Sic Et Non

Is this a vlog or a blog? Sic et non. Yes and no. I don't actually know how to title this entry. O well, I don't even knowhow to start this entry anyway.

Makati. Started this blog in the office. Ending it at Oriental Gardens. And, shit, it's almost 2:30 AM and I still don't know what to say.

Maybe because I had so much fun since Thursday of last week. It all culminated last night as our Muslim brothers are having a hearty meal. Considering the fasting they have gone through, I think hearty is an understatement. Which makes me think, no words could describe the euphoria of being filled of seafoods with friends, fully drunk with the boys, and full of my Bagbag's assurance. As these pictures could tell.

Two weeks ago, an unprecedented communing with core friends. Praxedes, Ninghao and I went out for some drinks blamed wholly to Melenyo who rendered the whole of Manila, and beyond, powerless. The fans are powerless against the evening heat, and we are powerless against boredom. So off we assembled down Malate ‘till the break of dawn. And it’s not even a weekend. The only guilt I had for coming home as the dawn was breaking were the calories I have to burn for eating anything that we find inanimate that night: chicken skin (4 little paper bags), balut (5 pieces), sweetened spicy pusit (5 plastic pockets), Aristocrat bibingka and puto bumbong downed by a cup of thick choco. Should I mention beer? And how many calories does one earn from laughter? Me, Ninghao, Praxedes… ten years of friendship and we’ve never gotten tired of laughing at each other’s foibles.

From Chelu we moved to Aristocrat as Ninghao, who was getting drunk, was beginning to huggle for ownership of the bar from Jeffs Cafe (his real name is Jeff but I don't know his last name so we call him after the other bar he owns).

Across Aristocrat, we took in the first light of the day at the sea wall. Nah, nothing romantic can be conjured in the company of two bitches. We just wanted to poke fun at the time-counting traffic light. Honestly, Ninghao just wanted to poke fun at the male joggers... or maybe more.

Yesterday, Eid’l Fitr, in solidarity with our Muslim bro’s, Bagbag and I planned out a dinner of uninhibited gluttony over crustaceans. My immovable resolve to commit this particular deadly sin has found its venue -- Farmers Market in Cubao now has its own Dampa.

We were joined in by one newfound friend and another not-so-new: Porto (who is now
Ryoichi’s ex) and Maria Leonora T. (he kept singing this Guy & Pip soppy theme to Porto).

We have to hurry on dinner as there were paparazzos in the vicinity. On the second floor railing overlooking our table, two girls were taking picture of us using their cellphones. And we're not even famous. I'm annoyed.

After watching a movie, we found ourselves in Oyster Boy downing beer and, ahm, oysters. The other day, passing by this bar on our way to Palawan, my friend Miranda Priestly (when he calls me in my cellphone, I know he's checking on our next event at the Rainbow Project) thought that Oyster Boy is a gay bar. He got the impression from the word boy. I had this blood curdling feeling. Boys with oysters. Hermaprodites gyrating on Guns 'N Roses.

I'm going to puke. Bye!