thing.

NCOD (as opposed to NOCD*) is

"...an internationally observed civil awareness day celebrating individuals who publicly identify as bisexual, gay, lesbian, transgender, or queer-coming out regarding one's sexual orientation and/or gender identity being akin to a cultural rite of passage for LGBT people. The holiday is observed annually by members of the queer community and their straight supporters on October 11."

Sooooooo yesterday, but hey, any excuse to party, y'all.

I'm a bit of a fence-sitter when it comes to this whole "coming out" business. Sure, I'm practically out to all the Malate queers and characters, as well as to most of the significant people in my life. My family, of course, does not discuss my sexual preference, but then again, we don't discuss the sexual preference of my brother, either, and he's disgustingly straight. I suppose my mom just wants us to keep believing babies are made when two people really really really love one another and have a stork on speed-dial.

Buuuuuuttttt, I digress.

I'd love to hold forth on the merits and demerits of "coming out", but I think you'd enjoy the different opinions expressed here. While you're at it, feel free to post your own opinions in the Comments Section (theirs or mine or both) and/or gawk at the allegedly-closeted celebrities they practically outed there.

Too easy.

Hey, baby.

Yum.

For my part - being the contrarian dick and sick puppy that I loudly and proudly am - in observance of this LGBT event, I shall leave you with my take on the insufferably unctuous "It Gets Better" campaign.

Enjoy.

And with that, I'm outtie.

Or not.

*Not Our Class, Darling. Best delivered with champagne in one hand, disdain in the other.

Château de Versailles Part 2

2011-10-05T00:12:00.000+08:00

"We're beautiful and dirty rich."

Wandering around what is probably the most extravagant palace in Europe, I couldn't help but remember Sofia Coppola's Marie-Antoinette. I kept seeing visions of Kirsten Dunst aka Mary-Anne, Party Princess of Austria, traipsing down the ornate halls in her voluminous skirts, engaging in juvenile behavior and navigating court intrigue whenever she wasn't trying to get Louis-Auguste to bonk her so she could finally produce the next dauphin and get France off her case.

One can't blame poor Mary-Anne for losing her head, though. Versailles - like many other great works of art and architecture - can certainly be overwhelming. It is a sensory overload of sights and, back in its glory days, smells, as well. As Wiki put it:

"The smell at Versailles was said to be 'unique out of all the palaces in Europe' (duc Saint-Simon). There were no functioning toilets until 1768. By the time of the French Revolution in 1789 there were only 9, and those belonged to the King and his closest family members. The rest of the palace simply had to live with the constant smell of the privy-chambers clinging to their clothes, apartments and the general atmosphere. Although banned, chamber pots were constantly emptied out of the nearest window."

Classy.

Anyhow, a single day is truly insufficient to take in the grand majesty of Versailles. But one fine day was all I had, and therefore had to make the most of it.

Therefore, mesdames et messieurs, as the ever-so-proper Comtesse des Noailles so eloquently put it:

Scrub to 2:30 if you wish to skip the morning's petit lever.

Bonjour, mes petits anges!

Magnificent frescoes sweep across the ceilings.

A view of the chapel of Versailles.

Le Grand Appartement du Roi.

This is what a bed fit for a king looks like.

These chairs held the derrieres of the king's loyal courtiers,

who performed the king's levée every morning.

The Sun King strikes a serious pose.

An antechamber to the petit appartement du roi -

his majesty's even more private quarters.

The palace...

...was simply overcome...

...with gilt.

Après les appartements du roi...

...on présente le petit appartement de la reine.

Mary Anne slept here.

The ornate canopy above the bed.

And the rest of the gilt-stricken room.
Actually, Mary-Anne's quarters reminded me so much of...cake.

Donc...qu'ils mangent de la brioche?

Could Be Worse

2011-09-30T07:36:00.000+08:00

So.

The goddamned storm went and knocked out the power the whole day Tuesday.

Could be worse: The neighbors in the front part of the compound still don't have electricity up to now.

The storm also toppled two huge trees in front of the house, costing me P1200.00 to have two men with a chainsaw, axe, machete, and strong backs to hack them completely down.

Could be worse: They could have fallen on Mia.

Speaking of, Mia's still in the casa, so I've been using the other car as my daily driver. Last night, as I prepared to pull out of the garage, the stick remained frozen at Park and would not come unstuck no matter what sorcery I attempted.

Could be worse: She could've frozen at Park in the middle of Roxas Boulevard.

And still from last night, I stupidly placed my iPod atop the toilet tank, only to have it slip into the tank when I moved the cover to tug at the chain mechanism.

Could be worse: It could've fallen into the bowl.

So...yeah.

Glass-empty, glass-full.

But still...

Sick Bitch

2011-09-25T15:21:00.000+08:00

I've always loved cars.

Even after that fine day when it dawned on me that they are nothing but gold-digging whores: sexy and fun to ride, but at the end of the day, they will steal all your money.

It's unfortunate, then, that I'm a bit of a sentimental guy when it comes to the four-wheeled harlots. The prevailing logic is that one should dispose of cars after five years; the logic being that after half a decade, the broad's just going to bring you nothing but trouble. Considering the cost of maintaining cars, that's good advice right there.

Unfortunately, logic and I aren't exactly besties.

Hence, you can consider my garage a whorehouse lined with aging, disease-ridden, and cantankerous tramps. True, most of them have retained their exterior beauty, but, like a drag queen sans make-up, the true horrors lie underneath.

Like any pimp, I have a favorite in my redoubtable harem, and the apple of my eye has always been Mia. I acquired her more than a decade ago and, contrary to the sage "after-5-years-ditch-the-bitch" credo, I have kept her all these years like Gretchen Barretto. She's still sexy as all hell, despite minute, barely-discernible physical imperfections. She's still a "guaranteed head-turner", as the car ads would say. It is an indicator of my familiarity with her that I find myself pleasantly surprised any time people praise her good looks that I have long taken for granted. Nevertheless, like any D.O.M. happy to see his acquisitions being appraised so well, I simply smile and carry on.

However, like many beautiful things, Mia costs me a pretty penny just sitting there. And when she has one of her numerous tantrums, she gouges me for a hefty sum.

Several days ago I felt guilty about abandoning her to languish in the garage for the past six months, a consequence of my preference to being driven around in a service vehicle rather than battling traffic and circling the labyrinths of Makati on my own trying to secure a good non-towing parking slot. With the majority of the year's workload over and, consequently, the driver and service car not at my beck and call, I thought I might reacquaint myself with my little abandonada and take her out for a little spin - just to relive the good times.

Her revenge, of course, was swift: her engine would turn over, then promptly quit. Turn over, quit. Turn over, quit.

Just like a petulant, vengeful hussy to pull a coitus interruptus.

After a quick but thorough process of elimination, it became apparent that Mia was beyond any automotive wizardry I and my kinsmen possessed. And so for seven days, she sat out in the rain like a silvery Sadako, stone-cold and spitefully staring at me with her retractable eyes.

Today, the planets aligned enough that I was able to summon my towing service to forcibly drag Mia from her peevish sit-down strike in front of the house, and deliver her to the clinical ministrations of the casa.

Verdict? It wasn't the fuel line, nor the carburetors, nor a clogged-up exhaust.

Computer box.

Just like the one she burned the last time.

More like Pandora's Box, I grumbled, out of which fly all kinds of nasty, expensive plagues.

Still...thankfully nothing's wrong with her heart - the purring thing known as the engine - save for a wonky timing belt. And the alternator also needed to be replaced. And of course, the aircon needs freon. And the windshield wipers are shot. And we need to get a new motor for the power windows. And I might want to have the canvas top looked at. And what did I say about Pandora's Box again?

But car ownership, like having mistresses, is a privilege - one that we pay for dearly. At any rate, these other issues are minor, all things considered. The bitch is alive, and she is running.

Of course, I have known Mia for a long, long time, and I know she is nowhere near finished. Like any mistress, she can be bribed with superficial trappings: a long-overdue repaint, a detailing session, perhaps, and better mags.

But her heart is beating and it is black. She will love me once again, but before that, she will first exact a long drawn-out revenge. Just like she did the last time. And the time before.

Then again, you know what they say: hell hath no fury like a convertible scorned.

The sick bitch.

Remember

2011-09-21T15:44:00.000+08:00

September 21, 1972

Because you were too young to remember. Or too old to forget.

L'Amoureux

2011-09-15T21:34:00.000+08:00

"Once upon a time, I asked someone to
meet me in Paris."

"How fantastical, no?"

"He didn't come."

"I think we both knew what it would mean if he did,
and he wasn't ready."

"I did it because I wanted to be able to tell him that, whatever happens,
we'll always have Paris."

"Maybe one day, I'd walk those same streets
but I won't be the same person."

Text by Kane. From here.

Squeeeeeeeee!!!

2011-09-12T17:18:00.000+08:00

I've been a long-time fan of Katsuhiro Otomo's AKIRA - that legendary 1988 animated movie which helped introduce the very idea of anime to the United States and the rest of the world as a viable, adult art form.

My first encounters with Akira had been in animation reviews ( I was then a young, aspiring animation student), where praise upon lavish praise was heaped upon it. But try as I might, I could not secure a local copy anywhere (mind you, this was in the Paleozoic Era, when the internet and cell phones were just a nerd's wet dreams.) So when I went to the venerable HMV in Hong Kong and spied an Akira laserdisc (again, the Paleozoic), I immediately pounced upon it like a raptor on a Jurassic Park bit player. Despite the fact that the laserdisc contained no English subtitles and I spoke no Japanese, I was mesmerized by the story and the animation so much that I was an instant convert to the cult of Akira.

I would learn later on that Akira was originally a serialized manga (later compiled into six hardbound volumes), and like a heroin addict needing his next fix, I simply had to read the original source material. And once again, Hong Kong came to my rescue, where I espied the Akira manga in Page One. In my naiveté, I thought the thick, heavy volume contained the entire ouvré, but as I neared the halfway mark of the graphic novel, I realized that it was merely the first volume of an epic 6-volumes and 2182-pages. But Hong Kong's fabled bookstores could be of no help from this point, and further travels around Asia failed to yield any other volumes of Akira. And so it was that as mammals asserted their dominance and the years crawled into the Mesozoic, the many differences between the original graphic novel and the landmark animated film remained an elusive enigma.

Fast-forward to the Cenozoic - Present Day.

Despite the existence of the internet and PayPal and Amazon.com, it never occurred to me to purchase the entire 6-volume set off the tubes. Maybe because I went haywire with my credit cards in my youth and abused eBay like a red-headed stepchild, or maybe because I just don't like having my sensitive digits floating in the internet cloud. Not even a trip to Tokyo reminded me to resume my quest for the remaining 5 volumes of Akira.

However, as Maleficent so eloquently remarked in Sleeping Beauty: "But see the gracious whim of fate!" Running a couple of errands this morning, I was absent-mindedly browsing through the art and photography sections of NBS, before I sauntered off into the comics section. I haven't read comics since X-Men:101, being merely content to skim websites for updates on the interminable reboots and byzantine story arcs of my favorite characters. Anyway, I looked up from a copy of Blackest Night, and, as SJP says in the video below:

Some six thousand pesos and a Laking National card application later, the ~~Necronomicon~~ Holy Grail was finally, finally in my possession:

I'm so stoked I could just reduce Neo-Tokyo to a smouldering pile of rubble again.

And à-propos of nothing, as we see SJP being whisked away - hopefully to the guillotine - we shall resume La Série Gay Paree next time.

"I had to have it!"

The Iron Lady

2011-09-08T19:27:00.000+08:00

Probably the first image that comes to mind when one hears the word "Paris" is the Eiffel Tower, and no visit to the City of Lights would be complete without a pilgrimage to this massive, breathtaking, world-famous monument.

The Eiffel Tower - or Tour Eiffel aka La Dame de Fer ("The Iron Lady") en Francais - is an imposing pig-iron latticework tower originally built as an entrance arch for the 1889 World's Fair. It was designed by the engineer Gustave Eiffel, who, along with sculptor Frederic Auguste Bartholdi, had previously co-fathered yet another Metal Maiden who greeted immigrants for over a century at the New York harbor:

The saucy French minx.

Despite the Eiffel Tower's current worldwide renown, initially many Parisians considered the bare metal plated structure as a monstrosity and an eyesore. Among its famous critics were composer Charles (Ave Maria, Faust, Romeo et Juliette) Gounod, the architect Charles (Opéra de Paris) Garnier, novelist Alexandre ("The Lady of the Camellias") Dumas, and Guy ("The Necklace") de Maupassant:

"Novelist Guy de Maupassant—who claimed to hate the tower—supposedly ate lunch in the Tower's restaurant every day. When asked why, he answered that it was the one place in Paris where one could not see the structure." *

Eiffel's tower originally only had a permit to stand for 20 years, and was supposed to be dismantled in 1909. However, it has endured as an iconic French landmark - the most-visited paid monument in the world - symbolizing not only Paris but the entire country as well.

Yo, Gustave, eiffel for your tower, dude! Awesome!

The Grand Iron Lady is a true Parisian landmark -

literally the tallest building in central Paris.

Pictures can't do justice to the breathtaking view from the base.
It's just...so...massive.

The view from the first elevator...

...that takes you to the second level.

Level 2 : Shoes and Bags. Actually, more like the gift shop
and restaurants.

I admit it, I shot this tourist. But he didn't have the decency to topple over

the railing and plunge screaming to his death several meters below.

Merde.

You have to take another, smaller elevator to the summit,

but only if you have a ticket to the top.

Otherwise, you stay on the second level with the other rabble.

Your eyes in the sky.

The Trocadero as seen from the summit.

Don't do it, baby! Life is good! I love you!

Paris way way down below.

Go ouest, young man.

I'm a long, long way from home.

Oh, and engel...

...your choice of gold or brass, monsieur.

*Wiki Wiki Ah Ah

Life In Advertising

2011-09-01T14:22:00.000+08:00

On the occasion of the start of the last quarter of the year, I'm interrupting my Paris Je T'aime series to bring you this little infographic on the life I have chosen:

As usual, click to embiggen.

Thanks to copyranter for the link.

And never fear, I shall be back to bore you with more pictures of Paris afterwards.

A tout a l'heure, messieurs.

Château de Versailles Part I

2011-08-24T17:59:00.001+08:00

Château de Versailles - more commonly known as simply Versailles - was originally little more than a seignury with a hunting lodge that was eventually transformed by Le Roi Soleil Louis XIV into one of the biggest palaces in the world. It became the center of the French court and government from May 1682, when the Sun King moved the seat of power from Paris in order keep his potential enemies closer, until October 1789 when Marie-Antoinette et sa famille were forced by the French people to return to Paris and to their ultimate fates.

Versailles itself is a charming suburb 20 km southwest of Paris, and to get to Château Versailles one can take a 30-minute train ride from Paris, with a further 800 km walk to the Palace proper.

King Louis XIV, namesake of tacky faux-French furniture,

greets ~~intruders~~ visitors at the Place d'Armes forecourt.

"To all the glories of France."

Royal receptionist #1

Royal receptionist #2

The Royal Stables. Since the horses had better accommodations

than the peasants, the revolution was all but assured.

The Golden Gates.

Barbarians at the gate.

Rooftop statues look down upon the ~~peasantry~~ tourists.

Statues avert their gaze from the madding crowd below.

The sun emblem in the middle of a clock - clever play on a sundial.

"Madame! Madame! The peasants are revolting!"

"Mais oui! They most certainly are."

We Love Opéra House!

2011-08-20T18:59:00.001+08:00

As mentioned in a previous post, my hotel was conveniently located quite near the Opéra Garnier aka Opéra de Paris. Inaugurated in 1875, it was known as the Académie Nationale de Musique - Théâtre de l'Opéra, until 1978, when it was renamed Théâtre National de l'Opéra de Paris.

A rose by any other name and go figure.

Anyhow, although it was supplanted by the Opéra de Bastille in 1989 and renamed the Palais Garnier (after Charles Garnier, the architect who designed it), the Paris Opéra House remains a grande dame of the cultural scene, and now concentrates on dance performances.

Unfortunately, July marked the start of the off-season, so there were no performances for me to catch.

Maybe next time.

In the meantime, enjoy the pics of this grandiose example of NeoClassic opulence.

In the daylight, the imposing Opéra House is truly a sight to behold.

At night, even more so.

Detail of one of the two gilded statues looking down from on high.
There are two groups of these gilded statues on either end
of the building's rooftop, representing Harmony and Poetry.

This must be Poetry. I think. Waving goodbye to Prose, perhaps.

Oh, bonjour. Apollo, c'est-toi?

There he is again, flanked by Poetry and Music - the lucky chiennes.

One of the multi-figure groups in front. This one is "The Dance," which
was supposedly - and strangely un-French - criticized for "indecency."

The less-scandalous - but more violent - multi-figure group "Lyrical Drama."

Oh, sure, a woman crushing a man

underfoot gets a free pass...

...but a gaylord with a bit of a wang frolicking

with his fag hags gets the stink-eye.

This is the inoffensive "Instrumental Music"...

...and last but not the least,

the no less-boring "Harmony."

Fly high, bronze eagle, fly high.

Walking home from the Galeries Lafayette one Sunday,

I chanced upon assorted couples dancing

the tango in front of the Opéra House.

It was pretty cool, considering that the Opéra House

now serves primarily as a venue for dance performances.

It was also a reminder for me to learn the tango.

Oh, and interesting bit of trivia, from Wiki:

"During 1896, the falling of one of the counterweights for the grand chandelier resulted in the death of one person. This incident, as well as the underground lake, cellars, along with the other elements of the Opera House, even the building itself, were the inspirations of Gaston Leroux for his classic 1910 gothic novel The Phantom of the Opera"

Vraiment?

Métro

2011-08-16T07:28:00.000+08:00

The Paris Métro stinks.

Of dog piss and mold, and other olfactory offenses.

Yet, it is so utterly picturesque and - aside from walking - still the cheapest way to navigate the city.

Mon station : Opéra.

A view from street level.

Juxtaposition I

There's Waldo.

Still Life I

Desolation

Isolation

Emptiness

Missing

Entree

Les Golden Girls.

Oh, Snaps!

2011-08-13T15:58:00.001+08:00

Just a few random snaps of Paris.

My hotel.

Conveniently located near the majestic Opera House.

An up-close look.

One of the many massive buildings around
the Boulevard Haussmann area.

The gloom and the winged statues
reminded me of "Wings of Desire."

Lonely Boulevard

One of the many beautiful corner buildings
dotting the arrondissements.

Parisian cafe.

A rotunda somewhere near the Moulin Rouge.

Gare De L'Est. One of Paris' major rail stations,

where you can board the Eurail to other European cities.

Club Tabac

2011-08-03T18:48:00.000+08:00

Despite Paris' supposed crackdown on smoking in public places, everywhere I turn, people seem to be lighting up in open defiance of the city ordinance - and no one else seems to give a damn, either.

It makes me wish I were still a huffing, puffing, smoking machine.

Well, almost.

I remember the last time I was here - well well before the 2007 smoking ban - I only brought two reams of Marlboros. I say "only" because you must remember, I was an inveterate chain-smoker who was just on the second leg of a month-long European tour.

Now, I, like my Parisian smoking brethren, would light up anytime and anywhere in the city, breathing in the free air of smoking liberte sans frontieres. Strolling down the boulevards with a stick in my mouth, I soon found myself making so many "friends." It was as easy as offering a stranger a cigarette, or being asked for one. Of course, as I would discover later, mes amis didn't like me so much for my dashing good looks and charming personality as much as they did my cigarettes. The math, as I would find out later on in Venice when I finally exhausted my two reams, came out to P300.00 per pack. At P300.00 a ream back home in the Third World, that was a helluva mark-up. And no, the shops weren't selling by the stick, either.

No wonder I had so many "friends."

At any rate, the Eiffel Tower keychain from which my car and house keys have dangled for the past seven years has a rather sentimental - and smoking-related - story behind it. I had just abandoned the guided tour bus - and the rest of the scheduled itinerary - at the Trocadero station and was making a gleeful run for the Eiffel Tower, beckoning from a distance. Catching my breath at a souvenir kiosk halfway to the monument, I naturally lit a cigarette. The Moroccan proprietor of the souvenir stand I just happened to pause at smiled at me and gestured at my pack of Marlboro Reds.

Fluent in the international language of "bumming," I naturally not only gave him a stick, but lit it up for him as well. It was his gesture of appreciation that took me by surprise. Fishing out a small Eiffel Tower keychain from his wares, he offered it to me. I shook my head, not intending to buy any sidewalk souvenirs, but in broken, French-accented English, he said "Non, non. A gift. For you."

I grinned and accepted the little offering - upon which he held my face in his hands and planted two kisses on both my cheeks.

In public.

In broad daylight.

In front of hundreds of tourists and locals.

Mon Dieu! Scandale!

Naaaaaaaahhh.

No one even batted an eyelash.

My first lesson in French nonchalance.

Pas De Deux

2011-07-31T10:00:00.025+08:00

Bon anniversaire a mon blog, pour deux ans.

And to all you guys who've read, followed, and commented on my ramblings, let me just say how much I've enjoyed our little dances together.

And to those few who became my friends IRL - merci merci beaucoup.

Salutations de l'autre côté de l'océan.

Cirque du Soleil

2011-07-29T06:18:00.000+08:00

Like Liesl Von Rhuman following the spring, my flight followed the morning sun.

Departing a stormy Manila in the pitch-black wee hours, a majestic Arabian sun greeted us in Abu Dhabi, from whence we followed it across the sky as ancient Egyptians followed Ra. We blazed a trail through the Middle East, chasing the morning sun as it crossed over into Europe. From there, it transformed into Apollo downshifting his chariot of fire into a lazy Parisian afternoon.

A lovely, sun-dappled Gallic summer afternoon which quickly became overshadowed by torrential rains that came out of nowhere. Heavy, punitive droplets of icy fury descended upon us with cold, pitiless vengeance the moment we alighted the airport shuttle, slicing us like liquid razors as we scurried like shivering rats to the hotel.

And after the drenching, the radiant sun smiled once more in the late afternoon like a benevolent - if mocking - Louis XIV enveloping Versailles with his royal luminance. A brilliance and warmth that was shortly and finally eclipsed by thundering gray and angry storm clouds that molded the remains of the day into an Ingmar Bergman movie.

There's a story about circles and cycles in all of this somewhere. I'm just too tired to see it right now.

Paris, Encore

2011-07-27T10:00:00.011+08:00

As you read this, I shall be some 40,000 feet in the air headed towards 48°51′24″N 2°21′03″E / 48.856667°N 2.350833° E. at some 529 mph, more or less.

Seven long years and nineteen hours later, I will find myself in Paris once again.

As usual, I am unenthused and unexcited about the whole trip, but one hopes the City of Lights will illuminate my heart and soul, as there have been too much of shadows and fog there of late.

À tout à l'heure, messieurs.

Fade To Black

2011-07-24T12:17:00.000+08:00

Everyone leaves.

The reasons may vary, the circumstances may differ, but sooner or later, everyone leaves.

But knowing this doesn't make things easier.

Not.

One.

Fucking.

Bit.

Buddha Bar None

2011-07-15T18:03:00.000+08:00

Today is Asarnha Bucha Day in Thailand, when the predominantly Buddhist populace marks the occasion of Lord Buddha's first sermon to five disciples, introducing the middle way, the noble eight-fold path, and the four noble truths.

It also means there is a liquor ban today.

Ah, well. Tomorrow is another day, Miz Scarlett. Howevah, tomorrow, July 16, is Buddhist Lent Day - the beginning of the Buddhist rain retreat which lasts three months.

While monks may not sleep outside their temples during this period, it also means - oh, guess - no liquor.

I picked a great time to be in Bangkok.

Oh, well...I suppose the fates knew this, which is why I drank myself silly for two nights before leaving Manila.

So while no alcohol will pour tonight, I shall go with the flow and all that.

Om shanti

Shanti shanti

Shanti om

Dancing Queens

2011-05-27T18:48:00.000+08:00

I'd gladly take the MRT/LRT if this happened here.

Spawn and Serendipity

2011-05-18T21:28:00.000+08:00

I had just finished reading Sean's latest entry about dogs being surrogate children to some of his pals, so I figured that was my cue to relate a curious thing that happened a couple of weeks back.

Now, thanks to my liberal guilt and the vestiges of my bleeding heart, I'm no stranger to strangers (and the estranged) showing up unannounced. From the ragtag detritus of my ex-bff's once-impressive coterie of hangers-on, to random acquaintances and unwanted distant relatives, people often materialize like wraiths from the past, refusing to die and fade away into oblivion.

"Dammit, don't you get it? I don't WANT you anymore!"

Hence, I wasn't too surprised one drunken night as I stumbled home at 3:00 a.m. (well, sitting woozily in a cab, if you want to be precise about it) when the night guard informed me that someone had been at the gate looking for me. I assumed it was yet another of my ex-bff's stragglers - the collateral damage of a misspent life and fortune - come to beg for mercy, assistance, and/or money (not necessarily in that order).

No, what caused a twelve-beer hangover to dissipate instantly was when the guard went on to say that the people looking for me were claiming to be relatives of my children.

Oh yes.

Children.

Not just a singular unhappy accident, but plural.

And the icing on this cake of whatthefuckery was that they were still in the blue FX parked on the street outside my gated compound.

Bursting with fruity whatthefuckery.

Like any red-blooded male confronted with living evidence of his virility, I naturally instructed the guard to tell the intruders that I had been abducted by hostile aliens a scant week earlier and that they were doing unspeakable things to me in a galaxy far, far away, and thus might be a tad unavailable for a nice chitchat with my long-lost offspring.

I also told him to tell them that goddammit I have no children. At least none that have come forward yet and lived to tell the tale.

The next morning, I was ready to assume it had been a bad, baaaaaaad alcoholic dream. But as she handed me my morning java, my maid cheerily informed me that indeed, a trio of adults - one man, a woman, and an older woman - had inquired after me that day. The guard had summoned her to the gate because the strangers had been insistent that I show myself to them and demanded that I accept responsibility for the two young girls they had thoughtfully dragged along for this farce.

My God. I had daughters.

Mis hijas.

I considered the gravity of the situation and, upon giving the matter some deep thought, asked my maid a tremendously important question:

"Ano'ng hitsura nung mga bata?" I queried.

"Ay, magaganda, ser!" she enthusiastically exclaimed.

"Mabuti naman," I replied, deadpan.

I mean, goddammit. I value my dogs on their good looks. What more some potential - and more sentient - drains on my finances?

I grilled my maid like a cheese sandwich and got the following tidbits:

1. My "daughters" looked like young Marian Riveras.

2. They came from Cavite, like the real Marian Rivera.

3. The woman who introduced herself as the yaya got her act busted when the younger of the girls, at one point, burst out with the oh-so-telenovelaic-line "Ma, gusto ko nang makita ang daddy namin! Ang tagal-tagal ko na siyang gustong makilala!"

4. The older woman - possibly the fake yaya's mother - played the bad cop in this comedy duo and, when refused entry into my compound, drew herself up in a huff and announced "Hindi niyo ba ako kilala? Kabit ako ni Bulaong!" Which was hilarious in and of itself, but triply so because one, I actually know Bulaong, and two, he would never have a mistress over the age of 30, much less this imperious crone.

La madre de mis hijas.

To my maid's credit, Hitler would've had a better chance of getting into Jewish Heaven than this five-ring circus getting into my compound. She impressed me by asking them if they knew my full name.

Unfortunately, they did.

Fortunately, they got my middle name wrong. So there.

My Gestapo maid also asked if they had a picture of me, whereupon the erstwhile yaya triumphantly pulled out a photo of Bigfoot.

Well, not really Bigfoot, but from my maid's description of the hapless man in the pic, he might as well have been. Either that, or it was Joaquin Fajardo.

Bitch, please. I'm hairy, but not that hairy.

"My God, can't anyone enjoy some private nudie time anymore?!?"

I was the scandale du jour of the compound for a couple of days afterward. A couple of days I also spent wondering if the party of five would return to demand that I man up and do my fictional children right by sending them money and educating them and introducing them to my mother who would probably swoon like a saint in the throes of divine rapture.

But nah. They haven't bothered me again.

But I can't help thinking of my poor, poor daughters. These evil people were so, so cruel. To almost let us be reunited, only to wrench them away from my loving arms again. To give me hope of a normal life, only to murder these dreams with an axe.

Ah, bueno, que sera, sera.

Damn scammers.

Stormy Weather

2011-05-11T19:27:00.000+08:00

I’m not an overly sentimental fellow and consequently often forget things like birthdays, anniversaries, and such, but for the past three weeks, my brother had persistently reminded me about my father’s grand 75^th birthday celebration. My luck being as it is, the date fell on the very same date I had to be in Bangkok on work. I tried to adjust the work dates but there was simply no other available slot if we were to make our deadlines. I consoled myself with the thought that my peripatetic sister was also going to miss Papa’s Big Birthday Bash, still roaming as she was somewhere in the great plains of the USA with my niece.

Papa, don't preach.

And yet, a nagging voice in the back of my head said I was going to regret missing Pop’s 75^th someday. I just had no idea how close someday might have been.

I texted the birthday boy as soon as I awoke in my hotel room early on his birthday, expressing my best wishes and my regrets for being unable to attend. My mother responded 8 hours later on his behalf, saying Pop ran out of load and was relaying his thanks to me. In hindsight, it’s not far-fetched that he was actually making tampo and was therefore not deigning to text me, his prodigal Bangkok-loving firstborn who couldn’t be bothered to delegate work to someone else in order to attend his 75^th and enjoy a long evening of grilling from all his well-meaning, meddlesome siblings, who at this late date still demand grand-nephews from me.

Mmm.

It’s not like I’m going to inherit a kingdom or anything that I have any pressing needs for heirs.

Ew.

But I digress.

I rationalized my unconscionable absence from this grand fete by recalling how I barely knew my father while I was growing up, thanks to his absences that sometimes ran for years on end. Like myself nowadays, he, too, was often away on business back then. I’ve long stopped blaming him for being an absentee father, thanks in part to a screeching flock of harpies I called aunts, who would denounce me as an ungrateful wretch for demanding my father’s presence while he was away in foreign, exotic lands making moolah and, presumably, some whoopee as well.

Hi, tita.

Fast-forward, and kettle, thou art black.

At any rate, we were flying into bad weather coming into Manila last Sunday, Mother’s Day. I had heard on the news in my hotel room earlier that morning that a storm was headed towards the Philippines, and, as icing on the cake, that a plane had crashed while attempting to land in Indonesia, killing all 27 passengers aboard.

Comforting thoughts to have when one is about to spend three hours strapped onto a metal tube hurtling at high speeds 37,000 feet above the earth.

And because I can be morbid, fleeting thoughts in my addled brain ran along the lines of “What a terrible Mother’s Day present it would be if, you know, the plane crashed.” And while the air lanes between Bangkok and Manila have certain areas of turbulence, the flight back was especially bumpy. I’ve long gotten used to turbulence but our approach to Manila was zero-visibility, blanketed in nothing but gloomy gray clouds. It was surreal and discomfiting to look outside the windows and see a fast-moving wall of gray-white mist and nothing else. At any moment I thought we would be joining the cast of Lost and I’d have to spend the rest of my life on that wretched island.

Well, maybe not all that wretched.

I only managed to heave a sigh of relief once we broke cloud cover and Manila’s city lights finally came into view, twinkling like little beacons of hope miles below. The aircraft made its approach and I felt we were about to do a crosswind landing – it just felt the craft was not making a direct approach but rather was swerving from right to left approaching the runway. We landed with a thud and the aircraft lurched as a Pinoy seaman started to clap, only to promptly stop when no one else joined in.

I left Manila in sweltering 37 degree heat, and returned in the eye of a deluge.

It took Centennial Airport close to an hour to unload our baggage, with three flights eventually sharing the single - and empty - baggage carousel. Given the bumpy ride, I was uncharacteristically resigned to the hold-up – it wasn’t like I was so eager to get back to the Tartarus I currently call home, anyway.

It wasn’t until the next day that I learned that lightning had struck the aircraft we had just disembarked from minutes earlier, injuring 9 ground crewmen. Hence, the delay in unloading our baggage. Interestingly, there was no exceptional commotion among the Centennial staff in the Arrivals area regarding the incident; the P.A. system merely apologized to us for the delay, citing “technical problems.”

"This is the fucking last time you lose my luggage!"

I would’ve felt so guilty had I groused about the delay while Storm was zapping the bejesus out of some PAL personnel.

And tonight, this is the first story I read on CNN.

Mmm.

Random

2011-01-05T16:32:00.002+08:00

I don't like dancing on the edge of reason.

I've been like a caged animal thrashing about, enraged and at the same time fearful, trying desperately to find a way out.

Dead. Deadened. Dead end.

I walked all the way from Makati to Manila yesterday. Aimlessly. Like a homeless person. Which I guess I am because I no longer wish to live in what I once called home.

The peace of my sanctuary has been shattered, never to be the same again. This is both literal and figurative. I think I can say the same about my sanity. I've often thought sanity hung by the merest of threads, and, given the proper circumstances, one can be pitched overboard, and off into the void.

Stimulus-Response. Is it just that my response is an overreaction? Or is the stimulus well and truly unbearable?

I think I'm being literally hounded out of my sanity. Pavlov would've had a field day with this.

I can't go out drinking every night just to stay away from this goddamned hell.

I sleep in ever-tighter fetal positions - whenever it is possible to sleep at all.

Something's gotta give, and it looks like it's my sanity.

God, it's like tiptoeing through a minefield. One never knows when one will set something off, and one has no way of telling when the explosions will stop - or if they will stop at all.

I've been in a constant state of physical, mental, and emotional tension. Now I know what happens when you can neither fight, nor flee. You just freeze.

Where did I read that? Dante's Inferno? That hell is not ablaze, but a cold, cold place.

525,600 Minutes

2010-12-31T18:14:00.000+08:00

How do you measure a year in the life?

In truths that he learned
Or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that he died

The radio silence of late is but a natural consequence of the black hole I fell into shortly after my last entry. Nothing could escape it - not light nor sound. I suppose one can only hope that if the gravitational forces do not tear you apart, then black holes are indeed nothing but huge rips in the fabric of space-time. Or swirling tunnels that will eventually spit you out on the other side - wherever that may be.

It was not at all a bad year, but I do believe this was my unhappiest Yuletide season to date. Not just your garden-variety Christmas blues; more of a profound existential break that, alas, has produced anomie instead of epiphanies.

But then again, not all Christmases can be bright.

Still...

May the explosions tonight herald that the end to my own implosion is in sight. Because I don't think I can endure another 525,600 minutes of this gaping bleakness.

And as for you, blog friends, followers, and foes, may your own New Year be bright.

And now to all, a good night.

Plans Vs. Zombies

2010-12-07T19:25:00.000+08:00

This was the plan.

I was going to spend the previous long weekend lying in bed and enjoying the guilty brainless pleasures of a Zombie Moviefest. My playlist from the undead was all lined up: 28 Days Later, 28 Weeks Later, Planet Terror, I Am Legend, Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead, Night of the Living Dead, Shaun of the Dead, and the Resident Evil trilogy.

But as the cliché goes, life imitates art. In my case, no sooner had I popped the first DVD into the player when some invisible virus seized my respiratory system. It swiftly transformed me into a sneezing, wheezing abomination draining brain fluids from his nasal cavities.

By dawn, I had become a shuffling, groaning pile of biohazardous waste.

"Diseased pariah" would have described me as well.

And so it was that I did spend the long weekend - and a good part of the succeeding week - in bed, as originally planned. But quarantined from humanity, watching my fellow infected onscreen inflicting viral plague upon living tissue, as I, for my part, infected tissue, hankie, undershirt, pillowcase, and bedsheet with my radioactive green contagion.

I hate it when life mutates plans into zombies.

Se7eN

2010-12-05T11:38:00.000+08:00

That's how many days it's been since a cigarette has touched my lips.

Whoop-dee-fuckin'-doo.

And no, I wasn't planning on quitting just yet.

Just an interesting side-effect of being an incubus of viral plague.

Tokyo No Otoko

2010-11-25T13:58:00.000+08:00

As a matter of personal taste, I've always found chinitos easy on the eyes.

And thanks to Spike and Coat JP and all those other purveyors of Japanese M2M (pixelated pututuys notwithstanding), I've cast a lustful eye or two on the Japanese specimens as well.

Anyway, here are a few otokos I saw on the streets:

Kenshiro, Fist of the North Star. What? What?

And some gaijin thrown in for good measure.

Lost In Translation

2010-11-22T22:35:00.001+08:00

Grammatically, nothing wrong with it. But...gee.

I arrived at an epiphany when we were scrutinizing some samples of Engrish in Tokyo.

For all their inventiveness and cutting-edge technology, we often chuckle at how the Japanese mangle the English language, or playfully mint English words into local coinage ( terebi for TV, sarariman for salaryman, and so on).

But then I got to thinking : no, this is a very proud race. A race that prides itself on its competitiveness and its excellence. A race so insular I once read it doesn't consider itself Asian but rather, Japanese.

Japanese. Not Asian. Japanese.

I've often wondered why Japan never became an ASEAN member. Sure, it's technically located in East Asia, not SEA, but still. And even though Japan - like its on-again off-again rival Korea - is now part of ASEAN + 3, you still need a visa to visit the Land of the Rising Sun, when all you need for an ASEAN member nation is a plane ticket.

Anyway, while the locals were unfailingly polite and well-mannered, I couldn't help but detect a whiff of the indomitable pride beneath all that customary bowing. It was intangible but definitely there.

Image from here.

And then, like most epiphanies, it just hit me.

Japan is one of the most educated countries in the world. About.com. states that

"Japan has one of the world's best-educated populations, with 100% enrollment in compulsory grades and zero illiteracy. While not compulsory, high school (koukou) enrollment is over 96% nationwide and nearly 100% in the cities."

Why, then, does it seem impossible for them to master English when the third-world citizens of the Sick Man of Asia proudly bandy it about as their unofficial second language ?

Could it be - paradoxically enough - a matter of...pride?

As fiercely nationalistic as the French, I surmised that the Japanese may well mangle English - akin to the way the French resist speaking it - on purpose.

Like the indignant LOLcat above, who knows for certain that the Japanese grasp of the language cannot be impeccable? Our certified-English speaking tour guide certainly exhibited an impressive command of it, as did a young waitress at a local ramen house. What more the others who work in occupations loftier than showing giddy tourists around the block or taking noodle orders?

If you didn't snore all throughout History class, you'd know the Japanese were roundly humiliated - and deservedly so - after World War II. Losing the war, getting to be Ground Zero for the world's first atomic bomb, and having those damn Yankees take custody of the country must've almost driven the entire nation into committing seppuku.

Image from here.

But they, like us, are also a resilient lot, and it is a testament to how oddly the world turns that the nation brought to its knees by the World's Policeman would, within decades, rise from the ashes and surpass its erstwhile custodian in wealth and renown.

Pity America's Little Brown Brother who got raped, pillaged, and burned during the war didn't fare half as well, but I digress. All I'll say about that for now is that Quezon got his bloody wish.

Anyway, it's a matter of some pride for us that Pinoys seem to easily master any foreign language - particularly if it is the language of a country in which we serve. And therein lies the rub.

Serve.

Our Middle East OFWs master Arabic. The japayukis mast- well, they are conversant in Nihongo. And CSRs polish their English and their accents. All this attention to foreign languages is done not out of some aspiration to the diplomatic corps nor for mere personal enhancement but rather, out of plain and simple necessity.

For most of us, learning another language is not a luxury.

It is a need.

Image from here.

Consider, then, why a wealthy, dominant, and formerly-colonizing nation would find any need to properly learn the language of another that it does not consider its peer?

The French, again, make no pretensions about their disdain for anything American, and this contempt I put to the test once in Paris. I wagered to my ex-bff, who was my traveling companion at the time, that we would find more hospitality - already a scarce resource in France - if we spoke to the locals in any European language first before lapsing into English. Our initial "Excuse me, sir? Ma'am?" were almost always met with indifference and deafness. But even a simple "Perdon, senor? Un momento, por favor?" got us more solicitious and helpful responses, even after we transitioned to English after the initial encounters.

If the French turn a deaf ear to English out of sheer Gallic spite and take great pains to preserve the "purity" of the French language, by contrast the Japanese delight in appropriating English words. But maybe - just maybe - they take precious few pains in mastering the language and instead, disembowel it for their own amusement.

Image from here.

In English As A Decorative Language , professor John Dougill posits that "the widespread use of English in Japan is an indication of the country's desire to internationalize and of its fascination with the world of the gaijin (literally, 'outsider' or 'alien'), particularly America." He then goes on to state that although "Compared to the Chinese characters used for everyday purposes, the romaji (Roman alphabet) of English seems smart, sophisticated, and modern", he maintains that "the total lack of concern for the communicative aspect of the language adds strength to the theory...that though the Japanese are fascinated by foreign languages and people, they are not really interested in getting to know either too closely."

In short, maybe they're just having fun with it.

Or poking fun at it, like some weird, exotic animal in a zoo.

And in the same manner that making ching-chong gibberish sounds makes a not-so-subtle mockery of Chinese, perhaps Engrish is the sly, subtle, and "polite" way the Japanese mock their former adversary.

In which case, gaijin who poke fun at the Japanese and their oh-so-funny Engrish don't realize one thing.

The joke could be on them.

Kawaii, Kawaii!!!

2010-11-19T19:10:00.000+08:00

Fridays make me happy.

Especially when I don't have to work on the weekends.

And because of these happy thoughts, let us greet the weekend with a kawaii overdose.

The Japanese are known for their love of cutesy things - or kawaii.

Here are a few examples that I saw in my wanderings.

Kawaii!

Kawaii, kawaii!

RORcats.

Domo-kun, mascot of the NHK.

The House of Mouse.

Banana boy.

Okay, this was just kinda weird.

And she's creepy.

Oishi desu!

Domo-kun and tomodachi.

Haro, kitty!

And no. I didn't go to the Sanrio Museum.

Shibuya Street Style

2010-11-16T09:23:00.000+08:00

Shibuya is a newer, swankier district compared to its more-famous rival Shinjuku.

Japan is home to many odd things, and fashion subcultures are among their strangest and most interesting.

I spent a good part of the afternoon just enjoying the sights and snapping some of the Japanese fashionistas:

Girl tries to stop traffic with her fashion statement.

Uggs galore.

"A-are you wearing the -" "..Chanel boots? Yes."

Sharp shiny sharkskin suit.

Fur muffler, fur-trimmed heels.

High-schoolers after shopping at 109.

Obviously, hip-hop's not quite dead yet.

Japanese schoolgirls.

Black stockings were de rigeur.

Standard dark salaryman business suit.

T-t-t-t-telephone.

Some bared their legs in the cold.

While others covered up.

The end.

Now and Zen

2010-11-12T15:08:00.000+08:00

An almost-long weekend is coming up and, despite the fickle weather, a couple of days off is always a good thing. Time to think. Time to de-stress. Time to time-out.

With that, time to share some images of calm and tranquility from the Meiji Shrine and the Imperial East Gardens.

Have a good weekend, minna-san.

Ara Na, Ara Na, Aria, Aria

2010-11-10T12:59:00.000+08:00

A short but sweet intermission number before I bore you some more with my Tokyo tales.

Came across this funny spot from copyranter, and thought it somehow dovetailed with Eternal Wanderer's post about why he ~~breeds~~ breathes opera:

Don't worry, Ternie.

I'm sure Dame Joan would've approved.

Tour de Force

2010-11-09T01:13:00.000+08:00

We had a free day before we actually had to attend to business and so, like most tourists, decided to take advantage of the standard half-day city tour. I figured it was a good way to get my bearings and have some visible landmarks for when I explored the city on my own later on. Assuming, of course, that I could decode the daunting rail and subway routes.

Somehow someone messed up the schedules on our end and what we had been told would be a 10:00 a.m. pickup time turned out to be 8 a.m. instead. Fortunately, I had already had breakfast and showered by the time the frantic call came in at 10 minutes to eight, and managed to get dressed quickly - one of the things I'm good at. Good thing, too, because there were several conventions going on at the hotel and 8 a.m. was a horribly busy time. So much so that, just like in a movie, it's when you're rushing to get downstairs that the elevator

had.

to.

stop.

at.

every.

goddamn.

floor.

all.

the.

way.

down.

Bakayaro!

I managed to scurry to the bus along with a few other harried stragglers from my group. Several of us, though, were left behind. That's Japanese efficiency for you. If you're not there at the appointed time, well, tough shit. Marry that with the Filipinos' concept of fluid time and you have a winning combination.

Hatobots, transform! I said "Transform!" Transform, damn you!

I'm happy I made the bus even though it turned out to be a walking tour in the rain. The Japanese tour guide was enterprising and hawked umbrellas on the ride, which, owing to the inclement weather, very quickly sold out. But since I think umbrellas are for sissies, I decided to soldier on in my heavy pea coat and beret.

The tour would take us to the Meiji Shrine, the Imperial Palace East Gardens, and then Asakusa Temple, after which we were to be dropped off to get lost in the Ginza district. Along the way we passed through Shinjuku and central Tokyo, with glimpses of the royal palace walls and moats, the NHK tower, the Nikkei building, and a few other Tokyo landmarks.

Unsure whether the rain would ever let up, I snapped pictures through the bus windows just in case I wouldn't get a chance at a proper photo-op.

So here are a few snaps of Tokyo by tourist bus:

Wet.

Still wet.

Wet, wet, wet.

Are we wet yet?

Wet a minet.

Oh, wet, what the het.

Oh! Tokyo!

2010-11-07T14:05:00.000+08:00

My insanity attacks aside, I was ready to be impressed by Tokyo. It is a legendary world-class capital, a futuristic city that inspired the environs of Ridley Scott's Blade Runner, among others.

Tokyo is also the most expensive city in the world for 2010. Even New York is way, way down at the No. 29 slot this year.

Not that Tokyo ever gets off that list.

Be that as it may, Japan is also home to things dear to the snot-nosed otoko no ko living in my heart : anime, robots, sushi, tech, gaisen, Japanese schoolgirls, gareon, ninjas, bukkake.

Oishi desu?

Well, maybe not bukkake.

At any rate, I was in for a few surprises.

I understand Tokyo is one of the most crowded cities in the world and the real-estate values are astronomical. From the outside, the hotel looked decent enough :

Lookin' good, so far.

Inside, though, it was a different story altogether.

I wasn't expecting a suite at the Plaza, but the moment I laid eyes on my accomodations, I wanted to cry.

I'm not kidding.

I desperately, seriously wanted to cry.

I've been to many hotel rooms all over the world and this, by far, was the most cramped of accomodations I've ever had the misfortune of having. Even Hong Kong - another bustling, overcrowded metropolis - had larger rooms than... this:

Bakayaro! Where's the rest of the room?!?!

Then again, I did say I wanted to check out Tokyo's Capsule Hotels. I just didn't know I would be in one so similar.

Whatever disappointments I had in my room, the toilet more than made up for. Sure, it was a study in maximizing space:

Japanese efficiency on display.

But the toilet itself - ah, heaven.

All toilets should be Toto. The seat was heated, and it featured a delightful choice between a bidet and a spray, with variable water pressure settings.

Toto, we ain't in Kansai no more.

Needless to say, I spent more time on the throne than necessary during my entire stay.

And if ever I become President, bidets shall be mandatory in all commodes.

The airconditioning was another puzzlement. It had started to rain shortly after we checked-in and so the outside temperature was getting chillier. Out of habit, I turned the A/C on to high and presently felt like I was in the sauna. This being Tokyo, things simply cannot be out-of-order, so I perused the hotel info card and discovered that the A/C adjusted automatically to the outside temperature.

Meaning, if it was cold outside, the A/C would become a heater.

Ah, so desu ka.

Therefore, the A/C stayed off permanently, and I enjoyed nice naps in my nippy Nippon nook.

Now, my first order of the day upon arriving in a new and unfamiliar city is to figure out the subway routes. And while we were staying in Shinagawa (which is probably Japanese for "the middle of nowhere"), fortunately the rail station was just a short walk from the hotel.

Hit the road, Jack.

So off I trudged in the cold, joining the throng of salarymen and office ladies, trying to make heads and tails of the labyrinthine rail and subway routes.

A slight headache and feeling three degrees stupider later, I gave up and decided to try again in the morning.

I knew I should've studied kanji.

Oh, Tokyo.

First day and I was already bothered and bewildered.

But not quite yet bewitched.

On A Wing And A Prayer

2010-11-05T02:28:00.000+08:00

As I mentioned in a previous post, I was profoundly unenthused about going to Tokyo. Most of it came from the fact that I had been out of sorts for the past three weeks and, like any depressive, just wanted to lock myself in my room and sulk under the sheets.

It didn't help matters any when I discovered that we were flying Delta - personally, not an airline that inspires the utmost confidence in me. Also, flying an American carrier bound for the U.S. (Narita is a common stopover en route to the States) meant that there would be extra helpings of bullshit at the security queue.

It also didn't help that I had to be at the airport at 4:00 am, to wait for a 7:15 flight that would actually leave an hour later.

Mumble,grumble.

I've become increasingly unexcited about overseas trips, which is ironic because I once said I am happiest whenever I am leaving the country. Normally I go out the door heaving a heavy sigh of resignation, which quickly turns to annoyance going through the normal hassles of pre-departure routines at the airport. But I'm usually nonchalant once on the plane - just wanting to get to cruising altitude so I can mope in peace.

This was an especially arduous voyage because I had been paranoid for the weeks prior. And truth be told, the more I fly, the less I want to get onto airplanes. At 30,000 feet in the air, one is well and truly in God's hands.

My discomfort over this particular journey eventually became so acute that I surprised myself with a panic attack in the tube. I very nearly turned on my heels to go back to the counter and say I wasn't boarding the flight. Go figure. Strange things happen in our heads when we're not quite ourselves. Even plopped in my seat, I was still thinking of getting up and making an excuse about some emergency so that they would let me off the plane without being subjected to interrogation and a possible cavity check.

I was having some serious Final Destination issues.

Artist's rendition of idiot slowly going insane in the Mabuhay Lounge.

And because I was already a nutjob by this time, I kept repeating Storm's mantra in my head: "I must not allow myself to be ruled by my fears. I must not allow myself to be ruled by my fears." (The Uncanny X-Men, issue 101, when she was getting claustrophobic in Cassidy Keep just before dinner and shortly before Black Tom and the Juggernaut trapped all the X-Men in the dungeon, whereupon Storm went all-out batshit insane and was pretty useless for the next issue and a half. 'Nuff said.)

And speaking of storms, it also didn't help that we were flying into bad weather going into Japan. And I happen to like turbulence just as much as the next fearless frequent flier.

Turbulence. Yet another reassuring movie about airplanes.

Aaaaaannnnnyyyywaaaayyyy...

Succor came in the form of a nice lady - the refreshingly down-to-earth wife of a low-key manufacturer- who engaged me in conversation all throughout the 4-hour flight. I normally enjoy my solitude on the plane but this was one time I was happy to have someone whose non-stop chattering presence became a source of soothing comfort.

Maybe I have mommy issues.

At any rate, despite my apprehensions, we landed uneventfully in Tokyo, where the weather was - contrary to forecasts - surprisingly good.

Shame it wouldn't stay that way.

-----------------------
Up Next : Oh! Tokyo

Trick Or Threat

2010-11-02T21:30:00.001+08:00

Bah!

Second year in a row I missed Halloween.

Then again, I already live in the House of the Spirits.

Booyah.

I missed the Halloween parties and my EB with engel and Ternie. And I hate not being able to keep my word. But as I told you, mon cher Ternie, my itinerary was most def out of my grubby little hands.

And don't worry, engel, I got your preciouuuusssssssssss...I've also still got your essential oils, Ternie, except I hope they haven't evaporated like disembodied spirits.

Otherwise, it'll have to be the thought that counted.

Anyway, lest I be accused of taking the hallow out of the ween, someone asked me why I don't go to the cemetery on All Souls' Day.

I replied that:

1. My dearly departed aren't there anymore. Just their remains.
2. They wouldn't know if I went, anyway.
3. I remember and think of them even when it's not All Souls' Day.
4. Sometimes, they're the ones who visit me.

And actually, as Trench so helpfully pointed out, it was All Saints' Day yesterday.

Today was All Souls' Day.

So.

Boo.

Blech

2010-10-26T20:43:00.000+08:00

So.

I'm going to Tokyo in a few hours.

Why am I so unexcited?

Anhedonia, you suck.

Look! Up In The Sky!

2010-10-15T13:44:00.003+08:00

Is it a bird?

Is it a plane?

Well, it sure don't look like Superman.

Thanks to sheer and utter boredom, I haven't been keeping tabs on the news lately. Apparently, sometime between Mark Herras' dick-exposure-while-chatting-with-another-guy-on-webcam scandal and the continuing saga of the Kris Vs. James domestic drama, there's been a rash of UFO sightings this past week - the latest happening last Wednesday, October 13, over Noo Yawk.

This looks like some Independence Day shit.

Remember how those humongous alien crafts in that movie suddenly appeared over some major cities all over the world?

San Francisco, USA

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

Montreal, Canada

Qinling, China

Considering how shitty things have been of late, I, for one, welcome our alien overlords.

Oh.

And happy payday weekend.

Snap, Crackle, and Puff

2010-10-04T09:59:00.003+08:00

Officially-minted celebrity blogger "BJ AcuÑa" aka soltero recently wondered what Survivor:PLU might look like.

I imagine it'd look a lot like Temptation Island - Puerto Galera during Holy Week would be an obvious choice. And the catty lines would be to die for.

"Kayo talagang mga bakla. Mahilig kayong mangolekta ng lalaki.
Poor, proletariat, indigent men."

The catfights, on the other hand, might also leave us dying - with laughter.

Then again , I rather like action-comedies.

"Pendeja! Hija de puta, yo te matare! Puto pinche!"

While I admire their enthusiasm, my grandmother's Christmas eggnog packs more punch than... whatever it was these big girls were trying to throw. Maybe they'd have been better off throwing shade.

Obviously, they never learned the Basic Lessons In Snap!

Precision. Pacing. Placement. Poise.

"A sophisticated snap! is more than just noise."

Bonus Round:

I just had to put this in. Jennifer Cortez and her immortal line to Azenith Briones (scrub to the 4:30 mark if you can't wait - beetches ):

"What are beetches for but to beetch around with fellow beetches?"

Indeed, indeed.

All The Sad Young Men

2010-09-26T17:27:00.000+08:00

Stumbled across this song while looking for some old standards;

Upon hearing it, I was just struck by how the song seemed to speak to gay men in particular, although there is no obvious indication in the lyrics to support this feeling.

At any rate, I came across the video above while looking for a nice version to accompany this post (I first heard Jane Monheit's, then Roberta Flack's, before I thought of looking through YouTube and came upon the male vocalist versions. There are several beautiful renditions - this one is a soulful jazz take on it - but I chose the one above for the video, as well.)

Seems like I wasn't the only one to think it was a poignantly...gay ballad.

Anyhow, for a song written in 1958, it's still strangely timeless, and for me, pointedly resonant.

For those of us who seek solace in places filled with bright lights and thundering music. Cold comfort in a bottle. A touch of what feels like love in the arms of strangers.

Or maybe it's just for the weary.

Like me.

Sing a song of sad young men, glasses full of rye

All the news is bad again, kiss your dreams goodbye

All the sad young men, sitting in the bars 
Knowing neon nights, missing all the stars 

All the sad young men, drifting through the town 
Drinking up the night, trying not to drown 

All the sad young men, singing in the cold 
Trying to forget, that they're growing old 

All the sad young men, choking on their youth 
Trying to be brave, running from the truth 

Autumn turns the leaves to gold, slowly dies the heart 
Sad young men are growing old, that's the cruelest part 

All the sad young men, seek a certain smile 
Someone they can hold, for just a little while 

Tired little girl, does the best she can 
Trying to be gay, for a sad young man 

While a grimy moon, watches from above 
All the sad young men, who play at making love 

Misbegotten moon shine for sad young men 
Let your gentle light guide them home tonight 
All the sad, sad, sad, young men

Why Is No One Rehhhh-dyyyy?

2010-09-22T02:37:00.006+08:00

Oh, and Emily?

....

That's all.

"Sometimes under-preparation is very good, because it instills fear and fear is galvanising. It makes you break out of yourself. If you're prepared, then you think you're ready, and if you think you're ready, then you're not ready."

- Meryl Streep, from an interview for The Devil Wears Prada.

The Long, Lost Weekend

2010-09-14T23:29:00.000+08:00

Thursday

It was a long weekend with - miraculously - no pressing work commitments, so I was determined to make the most out of it. And by that, I meant abusing my liver with extreme prejudice. Santi - a longtime friend and drinking buddy - was predictably at the usual watering hole and we boozed the night away.

"So, did you hear what happened?"

"What?"

"Someone slapped your best friend in public two weeks ago."

I almost drowned in alcohol gurgling with glee.

"Who? What? Where? How?" I peppered Santi like a Salisbury steak.

Putting his beer down for a moment, Santi regaled me with the tale.

Apparently, Gio - another drinking companion and longtime acquaintance - had gotten into some sort of altercation with another guest at a bar. A guest who was a friend of the bar owner, my so-called "best friend." To make a long story short, in his usual drunken and belligerent state, Gio ended up slapping my "friend" in front of his own bar and his stupefied staff.

"Mmm, tell Gio he's my hero," I told Santi as I downed my beer. "What countless others have only dreamt of doing, he has done."

"Uy, wag ka namang ganyan," protested Santi.

"Oh, you know I'm serious," I rebutted. "And if he does it again, but this time with a crowbar, I shall erect a marble statue in his honor."

Friday

After seven beers for me and half a case for Santi, we decided to call it a night. And since lately I haven't been driving if I know I'm going to be out boozing, Santi offered to drive me home. But I got the munchies and asked if he wanted to have a late supper first.

"Let's eat at Silya," I said.

"Do you really want to eat there? Silya?"

"Why? The food's okay, prices are cheap."

"You don't want to eat at Soju, instead?"

I crinkled my nose.

"Their food is good, but their lighting is fluorescent."

So off to Silya we went.

"Sir, did you hear?" asked the waiter as he plunked down the menu.

"Hear...what?"

"Jorel suffered a mild stroke recently," offered Santi helpfully.

"Hu-WAT?"

Well, that explains his mysterious disappearance from his usual perch at the bar. And the instant disappearance of my beer buzz, as well.

"So, is he better?" I asked. "He's not facially paralyzed or anything, is he?"

"Well, he texted me he's better na raw, konting pahinga muna," answered Santi.

Well.

If Jorel can text, then he's going to live.

As to whether he'll be the same barfly who had the dubious distinction of being the only one who could drink two cases of beer all by his lonesome in a single night, only time will tell.

Saturday

Same time. Same place.

Yes. I have a reptilian complex.

After yet untold bottles of beer, Santi was once again driving me home. As the car turned left onto Orosa, a guy pounded on the hood and waved a gun in front of us.

"Baba!" he yelled as Santi rolled down the window.

"Hello, Kiko," I half-groaned, half-smiled from the passenger seat as Santi dutifully pulled the car over and we resigned ourselves to our fate.

"Long time no seeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!" he shouted as he hugged me, gun still in the air.

"Yes, I have missed people pointing guns at my face in public," I replied.

"Ramon is heeeeeeere!" he cheerfully exclaimed as we walked to the sidewalk bar. "Reunion tayooooooooo!"

Kiko and Ramon are a couple of my longtime straight friends and business partners. And like most of my longtime friends, we barely see each other. They know I like guys, they're not afraid of being seen in Malate hanging out with the homos, and they pretty much know the story of my life so far.

And they really don't give a shit.

"Beer, beer!!!" yelled Ramon as we shook hands and Santi and I sat down. It was a yell that would be repeated many times that night until around 4:30 am.

As the rounds magically appeared and even more magically disappeared, we played catch-up. About career developments. About business. And about monkey business.

We talked about the good old days when the Malate strip cowered whenever Kiko made his iron-fisted entrances. We remembered that early morning in Samowar, when at one point Kiko was engaged in happy banter with some gay guy and then the next time I looked the both of them were rolling in the street in a frenetic fistfight. I remember trying to restrain Edward from joining the fray while trying to enjoy the spectacle, but he escaped my grip and soon the street party was a party of six drunken, angry, wrestling men of various sexual persuasions.

The melee ended only when Kiko and his adversary both ran to their cars to grab their guns, at which point the proverbial cooler heads intervened and we were denied the pleasure of a real-life Tarantino scene - and another morning filling out affidavits at the police station.

"Bro, why don't we open another bar?" asked Ramon, interrupting our reverie, his eyes gleaming with possibilities.

At this point, I'd rather open my veins than get back into the bar business, so I just gave Ramon one of my patented "oh-I-don't-know" looks.

"Sige na!" egged Kiko. "You can run it and we can make more money than you-know-who."

"I love talking shit about people who are just standing behind us pretending to look somewhere else while trying very hard to listen in," I grinned under my breath at Ramon as I espied the person who was the present subject of resentful conversation.

And with that, the object of gossip pretended to have just seen us and sat down, radiating wide, warm smiles as sincerely as Miranda Priestly.

"Joaquin," I acknowledged with a tilt of the head and an arched eyebrow, before plugging my mouth with my beer bottle lest I said something more.

"Oy, musta na, frieeeeeeeeends!" he beamed like some homecoming queen.

And so the talk turned small - basically about nothing at all. We did not talk about how Joaquin turned Cyndi Lauper on us and showed his true colors. Nor did we talk about how we knew that he knew that the jig was up. Neither did we talk about what to do with the current dismal venture shotgunned with everyone's differing agendas.

And that's how you shoot the breeze: light as a feather, unweighed by any substance whatsoever.

Santi, who had been sitting in a corner slowly melting into the furniture, finally stood up on wobbly legs and mumbled that he had to go. And since Ramon, Kiko, and I still had a round between the three of us, we decided to grant him his freedom.

"I guess you're driving me home tonight," I told Ramon.

Joaquin The Unwanted eventually sauntered off, leaving us with the radioactive fallout of his existence, and so after finishing off the remaining beers we decided to call it a night.

"Bro, may E ka ba?" Kiko asked Ramon as walked to the cars.

"Meron yata sa glove compartment," he replied, but an inspection of the car revealed nothing, not even Cortal.

"Why does Kiko want E?" I asked as Ramon and I drove off. "We're already going home."

"We're going home. He's off to fuck his girlfriend."

"But E inhibits erections, di ba?"

Ramon pondered the question for a couple of seconds.

"Maybe he meant Viagra."

Sunday

Yes. You guessed it.

More beer.

If you think people stay home on a Sunday night, think again.

The bar was positively buzzing with revelers, perhaps protesting the end of the long weekend by getting soused one last time.

The notorious Gio was there and I warmly congratulated him for his outstanding service to humanity. He blushed beet-red and stammered protestations about being drunk and not knowing what he was doing before I pressed a beer bottle into his hand and told him to stop being so modest.

Someone hugged me from behind and it was Brandon, a sometime protege whose love life tragically mirrors mine.

"I missed youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!" he squealed in his inimitable, endearingly boyish way.

"So does my mom," I replied. "At least you don't make me lasagna and charge me P10,000.00 a pan."

He gave me a disbelieving look - the same one people always give when I tell them how my mom wheedles cash out of me.

It's a wonder I still love lasagna. She must bake it with the blood of innocents or something.

"Anyway, how have you been?" I asked Brandon.

"Heto, nananaba," he pouted as he held his 26-inch waistline.

It was my turn to give him a disbelieving look.

"Oh, we also moved to a new place."

"Again? You hiding from the law or something?"

Brandon gave that signature braying laugh of his before he shrugged "Wala lang. We've also segregated expenses. "

Brandon's lover is a good 20 years older than him, and they have been together for a long, long time. As is usual with May-December affairs, the older party normally takes care of the younger one's material needs - until such time that the younger has established himself and can pull his own weight.

Ideally, anyway.

I was happy that Brandon was finally at that stage where he was starting to pay his own way and not having to rely solely on the generosity of his lover.

"So how does it feel?" I asked.

"Hayun," he replied. "I pay for the koryente and the internet, kaya kapag kailangan ko mag-computer, tayo agad siya for me."

I had to laugh.

"Well," I replied. "I'm happy you finally get to exercise The Golden Rule."

"The Golden Rule?"

"He who makes the gold, makes the rules."

Monday

Don't judge.

It was Joseph's birthday and I couldn't say no.

Busy week at work but for some insane reason, Joseph wanted to celebrate on the day itself instead of waiting for Friday like a normal person.

And so I found myself at a popular beer joint somewhere near Cash N' Carry.

Boozing for the fifth straight night in a row.

It was one of those "Okay, I'll just stay for a couple of drinks" thingys that end up with someone getting rip-roaringly drunk. Well, I didn't, but I certainly stayed much, much longer than the hour I had initially assured the celebrant.

First time there and it was a pretty nice place. Nice crowd, surprisingly full on a Monday night. We had four tables which quickly filled up with a procession of ravenous friends and colleagues, all ready and eager to get wasted.

I'd forgotten the simple joys of hanging out with predominantly straight company and discreetly checking out the surroundings for PLUs. Methinks there was a trio of them right at the adjoining table, and one more at another table with his girlfriend, but of course, I couldn't do anything, even if I wanted to. Instead, I was reduced to observing the crew getting steadily drunker and wondering what point of inebriation it would take for them to be seduced.

Ah, memories.

Years before Truth Or Dare, I remember blowjobbing a Super Dry bottle in Penguin in an effort to shock and hopefully, titillate Gabby, our college track star. He met my shit-eating grin with a wide smile and twinkling eyes, but nothing ever happened.

Nor did anything happen when two straight girl friends sat on my lap and another gay friend's in Blue Cafe, as the four of us defied the dictates of nature and lapped away, man to woman, to the strangely-aroused disgust of the other bohemians.

I remember Nadine and her double-Ds. She knew I liked guys and I suppose therein lay the appeal. We necked and petted all over Creation: in the middle of Joy, on the dancefloor of Bed, in Antonio's apartment as the horrified gay guests looked on, aghast.

Our best ever was in a cab, me getting all over her as, in between her moans, she instructed the cabbie. "Ooooohh...mama, kaliwa...ahhhhh...kanan sa pangalawang kantooohhhh...mmmmm...deretso lang po."

Had my girl friends been just a tad more aggressive, I'd probably have enough kids by now to rival my brothers'.

But God is infinitely wise, and I am sober.

For now.