(Lex Bonife is the writer of the widely acclaimed films "Ang Lalaki Sa Parola" and "Ang Lihim ni Antonio")
Book author Louie Cano is one of my favorite chit chat buddy over the dumb bells and bench press of Fitness First. His latest work "Masculadoll: Mga Sanaysay ng Buhay Bading na di Buking" is his first work that I have ever read. And I must say it brought me to fits of laughter for the past two days.
His colorful and flamboyant account as a muscled gay man dancing on the ledge of Bed Bar, hooking up with different men from the "discreet" to the "rent" boys, breaking his heart with an arrogantly imbecile man, and remembering his juvenile affair with his cute classmate makes me appreciate the rich diversity of life as a gay man through the lens of an irreverent humor.
Congratulations, Louie for "Masculadoll"
(Blush. Thanks, Lexxx!)
.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Amboy
I was in the City of Angels to, uhm, celebrate the folding up of my first moleskine, to…er, commemorate the birth of my wisdom tooth, er, uhm, extol my grossed out choice to singlehood. Ain’t convincing, is it?
Dateline: Friday, 4ish AM. I packed up for a road trip with my pink BFF MJ. Garbed in my plaid gray pantaloons lined with snippets of pink and orange (I was reeking bakla from the waist down), a mauve tank and my trusty Chucks. I was gunning at getting ‘lucky’ so I’ve brought an extra tube o’ lube. Hehe.
Friday night, MJ hosted an O party. I thought I’ve already file O under BeenThereDoneThat that it didn’t stir any interest to me anymore, but when I barge on MJ’s door what greeted was a bunch of hotties—all eight of ‘em. No sooner than I can strp, I was serving Jose Cuervo bare toped naked. I burped to my gum’s content.
The morning after, it was time to explore the city’s wares. Nightime, we went to the Fieldstrip when I got a call from R who hooked me up with his Amboy ex, M. Now I am not the type who would partake on someone else’s leftover, but he was Yummy Personified that I just gotta have some. I got some, and ‘some’ was too much of an understatement, M went beyond, way beyond, expectation.
After slambangin’ with Amboy, I went back to Fields to re-align with MJ et al. Next stop was Diamond.
Dateline: Friday, 4ish AM. I packed up for a road trip with my pink BFF MJ. Garbed in my plaid gray pantaloons lined with snippets of pink and orange (I was reeking bakla from the waist down), a mauve tank and my trusty Chucks. I was gunning at getting ‘lucky’ so I’ve brought an extra tube o’ lube. Hehe.
Friday night, MJ hosted an O party. I thought I’ve already file O under BeenThereDoneThat that it didn’t stir any interest to me anymore, but when I barge on MJ’s door what greeted was a bunch of hotties—all eight of ‘em. No sooner than I can strp, I was serving Jose Cuervo bare toped naked. I burped to my gum’s content.
The morning after, it was time to explore the city’s wares. Nightime, we went to the Fieldstrip when I got a call from R who hooked me up with his Amboy ex, M. Now I am not the type who would partake on someone else’s leftover, but he was Yummy Personified that I just gotta have some. I got some, and ‘some’ was too much of an understatement, M went beyond, way beyond, expectation.
After slambangin’ with Amboy, I went back to Fields to re-align with MJ et al. Next stop was Diamond.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Go-see
(How to slaughter a dream)
THERE I was, last Saturday, sitting as one-fourth of the deciding panel for the go-see of The First Philippine Models Weekend. A go-see—for the flair-impaired—is plain models’ audition in glitzy fashionspeak. Over 300+ model-wannabes were on a call-back and t’was me-myself-and-I’s triumvirate of a brainchild to summon the pretty young minions of fashion to gather and copulate at my Chuck’ed feet (yeah, words can be verbosely accessorized a la Galiano’s aesthetics).
It was an unabashed mix. There were the chiseled good looking ones, the rugged diamonds in the rough. There were washboard abs and lotsa boobies spilling out their tank tops and low-down scooped tees. But there were also the the plain Janes, simple schmucks and the uglies, the bunch with nothing but loads of unrealistic dream persistence.
If there’s one word to describe the elimination, it would be UNAPOLOGETIC. It was a slaughterhouse. It was so Simon Cowell back there. The panel (composed of a fashion editor, a fashion stylist, a PR practitioner and moi), was blunt, matter-of-factly and direct to the point. I saw applicants jumping out of their skins as I hand them the coveted Official Postcard that invites them to The First Philippine Models Weekend. But I was also a heart wrenching witness to wannabes with pleading eyes and “Please…” written on their lips as they were handed out the No verdict.
It broke my heart. I know how it is to dream big. To be splattered in your face with a harsh No was just a lashing, arduous experience. What sprinkled salt to my wounded heart was that it was all based on looks.
Looks. Just that and nothing more.
I get an enchilada of thoughts up my head. Is fashion really superficial? Who are we to judge who is beautiful and who is not? Who are we to be arbiters of good taste? What gave us the right to kill dreams?
It’s sad that fashion reveals its ugly fangs to me now, but the sadder part is, I am a willing victim to ram it up my throat and hark “Suck it to me, baby!”
God, I swear to my Calvins, I am so bad. Ugh.
THERE I was, last Saturday, sitting as one-fourth of the deciding panel for the go-see of The First Philippine Models Weekend. A go-see—for the flair-impaired—is plain models’ audition in glitzy fashionspeak. Over 300+ model-wannabes were on a call-back and t’was me-myself-and-I’s triumvirate of a brainchild to summon the pretty young minions of fashion to gather and copulate at my Chuck’ed feet (yeah, words can be verbosely accessorized a la Galiano’s aesthetics).
It was an unabashed mix. There were the chiseled good looking ones, the rugged diamonds in the rough. There were washboard abs and lotsa boobies spilling out their tank tops and low-down scooped tees. But there were also the the plain Janes, simple schmucks and the uglies, the bunch with nothing but loads of unrealistic dream persistence.
If there’s one word to describe the elimination, it would be UNAPOLOGETIC. It was a slaughterhouse. It was so Simon Cowell back there. The panel (composed of a fashion editor, a fashion stylist, a PR practitioner and moi), was blunt, matter-of-factly and direct to the point. I saw applicants jumping out of their skins as I hand them the coveted Official Postcard that invites them to The First Philippine Models Weekend. But I was also a heart wrenching witness to wannabes with pleading eyes and “Please…” written on their lips as they were handed out the No verdict.
It broke my heart. I know how it is to dream big. To be splattered in your face with a harsh No was just a lashing, arduous experience. What sprinkled salt to my wounded heart was that it was all based on looks.
Looks. Just that and nothing more.
I get an enchilada of thoughts up my head. Is fashion really superficial? Who are we to judge who is beautiful and who is not? Who are we to be arbiters of good taste? What gave us the right to kill dreams?
It’s sad that fashion reveals its ugly fangs to me now, but the sadder part is, I am a willing victim to ram it up my throat and hark “Suck it to me, baby!”
God, I swear to my Calvins, I am so bad. Ugh.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Chaka Chika on Chicane
I was at Chicane over the weekend.
The set-up was fab and the music was just blarin’ with audiosonic banging assault enough to turn my ear deposits into, ew, melted cheese. The crowd was a cornucopia of pretty young things punctuated with lotsa muscles (yum!) and a feast of cleavages (to the delight of the hets).
But the sound system went off thrice—yupyupyup, 3x!—and it was just so phooey it ruined my momentum for the night. Not even a free drink from this cool bagets with his bevy of shiny, shimmery galpals (they all wore glittery garbs, they’re like, uhm, walking mirror balls) could rev me up again.
I was with Betty Suarez, my best gimik associate, and twas doubly unfortunate that this guy I like from work mistook Betty as my date. Aaarrrgh! I like this guy a lot--he's hot, neat, well-versed and I guess, a 'south' boy (ifyouknowhatimean...) and I heard that he's a recent 'convert' who traded his semi-celeb gf to plain ol' dick worshippin' (who'd blame him, ryt?!). I often get feelers from him (even trailed me by the john a couple of times), but that's it. It's either he's playing coy or just plain dense. Sigh. Make your move, man! MAKE YOUR FRIGGIN' MOVE!!!
The set-up was fab and the music was just blarin’ with audiosonic banging assault enough to turn my ear deposits into, ew, melted cheese. The crowd was a cornucopia of pretty young things punctuated with lotsa muscles (yum!) and a feast of cleavages (to the delight of the hets).
But the sound system went off thrice—yupyupyup, 3x!—and it was just so phooey it ruined my momentum for the night. Not even a free drink from this cool bagets with his bevy of shiny, shimmery galpals (they all wore glittery garbs, they’re like, uhm, walking mirror balls) could rev me up again.
I was with Betty Suarez, my best gimik associate, and twas doubly unfortunate that this guy I like from work mistook Betty as my date. Aaarrrgh! I like this guy a lot--he's hot, neat, well-versed and I guess, a 'south' boy (ifyouknowhatimean...) and I heard that he's a recent 'convert' who traded his semi-celeb gf to plain ol' dick worshippin' (who'd blame him, ryt?!). I often get feelers from him (even trailed me by the john a couple of times), but that's it. It's either he's playing coy or just plain dense. Sigh. Make your move, man! MAKE YOUR FRIGGIN' MOVE!!!
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Paunang Chorva
Foreword ng "Masculadoll"
(My third-born just came off the press, it'll hit the shelves of Powerbooks and National Bookstore by October. Hope you take time to leaf through it.)
GUSTO kong lumipad, pero dahil wala akong pakpak, natutunan ko na lamang magsulat sa hangin.
May kapangyarihang dala ang pagsusulat—parang bato ni Darna o kuryente ni Volta. Ang sisterellang si Zsazsa lumalaklak ng bato at sumisigaw ng “ZATURNNNAHHH!” samantalang ako nama’y humihigop ng mainit na kape, hahayaang mabanlian ang lalamunan at sabay hihiyaw ng “POTASHET! ANG INIT!!!” at saka pa lamang ako sasaniban ng kapangyarihang makapagsulat.
Malaking pakikipagsapalaran ang magsulat—para kang nagbubuntis ng ideya—kukupkupin mo ito sa sulok ng iyong katwiran, patatabain sa dulo ng kawalan at pahihinugin sa gitna ng gunita. Pero dadating ang sandali na kakatayin mo ang bawat hibla at saka ilalatag ang mga ito sa papel. Pagkatapos, isa-isa mo silang pakakawalan—hanggang sa may dapuan.
Madalas makiliti, mapuwing, o ma-praning ang mga dinadapuan ng mga sinulat ko. Salamat na lamang at tinangkilik ng mga vhaklers ang panganay ko, ang Brusko Pink, King Kong Barbies & Other Queer Files, pati na ang Baklese, isama mo na rin ang dati kong column sa The Manila Bulletin at pabugso-bugsong by-line sa The Philippine Star.
Ito ang unang paglalayag kong sumulat sa Filipino. Mabuti naman at napaunlakan ako ng pagkakataong tumugon sa hiling ng mga mambabasang humihirit na “Tagalog naman, sis…”
Naiiba ang Masculadoll dahil humigop ang bawat salita ng, anopangaba, kundi mga misteryong nakaipit sa langit ng alaala. Kadalasa’y maaanghang ang mga salita, pero malimit ding may tamis, kurot, pait (at minsa’s poot) sa gitna ng mga pahina. Ibinabad ang mga pangungusap sa kakaibang panlasa, binudburan ng samu’tsaring buhay bading na di buking at saka inihain sa buong kashoklaan.
Importante sa akin na sumungkit ng mga ideya, kanlungin ang mga ito sa aking imaginary bahay-bata, ibuhol ang tatlo kong fallopian tubes na parang ribbon at saka ialay sa hangin. Fly galore ang drama.
Ayokong ikulong ang mga sinulat ko. Bad yun.
May buhay ang mga salita at alam ko—kapag ikinulong ko lamang sila sa aking sinapupunan, pilit silang sisigaw papalabas at guguhit sa hangin. Kukunot ang noo mo, dahil di mo man sila mabasa, may amoy ang kanilang kaluluwa.
(My third-born just came off the press, it'll hit the shelves of Powerbooks and National Bookstore by October. Hope you take time to leaf through it.)
GUSTO kong lumipad, pero dahil wala akong pakpak, natutunan ko na lamang magsulat sa hangin.
May kapangyarihang dala ang pagsusulat—parang bato ni Darna o kuryente ni Volta. Ang sisterellang si Zsazsa lumalaklak ng bato at sumisigaw ng “ZATURNNNAHHH!” samantalang ako nama’y humihigop ng mainit na kape, hahayaang mabanlian ang lalamunan at sabay hihiyaw ng “POTASHET! ANG INIT!!!” at saka pa lamang ako sasaniban ng kapangyarihang makapagsulat.
Malaking pakikipagsapalaran ang magsulat—para kang nagbubuntis ng ideya—kukupkupin mo ito sa sulok ng iyong katwiran, patatabain sa dulo ng kawalan at pahihinugin sa gitna ng gunita. Pero dadating ang sandali na kakatayin mo ang bawat hibla at saka ilalatag ang mga ito sa papel. Pagkatapos, isa-isa mo silang pakakawalan—hanggang sa may dapuan.
Madalas makiliti, mapuwing, o ma-praning ang mga dinadapuan ng mga sinulat ko. Salamat na lamang at tinangkilik ng mga vhaklers ang panganay ko, ang Brusko Pink, King Kong Barbies & Other Queer Files, pati na ang Baklese, isama mo na rin ang dati kong column sa The Manila Bulletin at pabugso-bugsong by-line sa The Philippine Star.
Ito ang unang paglalayag kong sumulat sa Filipino. Mabuti naman at napaunlakan ako ng pagkakataong tumugon sa hiling ng mga mambabasang humihirit na “Tagalog naman, sis…”
Naiiba ang Masculadoll dahil humigop ang bawat salita ng, anopangaba, kundi mga misteryong nakaipit sa langit ng alaala. Kadalasa’y maaanghang ang mga salita, pero malimit ding may tamis, kurot, pait (at minsa’s poot) sa gitna ng mga pahina. Ibinabad ang mga pangungusap sa kakaibang panlasa, binudburan ng samu’tsaring buhay bading na di buking at saka inihain sa buong kashoklaan.
Importante sa akin na sumungkit ng mga ideya, kanlungin ang mga ito sa aking imaginary bahay-bata, ibuhol ang tatlo kong fallopian tubes na parang ribbon at saka ialay sa hangin. Fly galore ang drama.
Ayokong ikulong ang mga sinulat ko. Bad yun.
May buhay ang mga salita at alam ko—kapag ikinulong ko lamang sila sa aking sinapupunan, pilit silang sisigaw papalabas at guguhit sa hangin. Kukunot ang noo mo, dahil di mo man sila mabasa, may amoy ang kanilang kaluluwa.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Not-so-merry-go-round
I dunno know which one it is. On one hand, I’d like to sulk to the skin of my teeth, go invisible, give the world the finger and simply file everything under ‘Shit.’ On the other hand, I’d like to put on a victor's face, paint a yehey smile that would make my cheeks burst and just throw confetti at anybody who would come my way.
My Almost Boyfriend broke up with his beau. I'm mixed up with my own reaction. I never had a closure with Almost Boyfriend, and the last time that we chat up was when we were both stashed up with alcohol putting up a tally of our what-if’s and should-have-been’s. Words flew on midair amidst a sea of dancing strangers, they were drowned in the medley of prying conversations and din of loud music. “What happened to us?” “We almost had it…” and “We don’t have a choice, we are now part of each other’s lives…”
Words, words, words.
Though all the romantic babble was ‘under the influence,’ we never doubted each one’s contention for we both believed that it is when one is drunk that feelings and words navigate at its most unadulterated. The spirit brought the integrity of our convictions…and regrets. He was committed, and I was loving my freedon. We've decided to be special to each other. Nothing more.
Then last Saturday at the gym, the beau approached me and heralded the news. “We broke up yesterday…I was tryin’ to save it, but…” I was never close to him, and it’s an understatement that methinks he abhors me. I can only give the same. But at that instance, it was different and it was difficult. It takes courage and a lot of resolve to swallow the bitter pill and display vulnerability to a known ‘enemy.’ Especially to a known ‘enemy.’ But there he was torn to smithereens putting his battered cards on the table. “…but he has fallen out of love and there’s another guy…”
The usual me would offer Ben Gay to his wounds, probably even unleash a tapestry of sarcastic innuendos, but no, I kept my silence and listened. I was not myself, I sympathized.
I’m a walking oxymoron—I know how it feels, yet I don’t know what to feel.
My Almost Boyfriend broke up with his beau. I'm mixed up with my own reaction. I never had a closure with Almost Boyfriend, and the last time that we chat up was when we were both stashed up with alcohol putting up a tally of our what-if’s and should-have-been’s. Words flew on midair amidst a sea of dancing strangers, they were drowned in the medley of prying conversations and din of loud music. “What happened to us?” “We almost had it…” and “We don’t have a choice, we are now part of each other’s lives…”
Words, words, words.
Though all the romantic babble was ‘under the influence,’ we never doubted each one’s contention for we both believed that it is when one is drunk that feelings and words navigate at its most unadulterated. The spirit brought the integrity of our convictions…and regrets. He was committed, and I was loving my freedon. We've decided to be special to each other. Nothing more.
Then last Saturday at the gym, the beau approached me and heralded the news. “We broke up yesterday…I was tryin’ to save it, but…” I was never close to him, and it’s an understatement that methinks he abhors me. I can only give the same. But at that instance, it was different and it was difficult. It takes courage and a lot of resolve to swallow the bitter pill and display vulnerability to a known ‘enemy.’ Especially to a known ‘enemy.’ But there he was torn to smithereens putting his battered cards on the table. “…but he has fallen out of love and there’s another guy…”
The usual me would offer Ben Gay to his wounds, probably even unleash a tapestry of sarcastic innuendos, but no, I kept my silence and listened. I was not myself, I sympathized.
I’m a walking oxymoron—I know how it feels, yet I don’t know what to feel.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Kumbersasyon 3
.
FACT: The web is reeking with dungs of this earth and you should never trust your judgment--even if the guy on the other end of the connection is, seemingly, okay. There I was, last weekend, having a finger blast online tryin' to shop for a quickie hookup. Enter this guy, D, who've been wooing Brusko Pink for the looongest time. He seemed nice--articulate, fairly good-looking and, uhm, hung (or so he claims). Too good to be true? I bet 'ya. Cut the chase--we agreed to meet up over the weekend. MORAL LESSON: Never leave your chances to the Mother Cruise Ship or Sister Fate would just throw you onto another deadlock of a pit. Hay.
D: "Ah, so you’re Louie. You look exactly like your picture, though I’ve imagined you to be a bit taller, but no worries. You ran a little late, but that’s okay. Ten minutes is all right, but I’d be a little worried if its twenty or thirty minutes. So how’s your day? Mine’s nothing different from my usual day, routine stuff. Kinda toxic in the office, my boss is practically heaving on my neck! Haha! But it’s okay, I always log in the net just to keep my sanity! So what do you do?! Ako, I’m executive assistant in a PR company. We are working on so many campaigns right now. Grabeh! Toxic talaga! Where do you work out? Me, I don’t work out. Halata ba? Mataba ba ba ako? You think I need to workout na? San ka gumigimik pag weekend? Ako sa bahay lang. Iusuallyreadlangorstayina loungebardon’tlikeclubbing.Doyoudanceba? Yadayadayada. Doyouworkout?Ha?Blahblahblah.Sankanaggigym?!Bakitangtahimikmo?Ha?HA?!"
L: "Uhm, bye."
FACT: The web is reeking with dungs of this earth and you should never trust your judgment--even if the guy on the other end of the connection is, seemingly, okay. There I was, last weekend, having a finger blast online tryin' to shop for a quickie hookup. Enter this guy, D, who've been wooing Brusko Pink for the looongest time. He seemed nice--articulate, fairly good-looking and, uhm, hung (or so he claims). Too good to be true? I bet 'ya. Cut the chase--we agreed to meet up over the weekend. MORAL LESSON: Never leave your chances to the Mother Cruise Ship or Sister Fate would just throw you onto another deadlock of a pit. Hay.
D: "Ah, so you’re Louie. You look exactly like your picture, though I’ve imagined you to be a bit taller, but no worries. You ran a little late, but that’s okay. Ten minutes is all right, but I’d be a little worried if its twenty or thirty minutes. So how’s your day? Mine’s nothing different from my usual day, routine stuff. Kinda toxic in the office, my boss is practically heaving on my neck! Haha! But it’s okay, I always log in the net just to keep my sanity! So what do you do?! Ako, I’m executive assistant in a PR company. We are working on so many campaigns right now. Grabeh! Toxic talaga! Where do you work out? Me, I don’t work out. Halata ba? Mataba ba ba ako? You think I need to workout na? San ka gumigimik pag weekend? Ako sa bahay lang. Iusuallyreadlangorstayina loungebardon’tlikeclubbing.Doyoudanceba? Yadayadayada. Doyouworkout?Ha?Blahblahblah.Sankanaggigym?!Bakitangtahimikmo?Ha?HA?!"
L: "Uhm, bye."
Friday, September 12, 2008
Kumbersasyon 2
X: May nangyari raw sa inyo ni Paco…
L: Uhm, oo.
X: E, sa inyo ni Mike?
L: Oo.
X: Si Stephen din daw.
L: Yeah.
X: Sa inyo ni Abet?
L: Oo.
X: Joey?
L: Oo rin.
X: Si Jason?
L: Slight.
X: Si Dennis?
L: Medyo.
X: Pucha, lahat na lang natikman ka na, alam na ng buong Malate kung ano lasa ng b*rat mo! Bakit ako hindi?!
L: Uhm…
X: Magpapaka-pokpok ka rin lang di mo pa ko sinama sa listahan mo. Bakit ako, bakit sa akin hindi?!
L: Ikaw kasi ang mahal ko…
L: Uhm, oo.
X: E, sa inyo ni Mike?
L: Oo.
X: Si Stephen din daw.
L: Yeah.
X: Sa inyo ni Abet?
L: Oo.
X: Joey?
L: Oo rin.
X: Si Jason?
L: Slight.
X: Si Dennis?
L: Medyo.
X: Pucha, lahat na lang natikman ka na, alam na ng buong Malate kung ano lasa ng b*rat mo! Bakit ako hindi?!
L: Uhm…
X: Magpapaka-pokpok ka rin lang di mo pa ko sinama sa listahan mo. Bakit ako, bakit sa akin hindi?!
L: Ikaw kasi ang mahal ko…
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Kumbersasyon 1
L: “A-ayoko n’yan, h-hindi ako kumakain n’yan…” umiiling ako, halos pinid ang mga labi sa pagsasalita.
M: “Trymohlang…” malagkit ang mga salita, magkakadikit, may pang-aakit.
L: “H-hindi talaga e…”
M: “Try mo…sandali lang…” nagsusumamo, nakikiusap.
L: “Di talaga e…”
M: “Magugustuhan mo ‘yan, sige na…try mo…” bumubulong sa hamog ng hangin ang mga kataga, basa na ang mga letra…”Sige na…”
L: “LECHE NAMAN E! Isuot mo na nga ‘yang panty mo! Sabi nang ayoko n’yan eh!”
M: “Trymohlang…” malagkit ang mga salita, magkakadikit, may pang-aakit.
L: “H-hindi talaga e…”
M: “Try mo…sandali lang…” nagsusumamo, nakikiusap.
L: “Di talaga e…”
M: “Magugustuhan mo ‘yan, sige na…try mo…” bumubulong sa hamog ng hangin ang mga kataga, basa na ang mga letra…”Sige na…”
L: “LECHE NAMAN E! Isuot mo na nga ‘yang panty mo! Sabi nang ayoko n’yan eh!”
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Blogavond
Here I go again.
It’s one of those days. I am babbling to myself loud, and yet I hear no sound. It’s as if I’m not in my skin right now, that I am in some place else but here. Typic’ly me.
Could it be that I’m just too wired up with work and more work? Could it be that my mind is just harkin’ at me to give it a rest? Hey, here’s an idea: why doncha do this and why doncha do that? I got this anvil and it’ll look fab if your head is splattered with it! Lotsa gore and blood, that'll be cool. How about this dull bread knife, would you like me to scratch your back? Blabber, blabber, blabber. There’s so much goin’ on inside my head that methinks I need a booking agent just to see myself.
I know, I know. This space has been neglected for the longest time, it’s been set aside to rot in the bin and basically filed under Goner. Well, almost.
My loyal posse of readers--I’ve got two, harhar--have been prodding me to go back and blog.
Justine: “Hey, Skinhead Boy, here’s a bribe, your fave Wasabi Ridges! Now go! Write something, anything!”
C: “Your blog is the only thing that gives me a peek on what you’re up to you silly bastard, so write, write, write!”
As if they never had enough from the musing overdose that they’ve been overkilled with with my two books (Plugging! Plugging!), now they are just on a bloggie diet and are too petulant to say ‘..please…’ Hmp.
And so with the same ol’ sting of Wasabi slushed between my irony and this Mac, I am writin’ again.
I’m guilty as sin. I haven’t jotten (Yes, it’s not a real word) a speck on this space for a while now, but I’ve got legit reason to justify my crime. Lemmesee, one word: Work. Two words: Lotsa work. (Okay that’s three-word hyphenated.) Thing is, I’ve been dawgin’ with neck-deep work to wrestle with, but I ain’t complaining. Usually, I would raise a dirty finger, bludgeon my senses to numbness, but in its stead, I say “Keep ‘em coming!”
I have launched the new music fones of a popular cel brand, mounted a concert with The Ateneo College Glee Club, had the Red Carpet Premiere of my all-time heroine Little Miss Carrie Bardshaw’s Sex & The City and its token tri-bar shindig in fabulous Planet Malate (BED Bar, Club Mafia and O Bar), just concluded an international convention and exhibit at the SMX of The Mall of Asia and that Big Fish thingy last weekend. Now I'm gearing up for the biggie--a grand gala shindig night for all agency peeps! Yes, whew!
I am so inspired to work. It’s such a cool job and I just love my boss (I know it’s pretty unusual to write something too darn positive about one’s boss, but that’s what I sincerely feel--I ain't patronizin'...).
What could the cool gods have next?
My God, I am so freakin' happy I’m beginning to be suspicious.
It’s one of those days. I am babbling to myself loud, and yet I hear no sound. It’s as if I’m not in my skin right now, that I am in some place else but here. Typic’ly me.
Could it be that I’m just too wired up with work and more work? Could it be that my mind is just harkin’ at me to give it a rest? Hey, here’s an idea: why doncha do this and why doncha do that? I got this anvil and it’ll look fab if your head is splattered with it! Lotsa gore and blood, that'll be cool. How about this dull bread knife, would you like me to scratch your back? Blabber, blabber, blabber. There’s so much goin’ on inside my head that methinks I need a booking agent just to see myself.
I know, I know. This space has been neglected for the longest time, it’s been set aside to rot in the bin and basically filed under Goner. Well, almost.
My loyal posse of readers--I’ve got two, harhar--have been prodding me to go back and blog.
Justine: “Hey, Skinhead Boy, here’s a bribe, your fave Wasabi Ridges! Now go! Write something, anything!”
C: “Your blog is the only thing that gives me a peek on what you’re up to you silly bastard, so write, write, write!”
As if they never had enough from the musing overdose that they’ve been overkilled with with my two books (Plugging! Plugging!), now they are just on a bloggie diet and are too petulant to say ‘..please…’ Hmp.
And so with the same ol’ sting of Wasabi slushed between my irony and this Mac, I am writin’ again.
I’m guilty as sin. I haven’t jotten (Yes, it’s not a real word) a speck on this space for a while now, but I’ve got legit reason to justify my crime. Lemmesee, one word: Work. Two words: Lotsa work. (Okay that’s three-word hyphenated.) Thing is, I’ve been dawgin’ with neck-deep work to wrestle with, but I ain’t complaining. Usually, I would raise a dirty finger, bludgeon my senses to numbness, but in its stead, I say “Keep ‘em coming!”
I have launched the new music fones of a popular cel brand, mounted a concert with The Ateneo College Glee Club, had the Red Carpet Premiere of my all-time heroine Little Miss Carrie Bardshaw’s Sex & The City and its token tri-bar shindig in fabulous Planet Malate (BED Bar, Club Mafia and O Bar), just concluded an international convention and exhibit at the SMX of The Mall of Asia and that Big Fish thingy last weekend. Now I'm gearing up for the biggie--a grand gala shindig night for all agency peeps! Yes, whew!
I am so inspired to work. It’s such a cool job and I just love my boss (I know it’s pretty unusual to write something too darn positive about one’s boss, but that’s what I sincerely feel--I ain't patronizin'...).
What could the cool gods have next?
My God, I am so freakin' happy I’m beginning to be suspicious.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
godhead
bHeya.
I was at TIESTO over the weekend at the World Trade Center with my best bud, Betty Suarez, and whatcanisay, but WHOA! The godhead of beats had me by the first beat! Lotsa familiar faces, some poseurs and the usual 'pilliancs.' Lotsa booze, lotsa boys, lotsalotsa!
Met this hottie by the loo, we've exchanged numbers, but drat, was it a girlfriend he was with?!
More details on my next post.
I gotta go and scram for this important meetingsalsh presentation over at The Enterprise.
Later.
I was at TIESTO over the weekend at the World Trade Center with my best bud, Betty Suarez, and whatcanisay, but WHOA! The godhead of beats had me by the first beat! Lotsa familiar faces, some poseurs and the usual 'pilliancs.' Lotsa booze, lotsa boys, lotsalotsa!
Met this hottie by the loo, we've exchanged numbers, but drat, was it a girlfriend he was with?!
More details on my next post.
I gotta go and scram for this important meetingsalsh presentation over at The Enterprise.
Later.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Lalamasin
Pag-aalay
Para sa mga baklang mapangarap at mapangahas
Sa mga lantad at maglaladlad
Sa mga mapagparaya at mapagparaos
Sa mga pinanawan ng ganda
At para sa patuloy na umaasa.
Para sa mga nagwawaldas ng panahon
Sa mga nag-iimpok ng alaala
Sa mga madramang nangungulila
Sa mga nadidighay sa ligaya
Sa mga dyosa ng kahapon
At sa mga erehe ng bukas.
WALANG duda, kung merong isang bagay na kinatatakutan sa mundong ito ang isang maskuladong pamhintang katulad ko, ito ay babae. Specifically, babaeng may suso. More specifically, babaeng may malalaking suso. As in SUSO!
Dyoga, Boobs. Bubella. Hindi ko kayang isiping dumapo ang mga palad ko sa mga ito. Malayong lumapit at imposibleng lumapat ang mga labi ko sa kanila. Bukod sa colustrum supply na katas para sa mura kong gulang (salamat, mudra), wala na akong alam na gamit para sa mga ito.
Pampasikip sa bus, abala sa pila at mahigpit na kakumpetensya--yan ang suso.
Minalas akong maka-face to face ang una kong suso encounter noong high school. Tulad ng maraming pamhintang nangangapa pa ng lugar niya sa mundo, nagkaroon ako ng girlfriend (huwag nyo akong itakwil, mga kapatid..). Oo, girlfriend--as in jowang murat o bilatrang jowa-ers o isang cover girl (pang-cover ng aking pagka-alam-mo-na).
Si Mina. Short for Carmina. Maganda naman ang lowkah (pero looking back, parang mas mahaba ang bangs ng skihead ko kaysa sa kanya, hmmm…). Madalas ngang mahirang na muse ng mga high school clubs at malimit mangolekta ng mga korona at special awards sa kung anu-anong byukon (beauty contest) si Mina.
Bagay raw kami. Campus figure ako dahil madalas kong ipanalo ang eskwelahan namin sa mga literary inter-school competitions, samantalang si Mina naman ang high school sweetheart ng bayan.
Hindi pa uso ang salitang Bobita nuon pero ‘yun na ang pwedeng ikabit sa level of intelligence ng jowa kong ititch. Binawi naman niya ang kakulangan sa mental faculties sa kanyang mammary glands, Susme, bawing-bawi.
Sa lenggwaheng pang-bagets, mag-on kami. At katulad ng maraming ma-on, inaasahan niyang halikan ko siya paminsan-minsan, at sa mga pagkakataong mag-isa kami (na lubha kong kinatatakutan), kailangan kong maging ‘pilyo.’ Alam ko ang codes of endearment:
First Base: Kiss sa lips. (Pwede.)
Seond base: Hawak sa suso. (Pwede, pero may effort.)
Third Base: Alam-mo-na. (Imposible!)
Saksi si Tita Shawie sa kahihiyan ko. Palabas ang Dear Heart at iyon ang una (at huli) naming movie date ni Mina.
Iniwan ko ang totoong pagkatao ko sa takilyera, bumili ng tapang at pop corn sa Snaxx Counter at ikinumot ang dilim ng sinehan sa pagkukunwari.
Madilim, malamig sa loob ng sinehan. Iba’t-ibang anino ang nasa loob--may mga ulong pinag-iisa ng pagkakataon, may mga ulo namang biglang nawawala, meron namang biglang sumusulpot at meron ding mga ulong tila nakatanim na sa dibdib ng ka-date.
Umupo kami sa Lodge (hindi kaya ng powers ko ang Balcony). Pag-upung pag-upo pa lamang ay dumapo na ang kamay ni Mina sa hita ko. Tinubuan ako ng umay sa tuhod, kinain nito ang buo kong hita hanggang sa gumapang mula paa hanggang sa huling hibla ng buhok ko.
Gaga ka kasi, sabi ko sa sarili ko.
“Ang ginaw naman…” sabi ni Mina sabay hilig sa pagitan ng dibdib at balikat ko. Reflex yata ang tawag dun, pero di ko sinasadyang itulak ng balikat ko ang ulo nya.
“S-sorry…”
Dedma lang si Mina na panay na ang himas sa hita ko. Suggestion: Kung may barf bag sa mga eroplano, dapat ding maglagay ng mga ito sa mga sinehan. Bumabaligtad ang sikmura ko sa mga pagkakataong yon. Lunok-luwa ang ginawa ko sa pop corn. At nang paglaruan na ni Mina ang zipper ng pantalon ko, nasamid ako sa tuya.
SFX: Ubo, ubo at ubo pa.
“Okey ka lang?”
“O-okey lang…y-yung pop corn, masyadong maalat…”
Alam ko na ang susunod na eksena. Hahalikan ako ni Mina. Kaya pinuno ko ng pop corn at pop corn at pop corn pa ang bibig ko.
“Nagugutom ka ba? Gusto mo ng kanin?”
“Zwarzupgwarswarphh…”
“Ang ginaw talaga! Brr!”
Translation: Yakapin mo naman ako.
Hmp, ang bruhang itoh, pabigat--sabi ko na lang sa sarili ko habang niyayakap ng kanang braso ko ang balikat niya.
Dumating ang kinatatakutan ko. Hinahawakan ni Mina ang kamay ko at inilalapat sa, ngiii, dibdib niya. Humigop ako ng hangin at pinigilan ko ang paghinga.
Hawak pa rin ang kamay ko, isa-isa niyang binuksan ang mga butones ng blouse niya. Mula taas, pababa…pababa. Gulp.
Wala akong problema sa suso, madalas na akong makakita ng mga ito. Pero kung nakakabit ito sa isang babae--lalo sa isang babaeng may dambuhalang susong dapat sana’y siningil din ng takilyera--e, ibang usapan na.
Itinaas ni Mina ang bra nya at kumawala ang mga alaga niya. (SFX: TOINK!) Unang nakilala ng palad ko si Kanan--makinis, malusog at tila palaban--meron itong sariling pintig nang madama ng mga daliri ko. At si Kaliwa na walang pinag-iba kay Kanan. Pareho silang makinis, malusog, malambot at parang gelatin na buung-buo. Ang ipinagtataka ko ay parang may mga sariling isip ang kambal. Tila ‘lumalaban’ sila sa bawat obligadong himas ng kamay ko.
Hoy, hindi sekswal ang nararamdman ko. Naaalala ko ang female anatomy drawing sa Colliers Encyclopedia. Peksman.
Ah, ito pala ang areola…at ito naman ang, ew, pasas!
Umuungol si Mina.
Pumutok ang thought balloon ko ng female anatomy drawing at tumambad sa akin ang isang akting na akting na Sharon Cuneta.
“Ang galing umarte ni Sharon!” bulalas ko sabay palakpak para kumawala ang kamay ko kina Kanan at Kaliwa.
“Uh, hmp, oo!”
“Ayusin mo nga ang butones mo, mag-iintermission na.” sabi ko kay Mina. At kahit madilim sa loob ng sinehan, alam kong tatalunin ng mga kilay ko ang mga nakaguhit na kilay ni Mommy Elaine Cuneta na umabot hanggang sa kisame ng Balcony.
Paglabas namin ng sinehan, matulis na ang nguso ni Mina. Hindi na maalis ang hmp! sa kanyang mga labi.
Wala akong pakialam, in short, care ko?!
Lumabas ako sa sinehan bilang isang bagong tao--matapang, maganda, totoo…at isang Sharonian.
(Mula sa susunod kong libro, Brusko Pink 3: Mascula-doll, ang una kong paglalayag na sumulat sa Filipino.)
Monday, March 10, 2008
A new guy.
I can’t, I won’t give it up--my singular life amidst the pleasures of my multiple self. No, not just yet.
Funny, it’s when I’ve decided to simplify that I find myself leaping out of my skin with joy. I am happy right now, so happy that I am a walking fiesta with my sleeves swaying with buntings and my steps peppered with confetti.
Once, I have decluttered, vowed myself to a life of simplicity. Redundant entities were filed under excess baggage, unnecessities were thrown to the fire and irrelevant nincompoops were fed to the shredder. I’ve gunned my trusty, venomous and apathetic dedma to purge people not worth my while. This goes true--especially true--with my mumba of romantic engage-,uh, entanglements: flings that have flung, ex’s who’ve mutated to full-fledge cretins and would-be bfs who turned out to be unworthy wannabe’s.
But some things cannot be ignored, especially when it comes knockin’ at your door. You can’t simply exclaim eureka! when the person on the other side of the door turns out to be hot and smart and…oh, sigh. Just when I wasn’t looking, this stranger came barging into my life and since then, I can’t seem to strip this smile off my face. : )
Gosh, I’m too old to blush but I’m turning pink with giggles.
Funny, it’s when I’ve decided to simplify that I find myself leaping out of my skin with joy. I am happy right now, so happy that I am a walking fiesta with my sleeves swaying with buntings and my steps peppered with confetti.
Once, I have decluttered, vowed myself to a life of simplicity. Redundant entities were filed under excess baggage, unnecessities were thrown to the fire and irrelevant nincompoops were fed to the shredder. I’ve gunned my trusty, venomous and apathetic dedma to purge people not worth my while. This goes true--especially true--with my mumba of romantic engage-,uh, entanglements: flings that have flung, ex’s who’ve mutated to full-fledge cretins and would-be bfs who turned out to be unworthy wannabe’s.
But some things cannot be ignored, especially when it comes knockin’ at your door. You can’t simply exclaim eureka! when the person on the other side of the door turns out to be hot and smart and…oh, sigh. Just when I wasn’t looking, this stranger came barging into my life and since then, I can’t seem to strip this smile off my face. : )
Gosh, I’m too old to blush but I’m turning pink with giggles.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Good morning
To sunrise and cloudy skies, to missed calls and dialed numbers, to erring lovers and betrayed hearts, to trials and triumphs, to work and traffic and bosses, to friends and acquaintances, to wishful thinking and answered prayers, to coffee and bacon and cheese—good morning.
Hell, I'm busy.
I AM busy, so this would be quick.
I am reeking with work (just loooovvvee it!), wrestling with my own thoughts and having a freakin’ senate committee up my head. Have you tried brainstorming by your lonesome? I find it weird when I talk to myself (weirder if I answer back), so I’ve created Another Me (taller, more buffed, and tad more hung—though I’m quite a loader myself awready…).
It’s wonderful and it works, A.M. churned out lotsa cool ideas and they are all amazing!
We are tidying up some loose ends for our pet projx and we are presenting ‘em tomorrow to the Big Boss. It’s really nice to see your creative juices squeezed from your own pores.
I am reeking with work (just loooovvvee it!), wrestling with my own thoughts and having a freakin’ senate committee up my head. Have you tried brainstorming by your lonesome? I find it weird when I talk to myself (weirder if I answer back), so I’ve created Another Me (taller, more buffed, and tad more hung—though I’m quite a loader myself awready…).
It’s wonderful and it works, A.M. churned out lotsa cool ideas and they are all amazing!
We are tidying up some loose ends for our pet projx and we are presenting ‘em tomorrow to the Big Boss. It’s really nice to see your creative juices squeezed from your own pores.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
...and then later
Ruminating on the heart-wrenching, mindfuckery of relationships, I slip to my Carrie Bradshaw mode—I couldn’t help but wonder, why do we choose to hurt when we can choose to forget? I believe it is totally the Conspiracy of What If’s. What if you can still save it? What if one succumbs to change? What if you compromise? I often speak the courage of my conviction and I often wear my putrescent wounds up my sleeves (and fuck yeah, I cry too), but I am as guilty as you are of this crap. And then I came across an old entry from my journal and it all made sense…
"Tatlong letra, tatlong hakbang papalayo.
Paano nga ba lumayo kung minsan ko nang
inukit ang pangalan mo sa puso ko?
May dahas ang kalungkutan, may hagupit ang pagtangis
—tumatatak sa isip, nagmamarka sa gunita.
Hindi sapat ang lumayo kaya’t humukay ako ng libingan.
Inilibing na kita. Ipinagluksa.
Wala na. Tapos na. Nyeta ka."
"Tatlong letra, tatlong hakbang papalayo.
Paano nga ba lumayo kung minsan ko nang
inukit ang pangalan mo sa puso ko?
May dahas ang kalungkutan, may hagupit ang pagtangis
—tumatatak sa isip, nagmamarka sa gunita.
Hindi sapat ang lumayo kaya’t humukay ako ng libingan.
Inilibing na kita. Ipinagluksa.
Wala na. Tapos na. Nyeta ka."
Monday, February 25, 2008
Whaddaf*ckin' hey!
THAT’S exactly what the moon said the night Sister Bitch Destiny waved her naughty wonder wand and reduced everything into friggin’ coincidence.
I got a hottie hook-up getting down and doing the-hot-and-dirty inside his RAV4 last night. We were parked on 3rd Street, a leapfrog from GGS, my old condo where I’ve lived in with The Ex. I got off the Ravy after our exchange of bodily fluids and phone numbers, and then what do I see?
You guessed it right.
The Ex made an apparition in his sloppy tank top, and ew, boxer’s shorts. Whaddyaknow, the vermin is still style-impaired—will somebody tell him that he is ACTUALLY wearing his underwear outside his hermetic, godawful pit?!
I got a hottie hook-up getting down and doing the-hot-and-dirty inside his RAV4 last night. We were parked on 3rd Street, a leapfrog from GGS, my old condo where I’ve lived in with The Ex. I got off the Ravy after our exchange of bodily fluids and phone numbers, and then what do I see?
You guessed it right.
The Ex made an apparition in his sloppy tank top, and ew, boxer’s shorts. Whaddyaknow, the vermin is still style-impaired—will somebody tell him that he is ACTUALLY wearing his underwear outside his hermetic, godawful pit?!
S & M, anyone?
DATELINE: Saturday Weekend.
IN my desperate attempt to recoup from being Ms. Amity (that turned to Amityville horrors!) the night before, I’ve conspired with my friends O1 and O2 to go back to Malate and regain my lost brownie points.
I was so sorry for being nasty at people’s lousy fashion sense (or lack of it), tasteless taste (I always pontificate: Never argue about taste especially with people who doesn’t have it.), and free loaders doubling as social butterflies. I concede, WTF, I was bad.
The cosmos was right on the dot. I got my comeuppance right smack center where I was the night before.
I can be attention-whorey at times, but not like this. In a sea of pink men rustling around O Bar, Top & Bottom and the nearby Chelu, an intoxicated burly blonde affam (foreigner) dressed in black came up to me. He was wearing a black leather jacket and tight cigarette pants with leather bands crisscrossed on his chest (a lone cock ring was holding the leather X together). The letters S & M painted on my mind, I was suddenly gripped with a sense of clear and present danger.
He barged straight at me with a strange naughty grin on his face, his hands zero’ed in to my skinhead and caressed it like Manang Bola’s crystal ball.
“UTTERLY SEXXXY!!” he exclaimed. He then planted a peck on my cheek, his breath befouled with alcohol and whatnot.
“Are you a master or a servant?” he asked. And before I could say anything, he was grabbing my arms and petting my head.
My words of wisdom: Uh-oh.
I froze.
He was making a scene. O Bar’s trusty waiters and door bitches were just watching for any eventuality and I was sure they would come to my rescue, but my good friends O1 and O2 were on Power Puff Girls mode. O1 hugged me in faux lover mode, while O2 was ready for anything.
When O Bar's muscled bouncer started to make his way to our table, S & M guy hoisted himself back and disappeared in the crowd. Whew.
One word: karma.
Ugh.
IN my desperate attempt to recoup from being Ms. Amity (that turned to Amityville horrors!) the night before, I’ve conspired with my friends O1 and O2 to go back to Malate and regain my lost brownie points.
I was so sorry for being nasty at people’s lousy fashion sense (or lack of it), tasteless taste (I always pontificate: Never argue about taste especially with people who doesn’t have it.), and free loaders doubling as social butterflies. I concede, WTF, I was bad.
The cosmos was right on the dot. I got my comeuppance right smack center where I was the night before.
I can be attention-whorey at times, but not like this. In a sea of pink men rustling around O Bar, Top & Bottom and the nearby Chelu, an intoxicated burly blonde affam (foreigner) dressed in black came up to me. He was wearing a black leather jacket and tight cigarette pants with leather bands crisscrossed on his chest (a lone cock ring was holding the leather X together). The letters S & M painted on my mind, I was suddenly gripped with a sense of clear and present danger.
He barged straight at me with a strange naughty grin on his face, his hands zero’ed in to my skinhead and caressed it like Manang Bola’s crystal ball.
“UTTERLY SEXXXY!!” he exclaimed. He then planted a peck on my cheek, his breath befouled with alcohol and whatnot.
“Are you a master or a servant?” he asked. And before I could say anything, he was grabbing my arms and petting my head.
My words of wisdom: Uh-oh.
I froze.
He was making a scene. O Bar’s trusty waiters and door bitches were just watching for any eventuality and I was sure they would come to my rescue, but my good friends O1 and O2 were on Power Puff Girls mode. O1 hugged me in faux lover mode, while O2 was ready for anything.
When O Bar's muscled bouncer started to make his way to our table, S & M guy hoisted himself back and disappeared in the crowd. Whew.
One word: karma.
Ugh.
Bad.
DATELINE: Friday Weekend.
WHISKED in the middle of Malate at the fabulous O Bar, my conversation was punctuated by ho-hums and my enthusiasm was on a coma—I was bored to my skull while everyone else was high with their terrestrial emote mode reachin’ nosebleed heights.
Resisting all temps to swig on alcohol, I gunned “I don’t wanna…” to friends and “Not tonight…” to roaches offering free drinks. But no sooner than my fave waiter Vil could open his mouth and ask for my order, I mumbled “Red horse, pare..” like any jolog canto boy would quip.
G, my friend slash fag hag extra ordinaire handed me—what appeared to my alcohol-free vision—an innocent chunk of ugly pastry.
“Brownies, gagah!” and shoved it into my mouth.
After three horsies, more roaches and lotsa cuentos, I was waving my friendly dirty finger at hotties and snarling at poseurs (whose idea of fashion was big buckled belt and, aargh!, suspenders that made them look like smurfets copycats--bite me, I’ve had devil in a brownie and stupidity in brown bottles).
We were on our way to stone’s throw away Mafia and Bed Club when a free loader (there are lots of them disguising as friends) barged into our direction chumming me up for VIP entrance in the clubs (I can bring in two guests). I, in my altered self, pointed at my two diva friends and snapped “DYOSA! DYOSA! DYOSA! IKAW, DYOSAH KA BA?!!”
Tsk, tsk. I was so bad I can smell my own conscience rotting.
WHISKED in the middle of Malate at the fabulous O Bar, my conversation was punctuated by ho-hums and my enthusiasm was on a coma—I was bored to my skull while everyone else was high with their terrestrial emote mode reachin’ nosebleed heights.
Resisting all temps to swig on alcohol, I gunned “I don’t wanna…” to friends and “Not tonight…” to roaches offering free drinks. But no sooner than my fave waiter Vil could open his mouth and ask for my order, I mumbled “Red horse, pare..” like any jolog canto boy would quip.
G, my friend slash fag hag extra ordinaire handed me—what appeared to my alcohol-free vision—an innocent chunk of ugly pastry.
“Brownies, gagah!” and shoved it into my mouth.
After three horsies, more roaches and lotsa cuentos, I was waving my friendly dirty finger at hotties and snarling at poseurs (whose idea of fashion was big buckled belt and, aargh!, suspenders that made them look like smurfets copycats--bite me, I’ve had devil in a brownie and stupidity in brown bottles).
We were on our way to stone’s throw away Mafia and Bed Club when a free loader (there are lots of them disguising as friends) barged into our direction chumming me up for VIP entrance in the clubs (I can bring in two guests). I, in my altered self, pointed at my two diva friends and snapped “DYOSA! DYOSA! DYOSA! IKAW, DYOSAH KA BA?!!”
Tsk, tsk. I was so bad I can smell my own conscience rotting.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Signing ON...
EONS back, I had a stint as a faceless spinmeister for radio. I was basking with anonymity, but nevertheless enjoying the klieglights with a bevy of listeners who were gungho’ed and mystified over “Louie Magicano.”
I eat and breathe music back then—it’s one slice of my colorful life that I would PLAY, REWIND, PAUSE, and REPEATagain and again given the chance. That chance came knockin’ on my door again. I am now back in radio—well, kinda.
I don’t go on-air, but it’s triply challenging. My new job requires not only the rudiments of a four-hour boardwork, but the round-the-clock, think-‘til-you-get-f*cking-brainfreeze kinda thing.
I am at the helm of megging the challenging role that my very dear friend, Joe d’ Mango has bequeathed me. His shoes are very large to fill, ‘coz Joda is one helluva guy. No mincing of words, no pretty adjectives and adulterated emotional hoo-ha, but Joda is just too good for words.
Every day, my office door reveals wonderful new surprises—friends from the past and new ones—Sgt. Pepper of 103 ½ MAX, Ron of Hits 99.5 RT, Joey and Miles of Magic 89.9, Glenn of The Mellow Touch. Geez, who knows who else this door would bring me.
I just love my new job.
This is a new challenge for me. I am hoisting my red flag, all ready gearin' for battle. I am stepping onto the arena, just too ready and eager to bleed.
I eat and breathe music back then—it’s one slice of my colorful life that I would PLAY, REWIND, PAUSE, and REPEAT
I don’t go on-air, but it’s triply challenging. My new job requires not only the rudiments of a four-hour boardwork, but the round-the-clock, think-‘til-you-get-f*cking-brainfreeze kinda thing.
I am at the helm of megging the challenging role that my very dear friend, Joe d’ Mango has bequeathed me. His shoes are very large to fill, ‘coz Joda is one helluva guy. No mincing of words, no pretty adjectives and adulterated emotional hoo-ha, but Joda is just too good for words.
Every day, my office door reveals wonderful new surprises—friends from the past and new ones—Sgt. Pepper of 103 ½ MAX, Ron of Hits 99.5 RT, Joey and Miles of Magic 89.9, Glenn of The Mellow Touch. Geez, who knows who else this door would bring me.
I just love my new job.
This is a new challenge for me. I am hoisting my red flag, all ready gearin' for battle. I am stepping onto the arena, just too ready and eager to bleed.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Movie Review: “Ang Lihim ni Antonio”
(A succinct critique of the film written by—ehem—my friendiva, Lex, with tempestuous literary promise for cineastes and high dick peek quotient that will drive packs of vhaklers to Galeria and partake on restless rampa to resurrect the glory days of Miramar. Ugh.)
Tinigasan ako.
Tinigasan ako.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Repartee
(Conversation With My Almost-Boyfriend)
HIM: I'm goin' to Sing, will be gone for some time. Workstuff.
ME: Say hi to Towel Club.
HIM: (Smiles wryly.) I hate to go, but I must. I'll find you when I get back.
ME: How will you find me if I am lost myself?
HIM: I don't wanna read between the lines...
ME: Then don't.
HIM: Is this the end of line for me?
ME: I dunno, I'm in the middle of nowhere myself.
HIM: I'll find you...
HIM: I'm goin' to Sing, will be gone for some time. Workstuff.
ME: Say hi to Towel Club.
HIM: (Smiles wryly.) I hate to go, but I must. I'll find you when I get back.
ME: How will you find me if I am lost myself?
HIM: I don't wanna read between the lines...
ME: Then don't.
HIM: Is this the end of line for me?
ME: I dunno, I'm in the middle of nowhere myself.
HIM: I'll find you...
Sunday, February 10, 2008
A zebra lands on this writer's block
(or How To Write A Longish Title And Stare Endlessly At A Blank Page)
BLANK. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Try as I might to wring up any creative juice from the left side of my brain (the so-called creative rim of my thoughtful existence whereupon my muse, er, my Lothario rests), but all I can squeeze is a sad title to succinctly capture my dilemma.
I’m consoled with the idea that my leftie is not unimaginative and dry, but simply slobbering in sloth and refusing to cooperate. Sigh.
There were times when my friends would gather around me, court my ire with a vile idea or simply solicit my opinion on just about anything, and words would leap out like stray dogs copulating on a free-for-all road trip orgy. Surely, there are moments when I’m incited to draw a comment and I can summon the lightest remark into a marmoreal epigram.
Not now.
Okay, I concede, I am a petulant writer. It takes more than a heave of depression or confetti of happiness to make me write. Capricious and indulgent, I am when I write.
For instance, as in this instance, I cannot pound straight to my computer, I write longhand. When the thoughts are laid on paper, the tedious task of transferring the written words into computer characters takes place. This is when the editing commences, or as I want to put it, when my manuscript is self-mitigated, mutilated and castrated. This process proves to be cost-effective. The eternal lull, the endless staring at the blank page, the heavy conversation with myself and the ceremonious consumption of bottomless Taster’s Choice coffee, they don’t feed on electricity.
Did I say I was fastidious? Just like my friend Jessica who has the penchant for writing on leather-masked paper or my mentor Rene O’s fondness for lined yellow pads, I can only write with one particular pen. It’s the Zebra J. Roller .07 MX.
My zebra, to date, has written three books, four or so columns, a number of articles, dissertations, autographs, profiles and reviews (but mostly musings).
It sounds tacky and cliché—this zebra has taken many a reader for a ride, you included, haha. This zebra has driven me from my dessert of ideas to the drought of my writer’s block.
Now, if only I can find something to write about…
BLANK. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Try as I might to wring up any creative juice from the left side of my brain (the so-called creative rim of my thoughtful existence whereupon my muse, er, my Lothario rests), but all I can squeeze is a sad title to succinctly capture my dilemma.
I’m consoled with the idea that my leftie is not unimaginative and dry, but simply slobbering in sloth and refusing to cooperate. Sigh.
There were times when my friends would gather around me, court my ire with a vile idea or simply solicit my opinion on just about anything, and words would leap out like stray dogs copulating on a free-for-all road trip orgy. Surely, there are moments when I’m incited to draw a comment and I can summon the lightest remark into a marmoreal epigram.
Not now.
Okay, I concede, I am a petulant writer. It takes more than a heave of depression or confetti of happiness to make me write. Capricious and indulgent, I am when I write.
For instance, as in this instance, I cannot pound straight to my computer, I write longhand. When the thoughts are laid on paper, the tedious task of transferring the written words into computer characters takes place. This is when the editing commences, or as I want to put it, when my manuscript is self-mitigated, mutilated and castrated. This process proves to be cost-effective. The eternal lull, the endless staring at the blank page, the heavy conversation with myself and the ceremonious consumption of bottomless Taster’s Choice coffee, they don’t feed on electricity.
Did I say I was fastidious? Just like my friend Jessica who has the penchant for writing on leather-masked paper or my mentor Rene O’s fondness for lined yellow pads, I can only write with one particular pen. It’s the Zebra J. Roller .07 MX.
My zebra, to date, has written three books, four or so columns, a number of articles, dissertations, autographs, profiles and reviews (but mostly musings).
It sounds tacky and cliché—this zebra has taken many a reader for a ride, you included, haha. This zebra has driven me from my dessert of ideas to the drought of my writer’s block.
Now, if only I can find something to write about…
Friday, February 1, 2008
Pamhinta Trivia
SOURCE: My Unreliable Observation
90% - mahilig mag-shopping sa FnH
80% - may nude pic sa g4m (pero walang face)
70% - nagpa-foundation at concealer
60% - mahilig mag-gym at magbabad sa sauna
50% - mala Regine Velasquez bumirit sa karaoke bars
40% - mahilig manood ng America’s Next Top Model, Project Runway, at Janice Dickinson’s Modelling Agency
30% - mahilig mag-topless pag sumasayaw sa ledge
20% - pumuputok sa masel
10% - keri makipaghalikan sa babae
100% - makati pa sa gabing Bikol (Rx: 2 tablespoonfuls of Caladril 3x a day)
90% - mahilig mag-shopping sa FnH
80% - may nude pic sa g4m (pero walang face)
70% - nagpa-foundation at concealer
60% - mahilig mag-gym at magbabad sa sauna
50% - mala Regine Velasquez bumirit sa karaoke bars
40% - mahilig manood ng America’s Next Top Model, Project Runway, at Janice Dickinson’s Modelling Agency
30% - mahilig mag-topless pag sumasayaw sa ledge
20% - pumuputok sa masel
10% - keri makipaghalikan sa babae
100% - makati pa sa gabing Bikol (Rx: 2 tablespoonfuls of Caladril 3x a day)
Bi Trivia
SOURCE: SMS from Kaze
90% - call center agents
80% - never pa-nagka-girlfriend
70% - nurse or nursing student
60% - may nude pic sa Friendster
50% - may m2m video sa celfone
40% - claims that they are discreet, but they aren’t
30% - name or nick starts with ‘J’
20% - two-timer
10% - discreet talaga
100% - bumabasa nito ay napapaisip now…hmmm…
90% - call center agents
80% - never pa-nagka-girlfriend
70% - nurse or nursing student
60% - may nude pic sa Friendster
50% - may m2m video sa celfone
40% - claims that they are discreet, but they aren’t
30% - name or nick starts with ‘J’
20% - two-timer
10% - discreet talaga
100% - bumabasa nito ay napapaisip now…hmmm…
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
My dick on a silver orgy platter
THE invitation was enticing to arouse interest as it was inciting to stir up curiosity. “Exclusive All Male Extreme Shindig. Brace Yourself. Surely You Will Come. It’s On Us.” it sez on very tastefully embossed copperplate font etched on thick velum paper.
Hmm.
The Hosts—a couple I’ve met in a photo shoot that I’ve directed for an advertising client, a closeted photographer and his IT pro partner. The Venue—a palatial Manila condo chartered on a penthouse overlooking the city’s bright nightscape. The Mode—highly discreet, uber exclusive.
Nine o’clock. Sharp. “I can be fashionably late…” I tell myself.
I prepped up and geared for battle.
I scrubbed on Body Shop’s Arber Body Wash, buzzed my skinhead to its smug best with the razor, made sure le pubes are trimmed to its decent length, swabbed a gunk of Petroleum Jelly on my lips and pondered on my garb.
It was a toss between a TopMan tanktop cum sporty vest and a plain black V-neck cK tee. “You’d shed ‘em off anyway…” my inner bitch was telling me, so the cK shirt won in the final tally. I’ve paired it with low rise denim jeans, a D&G black belt and my trusty leather Brassboots. No accessories, no underwear. A whiff of Bulgari completed the look.
Loved it. I adored the image in the mirror; and as narcissistic as I am, I squandered on the idea that this brusko pink is gettin’ some tonight.
The unit was epicurean teeming with lavish accoutrements of worldly thingamajigs—crystal chandeliers, Swarovskis, fine china, the works. Projected on the wall was an impressive slide show of nudes, I assume, from the host’s body of work.
“Red or white, sir?”
I knew the waiter dressed in leather pants and boots and nothing else—he moonlights as a gogo boy in a club that I frequent in. He gave me a naughty grin and a wet wink.
The table served a cornucopia of lush offerings—strawberries, imported and unidentified variety of cheeses, pills (yup, party pills with a CAUTION slip “Pop Only What You Can Handle”..oh-so thoughtful) together with an assortment of lubes and rubbers.
I saw a bar owner I know, a lady who does cameos on ABS-CBN, a refined gentleman who is a noted architect, a handful of steroidites (gym rats whose diets include steroids), a bunch of twinkies, and one (thank, god) effeminate in drag.
The ramble began.
We saw, we conquered.
And did I mention that we all came?
Ha.
Hmm.
The Hosts—a couple I’ve met in a photo shoot that I’ve directed for an advertising client, a closeted photographer and his IT pro partner. The Venue—a palatial Manila condo chartered on a penthouse overlooking the city’s bright nightscape. The Mode—highly discreet, uber exclusive.
Nine o’clock. Sharp. “I can be fashionably late…” I tell myself.
I prepped up and geared for battle.
I scrubbed on Body Shop’s Arber Body Wash, buzzed my skinhead to its smug best with the razor, made sure le pubes are trimmed to its decent length, swabbed a gunk of Petroleum Jelly on my lips and pondered on my garb.
It was a toss between a TopMan tanktop cum sporty vest and a plain black V-neck cK tee. “You’d shed ‘em off anyway…” my inner bitch was telling me, so the cK shirt won in the final tally. I’ve paired it with low rise denim jeans, a D&G black belt and my trusty leather Brassboots. No accessories, no underwear. A whiff of Bulgari completed the look.
Loved it. I adored the image in the mirror; and as narcissistic as I am, I squandered on the idea that this brusko pink is gettin’ some tonight.
The unit was epicurean teeming with lavish accoutrements of worldly thingamajigs—crystal chandeliers, Swarovskis, fine china, the works. Projected on the wall was an impressive slide show of nudes, I assume, from the host’s body of work.
“Red or white, sir?”
I knew the waiter dressed in leather pants and boots and nothing else—he moonlights as a gogo boy in a club that I frequent in. He gave me a naughty grin and a wet wink.
The table served a cornucopia of lush offerings—strawberries, imported and unidentified variety of cheeses, pills (yup, party pills with a CAUTION slip “Pop Only What You Can Handle”..oh-so thoughtful) together with an assortment of lubes and rubbers.
I saw a bar owner I know, a lady who does cameos on ABS-CBN, a refined gentleman who is a noted architect, a handful of steroidites (gym rats whose diets include steroids), a bunch of twinkies, and one (thank, god) effeminate in drag.
The ramble began.
We saw, we conquered.
And did I mention that we all came?
Ha.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The Invitation
The mysterious invite sez...
"Exclusive All Male Extreme Shindig. Brace Yourself. Surely You Will Come. It's On Us."
It's this Saturday. Hmm...
"Exclusive All Male Extreme Shindig. Brace Yourself. Surely You Will Come. It's On Us."
It's this Saturday. Hmm...
Perplexed with bullshit, bedazzled by crap
WHEN somebody tells me I’m hot, I cringe.
When somebody tells me I’m cool, I squirm.
What exactly is ‘hot’? Just what makes one hot and the other, uhm, lukewarm, or worse, cold? Would you rather be ‘hot’ or ‘cool’?
I’m often greeted with “My, you’re hot!” (Yup, Mary, I don’t have any problem with self-confidence.). I would easily dismiss it as 1) mere chatroom talk on mother cruise ships g4m, g.com, etc, or 2) a booty wordplay for a quick lay (nothing wrong with that, really).
Whisked inside the wet sauna, I was charted to the same bum talk by a stranger “You’re hot, man!” but then again it could just be that I was just all ripped and pumped from the mercy of my gym trainer (later I’ve realized my towel was hung too low that my pelvic bone was almost transparent). Minutes after in the Locker’s Area, I chanced upon an old acquaintance who asked how I was, told him I was fine, and he said “Cool.”
Are we slowly losing the words? Why are conversations conking on contractions? Are everyday tête-à-têtes becoming an extension of text messaging? Is this just a passing whiff of the times? Are ‘hot’ and ‘cool’ the straight peeps’ version of the gay man’s multi-purpose ‘chorva’?
I am perplexed with this bullshit, bedazzled by this crap. But then I am both ‘hot’ and ‘cool’ so I ain’t complainin’. Hehe.
When somebody tells me I’m cool, I squirm.
What exactly is ‘hot’? Just what makes one hot and the other, uhm, lukewarm, or worse, cold? Would you rather be ‘hot’ or ‘cool’?
I’m often greeted with “My, you’re hot!” (Yup, Mary, I don’t have any problem with self-confidence.). I would easily dismiss it as 1) mere chatroom talk on mother cruise ships g4m, g.com, etc, or 2) a booty wordplay for a quick lay (nothing wrong with that, really).
Whisked inside the wet sauna, I was charted to the same bum talk by a stranger “You’re hot, man!” but then again it could just be that I was just all ripped and pumped from the mercy of my gym trainer (later I’ve realized my towel was hung too low that my pelvic bone was almost transparent). Minutes after in the Locker’s Area, I chanced upon an old acquaintance who asked how I was, told him I was fine, and he said “Cool.”
Are we slowly losing the words? Why are conversations conking on contractions? Are everyday tête-à-têtes becoming an extension of text messaging? Is this just a passing whiff of the times? Are ‘hot’ and ‘cool’ the straight peeps’ version of the gay man’s multi-purpose ‘chorva’?
I am perplexed with this bullshit, bedazzled by this crap. But then I am both ‘hot’ and ‘cool’ so I ain’t complainin’. Hehe.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Pure dung!
('Got this from an errant schmuck who stalked me for eternity. Stay away. Please.)
The Writings on the Wall
"It's been two days, and my heart is still bleeding.I have come back to where I came from 3 three years ago. My world, as I know it, has been torn to pieces. My whole being feels like it's crumbling down, and my theme song is The Scientist.Three years ago, I promised myself, I would never want to feel this way again. Three years ago, I thought that something as painful as this would never happen to me again. But fate unfailingly played another joke on me, and it's not funny at all. Murphy's law is still in order.Why?....I wish this feeling would go away...I had to let go. It's the right thing to do...but why does it feel so wrong??? As the cliche goes, sometimes , the right thing to do, is the most painful, and excruciating thing as well.I'm too tired crying, but the tears don't seem to run out.*@#!,....brace yourself from doing something foolish-- restrain yourself from the easy way out. That's not how things should be done. The feelings are still there, but bear the grunt. You should know better. Some people are better off apart.I love you, baby, but it's time to move on. It's all for the best. Thanks for everything...and take care of yourself, and I wish you a wonderful life...without me. You'll be fine. =)"
The Writings on the Wall
"It's been two days, and my heart is still bleeding.I have come back to where I came from 3 three years ago. My world, as I know it, has been torn to pieces. My whole being feels like it's crumbling down, and my theme song is The Scientist.Three years ago, I promised myself, I would never want to feel this way again. Three years ago, I thought that something as painful as this would never happen to me again. But fate unfailingly played another joke on me, and it's not funny at all. Murphy's law is still in order.Why?....I wish this feeling would go away...I had to let go. It's the right thing to do...but why does it feel so wrong??? As the cliche goes, sometimes , the right thing to do, is the most painful, and excruciating thing as well.I'm too tired crying, but the tears don't seem to run out.*@#!,....brace yourself from doing something foolish-- restrain yourself from the easy way out. That's not how things should be done. The feelings are still there, but bear the grunt. You should know better. Some people are better off apart.I love you, baby, but it's time to move on. It's all for the best. Thanks for everything...and take care of yourself, and I wish you a wonderful life...without me. You'll be fine. =)"
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Will Viktor get me laid?
YOU wouldn’t miss it if you’re like me who would always snatch a glimpse of himself in any reflective surface. The mirror speaketh loud as if to convince you to believe the harking words etched on its face.
‘A pair of Viktor can get you laid…” it sez.
Wipe the cynicism off your quizzical face, look at the bright side and give hope to the style-deficient and the fashion-depraved. For the horizontally-challenged and the flair-impaired, Viktor deserves some slack.
In our narcissistic pink world, you can get joy in a bottle, glow in a (lip-and-cheek stain) stick, a good tan in a foundation, and now you can get laid too—thanks to a pair of pantaloon. Let’s concede, sistahs, in fashion what you wear is who you are. Designers are hailed as sanctified icons and a good label can be your ticket from the hot clubs of cool.to the hedonist’s bed of sham.
It hits me: status goods are the new aphrodisiacs.
Just like any status accoutrement, a fashion aphrodisiac is a whimsy bourgeois acquisition. The protagonists of so-called good taste and the pseudo-purveyors of style would say that the price tag is the undisputable status trademark. When you wear your aphrodisiac, make sure to send in the clowns and sing the chorus on your way to the cash registers “…isn’t it rich?!” Dahlin’, status goods should be indispensably expensive!
A pair of Viktor jeans seems to be the coolest acquisition of the moment. Its wide variety of textiles and colors—from stark black to earthy tones of mocha and camel to immaculate whites—Viktor offers, not only a pair of jeans, but the promise of, uhm, ‘getting some.’ Never mind the tacky Japanese cats waving by the store window or the letter dishes bought on sale from the nearby Podium kitchen shop, Viktor jeans are custom-made, ergo, they should guarantee to hug your gonads and invite others to do the same.
The catch is in the tag: a whopping five-oh-oh-ouch! Five thousand pesos is enough to make you squirm (and probably churn out a silent scream!). Let’s do the math: A pair of Viktor jeans is equivalent to a three-month worth of gym bill (with unlimited emote sessions in the sauna). A pair of Viktor jeans is commensurate to one hundred cups of short Americano with white mocha at Starbucks. A pair of Viktor jeans can feed a family of ten for a week.
Is it worth it? Go figure. Will Viktor get you laid? Are you willing to pay—literally—the price? In the words of The Beautiful Gretchen, “They are verrrry expensive!” I dunno with you, but my virility is packed elsewhere than my wallet. And you say you don’t pay for sex. But that’s another story.*
‘A pair of Viktor can get you laid…” it sez.
Wipe the cynicism off your quizzical face, look at the bright side and give hope to the style-deficient and the fashion-depraved. For the horizontally-challenged and the flair-impaired, Viktor deserves some slack.
In our narcissistic pink world, you can get joy in a bottle, glow in a (lip-and-cheek stain) stick, a good tan in a foundation, and now you can get laid too—thanks to a pair of pantaloon. Let’s concede, sistahs, in fashion what you wear is who you are. Designers are hailed as sanctified icons and a good label can be your ticket from the hot clubs of cool.to the hedonist’s bed of sham.
It hits me: status goods are the new aphrodisiacs.
Just like any status accoutrement, a fashion aphrodisiac is a whimsy bourgeois acquisition. The protagonists of so-called good taste and the pseudo-purveyors of style would say that the price tag is the undisputable status trademark. When you wear your aphrodisiac, make sure to send in the clowns and sing the chorus on your way to the cash registers “…isn’t it rich?!” Dahlin’, status goods should be indispensably expensive!
A pair of Viktor jeans seems to be the coolest acquisition of the moment. Its wide variety of textiles and colors—from stark black to earthy tones of mocha and camel to immaculate whites—Viktor offers, not only a pair of jeans, but the promise of, uhm, ‘getting some.’ Never mind the tacky Japanese cats waving by the store window or the letter dishes bought on sale from the nearby Podium kitchen shop, Viktor jeans are custom-made, ergo, they should guarantee to hug your gonads and invite others to do the same.
The catch is in the tag: a whopping five-oh-oh-ouch! Five thousand pesos is enough to make you squirm (and probably churn out a silent scream!). Let’s do the math: A pair of Viktor jeans is equivalent to a three-month worth of gym bill (with unlimited emote sessions in the sauna). A pair of Viktor jeans is commensurate to one hundred cups of short Americano with white mocha at Starbucks. A pair of Viktor jeans can feed a family of ten for a week.
Is it worth it? Go figure. Will Viktor get you laid? Are you willing to pay—literally—the price? In the words of The Beautiful Gretchen, “They are verrrry expensive!” I dunno with you, but my virility is packed elsewhere than my wallet. And you say you don’t pay for sex. But that’s another story.*
Monday, January 7, 2008
King Kong Barbies!
BETWEEN the great sexual divide of the straight man’s world sprawling with Dockers and Dickies and the gay man’s universe teeming with photogenic misses is a line that binds the disparity together. Best seen under rose-tinted Ray Ban aviators, one thread stitches these parallel worlds in harking harmony—fashion.
Amidst a bevy of she-men who garbs fab with RuPaul accoutrements on high level aura mode (Shante! Shante!), there is an emerging parliament of gay men that shuns ruffles and chiffons, abhors vertigo heels and head-splitting slits, defies high-nose threaded brows and simply veers away from thick foundation makeup worn like second (and third and fourth) skin.
Enter the King Kong Barbie.
.
Whisked at front row of the recent Philippine Fashion Week, I was amazed to see how my sistahs dress up the oxymoron—y’know, uber macho and virile fashion hanging on both the decidedly effem and the buffed gurls. Some were fashion victors, while others were victims wearing their flaccid virility on their sleeves.
At the bench, mascula-dolls, buff girls, and dandy dudettes wore their cockiness and pseudo-macho flamboyance. They looked so fashion-literate (I’m sure they all know how to spell f-u-c-h-s-i-a). They pose as if their faces can only be touched by the holy trinity—Shu Uemura, Shiseido and, eeek!, San San, and their farts can only be sweet and innocent like baby’s breath. Leather bands on limp wrists, tattered jeans on bubble buns (worn oh-so-low strung some cracks went on a peep show and wrinkled lotsa noses in collective “Ew!”), and baby tee’s two-sizes smaller seemed to be the order of the day.
On the other side of the kleiglights, the runway has morphed into a testosterone hardcourt with male models volleying for what is brawny and bright.
With observant gazes adoring good ol’ fashion’s virility and kissing washboard bods of sex-packed six pack-abs and tattooed dreams, today’s gay men-gone-bad mod is a welcome mix of two disparate cultures of the straight and the flamboyant that create an unprecedented third—the King Kong Barbie.
He is the New Now Thing.
Welcome his harking entrance, add his name to the list…and then you know it’s okay if you feel like blushing when that mist of baby’s breath come wafting through the air.*
Amidst a bevy of she-men who garbs fab with RuPaul accoutrements on high level aura mode (Shante! Shante!), there is an emerging parliament of gay men that shuns ruffles and chiffons, abhors vertigo heels and head-splitting slits, defies high-nose threaded brows and simply veers away from thick foundation makeup worn like second (and third and fourth) skin.
Enter the King Kong Barbie.
.
Whisked at front row of the recent Philippine Fashion Week, I was amazed to see how my sistahs dress up the oxymoron—y’know, uber macho and virile fashion hanging on both the decidedly effem and the buffed gurls. Some were fashion victors, while others were victims wearing their flaccid virility on their sleeves.
At the bench, mascula-dolls, buff girls, and dandy dudettes wore their cockiness and pseudo-macho flamboyance. They looked so fashion-literate (I’m sure they all know how to spell f-u-c-h-s-i-a). They pose as if their faces can only be touched by the holy trinity—Shu Uemura, Shiseido and, eeek!, San San, and their farts can only be sweet and innocent like baby’s breath. Leather bands on limp wrists, tattered jeans on bubble buns (worn oh-so-low strung some cracks went on a peep show and wrinkled lotsa noses in collective “Ew!”), and baby tee’s two-sizes smaller seemed to be the order of the day.
On the other side of the kleiglights, the runway has morphed into a testosterone hardcourt with male models volleying for what is brawny and bright.
With observant gazes adoring good ol’ fashion’s virility and kissing washboard bods of sex-packed six pack-abs and tattooed dreams, today’s gay men-gone-bad mod is a welcome mix of two disparate cultures of the straight and the flamboyant that create an unprecedented third—the King Kong Barbie.
He is the New Now Thing.
Welcome his harking entrance, add his name to the list…and then you know it’s okay if you feel like blushing when that mist of baby’s breath come wafting through the air.*
My Top Ten Local Lust List
10. Y, Fitness First gym instructor – I constantly share good “workout” sessions with him—on and off the gym, hehe.
9. Ram Sagad, Century Superbodies wnner – he’s got me screamin’ “Tuna! Tuna! Tuna!” Not buffed, not lanky, just right! So meaty, so delish!
8. Tim Yap, hottie eventologist – Shindig Boy Tim guested in my defunct Wave 89.1 radio show, Fashion Radio, and there was this intense sexual vibe hovering about the studio…but then again he’s not a PLU, or so he sez.
7. Jon Avila, model/PBB housemate – I would go sexxxy bareback for ya, baby!
6. Marc Nelson, model/Amazing Race Asia contender – But only when he’s with Rovilson, hehe. They look so lush together, I would readily be their third wheel! Please, please!
5. Victor Basa, model/PBB housemate – I’ve chanced upon him at The Podium garbed in plain tee and dirty, lowdown pantaloons and a skateboard to boot! Oh my, I had my drool frothing in the corners of my mouth!
4. Rocky Salumbides, Pinoy international model – This rising and rising ramp Lothario had me in front-row-center fashion show biting my lips and whetting my appetite! Yum!
3. Jake Cuenca, artista –Fate waved her fairydust on my pavement and had our paths cross, wherelse, but the shower room of Greenhills Fitness (separate showers, of course!). The soap stud had my palm run wild. Uh-oh.
2. This guy from the Cobra drink commercial - I would stick a Popsicle up his tush and slurp him all night!
1. This mystery guy I’ve hooked up with at Fitness First Alabang—he got my mind (and Zsazsa Zaturnnah knows what else) stirred up! Gosh, I was so smitten, I forgot to get his digits! Nitwit me. Where art thou?
9. Ram Sagad, Century Superbodies wnner – he’s got me screamin’ “Tuna! Tuna! Tuna!” Not buffed, not lanky, just right! So meaty, so delish!
8. Tim Yap, hottie eventologist – Shindig Boy Tim guested in my defunct Wave 89.1 radio show, Fashion Radio, and there was this intense sexual vibe hovering about the studio…but then again he’s not a PLU, or so he sez.
7. Jon Avila, model/PBB housemate – I would go sexxxy bareback for ya, baby!
6. Marc Nelson, model/Amazing Race Asia contender – But only when he’s with Rovilson, hehe. They look so lush together, I would readily be their third wheel! Please, please!
5. Victor Basa, model/PBB housemate – I’ve chanced upon him at The Podium garbed in plain tee and dirty, lowdown pantaloons and a skateboard to boot! Oh my, I had my drool frothing in the corners of my mouth!
4. Rocky Salumbides, Pinoy international model – This rising and rising ramp Lothario had me in front-row-center fashion show biting my lips and whetting my appetite! Yum!
3. Jake Cuenca, artista –Fate waved her fairydust on my pavement and had our paths cross, wherelse, but the shower room of Greenhills Fitness (separate showers, of course!). The soap stud had my palm run wild. Uh-oh.
2. This guy from the Cobra drink commercial - I would stick a Popsicle up his tush and slurp him all night!
1. This mystery guy I’ve hooked up with at Fitness First Alabang—he got my mind (and Zsazsa Zaturnnah knows what else) stirred up! Gosh, I was so smitten, I forgot to get his digits! Nitwit me. Where art thou?
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Thanks, Toy Armada!
I GOT a belated holiday gift from The DJ.
Funny how I can still be smitten after all this time.
Blush.
Funny how I can still be smitten after all this time.
Blush.
Charlie McBeal
AND so it came to pass that I broke Charlie McBeal’s heart.
In a sea of pink men at Bed last night—including two ex’s (the hottie dj and, ugh, the lukewarm HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken) and amidst a bevy of nameless fuckah flings and a throng of almost-but-not-quite bf material—the thud was meek but nevertheless, felt.
You see, for eons now (dating as far back when I was still tied up to the curb with HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken) Charlie McBeal was already sending me feelers. He would send sweet sms, Pablo Neruda quotes (which I sooo adore), fly to where I was at my beck and call, and we actually had, uhm, friendly dates. But his efforts of courtship were futile ‘coz I was still in a relationship. I am not reeking with virtues, but I put a lotta stock on fidelity (at least emotionally) and I give my partner the reverence and loyalty that he deserves when I’m in a relationship.
As expected, my relationship with HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken went kaput, and no sooner that I can say eureka, Charlie McBeal was on a wooing prowl.
He came to my rescue—listening to my motley of excuses as to why the relationship failed, giving me his shoulder for comfort and holding my hand as I make my foray to detoxify from the friggin’ ex.
Charlie McBeal was a catch—he’s a hottie with a good head on his shoulders, heck, he’s a lawyer (no less) who was one of the topnotchers in last year’s Bar Exam. Obviously, I had to upgrade from HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken and Charlie McBeal was the anointed successor slash likely candidate.
But…
For some very strange reason, he didn’t quite make the cut. I dunno, something was amiss. And I cannot put a finger on what’s he’s missing.
“I love you, Louie, I really do. I think each day on how it could work, but I’m afraid the feeling is not mutual…”
I was getting dizzy with my own dilly dally dance of committing or not.
I know, it would be terribly unfair to make him wait if I, myself, isn’t sure if there’s a green light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. I don’t want him to waste his time with no assurance that one day I will be jolted from my craziness and finally jump onto a relationship with him.
Charles, dear, this is what’s best. This is what’s right.
In a sea of pink men at Bed last night—including two ex’s (the hottie dj and, ugh, the lukewarm HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken) and amidst a bevy of nameless fuckah flings and a throng of almost-but-not-quite bf material—the thud was meek but nevertheless, felt.
You see, for eons now (dating as far back when I was still tied up to the curb with HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken) Charlie McBeal was already sending me feelers. He would send sweet sms, Pablo Neruda quotes (which I sooo adore), fly to where I was at my beck and call, and we actually had, uhm, friendly dates. But his efforts of courtship were futile ‘coz I was still in a relationship. I am not reeking with virtues, but I put a lotta stock on fidelity (at least emotionally) and I give my partner the reverence and loyalty that he deserves when I’m in a relationship.
As expected, my relationship with HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken went kaput, and no sooner that I can say eureka, Charlie McBeal was on a wooing prowl.
He came to my rescue—listening to my motley of excuses as to why the relationship failed, giving me his shoulder for comfort and holding my hand as I make my foray to detoxify from the friggin’ ex.
Charlie McBeal was a catch—he’s a hottie with a good head on his shoulders, heck, he’s a lawyer (no less) who was one of the topnotchers in last year’s Bar Exam. Obviously, I had to upgrade from HeWhoseNameShallNotBeSpoken and Charlie McBeal was the anointed successor slash likely candidate.
But…
For some very strange reason, he didn’t quite make the cut. I dunno, something was amiss. And I cannot put a finger on what’s he’s missing.
“I love you, Louie, I really do. I think each day on how it could work, but I’m afraid the feeling is not mutual…”
I was getting dizzy with my own dilly dally dance of committing or not.
I know, it would be terribly unfair to make him wait if I, myself, isn’t sure if there’s a green light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. I don’t want him to waste his time with no assurance that one day I will be jolted from my craziness and finally jump onto a relationship with him.
Charles, dear, this is what’s best. This is what’s right.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Rectum Erratum
“TEN, fifteen,” they said. “Twenty tops. More than that would be a cause for concern.” My friends were troubled, they actually gave me a straight-men-as-friends quota.
Between a hetero’s world that is so square it could well be a box and a homey’s universe that reeks Dolce & Gabbana (and best seen under rose-tinted Ray Ban aviators), I am allowed, as told, only twenty straight guy friends. But I’ve got a loadful, a cadre that could make a whole battalion and wage war against acid washed jeans and Prescripto imitation parfums. So I am under fraught observation.
Though I have assured my lovely bevy of she-men that “it ain’t a deal, really” it wasn’t enough to unfurrow the brows in orbit of brusko pinkies, divine divas and dandy dudettes (yes, the fab protagonists of the great sexual divide). My sistahs were fidgety—obviously anxious despite vicious doses of dedma on my part and lots of inquisitive, prodding eyes on theirs—that a straddling to the ‘other other side’ was imminent.
Their collective quip was nothing short of sour and spicy—from the impudent “Oh my, we’re getting a bit too butch, aren’t we?” to the insolent “Isn’t it a little too late for a cross-over?” to the sarcastic “Balls are for lickin’, not for dribblin’.”
While I’m an all out pinkie who eats and breathes gaiety and gayness (I suspect my fart’s mist is actually fuchsia), not all my friends are. I actually navigate in mixed circle.
Among PLUs (People Like Us) this is either applauded as a revered sign of conquest—nothing short of emancipating freedom—an ‘inter-species’ harmony, or, scorned as a dubious attempt for a free locker room peepshow or a prelude to an opportunist’s shag—drunken or otherwise.
I know, there is a line that separates mankind from men-of-my-kind. No, not a thin, vanishing line as some gender optimists would profess, but a line so bold and heavy it could replace the Ped Xing grid in this gay Metro painted Barbie pink and baby blue. And just like a confused pedestrian who would dare tread the line beyond the strict boundary, this emphatic, definitive line poses clear and present danger.
It cuts both ways.
Straights are infamous for their lack of flexibility when thrown into a bin of pink men. Picture this: A straight guy sighted with a gay man in tow would be suspected of extra ‘friendly’ liaisons, more so if he’s seen within a ten-kilometer radius from a commercial mall, then the words ‘Kept Boy’ would be stamped to his forehead. Find a guy who brandishes himself with simple hygiene and he is deemed vain, if he uses more than soap and water then he is cast under suspicion. Sordid attempts to rectify this notion have been made in the past, but the closest marketing stooges can do were to sire a dude named David Beckham and coin the word ‘metrosexual’ to justify an excuse.
Interestingly enough, a gay man swarming in the soup of heterosexual company is no different.
Find a lone gay guy in a drinking session with a pack of straight men and he is either dick-savvy or he just got paid. A sore thumb standout among drunken men is not a man of virtue but a gay guy with budget.
The two poles are as foreign and distant as north is to south. Cynics say the only thing that connects the dots is the stuff that you take out from an ATM machine. Should a need for one from the other arises, a hetero in need would readily pull down his pants while a gay man would readily pull out his wallet.
Ugh.
If these contentions were true, then why am I sharing a nonchalant ritual of relief (that and only that) in the Men’s Room with my posse of straight friends? How can I share with them a wet sauna garbed only with a face towel (which is even restricted in the hot pool)? And though I cannot play basketball, why do they make up my cheering committee when I feebly dribble and shoot the ball to a missed basket (no, it’s not my long, endless legs or my joggling man boobs)?
Bringing me to a Carrie Bradshaw moment—I couldn’t help but wonder, could these parallel worlds, separate and different, coalesce in harmony?
Yes, Miss Bradshaw, and you don’t need sistah Stanford Blatch and bitchboy Anthony Morentino to prove it.
One word: respect.
The thing is, I know my limitations as their gay guy friend and they know theirs.
I banish their rabid fear that gay men are man-eaters by simply being one of the boys. And just like little Miss Carrie, I look beyond what Mr. Big literally means.
In the gym where half of the buffies are pinkies, I exchange beauty tips as much as I get dietary supplement advice from both sides. I’ve learned the metabolic benefits of taking extra virgin oil as a fat burner from the straights, in the same manner that I acquire the meritorious sexual advantages of olive oil from the ‘backburners’ (topically applied, of course).
I don’t ask about my straight friends’ sexual conquests, although I always get an earful of their locker room shag inventory. In return, they don’t pry to ask me who among PLUs have recently made the big switch from top to bottom (Rectum erratum, no less), who ‘upgraded’ from part time, curious bisexual to full-pledged dick worshipper, and who among the gym instructors are actually hiding in their mirror-balled-boa-feathered shell.
Sink this in: True friendship wanders without direction, it navigates without boundaries. Someday, I hope, we will all live, love and learn without self-righteous rules, restrictive borders and yes, even priggish quotas.
In the meantime, my straight friends are still cheering me on the hardcourt, as for my bevy of pinkie chums, let me just say we’re learning some new trick to do with balls. Hehe.
Between a hetero’s world that is so square it could well be a box and a homey’s universe that reeks Dolce & Gabbana (and best seen under rose-tinted Ray Ban aviators), I am allowed, as told, only twenty straight guy friends. But I’ve got a loadful, a cadre that could make a whole battalion and wage war against acid washed jeans and Prescripto imitation parfums. So I am under fraught observation.
Though I have assured my lovely bevy of she-men that “it ain’t a deal, really” it wasn’t enough to unfurrow the brows in orbit of brusko pinkies, divine divas and dandy dudettes (yes, the fab protagonists of the great sexual divide). My sistahs were fidgety—obviously anxious despite vicious doses of dedma on my part and lots of inquisitive, prodding eyes on theirs—that a straddling to the ‘other other side’ was imminent.
Their collective quip was nothing short of sour and spicy—from the impudent “Oh my, we’re getting a bit too butch, aren’t we?” to the insolent “Isn’t it a little too late for a cross-over?” to the sarcastic “Balls are for lickin’, not for dribblin’.”
While I’m an all out pinkie who eats and breathes gaiety and gayness (I suspect my fart’s mist is actually fuchsia), not all my friends are. I actually navigate in mixed circle.
Among PLUs (People Like Us) this is either applauded as a revered sign of conquest—nothing short of emancipating freedom—an ‘inter-species’ harmony, or, scorned as a dubious attempt for a free locker room peepshow or a prelude to an opportunist’s shag—drunken or otherwise.
I know, there is a line that separates mankind from men-of-my-kind. No, not a thin, vanishing line as some gender optimists would profess, but a line so bold and heavy it could replace the Ped Xing grid in this gay Metro painted Barbie pink and baby blue. And just like a confused pedestrian who would dare tread the line beyond the strict boundary, this emphatic, definitive line poses clear and present danger.
It cuts both ways.
Straights are infamous for their lack of flexibility when thrown into a bin of pink men. Picture this: A straight guy sighted with a gay man in tow would be suspected of extra ‘friendly’ liaisons, more so if he’s seen within a ten-kilometer radius from a commercial mall, then the words ‘Kept Boy’ would be stamped to his forehead. Find a guy who brandishes himself with simple hygiene and he is deemed vain, if he uses more than soap and water then he is cast under suspicion. Sordid attempts to rectify this notion have been made in the past, but the closest marketing stooges can do were to sire a dude named David Beckham and coin the word ‘metrosexual’ to justify an excuse.
Interestingly enough, a gay man swarming in the soup of heterosexual company is no different.
Find a lone gay guy in a drinking session with a pack of straight men and he is either dick-savvy or he just got paid. A sore thumb standout among drunken men is not a man of virtue but a gay guy with budget.
The two poles are as foreign and distant as north is to south. Cynics say the only thing that connects the dots is the stuff that you take out from an ATM machine. Should a need for one from the other arises, a hetero in need would readily pull down his pants while a gay man would readily pull out his wallet.
Ugh.
If these contentions were true, then why am I sharing a nonchalant ritual of relief (that and only that) in the Men’s Room with my posse of straight friends? How can I share with them a wet sauna garbed only with a face towel (which is even restricted in the hot pool)? And though I cannot play basketball, why do they make up my cheering committee when I feebly dribble and shoot the ball to a missed basket (no, it’s not my long, endless legs or my joggling man boobs)?
Bringing me to a Carrie Bradshaw moment—I couldn’t help but wonder, could these parallel worlds, separate and different, coalesce in harmony?
Yes, Miss Bradshaw, and you don’t need sistah Stanford Blatch and bitchboy Anthony Morentino to prove it.
One word: respect.
The thing is, I know my limitations as their gay guy friend and they know theirs.
I banish their rabid fear that gay men are man-eaters by simply being one of the boys. And just like little Miss Carrie, I look beyond what Mr. Big literally means.
In the gym where half of the buffies are pinkies, I exchange beauty tips as much as I get dietary supplement advice from both sides. I’ve learned the metabolic benefits of taking extra virgin oil as a fat burner from the straights, in the same manner that I acquire the meritorious sexual advantages of olive oil from the ‘backburners’ (topically applied, of course).
I don’t ask about my straight friends’ sexual conquests, although I always get an earful of their locker room shag inventory. In return, they don’t pry to ask me who among PLUs have recently made the big switch from top to bottom (Rectum erratum, no less), who ‘upgraded’ from part time, curious bisexual to full-pledged dick worshipper, and who among the gym instructors are actually hiding in their mirror-balled-boa-feathered shell.
Sink this in: True friendship wanders without direction, it navigates without boundaries. Someday, I hope, we will all live, love and learn without self-righteous rules, restrictive borders and yes, even priggish quotas.
In the meantime, my straight friends are still cheering me on the hardcourt, as for my bevy of pinkie chums, let me just say we’re learning some new trick to do with balls. Hehe.
The Pamhinta Chronicles
I OFTEN CURSE my inability to fly—so instead, I occasionally menstruate and write.
The ink in my veins is not red, it’s pink—make that flamingo pink. But flamingos are flamboyant like Kuya Germs and gaudy as Kuya Boy that emasculates the discreet, straight-acting, but nevertheless dick-worshipper that fittingly describe my posse of pamhinta pink men. No, pamhintas are not flamingos, they’d rather be peacocks. You get the picture.
This blog, Brusko Pink: The Pamhinta Chronicles, is an astute account of this ever-increasing gradation of gay men who occupies almost every square foot of Malate and peppers the face of every gay-friendly turf in this pink (yes, peeenk!) Mega City.. The Pamhinta comes in various incarnations and these pages throb of snippets of his life that is destined to fabulousity and grandeur. His life is celebratory, though sometimes dysfunctional with his ill-fated forays into the rueful journey of living, loving, losing and learning through life.
I should know. Because I am.
File me under Muscle Mary, King Kong Barbie, mascula-doll, or just plain unscented wordsmith. I am proudly a pamhinta, and when I’m cranky, I write. When I’m happy, I sweat off glitter and write about it. When sh*t happens, my middle finger rises to the occasion and pound on Mac. When romantic anguish eats me up, I take a little mush suicide and seek company with sistah Julia Fordham and write. I am a pamhinta who loves his pink life to the fullest—I dance bare top on the ledge, I sing my lungs out, I sanitize my life with a sarcasm diet (I don’t eat pork, I just love men). I advocate monogamy, I recommend intellectual intercourse, and I promote, uhm, world peace when I am not writing.
Welcome to my blog. Welcome to the wonderful world of The Pamhinta.
Louie Cano
January 2008
The ink in my veins is not red, it’s pink—make that flamingo pink. But flamingos are flamboyant like Kuya Germs and gaudy as Kuya Boy that emasculates the discreet, straight-acting, but nevertheless dick-worshipper that fittingly describe my posse of pamhinta pink men. No, pamhintas are not flamingos, they’d rather be peacocks. You get the picture.
This blog, Brusko Pink: The Pamhinta Chronicles, is an astute account of this ever-increasing gradation of gay men who occupies almost every square foot of Malate and peppers the face of every gay-friendly turf in this pink (yes, peeenk!) Mega City.. The Pamhinta comes in various incarnations and these pages throb of snippets of his life that is destined to fabulousity and grandeur. His life is celebratory, though sometimes dysfunctional with his ill-fated forays into the rueful journey of living, loving, losing and learning through life.
I should know. Because I am.
File me under Muscle Mary, King Kong Barbie, mascula-doll, or just plain unscented wordsmith. I am proudly a pamhinta, and when I’m cranky, I write. When I’m happy, I sweat off glitter and write about it. When sh*t happens, my middle finger rises to the occasion and pound on Mac. When romantic anguish eats me up, I take a little mush suicide and seek company with sistah Julia Fordham and write. I am a pamhinta who loves his pink life to the fullest—I dance bare top on the ledge, I sing my lungs out, I sanitize my life with a sarcasm diet (I don’t eat pork, I just love men). I advocate monogamy, I recommend intellectual intercourse, and I promote, uhm, world peace when I am not writing.
Welcome to my blog. Welcome to the wonderful world of The Pamhinta.
Louie Cano
January 2008
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