GOOD BYE...

Goodbyes are hard to say but maturing humans has to move on. And so I announce now to all my blogspot fans that I am moving on not because I have matured. My blogging does. He, he, he...

You may still read my writings in my new site:

http://web.mac.com/glloren

See you there.

To blogspot, I bow.

Thank you.

I Say Narcolepsy, You Say Necrophilia.

Sorry. I don’t mean to show off on some medical terms. I leave that to doctors. Some of them only has those words to display their vocabulary. Hah?! You don’t know what they mean? My last name is Lloren. Not Webster. Go grab him.

So there we were, Praxedes and D’Bully, sitting in one of SM Megamall’s theatre for the screening of Joey Gosienfiao’s Nights of Serafina. The movie was one of the series of films being shown last week as Cinema One honors the said director. Hey, I admire the guy. He’s an icon, to say the least. You can’t blame a fan for paying Php120.00 to watch a film that has been shown several times on cable. To think that this one is also said to be a pito-pito movie (made in seven days). Ok, no more apologies. I’m just a fan. Yes?

Sitting in orchestra (here is one for another blog: Megamall still dichotomize between special and regular cinema seating), I noticed a video projector set up behind us. Praxedes was quick to fear that we are up to watch the same television version of the movie. Honestly, it was a kind of fear that edges on the horrified state as, though we came for the opus of an idol, we came for Mike Magat who was said to be showing more than just his torso. We expected that at Php120.00 we will see more blood and sex. How do they call it? Director’s cut. We feared correctly. Yes, we were made to watch exactly what one may see for free on television! Front, butt and expletives deleted.

Cinema One, why?!

But we were determined not to be disappointed. In times like this, it’s mind over matter. In this case, it’s intellectualization over the unintelligible. Simply put, in our bid to salvage our reason for braving the traffic on Edsa to get to Megamall, we tempered the disappointment with abject rationalization. Let’s just say we still want to believe that this film is the epitome of camp (only after Joey’s Temptation Island) and, therefore, is one for laughs and Mike Magat’s pecs is one to recall on those lonely cold nights. The latter was indeed a justification. Mike Magat, I must say, was one of the best pieces of meat that came out of Divisoria Market. Unless you don’t know, my dear hordes of four avid readers, Mike Magat used to work at the said wet market as a porter (it’s a kinder word compared to its Tagalog equivalent - kargador).

Who is Serafina? She’s a mannequin in a catatonic state. A mannequin because, among others, she could crack her ever-pouting lips whenever she attempts to speak, cry, or - God forbids - laugh. Catatonic because her acting requires strings attached to her limbs for actuation. A puppeteer may have been more expensive in those days that Joey instead opted for her to animate a character. Or maybe she was just such an obedient actress she followed Direk Joey’s every instructions right down to the nine. He may have told her, “You’re a mowdel (yes, there is a w). Walk, talk and eat like a mowdel.” She gladly obliged, thus, we see her being raped or slapped and she still comes out as a magazine print. She was pushed against the ground in a rape scene. The attacker had second thoughts when tears fell from her eyes so he leaves her be. She stood up and did a cat walk. She was running away from a pursuer along the street. She came to an alley. She couldn’t decide which way to go. She acted this out by a sudden stop from running, arms reaching forward, paused, then turned the other way with the other arm reaching forward. Yes, it’s a choreography by the Aldeguer Sisters. Serafina could win an Urian for Most Promising Performer by simply falling asleep within the whole duration of an entire film. Which in turn led me to think that the guys who fell for her would find the morgue more stimulating than a girly bar. I assume Mother Lily could have saved more production money by having cardboard cut-outs play the role.

O, I’ve been so mean to this actress I should accordingly hide her identity under her “real alias”, Georgia Ortega. Where is she now? I think I spotted her among the crowd of zombies in Night of the Living Dead. She was perfect.

The story line is quite the usual. John Apacible as heir to a rich logging family who travels to Manila to meet his bride (none existent) and to hire a labor arbiter (Mike Magat). In Manila she stops by a road to admire the woman in the billboard. Before he drives off the same face was on the page of a magazine that blew against his car’s windshield. And, surprise, the woman who owns the magazine is the woman in the billboard, the woman in the magazine, the woman now standing beside his car to pick up the magazine. She was having a pictorial meters away. She says in a monotonous low voice consistent in all her deliveries, “Sorry, nilipad ng hangin ang magazine ko.” No, I don’t suspect the director was imploring a film technique. If he was, it has something to do with economy. Making several things happen in one place at one scene shortens the story line, which cuts scene sequences, which shortens production and post-production, which results to shrinking the budget, which by the way characterizes a pito-pito movie.

With this meeting along the road established, you can rightly presume what happens to the rest of the movie. Don’t fail me.

So much could be said about this film for being camp. Every other guy was wearing chaleco if they’re not in padded coat! And Oscar Dela Renta is in the credits?! Yeah right. Using binoculars, the two pesky kids admire Serafina standing at the terrace while they were just five meters away from her location. Another floozy character punctuates her every line with annoying laughter. That was her idea of a slut. There was a party. And as such in a provincial setting, the rich would hire a band, the kind that plays in fiestas and parades. While they play some jolly old country folk tunes, our subject characters were modern dancing along the mansion’s portico. My head ached as I tried so hard to synch what I see with what I hear.

Gosiengfiao films are also known for explosive lines and I had a blast of gas when Serafina drawls, “Alam kong nabili na nya ang aking katawan. Pero walang karapatang bumili ang di marunong gumamit.” Referring to John Apacible who was impotent. That gorgeous body is inutile. He may have a chiseled body compared to Mike but Mike is an animal. I’m all hands down to Serafina for letting herself get insnared by a butcher instead by a logger. At least, the movie was quite successful in this character contrast. You have an impotent Olympian god on one hand, a rough but ravishing mortal on the other. I’d go for an anatomically complete human.

This will not stop me from watching Gosiengfiao films. What I see in his films is a man who enjoys his craft. When one is having fun with his pursuits, a genius comes out. Then the audience has no choice but to react with spontaneity, whether by irritation or admiration, disgust or commendation. And as I was trying to find a statement that would sum up my impression of his movies, I serendipitously found it while watching the Lifestyle Channel: a comedian trying to simplify his impression on a Ron Howard sci-fi starring John Travolta as an alien villain. She goes, “The movie is so bad, it’s so good.”

True.

Wake Me Up When It's Over

We finally have a Skycable at home! Welcome us into this millennium. (supply canned applause here)

I can’t remember what I watched on the first day of its installation. Tonight, housemate Rollo insisted we tune in to saccharine Hallmark. He was hoping we could catch something so family oriented it would keep his thoughts from Palawan 2. When we tuned in, lo and behold, there was Oprah. Tonight’s topic was about going green. The title was enough for me to doubt whether Rollo would have a respite from Palawan 2 tonight. Happily, going green refers to environmentalism and has nothing to do with being green and green blooded.

I have nothing against environmentalism. Who would have? Some of my best friends are environmentalists (I’m trying to remember who). It’s these Americans whining about the trash they make. I just want to tell them, “Hey, you started it.” Just come to think of it, they want us to save on styrofoam plates because it’s too much trash. But last time I know, they popularized it together with junk food! The Europeans don’t have much use of styrofoam plates because every time they party it’s fine dining. The Japanese use elegant earthen wares and revere their wooden utensils like a good animist. They sacrificed their shinto gods in cutting trees for plates. The Chinese are equally reverent when it comes to their ceramics. The middle easterners altogether eat in one gigantic plate. As for us Filipinos, Mother Earth is thankful we are poor. So poor that we cannot afford to throw our melaware plates into the trash. Most of us are so careful with them that they become heirlooms.

Before every commercial, Ms. Oprah would call upon her staff to distribute to the audience packages of bric-a-brac as an environmentalists’ starter kit. What I see is another batch of trash and Oprah’s the culprit. And every time she announces that a new set of giveaways are to be handed to the audience, they throw their selves into hysterics. It’s Wowowie, only with a Hollywood touch but lacking the tear-jerking audience narratives.

Oprah introduces products that are environmental friendly. We can all get them from her website. Sorry, Oprah Miss Dear. We already have ukay-ukay. Beat that.

If there was ever an observable success in this show, it was Miss Oprah making me resurrect my plans to become the next big thing in Miss Earth.

At Channel 2nd Avenue, the show was worse. A tabloid news was reporting on contestants drowning on a radio network’s water drinking contest, a seagull entering a convenient store and taking off with a pack of crackers, a tough talking infant girl, a fourteen year old paparazzi, pet burials. It’s Rated K without Korina’s annoying cheeks on screen.

And now I have to change the channel. It’s Helen Degenerate Show starting.

In HBO, Ninja 2. A bunch of muscled actors with a master’s degree in non-acting pretending to be military men in a resort. With the way they act (Hi, I’m Jake. I’m a ranger.) and clothed (multi-colored beach florals!), I felt like I was watching a Chichi La Rue film.

In Jack TV, a stupid adult-humor cartoon. I think I’m staying. At least, Jack TV has raised stupid shows into an art-form.

Oops, I accidentally pressed the channel button. I’m in AXN and it’s Fear Factor. Whew! One contestant is a big, big white boy. I palpitated.

Ugh! He’s eating roaches. But those shoulders are making me stay tuned.

Want more roaches, Baby?

A question pops in my mind: would I kiss him after he munches those horrid critters?

I’m thinking.

Shampoolessia

TO SILIP OR NOT TO SILIP

So was the question. But it was not a question, really. It was me and Praxedes trying to figure out what to watch in Gateway. There was Ocean’s Thirteen. There was Meet the Robinsons. There was Zodiac. But the question went immaterial. Because we watched Joel Lamangan’s Silip (English: peek) anyway, in spite of... despite of...

Home in Q.C. I’m trying to write this blog Ian-Fleming-style. Drunk in front of DVD playing. It’s Daredevil and I don’t care if I’m watching it the third time. It’s just Ben Afflick in his tight leather and Collin Farrel and his sexy goatee. Nothing personal.

It was a tough choice watching Silip considering the contenders mentioned above. But a poster that shows Polo Ravales’s veins piping along tremendously chiseled arms and shoulders tipped the balance of decision. To think that I even told Praxedes that I don’t trust Joel Lamangan films. Not that they’re quite mediocre. They are the epitome of abject mediocrity. But Polo’s anatomy makes for a movie worth seeing. At least, for us. Fuck (excuse my French)! We’re such suckers for musculature.



In this movie, Polo Raveles is the alpha-male handicraft vendor, Francine Prieto as Selya, and Diana Subiri as Tess. Tess is married to Polo (who wouldn’t). Selya is the pigment of her psychosis. She imagined her, first, as a friend who keeps her company while Polo is away selling his wears (the handicraft). Then she sees her as Polo’s scheming paramour. I also have a Selya in my life but he’s definitely not an illusion. He’s real and he’s out there looking for a relationship to destroy (play Dideth Reyes’s Tukso here). The lie is out there.

I digress. Always.

Back to Silip.

Why Silip, I don’t know. The closest scene in the movie that would get to the title were the bath scenes. Yes there is an s. We know that in the province, people take their shower outside their huts. Inside a four walled structure made of palm leaves, or wood, or bamboo, devoid of roof. Here we see Tess (zzz...), and Selia (hohummm...), and Polo R. (clap, clap, clap...) soaping their selves in what seems to be a palipuran made of bamboo thatched inches apart. One can merely watch the bathers meters away without having an ounce of effort to make silip (peek) and see the glory of both male and female gross anatomy. So it seems these scenes neither count to justify the title. So what made Silip?

I suspect it’s about the movie’s plot. It’s struggling to come out of the story and all it could afford is to peek out of the spiel’s logic.

But, hey, there was one scene that made me cathartic. In a restaurant, two fried whole chickens were served. I drooled. And I drooled. I continuously drooled. I was watching Polo shirtless and I doubly drooled. One for him and still one for the chickens that were shown almost an hour since. After the movie, in Esquinita where we met Ninghao, I craved for chicken so badly I went to a nearby chicken inasal and ordered two servings.

If we are to stick to the fact that movies are meant to entertain, then Silip perhaps count as one. I had a few laughs. Well, honestly, a lot:

Tess asked the deaf-mute for a conversation. I laughed. She realized he’s deaf-mute. I laughed. So she simply said it’s ok and that he may go. The deaf-mute thanked her. I laughed. My spleen almost burst.

There was this knife. The knife in the kitchen. Kept at the very same corner. Of the kitchen. Tess used it to slit the throat of the deaf-mute. Tess used it to stab Selya. Tess used it on Polo. Every time, the knife is found on the same corner of the kitchen. Would anyone use the same knife on one’s cooking if it has already been used to kill somebody?! I’m not laughing.

One night, there was a storm. Take note: a storm. Hours later, on the same night, Selya and Tess were drinking outside the house with bonfires everywhere. That scene ended with the women laughing and dancing. I don’t know with you but I am not joining.

Tess murdered Selya. Yes, with the ever-present knife. Polo was furious. After he helped Tess dump the body, he went to the river to wash the blood off him. Tess went up to him to help him wash. He was startled by her touch. He faced her. Said, “Nandididri ako sa’yo!”

Tess, next time he does that, face him, grab his crotch and blurt out, “Bansot ka!”

Speaking of bansot (Japanese: bonsai), one scene shows tall Selya and short Polo running naked across the glades. What I see was a boy running away with his aunt. The thought is appalling.

Polo brought Tess to the hospital. She was diagnosed to have psychosis. He asked the doctor where does one get such. Watching this movie, one need no doctor to surmise where one gets psychosis. I figured, it’s the bad script. Where else?

I should stop with these litanies or I won’t be able to sleep. But before I end, though, I have one thing to say to the director:

Joel, Joel, Joel... tsk, tsk, tsk... next time I watch a Filipino film, sana wala lang lamangan.

Minatamis na almusal

Ahem... tagalog ito. Pero hanggang title lang yan. Mahahalatang bisaya tayo.

We could have discussed about the abuse on the ozone layer which made this summer unbearably sweaty than the past years. We could have toasted Trillanes for making it in and, as of the last report in ABS-CBN, out of the senatorial race. We could have demonstrated our level of intelligence by deciphering the basis of morality from the writings of the French and German thinkers. But we don’t have to. We know we are intelligent.

So here we were in Chelu on a Friday night. Oblivious on whether there were enough cute guys to test our market value. Or whether there were enough gays in the area to say this is the night to see and be seen. Tonight, I’m with my friends. My very intelligent friends. And since we have not been seeing each other for days, a pseudo-reunion is in order. So we settled on gossip. And it’s not about our friends nor ex-friends. O, no. We are not going to make celebrities out of their absence. We, instead, gossiped about ourselves.

Rollo, although surprisingly out of his usual hang-out in Palawan 2 Cubao, was always on the prowl for boys. His eyeballs was almost jumping out of their socket as he hunts them out of the crowd. I whispered to Praxedes that Rollo would again be successful in fishing out the tabula rasa from the perceptive ones. We used this Aristotelian idea of the mind as a clean slate to refer to boys who have nothing in between their ears. It works for Rollo though as he could simply write his name on their empty minds and these boys will remember him forever.

Praxedes was still in euphoria remembering the guy of his birthday eve a couple of days past. Big, brawny, and the flawless skin that makes you doubt if he was indeed a provincial lad fresh from the tuna shores of General Santos. Brandon is a masseur from Utopia Spa. His was the torso that spans wide enough to contain the lengths of a mathematical equation on the workings of the universe. Praxedes remembers very well how the lights went dim when the guy bent over him as he laid down for the sinful massage. Like a nimbus cloud looming. Whew! Irefragabile!

No exaggeration. Just plain adulation. Under the pangs of envy.

Far inside Chelu a guy facing me while embracing another was looking at me with smiling eyes. I hissed back with a sharp stare that says, “Hey! I am not the porn star of your fantasies!”

I’m bad. Proudly.

Ryoichi, was with a date. The guy will remain a date.

Like Ryo, Nighao was also with a date. His date wasn’t some new conquest he would usually pride over us. They used to be friends since late nineties and, in fact, I thought the guy was already out of the country just like the rest of the gays who have retired from the scene. They may have had sex or two but we can always assume that when it comes to Ninghao without having the guilt of being wrong. O yes, we’ve also retired from the scene. From time to time. Only to come back to Malate anew as if the place has the irresistible call such as that of nature’s.

Chelu was celebrating their fourth year. Beer was four for Php100.00. It was enough for me to carouse with my ever-faithful lover, Red Horse. Had two rounds of the promo and I had a blast having eight bottles. Short of saying I was having an orgy.

At dawn Praxedes and Ninghao dragged me to Aristocrat for breakfast as I was in drunken stupor. This restaurant used to be my family’s special occasion hangout during my boyhood. Little did I know that this is going to be my breakfast place after my weekly Malate shindigs. O, I should stop the reminiscing before this turns into a commercial.

In the restaurant, I hurried into the restroom to barf and ended up in the ladies’. Went to the men’s room and threw up on the lavatory as it was still being cleaned. The janitor was watching me dirtying the newly washed marble. While I was reaching for my throat for more trash, I gave the same sharp stare at the janitor. Sharp enough to say WAGMOAKONGPANOORIN... glug, glug, glug...

Breakfast came with humongous slabs of pork and chicken adobo. Chokolate-eh is not to be missed. Ninghao ordered pansit he did not even touch. So I took the responsibility to finish it as well on top of everything else that was served on the table.

Ninghao’s ex who happened to cow-towed with us to Aristocrat insisted that the cake I bought here for my birthday is called chocolate sans-rival. Obviously, because it’s sans-rival inside, chocolate outside. Duh! Like I care what it’s called. Like men, you don’t even ask their name. You just eat them.

He kept insisting. I said I don’t know. The last time I told him that I was giving him the sharp stare that growls STOPWITHTHE SANSRIVALCHOCOTHINGY! Then there was green ooze dripping out of my mouth.

Praxedes was more pacifying with this name-ordeal. He stood up, went to the bakeshop and asked about the cake.

No. I’m not telling you what he found out. Wala lang...

Ninghao dearie, please get a hubby who can put discussion on the table. One that’s beyond baking. It would save Praxedes the walk to the bakeshop next time we’re having breakfast.


TRYING HARD TO BE KIND

My sleeping pattern consists of closing my eyes, opening it again after three minutes, open my computer games. Play. I get drowsy. I play some more. I open my blog site. I blog. Then, BLOG! I fall asleep.

Usually, this happens between 4 and 6 in the morning. So imagine me wandering dreamland by six half or seven. By that time, you’d already been taking your shower, breakfast, or morning papers. Either those or you’re still struggling with your morning erection. Assuming you’re male.

This morning, I changed my sleeping pattern. Not that I skipped the gaming and all. Prior to hitting the sack, I watched three Bruce Willis movies none stop. There was Fifth Element for the nth time. Then Hart’s War starring my stalker, Collin Farrel. And Tears of the Sun (no comment... just hand me a tissue). After two dick-flicks (remind me to mention where I got that word) and one tear jerker, I proceeded to gaming. Then blog. Yes, I am making you covet my life.

A couple of weeks ago, as I was keeping Ryoichi company for a two-day confinement in Cardinal Santos, I brought along some DVDs to watch. One was Infamous. It was about one of my favorite writer, Truman Capote, investigating on some gruesome small-town massacre and thus coming up with a book In Cold Blood. Truman was portrayed as a darling of his circle. A confidante to some socialites, if he’s not writing. However, Truman can be a vulture. One friend of his confided about her husband’s affairs. Truman assured her, “O, your secret is safe with me.” Not so. I read about this secret in his unfinished book, Answered Prayer.

Truman is all wit, total flamboyance, and in Infamous, seem possessed with reluctant sincerity, suspicious honesty, and malignant magnanimity. I want to be like him. In fact, I envy him. If I am to believe that mutants exist, the X-Men variety, Truman is one. His power to manipulate is of super-human proportions: he can extract information from the most hardened of criminals; and make a murderer fall in-love in the process. Me? I can only manipulate my DVD-player with the help of a well-written instruction manual.

O, yes, I did write about my friends and their secrets. And it’s been a long time since I gossiped about them. Ok, maybe this time I will try to be gentle, or nobody will show up on my birthday next year:

Ryoichi had a near-fatal vehicular accident. But that’s not his secret. He’s still loveless. Don’t tell anybody.

Praxedes recently celebrated his 34th birthday. For some, age is a guarded secret but none with my friends. We’re proud to have aged gracefully. If ever Praxedes has a secret, it’s one I desire. The brand-name of which is Brando(n).

Gab has no secrets at all. Gods! My life could be considered an open book, but its a mere magazine compared to his.

Nympha. He has no secrets. Honest. Go see his PC movie files.

Rollo is all secret. And he scatters them all over Palawan 2 in Cubao.

Ninghao... uhm, we wont even have to mention this one if we are to talk about secrets.

If only my friends are famous, then I could be infamous.

Look, I’m trying to utilize the little kindness I have. But then again, I’m not blessed with one.

Perhaps.