Gaypril Fools

Encore

Plus ca change, 

plus c'est la meme chose.

The Clique of Claqueurs.

"Everything's beautiful at the ballet...hey," sang the character Sheila in A Chorus Line.


And it is.

Mostly.


If you ever saw Black Swan, you'd have had some idea how ruthless things can get in the business of producing ephemeral works of art and beauty. And as if to drive home that point, in Russia, there is a middle-aged clique who controls the professional-applause racket at the Bolshoi.

That's right. This is a thing.

"Don't cry. Pay."

If the Chinese have professional Crying Ladies, the Russians have professional Applauders. And while the very idea sounds farcical at first thought, giving credit where credit is due was not always the norm in the performing arts:

The idea that applause in response to performance should be spontaneous is a relatively new one. Roman emperors trained professionals to mingle with crowds at key moments, encouraging the dull roar of approval that speaks of a mandate. This behavior was refined in the theaters of 18th- and 19th-century France, where the term “claque” — from the phrase “to clap” — was coined. At the Paris Opera, claqueurs became mighty arbiters of theatrical success; Balzac writes in “La Comédie Humaine” that the chief of the claque had “the endorsement of the boulevard playwrights, all of whom have an account with him, as they would with a banker.”

And even in this late day and age, the modern claqueurs wield enough power to actually sabotage a danseur's performance:

It is possible, for instance, to clap off-rhythm when a dancer is performing the series of difficult turns called fouettés, he said. “Kolya fell down because of us many times, because I was at war with him for years and arranged these things for him,” he said, of Mr. Tsiskaridze. “Poor guy, in ‘Raymonda’ he screwed up the whole variation and flew off and ended up with his nose on the floor. In ‘Nutcracker’ once, I made him drop his fouetté, from way up high, and he sat down on his bottom, butt facing the hall. And we all laughed.”

Faux-pas de deux?

Read more at the link. 


In the meantime, this gives me a deliciously wicked idea for Giselle tomorrow night.

Get Your Panties In A Bunch

At one point in the toy-commercial-masquerading-as-a-movie G.I. Joe: Retaliation , lead characters Duke (Channing Tatum) and Roadblock (Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson) underscore their homoerotic bromance with the following exchange:

        Roadblock : It's up. Like your panties.  

        Duke : You love my panties.

                             Roadblock : ... 

Especially when I slip them off your fine, fine ass.

Now, I'd have chalked up this witless banter to bad, baaaad screenwriting had The Rock not been gushing over Tatum's good looks IRL:

It's not just us girls who think Channing Tatum is hot - his co-star The Rock also thinks the Magic Mike star is a hunk too!

          The wrestler (real name Dwayne Johnson) worked closely with Tatum on their   
          latest action movie G.I. Joe: Retaliation and by the sound of it, he's now got a   
          little man crush on Channing.

          In fact, Johnson even thinks the 32-year old heartthrob deserved to be named the Sexiest Man Alive by   
          People magazine last year.

          "He's a good looking guy," Dwayne said at the London premiere of the movie this week. "World's sexiest 
           man by People magazine."

          "Love Channing. (He's a) Great, great guy. Very humble. Very cool. I'm very happy for all his success."


Then again, this isn't an entry about Dwayne Johnson's comfortability with his sexuality.

Nor slashfic about Duke N' Roadblock.


Let's talk about Channing Tatum's panties again.


More specifically: what are your thoughts on lingerie for men?

This is just so wrong, on many levels. I mean, a man and...and... a woman?!?

Anecdotally, I actually know a very built, masculine, straight guy whose love of wearing panties is an open secret among us, his friends.

After the initial months of ribbing from us, the fact that he wears women's silk panties under his jeans is as much a non-issue as his haircut or whether he shaved that day or not.

Maybe he's a grower.

Now, while I'm happy my friends are comfortable enough in their skin to publicly declare what they wear next to their privates, I'm not quite so sure about the wonders of "mangerie."

I like to think of myself as open-minded as the next guy, but maybe I draw the line at wearing feminine underthings.

Kinda changes the context of the whole "'Sup, brah?" thing.

It's hard enough to admit that I'm on the fence in the eternal Tighty Whities Vs. Boxers debate (for the record: I prefer athletic boxer briefs). Throwing Thong Vs. Teddy Vs. C-String into the mix would be enough to set me free balling again.

Awww... a lace teddy bear.

I understand, though, that there are a number of not-necessarily-gay Filipino men who actually enjoy wearing women's undergarments. They're not necessarily fetishists or cross-dressers : one simply admitted to me that he loves the soft feel of silk or satin against his nether regions, compared to say, cotton, which can sometimes be scratchy.

But that brings up the question: why not just buy silk men's boxers or briefs?

And speaking of scratchy, I think lace is nice to look at, but it looks itchy as all hell. Just imagining it sitting next to my testicles makes me want to scratch them till they're raw.

Unless you're Dennis Rodman. In which case you're far away 

enough from sanity to wear whatever you goddamn please.

If I sound like somebody put starch in my bloomers, maybe it's because I'm just an old-fashioned guy.


Or maybe because guys in panties just simply look ridiculous.

And I'm / Too sexy/ For this thong

United Nations of Porn

What are the top searches for porn per country?

If you've ever wondered, well, wonder no more.

PornMD has thoughtfully provided an interactive porn habits infographic that breaks down the Top 10 internet porn searchwords per country.


Naturally, you'd be wondering what the Philippines has been looking for online :

Click to embiggen.

What does it say about us that 5 out of 10 searches were gay-related?

But that doesn't make us win the Miss Gay Country crown, not by a long shot.


As usual, it's South America that takes the prize, with Chile as the first runner-up:

9 out of 10. Not bad. But not good enough.

And taking home the crown - Peru :

                                                                        A perfect gay 10!

And on that note, here's Trekkie Monster from Avenue Q, with that delightful ditty celebrating the wonders of the internet.

Which is for porn, porn, poooorrrrrnnnn!!!

Trés Misérables

Burn, bitches.

Like my good friend Maleficent and, probably, you, I was not invited to Resorts Worlds Manila's formal-attire only gala premiere of Tom Hooper's Les Misérables.

But fear not. There was no need to cast curses involving spindles and eighteen-year olds falling asleep for a hundred years.

Because schadenfreude is my middle name, I simply wonder - with much concern and sadness, to be sure - how tres misérable the chi-chi crowd felt at last night's disastrous non-showing of that famous film. 

Lame Misérables, as a pundit acquaintance of mine put it.

Technical difficulties, indeed. I understand Wilson Tieng looked ready to burst several blood vessels after this major major social snafu, the poor dear. All those VIPs dressed to the nines, with Christian Bautista, Karylle, Audie Gemora and other singers performing live numbers from the musical (accompanied on piano by no less than Ryan Cayabyab!) as a front act to a gala that was not to be.

Alors, alors, c'est-la vie, oui?

Et parce que plus de choses changent, plus ils restent le méme, regardez-vous cette nouvelle caravane pour Les Misérables: la nouvelle adaptation cinematographique de Tom Hooper. Avec Hugh Jackman étoile comme Jean Valjean, Russell Crowe étoile comme Javert, Anne Hathaway comme Fantine, et Amanda Seyfried comme Cosette.

Je ne connais pas la fille que joue Eponine ( Samantha Barks, en remplancement de Taylor Swift et Scarlett Johansson), mais n'en faire pas.

Oui, oui, j'adore, j'adore!

Double-Header

Who do I have to kill to get tickets around here?

In yet another example of the best-laid plans of mice and men, I was able to drag my lazy depressed ass out of bed long enough to actually watch Phantom of the Opera with a date - by actually not planning to.

My sister had wanted to watch The King and I and, giving her FB profile a cursory glance, saw that Ayen, our genteel and venerable head make-up artist, friend, and colleague (who happened to be on my sister's  Friends List) expressed a longing to watch the musical this weekend, too. I knew, however, given how frugal he was, that the play would be a bit of a guilty luxury for him. 

Dammit, who do we have to kill to get tickets around here?

In a rare fit of largesse, I asked my sister to inquire about tickets so that she could watch said musical with Ayen, as a surprise treat for them both.

So off she skipped and hopped to Ticketworld, my good little Red Riding Hood. And since she was already there, I figured I may as well have her inquire about tickets to Phantom, as well. Mainly because I remembered a promise I made to Brandon, my old ex-employee and protégé, that I'd take him to see that musical as my date - on the proviso that he attend dressed as a woman, complete with evening gown and jewels. (Brandon is a drag show performer by trade, but one whose bone structure makes him pretty enough, to the uninitiated, to actually pass for female.)

Go big or go home, bitch.

In the ensuing flurry of text messages between my sister, Brandon, Ayen, and myself, availabilities were hastily laid on the table and I basically let fate decide where the chips fell. To no one's surprise, Phantom was pretty much fully-booked except for two adjacent VIP seats, which, as fate would have it, were being offered at a substantial discount because the original reservations had been cancelled. 


There was just one catch, though: the tickets were for the following night. 


Short notice is short.


Brandon, whose theatrical, potentially-eyebrow raising entrance into the unctuous halls of the CCP had been a minor on-off side project of mine for months, unfortunately was not permitted by his new bosses to take the evening off on that night. Having already given the go-ahead to my sister/emissary to purchase said pair of tickets  - and with her already possessing her own tickets to a later Phantom playdate - I was left with an extra seat and no drag queen to drag along and show off to the culturati.

Grand guignol calls for grand entrances.

One text later and Ayen was, in his own words, on Cloud Nine.

And because sometimes real-life plots thicken like Broadway story lines, my sister - whose desire to watch The King and I set all these wheels in motion - suddenly ups and declares that due to a work emergency, she cannot make it to her weekend with Ayen.

Which makes me Ayen's musical date this weekend.

The Queen and I.

Two for the road. Shall we dance?

And so it will pass that Ayen will not only get his wish to watch The King and I this weekend, as my date, gratis et amore, but thanks to a series of unfortunate (for Brandon) events, he also became my unexpected date for Phantom last night. 

Better luck next time, Brandon, my angel of music.

A case of a girl making a wish to the FB gods and seeing it come true.

Or just being in the right place at the right time.

However, despite my edict that he arrive in nothing less than a fussy, spangled Bob Mackie rip-off, Ayen showed up in a smart, tasteful pantsuit. Not exactly La Carlotta sniffing at the riffraff in the nosebleeds, but at least he was in heels. 

And because the sparkling vision of bugle-beaded serpentina-tottering fabulousness that I had pre-prodded Brandon to be was stuck in my brain like a glittering splinter, I festooned Ayen with enough Swarovski to rival the Phantom's legendary chandelier - to much side-eyeing and eyebrow-raising all around.

I just wanted my date to upstage the lighting fixture. 

It's not too much to ask.

And I was a happy little camper in a three-piece suit.





Oh.





And the show was great, too.

Here's Chuckles with Andrew Lloyd Webber. Thinking of me.

And the much, much-better studio version. With lyrics.

Because this goddamn song makes me cry every time.

Black On White : A Gay Pride Filmfest

Since I won't be here to celebrate Fag Festival 2012™ (off to Bangkok again in the morning, where Pride is commercialized sometime during the -Ber months), I leave you with a few little shorts, which will hopefully amuse you as you primp and preen for all the fabulous fun and fancy activities on this Dandy Day of Debauchery.


First off is this charming little homage to the divine Karen Black's Trilogy of Terror, in particular the 3rd installment involving that Zuni doll with petty rage issues:

In case you're curious, kittens, here's the original. 

I suggest you watch it in all its full schlocky 1975 TV-movie glory:

Part 2:

And finally, Part 3:

Unfortunately, I couldn't seem to find the one where the Karen Black character was being assaulted by a murderous dildo instead of a rampaging doll. (Karen Black Like Me, 1997, by Mirra Bank.  A 10-minute marvel from the Best of Boys In Love DVD compilation*, thank God for Google). That one definitely had me in stitches - of the laughing kind.

But see how the Rainbow Gods of Gayness smile upon us! In place of an anonymous queen being attacked by a plastic penis, here's drag queen goddess RuPaul in his 1st Made-For-TV movie, back when s/he was a wee twiggy lass just scaling the heights of ambition:

And with that, I bid you Happy Gay Pride! 


Ride with Pride!


Or if not, at least launder with it.

For more whiteness in your White Party.




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


*I actually have this DVD, but damn this early morning flight. Means I can't yet rip it for our mutual video viewing pleasure. But I will sometime. 


Just because I love you. 


Yeah, that's it.

Chronicle of a Death Foretold

Once upon a time, in the golden days of antiquity, we ruled over fabled, far-flung fields of faggotry called mIRC.


With a /kick as our shield and a /ban as our sword, we maintained the peace and served homosexual happiness long before Cherry Coke, across vast channels upon channels of "a/s/l?" heathens as far as our servers could reach.


In this storied and mystical realm, my friend Miguel (first appearance here ) and his lover were one of the most celebrated couples : the Tristan and Isolde, the Arthur and Guinevere, the Merlin and Niviane of our time.


(It being the infancy of the internet and with no Twitter, Facebook, or Angry Birds to occupy our indolence, we had to take our amusements where we could get them.)




But like any good classical tale, tragedy would eventually befall this blissful union. 




One black day, a shadow fell across the land, and the whole of mIRC itself seemed to have been shaken to its very foundations  with this shocking news:  my friend Miguel's lover was dead.


Teeth were gnashed and hair was torn, but there was no lamentation of women - perhaps because we were in fucking #gaymanila, where men were men and hymen were verboten.


At any rate, much wailing and weeping and running of the mascara ensued. However, the piteous inquiries into the wake and eventual funeral of our fallen hero were met with somber, polite responses that the family - alias the bereaved "spouse" aka my friend Miguel - wished to maintain their privacy at that difficult time.


Memorials were held, tributes were given, toasts were made.


And life, eventually, went on.


.
.
.
.
.




And apparently, so did my friend Miguel's deceased paramour. At first there were but wind-carried whispers in the woods. Then, rumblings of rumors spoke of the dearly departed having been spotted in some howling hinterland or other. Had the hero become a restless wraith? A reproachful spectre? An accursed day spa customer wrapped in herbal bindings mistaken for a malevolent mummy?




Heresy! Malice! The Black Arts! 




These initial, unwarranted blasphemies were naturally met by the good, upstanding citizenry with unhushed indignation, righteous anger, and hand-wringing horror: how ghoulish, how insensitive, how cold-hearted, indeed, to dishonor the memory of the valiant dead in so callous a manner.




And yet...




More and more sightings occurred, as surely as the sun rose in the east and set in its westerly rest. The stories not only persisted; they grew...and grew...and grew. And like an outbreak of plague, fear, panic and confusion soon set in among the populace. Chaos mounted and anarchy rose, threatening to cleave the realm in two, betwixt the pious believers ("The good man is dead; please let him rest in peace!") and the vociferous unbelievers ("I tell you the goddamn fucker's alive!")


In the service of truth and for the sake of the increasingly-agitated denizens of mIRC, we turned to the "widow" aka my friend Miguel. Pray, we beseeched, put an end to these gruesome speculations and speak! Once and for all say that he is no more, that his memory be consecrated and the forked tongues of the barbarous hordes be silenced forever.




Eventually, after impassioned entreaties gave way to the more efficient methods of threats and a few well-aimed smacks around the head, the truth arose like Excalibur from the lake. 




Not only was the "dead" scoundrel alive: he and his erstwhile consort ( aka my friend Miguel) had, in a final conjugal act of Shakespearian complicity, actually orchestrated his "death." 




Why, you ask? Why this Great Lie? Why this Gandalfian conjuring of cheap tricks?




Why, Lord, why?!?! 




The wool was pulled and we were made a ship of fools because the star-crossed lovers felt that having us believe one of them had gone on to the Great Internet Relay Chatroom In The Sky was, to them, a much more preferable alternative to having everyone know the banal truth: that Romeo and Julio had broken up and that their perfect union had been a sham for quite sometime already.


And so, once more, teeth were gnashed, hair was torn, and yet again, there was no lamentation from women. A few lipstick lesbians hither and thither, though, tittered with twee glee upon learning of this terrible tale of twisted lies and tangled deceit: a Rapunzel's skein woven by our very own paragons of virtue and propriety.




'Tis a story worthy of Gabriel Garcia-Marquez, had he set pen to paper in the service of farce instead of magical realism.




And what is the point of the retelling of this true and ancient tale, I hear you, dear reader, say?


Why, nay, there is no point to be made.


No point at all.




Save that of fables and foibles, and how one intertwines with the other.






Or to paraphrase Sir Walter Scott: 


"Oh what wondrous webs we weave.


When first we learn how to deceive."

A New Gay Haven

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.

National Coming Out Day

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.