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