Blog You All! (Part 1)

In the parklanes of your thoughts deep slumbering memories are at rest. There they are saddled on grounds of unknowing waiting for a drive down memory lane.

Sunday afternoon. Coffee and chocolate cake at Libreria, Morato.

A muscled guy in black tank top passes by, groceries in tow. Across the street, in Grappas, a usually attractive skinhead chats with an unusually attractive fatso. Probably EB. Cars in all shapes, colors, sizes and types dart along the sleepy street. The taxi drivers are all seem friendly. A next-door 7-11 attendant took the day's garbage out. He's cute. My girl friend was tinkering with her laptop inside the coffee shop. Outside, under the sky, I sucked on cigarette and coffee alternately, between pencil and paper activity.

Lovely day, I should say. Too lovely to give a hoot about my sebderm raging under my left ear. A lovely day to look beyond what eyes can see and wonder where my friends now and what could they be doing. Friends, people I love regardless of bloodline. People I loved, filial or erotic, in any which way I could not classify.

Rollo, my housemate, is at home still sleeping. Sleep is his only way to deal with drunken stupor. Or maybe he's depressed again. Sleep is his first resort on such times. Second is poetry. Third, and the last, is Bed. The one in Malate.

In posh Oriental Gardens, Makati, Nympha is enclosed in his ivory tower. He could be click-clacking in the net ogling over headless torsos at G4M. Or just to give his wit some good stretching, comment on some profile's ridiculous grammar. Nympha is not my friend. He's my sistah! We have shared heartaches deep enough to make us bond in the molecular level. We have lifted each other from an assortment of quagmires enough for us to be suspected of being lovers. Sometimes, we've just gotten tired of fending off the rumour. It suffice that, amidst what friends and lovers thought us of having, we never had sex. Such event would cause the downfall of civilization in a scale that Gore Vidal have yet to write. Nympha is into... ahm, let's just say men of complicated distinction. Physical distinction. Why I call him Nympha, you can ask his men. I wanted to call her Lord of the Cockrings. But he doesn't have one. I mean, the cockring.

Praxedes (a name reminiscent of a Kaluskos Musmos character. If you're not 35 and above, don't bother to know) might still be wrestling with home arrangement ideas. Redecorating is too much of a word to describe what he has to go through after TLF moved out of his apartment. The task of redecorating is next to impossibility that an earthquake would do a better job. Stepping into his living room is like stepping into Portabello Road. Trinkets, curious, prick-a-pracks strewn everywhere. A shelf that rivals Book Sale.

Praxedes, Dearie, after putting things in their relative proper places, hopefully this century, you need to map out the whereabouts of these accumulations. Then hire a librarian to index the coming ones. Keep their existence a secret as you would keep masturbating in front of the mirror a secret. Otherwise, the Smithsonian and Believe It Or Not will swoop down to your place for hard-to-find artifacts.

Praxedes and I are proud achievers. We have achieved what others could only wish -- a longer than long term relationship. Mine was eight years, his is five and counting. Nympha has just recently reunited with an old love. That makes him the top achiever for having ten years (games and pauses in between). Whatta goddess!

When it comes to long term relationships, never compete with divinity.

Since we're on this subject, I'd like to point out that i don't prefer calling a long term relationship a long TERM relationship. It makes me think that a relationship is just a term. A relationship is a trip to the carnival. Sometimes a merry-go-round, but most of the time a roller coaster ride. Maybe that explains why my last relatioship was so difficult. The guy loves the roller coaster.

Oo na. A relationship is also a process. Cliche but, mind you, the concept is metaphysical.

O, here's a new one. A relationship is, uhm, doom.

I wouldn't wonder what's keeping my pseudo-boyfriends, Ryoichi and Porto. These two I love so much. Pure love turns me into a psychic. I know Ryoichi and Porto are having the grandest time in Boracai for Aklan's Ati-Atihan. In fact, an SMS just came in as I write:

"Street dancing's coming to a stop at the moment, umulan kse. Iniwan namin ni Beb sina Mommy pauwi sila na ng barrio. Date muna kami ni Beb d2 sa 3rd class town of Kalibo, in, the famous Jolibee! Hehehe... :-)

These two angels... beyond description.

Some friends worth mentioning:

Anabelle Rama who's happily married in Brunei. Like the infamous stage mother he speaks a lot about his daughter. When he does, either over cellphone or YM, I can picture him smiling. How couldn't he? The little girl is talented (mana sa tatay), sexy (mana sa mommy), maganda (mana sa ninong), may alam sa pera (mana sa lolo).

And then there is Ecto, the Martian Flashlight. Why flashlight, go ask the guys he caroused with. He is a friend I met nine years ago pa but never saw him again until recently, when his carousing led our paths to cross. Like a ghost he materializes from nowhere in ectoplasmic proportion (ask the Ghostbusters what ectoplasma means). Ryoichi loves to hate him. He dates everybody; an EB connoisseur.

Hey, Ecto, be careful where you poke that... that thing of yours. Size kills. And, yes, I think you're a stalker!

A commercial is in order...

By the street, in front of me, a guy is waiting for his ride. Skinhead. Tight white T. It defines his back, biceps, shoulders, oooh... I likey! Huh, he just spit like a straight guy that knows no social etiquette. That's a plus.

Pare, do it again.

To continue...