The Big One

Surely you've seen it in your feeds.

Those dire warnings about "The Big One."

Mmm. The Big One.

Everyone - from the feckless zucchini masquerading as the head of the incompetent government agency that rhymes with MDMA, to your hysterical aunt invoking anti-earthquake immunity by chanting "IN JESUS' NAME GOD WILL NOT LET IT HAPPEN" - has posted about "The Big One."

Seven point something that'll supposedly "rock the planet."

I should be so lucky to have something 7.something rock my body.

But I digress.

I'm sure Philvocs and the MMDA may have the general public's interest in mind by posting these dire warnings "to prepare for The Big One." But curiously, the effect it has on me is the opposite: instead of level-headedness and calm, each and every time I see those blaring words "PREPARE FOR THE BIG ONE" I am filled with expectations of carnage, destruction, and death, instead of competent emergency services, community cooperation, and a general maintenance of law and order.

Arguably, that's just another day in this godforsaken land.

But once more I digress.

I also get the feeling that some sectors seem to have this morbid, almost giddy anticipation of "The Big One." As though this was heaven's long-awaited crushing fist of divine righteousness come to punish us for our wickedness at last. 

Indeed. Rebar and styrofoam do not meet standard building codes.

The poor dense dears. If it's punishment you wanted, you already got it by being born Filipino.

At any rate, the only way this could be poetically-perfect for the huffing just is if "The Big One" were to hit this Good Friday, and crush all the godless heathen who decided to hit the beaches instead of contemplating their wretched lives in church.

Fat chance.

The city will be empty. Given God's wicked sense of humor, it'll probably be the pious who'll be crushed in their unrelenting piety as unreinforced churches crumble around them.

What a ball-buster it'd be to die in righteousness during Holy Week, only to find out you can't quite eyeball Jesus yet because, well, it's his annual Death Commemoration Orgy and he's busy, well, playing dead. 

Shut up, dweeb.

And I digress yet again.

Of all the natural calamities, I'm pretty sure most of us fear earthquakes the most. Typhoons have an infuriating habit of being hyped and then ending up as no-shows. Floods, like periods, are mostly wet, sloppy inconveniences. But there's something about literally having the earth move under your feet that triggers a primal fear. I guess it's because we're flightless creatures who cannot launch ourselves into the skies while Gaia has an orgasm.

But more than I fear earthquakes, I fear the incompetence of my countrymen. Especially those who purport to be in "public service." For all their blather, if and when "The Big One" strikes, I'm pretty sure Manila will descend quickly into lawlessness, chaos, and murder - and probably stay there till Christ returns.

Again, just another day in paradise. But this time with the city literally reduced to rubble. The only bright side is that the government will have more ghost voters to usher in the next plague upon this benighted land.

What's the point of this ramble over rumble?

Ah.

As the government and your sainted aunts keep screeching at us "to prepare for The Big One", I think my dear red-headed hellion Red Sonja said it best  :

"And now, you music-makers from hell - if I'm to die in this temple of abominations, at least I'll go down in SILENCE!!"


A-fuckin-men.

Gaypril Fools

Life In HD

Because life should be lived in hi-def.

Encore

Plus ca change, 

plus c'est la meme chose.

La Vie La Cage

Managed to catch La Cage Aux Folles by 9 Works Theatricals last Friday, and enjoyed it so much I simply had to do an encore for their final performance Sunday afternoon.

What to say, what to say, really?

First off, I thought the production was appropriately splendiferous. The glitter, the glam, the shimmer and sparkle of the titular, legendary St. Tropez cabaret was captured in the fabulous costumes, dazzling confections created by members of the Fashion Designers Association of the Philippines. The stage sets by Mio Infante also evoked the ambience of the French Riviera, both in the interiors of Chez Georges et Albin, and the exteriors representing the resort town of St. Tropez.

The choreography and music were energetic, impressive, and riveting. The Cagelles - singly and as a group - fulfilled their promise in the opening song "We Are What We Are" that "you'll love us once you get to know us." Indeed, how could you not love the breathless tap dancing, the raunchy can-can, and the various individual vaudeville acts ( Hannah from Hamburg, j'adore!) ?

Indeed, La Cage gets off to a grand, fabulous start, and sets off from there like a psychotic horse towards a burning stable. 

But the musical play wouldn't have endured as a Broadway favorite if it didn't have more than razzle-dazzle to offer. And at its heart, La Cage is a very human story about perception, discrimination, and the things we do for love.

For those who haven't seen The Birdcage, the 1996 movie adaptation starring Robin Williams and Nathan Lane, a short synopsis would be in order. Georges and Albin (aka Zaza) are old lovers: the owner/emcee and the star, respectively, of the bawdy and beautiful Club La Cage - a famous cabaret featuring a drag queen revue. Georges has a son - Jean-Michel - from a brief fling with a beautiful English dancer named Sybil, who abandoned the boy to the care of the gay couple. Albin has, together with Georges, brought up Jean-Michel as his own flesh-and-blood son.

Jean-Michel comes home from university one day and announces that he is planning to get married to a beautiful girl named Anne Dindon. There's just a petit crise - Anne's father is the notoriously ultra-conservative Monsieur Edouard Dindon, the head of the Family, Tradition, and Morality Party that has threatened to sweep the Riviera clean of "immoral" establishments - such as the Club La Cage.

Anne's parents are coming over to meet their prospective in-laws, and Jean-Michel, eager to get their approval, wishes to present a "normal" family facade to the Dindons. That means inviting over his biological mother, Sybil, to pose as his father's wife. But more than that, it also means getting rid of Albin - and everything he represents - for one night.

Heartache - and hilarity - ensues.

In the role of Georges, Michael de Mesa is a revelation. Primarily because at some 50-plus, he remains a stunningly good-looking man. And secondly, the veteran actor brings a winsome accessibility to the character (which has been portrayed more gruffly in the original 1973 French film, various Broadway productions, and the Hollywood version with Williams). de Mesa's vocal range can be limited - he can be heard straining in some of the numbers, and in others his voice threatens to dip into nothingness in the low notes - but the emotion behind his delivery more than makes up for it. As a matter of fact, for the more emotional numbers like "Look Over There," de Mesa's breaking voice adds a definite resonance to the song.

Because I don't watch TV nor follow the local showbiz news, I don't know Steven Silva from chopped liver, but as the lovestruck but misguided son Jean-Michel, he brings a youthful joie de vivre. His pleasant tenor encapsulates the hopefulness and naivete of young love in the upbeat ditty "With Anne On My Arm." And while the character can come across as an ungrateful jerk and a spoiled brat, somehow Silva's pleasant good looks leaven Jean-Michel's less-than-stellar personality flaws.

As Jean-Michel's objet d'amour, Missy Macuja-Elizalde (alternating with Joni Galeste), brings a combination of fresh-faced innocence and a certain continental je ne sais quoi to the Dindon ingénue. Macuja also does double-duty as one of the chorus girls, and her balletic pedigree certainly comes across in her very physical dance routines. Lisa Macuja's little girl has grown into a voluptuous young woman, and in a rather risqué outfit later on in the show, young Elizalde's patrician features, coupled with her full figure, reminded me of the riveting sensuality of Manet's Olympia. It would be interesting to see her tackle more daring and mature roles in the future.

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention young but veteran thespian Noel Rayos. As Jacob, the family's unhinged butler/maid who desperately wishes for a chance to be a Cagelle, Rayos chews the scenery and threatens to upstage the principals as he struts through a series of hilarious costume changes. Jacob's entrances and exits are an outrageous parade of characters from various musicals, ranging from Little Orphan Annie to Cho-Cho San to the Mother Superior in Sound of Music. Rayos' Jacob is the comedy relief in a musical full of comic reliefs - a feat heroically performed by Hank Azaria as Agador in The Birdcage. Those are mighty big shoes to fill , but Rayos squeezes into those heels with madcap abandon, to the delight of the audience.

But of course, the star of the show is the Great Zaza/Albin, and Audie Gemora delivers a bravura performance. It's one of those transformative, transfixing star turns in which an actor inhabits the role so completely you stop seeing the actor and behold - and believe - the character instead. As Zaza la Diva, Gemora is all sassy bump n' grind burlesque, a confident queen holding court onstage. As the comically-fraught and hysterical Albin, he clearly takes his cue from Nathan Lane's take in The Birdcage, and he channels Lane's Albin not just through his acting and vocal performances, but he physically resembles Lane, as well. 

Gemora and de Mesa have great chemistry, and it was delightful to hear the audience so kilig over the lambings of this old gay couple. And that's one of the beautiful things about this musical: while it's very much a story involving gay men, it's not just a story about gay men. The longing, the love, the striving for acceptance while maintaining individual identity are universal themes, and the Gemora/de Mesa coupling manages to transcend the confines of sexual orientation. Their Georges and Albin come across to the appreciative audience as just another couple with their ups and downs, their silly little bickering and their big hurtful fights.

Just like "normal" people.

But while it takes two to tango, Gemora, a multi-awarded and veteran stage actor, is the heart and soul of this story, and delivers the evening's high point with his spare, wounded, powerful rendition of the musical's most famous song "I Am What I Am."

The song itself (from which the entire musical sprang) is familiar to anyone who's ever seen a drag revue or attended a Gay Pride parade, thanks to the commercial Gloria Gaynor version. But while the lyrics themselves speak of empowerment, in the context of the musical itself, "I Am What I Am" is more poignant, more vulnerable. Paradoxically, it's the pathos that makes the piece more potent.

There's a fascinating story about the song and how it gave birth to the whole musical:

Holt and Brown had produced the 1974 revival of Gypsy directed by Arthur Laurents, and they approached him with an offer to direct their new venture. Laurents was not a fan of drag or camp entertainment and thought Holt and Brown never would find enough investors to finance a gay-themed project at a time when, during the early years of the AIDS epidemic, homophobia was more intense than ever. He agreed only because Holt and Brown were close friends and he wanted them to remain on (Alan) Carr's payroll as long as possible, but his interest grew when he learned Harvey Fierstein and Jerry Herman had committed to the project.

According to Laurents, when he met with Fierstein and Herman for the first time, they had restored both the title and locale of the original play but had neither a script nor even an outline for the plot. All they had was the Herman song "I Am What I Am," and Laurents immediately envisioned it as an emotional outburst sung at the close of the first act. Laurents further claims that when he explained his concept to Fierstein and Herman, he inspired the direction they took in writing the musical. Herman tells a very different story in an interview included in the original cast CD. He claims that they were well into the collaboration when Fierstein arrived one day with an emotional fiery scene he had written for the end of Act I that included the words "I am what I am." Delighted, Herman asked to use the five words, boasting that he would have a song by morning, which he did.

It's no surprise that "I Am What I Am" has become a global anthem for gay pride. Its lyrics are affirmative, defiant, and empowering. Nevertheless, even in the creation of the musical, some concessions to the general heterosexual community (and sensibilities) had to be made:

With gay-activist Fierstein and the political Laurents on board, the show could have "become a polemic diatribe on gay rights." However, Herman was a moderating influence. Having suffered a series of disappointments with darker-themed shows since 1969, he was eager to score a hit with a mainstream, emotional, optimistic song-and-dance entertainment that middle-class audiences would enjoy. The team opted to create "a charming, colorful, great-looking musical comedy - an old-fashioned piece of entertainment," as Herman recalled in his memoir Showtune. By "delivering their sentiments in a sweetly entertaining manner," the team was able to convey their gay-themed message with more impact than they could have with a more aggressive approach.

La Cage Aux Folles opened on Broadway on August 21, 1983, and the rest is musical history. The original production won six out of nine Tony Award nominations, including Best Musical, Best Original Score, and Best Book of a Musical.

The local cultural scene was very busy first quarter: between the many offerings of the Fringe Arts Festival, and the various PETA and CCP productions, it was convenient for me that La Cage had a longish run. But if I had managed to catch La Cage when it opened last February, I would've probably seen it every weekend. 

It was just that fucking good. And the last time I felt this happy after seeing a musical, Wicked was still sweeping town.

Fortunately, there are rumors that La Cage Aux Folles will have another run sometime end of June? If rumors prove to be true, do be sure to catch this wonderful, funny, sentimental, and touching show, and bring your own outrageous entourage. It had a special resonance for me, not just as a gay man, but more pointedly as an ex-owner of a club that also featured cabaret performers and their wild antics, their big heartaches, and the general rambunctiousness and unpredictability that make life la vie la cage aux folles.*

To director Robbie Guevarra and everyone involved in the production: Brava!

========================================

*La cage aux folles literally means "the cage of mad women." Folles is also slang for "effeminate men" aka "queens."

The more you know.

Cry Wolf

So.

It looks like Bench manipulated your outrage after all.

Quelle, quelle surprise.

Bisous, Bisous

For what it's worth, Happy VD.

Love and Desire

'We're talking about love. There is no "why". That's the point'

'There is always a "why" because there is always something that the beloved wants. It might be that he protects you. It might be that he makes you feel special. It might be that he is a way out, a route to some shining future away from the dreary now. It might be that he is the father of your unborn babies. Or it might be that he gives you prestige. Love is a big knot of whys.'

'What's wrong with that?'

'I'm not saying anything's wrong with it. History is made of people's desires. But that's why I smile when people get sentimental about this mysterious force of pure "love" which they think they are steering. "Loving somebody" means "wanting something". Love makes people do selfish, moronic, cruel, and inhumane things…To be in love means to be at the mercy of your lover's desires. If someone put a bullet through your lover, they'd be releasing you."

- Ghostwritten, David Mitchell

The Challenge

Elena's desire to seduce a homosexual was a common error among women. Usually there was a point of female honor in this, a desire to test one's power against heavy odds, a feeling, perhaps, that all men were escaping from their rule and that they must be seduced again. Miguel suffered from these attempts every day. He was not effeminate. He held himself well, his gestures were manly. As soon as a woman began to display coquetry toward him, he was in a panic. He immediately foresaw the entire drama: the aggression of the woman, her interpretation of his passivity as mere timidity, her advances, his hatred of the moment when he would have to reject her. He could never do this with calm indifference. He was too tender and compassionate. He suffered at times much more than the woman, whose vanity was all that mattered.

- Elena. From Anaïs Nin's Delta of Venus.

Top of the World

Hello again.

Miller Time

"I looked up and saw the sky…and realized 

what a ridiculous lie my whole life had been."

Just came back from watching the translated version of Arthur Miller's Death of A Salesman at the CCP.

I'd read the Pulitzer Prize-winning play at one point in college, but never actually saw a performance. What a difference, indeed, when words on paper are translated into speech and action.

Dramatic, you might even say.

I'll leave the in-depth analyses to bona fide theater critics, and simply stick to my reactions as an audience member. Being seated in the front row - a worthy payoff to showing up early to be first in line, since Tanghalang Huseng Batute is free seating - gives the play an urgency and an intimacy that you simply cannot have in the back rows or the bleachers. Every facial expression, every inflection, every drop of spittle spewing in the heat of the dramatic moment is literally right there in front of your face.

Having the characters actively brought to life, instead of passively lying on the printed page, gave Pahimakas Sa Isang Ahente (the working title they gave this Tinio translation) a raw power and energy that I did not experience the first time I encountered Miller's opus. The impassioned love-resentment tango between Willy Loman and his favorite son, Biff; the failures and shortcomings of all the members of the Loman family; and the aching sadness and helpless frustration of realizing that one's life can amount to so little in terms of legacy hit a little too close to home. 

More than once, I saw my father and myself in Willy and Biff, and my ongoing love/anger relationship with him gets mixed with a drop of insight into how frustrated he must be at his unwanted and unplanned retirement; his unspoken aspirations for me (unlike Loman's very strident ambitions for his son); and whether the sum total of his life achievements tally with his own personal calculations, and how much - or how little - discrepancy there is in the balance sheet.

When Biff grabs his father in a pleading, desperate embrace in the middle of a furious, drawn-out fight near the climax, it was really, really too close to home. 


No, scratch that.


It was a direct hit.



I almost, almost wept, memories of an almost exact scene my own father and I played out in real life years ago rising like a geyser of emotion.

Goddamn, I don't get that kind of poignancy from a telenovela, although the essence of Miller's play is human frailty leading to a family tragedy - something that's squarely in the wheelhouse of any dramatic serye.

I suppose it's this universality, coupled with Tinio's translation - while imperfect - that makes the play more accessible.( He could've easily changed the locations and the currency to local Filipino ones without losing anything of substance, but these are minor quibbles.) Indeed, while the audience (largely composed of high schoolers, undoubtedly and literally on assignment) tended to laugh at crucial, inopportune moments (I don't recall the play having much levity), the sniffles came loud and clear when Willy Loman's ultimate fate dawned upon them. (A denouement cannily sidestepped by the Tagalog title; pahimakas is not a word familiar to even I, and it was my dinner companion - an older female colleague - who illuminated me on its meaning: a romantic term for goodbye .) 


Pamamaalam, in short.


Although I am more partial to its other meaning: testament.

tes·ta·ment

ˈtestəmənt/

noun

1. 1. 

   a person's will, especially the part relating to personal property.
2. 2. 

   something that serves as a sign or evidence of a specified fact, event, or quality.

   "growing attendance figures are a testament to the event's popularity"

   synonyms:

   testimony, witness, evidence, proof, attestation;  demonstration, indication, symbol, exemplification;  monument, tribute

For indeed, Miller's play is a testament to the paltry sum of a man's lifelong labors, the evidence that is lacking in terms of its meaning, its monumental tragedy. It is also something we, the audience, bear witness to.

If Miller's words are moving in and of themselves, it is the actors who give his play its raw life force. The members of CCP's resident Tanghalang Pilipino troupe, led by the explosive 29(!!!)-year old Jonathan Tadioan (alternating with the more age-appropriate Nanding Josef) as the Loman patriarch, and ably supported by Raquel Pareño (alternating with mom Gina) as Linda, his loving, loyal wife; Marco Viaña (alternating with Yul Servo) as Biff, the eldest, favored son; and Ricardo Magno as Happy, the younger Loman, breathe passionate, angry, flailing life to the Greek tragedy of the Loman family. 

A universal tale so enduring that the relevance of the Tony Award-winning 1949 play resonates with such cruel clarity to this day.


=====================

P.S.

Full disclosure.

I had casually wanted to see this play because of a running joke about going to see Yul Servo (the other, more well-known actor essaying Biff) up close and personal, but I'm crushing on tonight's alternate, Marco Viaña. Which comes as a surprise to me because 1.) I haven't crushed on anyone for a loooooong time; 2.) I don't normally go for skinny, maputi guys (hence the thing for Yul "The Brown Animal" Servo). 

But who can figure out these things? I think I got sold when Viaña (who strikes me now as a young Tommy Abuel) started weeping at a key point in the play. Weakness usually incites predatory instincts instead of pity in me, and yet, seeing him trembling in betrayed anger, looking so innocent and vulnerable, just made me want to go over and hug him (and maybe cop a feel or two.)

I just want what's best for you.

And maybe I wasn't the only sucker for vulnerability in an angry young man, if the shrieks of the girls as Viaña came out for curtain call was any indication.

It was like the sound of a thousand vaginas screaming.

Never thought Miller time could be thriller time.


=====================

You can still catch Pahimakas Sa Isang Ahente on Oct. 18, Sat. and Oct. 19, Sun. at 3 pm.

Sans Comment

Style and Substance

"You are what you wear."

"Clothes make the man."

"Dress the part."


Does science prove that these old bromides are true, after all ?

As the great Miranda Priestly would say:

Viernes Santo

Gabriel Garcia-Marquez is dead.

Vaya con Dios, tio.

And Then There Were Demons

The world as we knew it had ended. There was no warning. If there were, I had missed it.

The apocalypse was not one of cleansing fire. From where I was, it was a ringing emptiness.

I remember yelling and screaming that it was all a bad dream, and that I wanted things to go back the way they were. But my mind said that it was not a dream.There was no going back.




And I just yelled some more.




Presently I found myself opening the front door.

People were shuffling aimlessly outside. My heart was beating so fast as my body tensed, fight or flight kicking in.



I ran out.




My feet turned to lead.

I didn't get very far until one of them got me.






Then I was dead.






And then, through a haze of surprising half-consciousness, I saw the other undead, shambling my way.

No threat now. We were one.



I saw mothers. And children.
They were moaning.


Then I realized why they moan.

They do not moan because they want to scare the living.

They moan because they do not want to be undead.

The moaning is a cry for help.

But no one listens.

No one can help.




And then there were demons.






A small one was taunting me. Sitting next to my head.

The other - a bigger, silver-blue one - held onto me as it stabbed tines into my side.

Over and over.

Then it leered, and thought - rather than said - that it was going to stab me for all eternity.




Then I woke up.

Encore

Almost a year ago to the day, we had that incredible meteor exploding dramatically over Russian airspace.

Tonight, an 885-foot long asteroid will make a flyby near Earth at 27,000 mph.

I understand you can watch it live, online.

Good times.

Something Wicked This Way Has Come

Caught Wicked on opening night last Wednesday.

What a wonderful way to open the 2014 cultural season.

Was apprehensive about technical glitches, it being opening night and all, but apart from a flying monkey's wings not opening all the way, everything went fabulously.

The two leads evoked the original duo - Menzel and Chenoweth - with their powerful, distinctive voices and overall presence. And for once, my bad eyesight did me a small favor, allowing me to imagine the original leads onstage.

It was a thrill to witness my favorite numbers from the musical being performed live. And as I predicted, it was Popular that ignited the crowd to roaring laughter and applause and set the tone for the rest of the night.

Ooh, project!

As the song goes "It's all about po-pu-lar!"

Strangely enough, while the signature song "Defying Gravity" was goose-bumpingly soaring and powerful, I found myself struck with a song I didn't really pay much attention to before: romantic but witless lead Fiyero's ode to a carefree existence  "Dancing Through Life" :

Hey, look! It's Enjolras.

Maybe when life has furrowed our brows with many cares and worries, an unexamined life seems worth living instead.

The trouble with schools is
They always teach the wrong lesson
Believe me, I've been kicked out
Of enough of them to know

They want you to become less callow
Less shallow
But I say: why invite stress in?
Stop studying strife
And learn to live
"The unexamined life"

Dancing through life
Skimming the surface
Gliding where turf is smooth

Life is painless
For the brainless
Why think too hard
When it's so soothing?

Dancing through life
No need to tough it
When you can slough it off
As I do?

Nothing matters
But knowing nothing matters
It's just life
So keep dancing through

Dancing through life
Swaying and sweeping
And always keeping cool

Life is fraught less
When you're thoughtless
Those who don't try
Never look foolish

Dancing through life
Mindless and careless
Make sure you're where less
Trouble in life

Woes are fleeting
Blows are glancing
When you're dancing
Through life

Dancing through life
Down at the Ozdust
If only because dust
Is what we come to

And the strange thing
Your life could end up changing
While you're dancing
Through!

At any rate, do try and catch Wicked. It's a tale about friendship and love, alternately funny and poignant.

Kristin Chenoweth's farewell performance. 

Which lent the scene a special kind of poignancy.

In short, it's wicked good.

Remains of the Day

My phone rang at 6:00 p.m.

It was Roman, my friend and one of my ex-business partners.

I winced and debated about taking the call or not. The last time I had spoken to Roman, he was still going on about the non-existent division of final profits from our unfortunate business venture that shut down two years ago. An unpleasantness  beyond remedy that I had already decided to bury in the past, but which he seemed determined to keep alive.

I bit the bullet and pressed Answer. I heard the discordant noise of what seemed like a child singing, so I thought he'd just butt-dialed me when his voice, full of his trademark happy grin, came on.

"Asan ka?"

"Ha?" I yelled over the din of what was clearly a videoke in the background.

"Asan ka? Punta ka dito."

"Bakit?"

"Birthday ko."


-------------------------------


It should be abundantly clear to anyone who's read this blog that I am hopeless when it comes to significant dates like birthdays and anniversaries. My success as a producer would be impossible were it not for the existence of PMs and PAs to constantly remind me of meetings and bookings and other schedules.

And of course, I have friends like Roman who thoughtfully remind me of their birthdays, like an annual tradition.



"Deretso lang ito, sa Intramuros golf club. Andito rin si Kiko, hintayin ka namin."


Kiko is another mutual friend. Roman's lieutenant, and another business partner in the failed venture.

I normally bail on birthday celebrations - particularly ones that feature live, tuneless singing as the primary entertainment - but it is a testament to how highly I value Roman's friendship that I managed to drag myself out of bed. Sure, it took three hours later, and fifteen minutes more debating whether to drive or take a cab to Intramuros.

Laziness won out, as usual, and another ten minutes were spent waiting for a cab.


And then it was off to see old friends.


-------------------------------



The undeniable sound of a live band - not a videoke machine, as I had surmised - was the only sign of life in the darkened fortress called the Intramuros Golf Club. I fumbled my way along the unlit, abandoned back entrance and eventually emerged at the roofdeck, awash in stage lights. 


"Asan si Major?" I asked the maitre d'.

"Who, sir?"

"Major Roman, the celebrant."

"Oh, si Colonel? This way, sir."


So it's Colonel, now. It really HAD been a long time.



-------------------------------

Roman was in his cups, but looking precisely the same. The unflappable smile, the boyish bonhomie was still there.

He bounced his 9-year old son off his lap as he got up to hug me.

"Is that your kid?" I asked, incredulously. "Grabe, ang laki na!"


My colleagues' children have had, of late, the annoying habit of turning into adolescents and worse, teenagers.

I've burned them into children in the CD-RW of my brain, but overwrites are as insistent and annoying as prompts for system updates.



-------------------------------

Bottles of San Mig Light instantly appeared and I leaned over.


"Halos one year na 'ko di umiinom!" I yelled at Roman over the din of the band.

"Bakit?"

"Sumakit tagiliran ko, eh. Yoko malaman. Para surprise."


Roman just grinned and, ever hospitable, had his minions produce a bottle of white wine, and graciously poured me a glass.

Kiko, still the irrepressible party boy - if getting a little thick in the middle - was the de facto Master of Ceremonies, alternating between plying everyone with drinks and harassing the female band singers.

It seemed just like old times - with the conspicuous absence of my ex-bff, Vincent.



-------------------------------

"Any news from Vincent?" I inquired as I tentatively sipped my first taste of alcohol.

"Ayun, nasa Vegas pa din."

"His press releases on FB say he's in Spain," I snickered. "Nice to see he hasn't changed."

"May bago siyang lover," Roman grinned. "Purong Pinoy."


I am perplexed. Then I figure the white guy he had been with shortly after his flight to exile was ancient history.


"Why is he with a brown boy when he could be swindling the locals instead?"

Roman grinned wider.

"Lahat ng credit card, nakapangalan sa boyfriend."


I'd forgotten that Pinoys are even easier to grift - especially when they're star-struck and madly in love.

And Vincent is an unchangeable aspect of nature, just like gravity, and just as irresistible. He sucks people in, and then they fall hard.

Nevertheless, I find myself slightly missing him, on this night so reminiscent of countless other nights when we'd drink ourselves stupid while lackeys and toadies of all stripes attended to us like kings. The promise of easy, casual sexual adventures ever-present in the air, the arrogance of our handsome youth, the oyster that was the world.


I blame the wine, then one of Roman's boys pours me a second glass as I try to recall the moment when I turned into the immovable object to Vincent's irresistible force.



-------------------------------

"Speaking of swindling," I segued into the inevitable. "How are our Chinese friends?"


Roman made a face.


"They stole P200,000.00 from us."

"Did the bank verify?"



Roman swigged his drink and poured out another.

"Sarado na yung account."


I'd long accepted my share of P200,000.00 as a very small price to pay for not choosing business partners more wisely, but it had rubbed Roman like a pebble in his shoe and he had been bruising for two years now.


"Nakita ko nga yung isang mokong sa taxi one time. Kinawayan pa ako."

"Why didn't you just shoot him on the spot? You do control Chinatown, after all."


Roman grinned.


I always did say "Kung hindi mo kayang ibaon sa limot, ibaon mo na lang sa lupa."



-------------------------------

But I'd long gotten over the bitter truth that the Chinese partners in our doomed enterprise had swindled us out of profit. Roman is a trusting guy - well, we all were - but the fact that Vincent was the most vocal proponent of that consortium should've rung alarm bells like Balangiga.

Because trusting Vincent with money is like trusting a fox with chicks. And he has a head for business the same way a mudfish has an aptitude for applied chemistry.

Nevertheless, even Vincent, shifty as he is, got shafted in the end, so I guess there's always a bigger crook.

We should've just burned the place down when we had the chance.

Still - it no longer really bugs me the way it did. We were stupid, the Chinese confirmed a stereotype and got the better of us, end of story.

I'd still dance on their graves, though. It's one of the few things that keep me alive.


-------------------------------

Kiko came over and whispered that the band was about to end its final set. But Roman was just getting started, and decreed that he would just pay the band for an extension.

Kiko scampered off to take care of matters, and the music switched to 80s hits as the band broke for dinner.

Roman and I both grinned like idiots as Seona Dancing's "More To Lose" came on.

"Kapanahunan!"

He grinned even more.


"So, kumusta naman si Colonel?" he asked.


-------------------------------


We used to cry
About the day when one of us might fall
Weak and blindly
Into another's arms
Demands all gained from jealousies
Would flow like water, drowning us
But leaving us with just another
Lover's false alarm


-------------------------------


I have too many Colonels in my life. Maybe I'm impressed by rank too much. Or conflating it with accomplishment, which I in turn conflate with worthiness.

Then again, I am the son of a military man, and grew up thinking we were the Von fucking Trapps.

Must be them goddamned daddy issues.


I shrug.


"Why don't you ask him? We never talk anymore."


Roman looked deep in thought, and for a moment seemed about to disclose a confidence to me. But I'd long learned not to ask too many questions, especially if there was a clear and present danger I wouldn't like the answers.

The moment passed.


"Tell him to go talk to General Trias," he finally said.


-------------------------------

A thousand tortured lives have fallen
Wounded, dying, cut down by the
Questions that we'd sharpened 
Just to save our losing days

We thought with nothing more to lose
We'd tear our hearts with jagged truths 
And everything we'd hung to for so long
Just slipped away


-------------------------------



But the wine had gone to my head by that time.

Used to be we'd drink people under the table. I remember the infamous Jagermeister launch, open bar. The first and last time I touched that German abomination. The first time I blacked out due to alcohol, the first time I had to leave my car behind out of sheer full-on plasteredness.

From the few flashbacks I recall, the night ended with me being asked by Vincent not to puke in his mom's brand-new car as he brought me home, where I would hug the downstairs toilet bowl praying for death to come.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of EDSA, Roman and Kiko, in a haze of digestif-induced mania, were peppering the pre-dawn air with semi-automatics.

Clearly, one of the few times Vincent was the lesser evil.


-------------------------------


And now it's over
Both of us through
And I feel older


------------------------------


But now, years later, two glasses of wine and I am undone.

Vincent in exile. No more private club to call our own little playground.

At least Roman's career seems to have recovered. Colonel Roman, now. He's a good guy and a decent man, and deserves it.

Some other officers arrive at the party - senior ones, from the way Roman greets them - and I take the opportunity to sneak off to the restroom.

And from there, tipsy with memories, I slip away into the night.


-------------------------------


And now we're moving to new beginnings
But as we move we look once behind
To see what we might find of
Lost loves and old thoughts 
Of our nights of winnings
That lunge, tear and grasp
At lost wanting minds

last post for the year.

I hated you 2013.