ANGELUS IN DOMO BALNEARIO

I wish!

Did you ever come across that pressure to smoke though you don't seem to enjoy it anymore? O, you don't smoke. How 'bout the compulsion to drink in spite of the feeling sick from getting drunk? So you don't drink either. Ok, ok... How about that feeling of wanting to have sex at the same time not wanting to have one for reason of morality, fear of gonorrhea, had too much the past days, whatever...

You will go to hell for being such a phony. But wait! For being a hypocrite, I would have to kill you first.

September 25, 2006. Makati office. Blogging at company expense. Har, har, har...

This has been a long standing entry. Everyday, without let up, I could vividly remember the things that have happened to me after June 21 of 2005. Life since then has never been the same. I think that was the day The Bull was born. I was never known to be the bully before that date. Yes, The Bull was there all along waiting to be born. But the pains of bitterness brought it out in this world. I was so horribly angry that I see things clearly as black and bleak. Especially relationships. Yes, that again. I think it was during those times that I have turned away some suitors (I did not say "so many"; if I did, I'm not taking it back) for the belief that I never, and will never ever again (I sweared – yes, there is an ed) subject myself into such vile human tendency – the tendency to be in-loved (supply silence here). Would you like me to rant once more as to why I hated (stress past tense) the idea? Love? Relationships? Nah, you can read a lot about such ranting in my previous entries. Some of them have even resulted to some ignominious litanies about the one who got away. Thank gods he went away! Good riddance!

This entry, however, is my ode to that cute angel I met at one of the bars (if you can translate my title froms its Latin, you would know it’s more than a bar) down E. Rodriguez (that obviously is a clue). I met him even before I met Bagbag so this is not about Bagbag. It was during those bitter days when I would be restrained from slapping a guy who would approach me with IWANTTOBEYOURBOYFRIEND introductions. Or, if he’s not so cute, I respond by saying IWANTTOBEYOURDEATH. Ok, this boy is around 21 (does one year matter?). He was cute alright so I was a little polite. And kind. And kinder. Until I became even solicitous (say charitable – give my all. Hint!). After some action that almost produced a genetically dreadful entity involving two male chromosomes, the boy engaged me into some casual chat (is it the same as casual sex?). He inquired as to whether I have a lover. I said I just buried one, limbs all separated. He asked if I ever look forward to having one. I asked if this guy should have limbs. I told him I’m not one for a relationship… Anymore! I remember there was fire blowing out of my nostrils when I said that. But like an angel that he was, he interjected that I shouldn’t be bitter at all. In fact, the way I deliver these telegramatic (if you know telegram) statements showed that I was hiding my inner cravings to be in-loved again. To have that relationship I so wanted.

Why can’t I be bitter? It’s legal than committing murder.

Then he illustrated his point with a story:

Once he had a boyfriend. He would hurry from school to be with his boyfriend. He would cook for him. Bathe him. Prepare breakfast for him (shit, I did those). I think he even had a police blotter for not going home (I had one sa Puerto Galera) one night. Then the relationships, just like any relationships (including yours), ended. His bestfriend told him he was on the losing side since he was all dedicated to the guy. For what?

But he said with a sonorous smile, “Nope, I was the happy one.” He did all the things that made him happy. Or simply put, he was happy doing those kind things. He never lost anything for doing the things that made him happy (look, my apologies for thrice paraphrasing the same thought; I’m trying to put it the way the boy put it). One must never get tired about getting in-loved, he pointed out. He agrees that relationships never last. So does being full after a good meal. We go hungry again. And so we eat. No matter how one enjoys sleeping, you have to get up somehow and stop sleeping to do something else again. But never say one will never go back to sleep. Or never eat. Like smoking for smokers. Like drinking for drunkards. Like sex… Hypocrite!

I paused for a ten-second silence. But it felt like hours. Here is a 21-year old lecturing me about what I ought to have known at 36 (I was 36 then; no, this year). Somehow, love is like that. Relationships are like that. Only much much more complicated to refuse. You don’t want it anymore the very same time you want it after all.

Until now, I still think of that boy. He could be one good lover. I hope he doesn’t have to let go of those ideals for a tattoo that serves as a scar for a failed relationship. God bless him. But we already know that.

Scarred for life with a crying eye.

BOHEMIAN FRIDAYS AT THE RAINBOW PROJECT

Hey, guys, I'll be one of the readers in this event. Hope you could all come.

The Rainbow Project is bringing back the Bohemian spirit to Malate through a series of literary events and artistic happenings every other Friday. The spin-off event of “Bohemian Fridays” is a literary reading of award-winning writers on September 29, 2006, from 9:00 in the evening onwards, on the second floor lounge of The Rainbow Project, located at the Nakpil-Orosa Courtyard, Malate, Manila.

The event will feature the literary creations of Eros Atalia, Ronald Baytan, Louie Cano, Carlomar Daoana, Ralph Semino Galán, Natasha Gamalinda, J. Neil C. Garcia, Nerisa del Carmen Guevara, Michael Kho Lim, G.S. Lloren, Roel Manipon, Danton Remoto, Timothy Sanchez, Angelo Suarez, Gerry Torres and Larry Ypil. Open mike follows.

ADMISSION FOR THE READING IS FREE!

Future events will include visual, performing and other creative endeavors.

For inquiries, contact 536-0781 or 0917-8378717.

De Blogsos "Digging into dark secrets, there came light"

(you have to read the link of this blog from Liwaliw at http://glenncruz.blogspot.com/2006_04_01_glenncruz_archive.html to get into the context.)

Hey, glennie! Remember me telling you I so wanted to comment on this blog but rather not? Now I have to. I just want to let this one out of my system.

Two months into my job of editing Latin manuscripts, I always remember this blog everytime I face the screen to see how much mess the Sri Lankans did in encoding the manuscripts. And everytime, I get to be thrown into a different world. A real one that definitely happened some time in the past. Looking at the manuscripts and seeing them in the angle of context, content, and history. I see myself working on a manuscript that scores of scholars around the world would see. I see how the languages could cause war and peace. I see how the Latin language struggled with the rise of French, English, Spanish and the rest of the lingua franca. And how she died. Some people could just be told why Latin died, but I on my part, I was there in the forensic lab. Amazing! I see myself working on these manuscripts the way medieval monks handed to us the works of the

Ayan, matakot kayoh!

Greeks, from Aeschelus to Zeno of Ilea. I remember St. Irenaeus of Lyon. Do you? Yes, that guy you guys so hated for trashing the Gospel of Judas from the canonical books of the gospels. But, mind you, with what I do right now, I have so much sympathy for Irenaeus. I could very well identify with his predicaments as to which book should give credence to the matter in point, in his case - Jesus and his divinity. I now understand his responsibility of upholding the christology of the Church while at the same time recognizing which and whose writing is/are congruent with such theology. Judas's account just couldn't stand against all four - John, Luke, Mark, Matthew - enough for it to be trashed away. Yep, I could empathize with that. His dilemma is mine.

Part of my job is to see whether the encoders of the Latin manuscripts, say a catholic document on the Reformists particularly John Calvin, correctly tagged (you know xml, right) bible citations in the document as bible citations or mere patristics (citation from the Church Fathers). Turned out, as the encoders are Muslim or Buddhists Sri Lankans, everything is tagged as bible citations. Well, what do they know about the difference between the writings of St. John Chrysostom, Augustine of Hippo, and Matthew? All of them are talking about the same Christ. If Irenaeus was Buddhist -- Matthew, Mark, John, Luke, and Judas... they are all the same. And if he's into xml, he can simply tag them all as bible citations.

Sometimes, the manuscripts I work on would site what seems to be a Bible site but does not quote directly from the bible. I could easily say it's from the Bible if it says Ioh.1.4 (John 1:4) or 1.Reg.4 (1 Kings Chapter 4). But if it says Epis.1.5 or Ep.2.4. I can't readily say the writer is citing from the Epistle of Paul or from the Epistle to the Ephesians. You see, the Church Fathers manuscripts are also cited by early theologians as Epistles (because that's what they are, letters) and are abbreviated as Epis. or Ep. (the latter is easily confused with the Ephesians of the New Testament) followed by verse numbers. Without any quotation or passages to identify the books as a Bible citation, we delve into the whole body of the work to see what the content is all about and compare it to what the Epistle of Paul or Epistle to the Ephesians are saying. Sometimes, we go as far as consulting the Septuagint (Greek version of the Bible) and Vulgate (Latin version). If they jibe, then it must be a bible quote. If not, it was one of those patrological writings, from Ambrose to Tertullian.

Irenaeus has the same dilemma. He was confronted by six, seven, maybe even twenty gospel versions. How to deal with them? Get those that agree with each other, in this case Luke, Mark, Matthew, and John. Treat others as "the others" and that's Judas and the rest in the trash bin. Sounds simplistic but that's how we systemically weed out the preposterous from the authentic (to determine how preposterous and authentic is another story). It's the same system used in the courts. One testimony against several witnesses, well, you know the verdict.

I can only say here what I feel in regards to the concern of Irenaeus, Judas's alleged gospel, and what I do at work. We all have the same dilemma. Someday, if ever I end up like Judas hanging on a tree, or Iraneaus being chastised by future scholars, you can say "Gregg was just a good friend who simply did what he can with those miskeyed manuscripts. Blame it to the Sri Lankans."

Hic Terminum Longissimum Memoriarum

Reminiscing things past that should have been long dead while walking on the sands of Puerto Gallera is so Nora Aunor. Drama, drama, drama…

September 10, 2006. Puerto Gallera. 2 AM! Something’s telling me I traveled quite far just to be haunted. By memories, that is.

In this life, one does not merely come home once. Nor everyday to a single familiar place where home-cooked meal set by Mom awaits an empty stomach. Coming home is a metaphor for that place and places – restaurants, sidewalk, grocery, malls – where the sixth sense is awakened by sights, sounds, taste, and feel of something familiar, pleasant or otherwise. What is sixth sense is that which makes one feel a pat in the back without being touched, taste something when one swallowed nothing, hear something other than what is really audible. Or maybe hallucinating without the aid of hallucinogen. Yes, it’s weird but come to think of it, this kind of coming home calls into being what could have been thrown off into selective amnesia.

Hindi ako Noranian dahil walang himala... dahil my brother is not a pig!

Coming home, the metaphor, is like Nora Aunor coming home after years of being away from her hometown, steps off the tricycle in front of their ancestral home, puts her little luggage on the dusty ground, lay her hands on her breast, one on top of another, surveys the facade as tears begin to ooze out of her eyelids brought by memories that are forever etched on the walls of that facade; but before the tears drop off her anime-round eyes, she picks up her luggage and runs up the stairs calling, "Inay! Itay!"

Yep. Fuck the memories. I party.

I was with Ning Hao visiting the island. I was hoping that nothing could bother me anymore as I have moved on after more than a year of wrestling with the realities of a failed relationship. It was a year and a half since that regrettable Holy Week vacation of 2005. And I say, I should party here once more as I did during the dates that I used to come here prior to 2005. Oh yes I did, I made sure I did, but came 2 AM today sitting at the porch reading Jessica Zafra (while it was unusually quiet…O, this was not Holy Week, what do I expect), I felt I came home to something spoiled and rancid. There I was walking under the scorching sun looking for a lost lover. There I was walking aimlessly along the length of the beach looking for nothing. Under a palm tree, exhausted, I was calling an ex to tell him of my yet another sad news. There I was in our cottage, packing our things teary-eyed, thinking I would have to go back to Manila alone and preparing for the worse. There I was at the police station.

After dishing out to Ning Hao the weird feeling, he inquired as to whether I still feel for the guy. Honestly, it wasn’t like that at all; not anymore when I have Ryoichi as my best friend and a Bagbag who takes care of me. I have begun to comfortably go to the places we used to go to but thoughts of him never bothered me anymore. I never expected the island would be a different kind of catalyst for unwanted reminiscing.

Twelve years ago, in Los Angeles, I used to go to my Mom’s grave by hitching on my brothers’ cars. Their presence never gave me the chance to cry before my Mom’s grave as I would really wanted to do so, like a baby. No comfort is comparable to one that could be had in crying before one’s mother, dead or alive. When I came to buy my first car, I planned to visit her all by myself. There I would weep with all my heart. I drove there twice but I could never make myself drop a single tear. I guess I have gotten used to going there without the fanfare. I have moved on. But then one time, I happend to pass by my sister’s house where I stayed during my early émigré days. My Mom died in that house. I have seen her weaken each day as she approaches her impending demise. My sister, in depression, sent us away on a cold winter’s night, two days before Christmas. Three months later she sold the house. It was long since owned by some Hispanic family but Mom’s wild roses were still lining the iron fences. I parked in front of the property and had my long-standing will to sob. I was home.

Here in Puerto, I refused to cry on these memories. Like Nora who was suddenly possessed by both happy and sad memories, I would rather keep the tears and run to embrace those whom I think are worth my tears. But not these memories. I would definitely hate myself a million times for doing so. This is not to say that I should instead trash away the memories. Contrary to what Rollo was telling me, I am not one to part with my memories though. Say I'm lacking the gift of letting-go but but I see no reason why I should let go. Yeah, to move on. To where? I am not one who graduated from the school of the Stoics. I would rather like to believe that, as humans, we are endowed with the faculty to remember both the pleasant and the unpleasant, and cherish them like treasures of the most precious kind. Nourish them because we brought them into this world. Wean them like a child because we created them. We are their mothers. But we don't have to cry to all of them. This is a matter of fact worth of intellectual debates in the hallowed woods of Aritotle's Lyceum; that it is this very gift that elevates us above all other beings, no matter how advanced they may be (I learned that from Contact and Dark City).

I must admit, I would have to deal with this coming home just as I would with the ones that I have yet to go home to, no matter where; starting here in Gallera… here in the farthest end of memories.

(There. Now nobody can accuse me of being heartless.)

My Own Cinema Paradiso

If you have nothing to do to contribute to the economy, go ahead and read. Otherwise, go do some AIDS quilt. It won’t raise the GNP but it’s something much socially significant than reading my blog.

September 7, 2006. PBCOM Tower. Yes, I’m in the office and since the rain is raging outside, I blog.

I hate whiling time. Such a waste. I could have done the same while sleeping but I can’t do such while in the office, especially when company time is ticking. However, I could pretend to be working while blogging. But prior to this, I was reading J. Zafra’s filmography on camp featuring Joey Gosiengfiao and Elwood Perez, two brilliant 70’s/80’s directors of whose movies I was an unknowing fan. For my younger readers, Gosiengfiao has the genius to bring us Temptation Island (the bitchy gay socialite walks between two quarreling beauty pageant contestants and remarks, “Rubbadabdab… two bitches in a tub!”), while Elwood Perez gave us Valentina, And Babaeng Ahas (Valentina, dining in Manila Hotel sees Darna flying over Rizal Park, says, “Sino ang babaeng yan na baba ang lipad?”). Or perhaps you could remember the former in scores of Alma Moreno flicks such as Bomba Star, The Diary of C.G., and Nympha (Inay… ang init… Inay…). Reading through her filmography, Jessica reminded me of one of my first loves: script writing.

Hindi mababa ang lipad nya. Mababa ang height nya.

What could have been possible if I were transported back to 70’s or 80’s and gets to write and direct my own campy films? Hmmm… Le’me see…

Birhen ng Porta Vaga. This is a sequel to Ang Mga Mata ni Anghelita, the movie that launched the career of the late Julie Vega. This sequel will chronicle the procession of arbularyo’s and faith healers who attempted to revive the body of a dead girl back to life. Yes, it will star Julie Vega, er, in the corpse.

Pag-Puti ng Uwak, Pag-Itim ng Tagak. This is my take on the movie of the same title starring Vilma Santos and Bembol Roco. Only I’m using real stork and raven to play the part. Probably a true story.

Heto ang Sa’yo! A movie full of angst. A retelling of a real-life crime of passion that never happened. I guess this movie will never be made either as the viewers already have enough of Carlo J. Caparas massacre movies.

Heto Rin ang Sa’yo! This will probably get through the producers as it involves the decapitation of a duck who double crosses a friend and ran away with a sewerage cleaner. Yeah, the characters seem complicated but nothing can be more complicated than the true story on which it was based.

Malate by Night. How predictable can you be?! This is about a cat that lives in Malate Church. Well, yes, she’s a wayward cat so there’s going to be lots of sex.

Malate, Malate, Pano Ka Ginawa? Ah, yes. It’s about an aging diva’s reminiscing of Malate along Orosa and Nakpil on a Saturday night. Quite original really. I’m having Bernardo Bernardo in mind.

Kambal sa Uma. In the original movie based on a komiks serial, Rio Locsin plays twins, one human and one half-human-half-rodent. In my version, the twins are gay professionals, one engineer and one physician. The conflict, none of them is human. Both are rodents.

Katorse. I wish Dina Bonnevie can play the lead role. It’s about a girl who has sex with fourteen men every fourteen days. Wait, isn’t that like everyday? I’ll have my friend Ning Hao play the part. Or Ecto.

Dabiana. It’s an autobiography. Me prior to my body-shaping depression and before becoming a Fitness First matron.

Uhm… Ahhh… Ahhh… Ohhh… This is experimental. A silent movie.

Now, as you ponder on these fantasies, betting on which of my ouvre would bag the FAMAS, I’ll try to look for Mother Lily’s calling card.

Puer Natus Est

It's not like something could be said about one's childhood that would matter to one's old age. What am I saying?

Wednesday, August 23. Oriental Gardens, Makati. I want to cry, I want to laugh. But I can't do both all at the same time. So I blog.

I can feel your ovation, my throng of two reading fans! I hear you clamouring for wisdom that has nothing to do with real life. So here I am again, helpless in the midst of your demands for sound teaching that matters to no one, save the uncanny. I blog for you so you will learn the most inane of issues. I believe these shall serve as food for your deprived minds.

Look back. Re-examine your unworthy lives. Look at what you have become in listening (reading) to manipulative bloggers like me. Begin by asking yourselves this question: “Have you ever lived a childhood?” (sic) When you do, don’t look for a mirror. I am not Boy Abunda.

I’m serious. Have you ever looked back into your childhood and see a direct correlation between that barrio lass and today’s raving queen? Because I don’t. I recently scrutinized my insignificant childhood and I came to realize, beyond intelligent guess, that I am indeed, err, celestial. That, like Venus and Athena, I sprang to life fully grown and ravishing. That emaciated boy running across the beach in Negros Occidental with his baconed (Don’t try looking for that word in the dictionary. Just don’t.) underwear sliding off to his knees wasn’t me. The last time I remember my underwear falling was when somebody was pulling it down with gusto.

That effeminate grade-schooler dancing among girls for loosing Chinese Garter wasn’t me. Surely one who now gyrates shirtless in the midst of sweating male bodies could never be embarrassed for having such a history. No, Sir! That same boy who loves to hang out with girls could never be this grown-up who would only revel at going out with boys.

I just lately started a job editing ancient Latin texts for internet download. I still do writing and English instruction on the sides. I am what one could say in protest as a man of letters. Me not being able to read until Grade 2? That’s a myth.

You’ve heard of the kid who once sported a thin haircut in honour of the Divine. No, I am not that kid. Not that I have a choice, but I am one who prides a thin hair for looking fashionably divine.

Now, before I can no longer take hold of my humility with your groundless accusations, ask this next question: “Were you born this way?”

Do you think I was born clutching a bottle of Red Horse? Do you ever have a one-tracked mind to think it intelligible that this blogger hated writing way back grade school? Do you ever think that somebody who hated smokers would turn out to be a chain smoker? People change. That’s crap. That’s the excuse of the uninitiated.

We are capable of massacre in Texas Chainsaw proportion. Only we are not in Texas. We can be Imelda if we can buy those shoes. We can be her husband if we had Ramos as a relative. We can be as comfortable with casual sex as we are with rosaries dangling around our necks in our fanatic attempt to declare our religious fervour. Somewhere along the way, we’ve just gotten tired of what we are doing. So we shift to some other ritual. But then we got stuck. Because maybe in doing something new and different, we found our calling. What we are now is blamed on our childhood? Now that’s an archaic theory. I would rather believe that nobody was born this or any other way. We simply chose the way. Don’t be a hypocrite. Yukk!

Hey, don’t even tell me you are what you are right now because mom told you so or dad molested you. If you only listened to your mom, you wouldn’t be reading this. O, yes. Why are you still reading this?! Go to sleep. Because I am.

***Jenny, this is my birthday gift to you. The other one is a bag of earthworms. Mamili ka.***

Ergo...

Assume. Presume. Like empathy and sympathy, the ambiguity between them is a mere hairline thick. Explain.

July 12, 2006. OrientalGardens, Makati. It’s raining outside and it’s not men.

It’s been quite some time since I last blogged and this time I can really tell the itch to banter over what transpired in my so-called fabulous life these past three weeks. I want to write about all of them but one event happened after another even before I could find myself sitting in front of the computer and chronicle them in quirky narration. Or was I simply too preoccupied stitching an unending gamut of life experiences I could hardly catch up on writing them. Thank heavens, I finally made it to this screen and… BLOG!

I remember (do you) writing about my shameless reply to my niece’s query as to why wouldn’t I attend our family reunion. I said, I would if it’s a funeral. Well, four days after I said that, my cousin in Bacolod died. Don’t tell me nag-dilang anghel ako because I have so many people I like to pronounce dead. Don’t tempt me or you’d be an accessory.

True to my words I went off to Bacolod. I was originally planning to fly to Zamboanga to join Bagbag for his birthday (he was there to relieve a friend on derma) and I thought I might as well start with Bacolod. I thought this was also a good chance to start a long standing writing project on local foods by traveling from one province to another. So I also put Iloilo in the itinerary. Last leg would be Zamboanga. No, no, no, no... I’m not going to blog about that particular project. You have to buy the magazine once it gets published. I see I have two faithful fans around here that I could predict with absolutely certainty that, once published, the magazine’s sale would skyrocket into orbit. More than just an unintelligent forecast, my prediction could also be one for dilang anghel. But I assume. Presume. I won't explain.

Let’s not focus on the dead so I’ll spare you the details from funeral to burial. First let me focus on several observations about men that seem to escape conclusion. Our first subject, one straight married guy with kids. He drives me around Bacolod as I could no longer find myself around town. Cute guy. My age. Straight. Yeah. He knows I’m gay. Yeah. Before I left for Iloilo we exchanged numbers. He wanted to make sure I text him when I visit Dumaguete where he tends the family business. He would love to show me around. While in Iloilo, downing beer with my brother and sister and their wife and husband, accordingly, I received a text. It was this guy making sure I got his number. Again, again, again… he is one straight married guy. Happy with kids. Wait, did I say he’s happy with his wife? Hmmm… Am I assuming? Presuming? Explain.

While on a ship from Iloilo to Zamboanga I met another cutie. He walks, stands, dresses, talks, and looks like, ahm… let’s not recall sewers (hint). He kept prodding me about my sexual escapades which I was not ready to reveal to a complete stranger. Seventeen hours past sailing the archipelago, the ship was about to dock Zamboanga port, or so we thought. We got stranded as there was no space for the ship to dock. We were simply there several hundred feet off the harbor for seven hours! And I thought Filipinos have been ushered into the 21^st century for climbing Mt. Everest. And here we are still in need of more harbor spaces. So we whiled our time tossing coins on to the Badjaos below. While doing so, he simply blurted out that he is gay and that I am also a PLU (People Like, er, U!).

How dare he assume that?! Presume! His explanation: my tattoo gave me away. He saw it at guys4men.com, ergo…

Remind me to edit my G4M pics. Thank you.

On my second night in Zamboanga, Bagbag’s friend, her husband, and her brother-in-law took us to dinner. Beer followed. Sitting beside me, the brother-in-law begun to satisfy his curiosity about gays with a question: Ang straight ba kapag nakipag-sex sa bading, bading na rin?

I was gulping beer when he dropped the question and I almost swallowed the whole bottle. Way back 1994, a straight guy asked me that very same question. I thought it was a happy question of great possibilities that I was more than willing to simply answer. I mean MORE. You know, action speaks louder than words. It could have been easier to answer the question by positing whether a person having sex with a dog also becomes a dog but instead of eliciting laughter, I’d rather have fun. I mean manipulatively fun. Hey, I was talking about the guy of 1994, not about bro-in-law. You’re assuming too much. Presuming? No need to explain.

Guys, particular attention to the straight ones - or so those who want us to believe that they are - if you want everyone to believe, including yourself, that you have no intention of having sex with fellows guys, please refrain from asking that question. Just don't.

How did I reply to bro-in-law’s question? I was clever enough to chose laughter this time. I am not one to ruin Bagbag's lucrative employment. First, I cleared out the definition of gay. Homosexuality, academically. That such depends on one’s attraction to the same sex. And I don’t think one gets to be attracted to one’s own hands when he gets the sexual stimulation out of masturbation. He found it to be an excellent answer worthy of a beauty pageant that he further inquired on gay life. Alcohol was beginning to unlock my tongue that I went further to tell him about our sex clubs and bath houses. He was dumbfounded! Astonished! Thunderstruck! Flabbergasted! (Yes, you are right in assuming and presuming that I am using MSWord thesaurus. Go check.)

Still couldn’t pacify himself, he asked, “Pwede bang pumasok doon… mag observe lang?” Huh? Will somebody explain that to me? This question could have caused me to swallow a second beer bottle. There was also a tray of humongous crabs on the table and I had the urge to stuff my mouth with all this crustaceans, claws and all. And tray! I wish he could have asked me in chabacano so I could simply get lost in translation and pretended I didn’t understand the question. I was groping for words. I can’t assume. I refuse to presume. I just want to be stupid. Why!?

By the way, when I went back to Manila ahead of Bagbag, bro-in-law would mistakenly call Bagbag by my name. Explain that to me.

A couple of days ago, back in Manila, Bagbag and I had a belated birthday shindig with Jenny at Ilog, Marikina’s version of Singapore’s River(something). With us were some other friends of Bagbag. Right next to us were a group of young rowdy guys having their own celebration. As we sing refrains of Happy Birthday in between drinks, they would join in like they knew us from birth. Hmmm… Nakaka-relate sila ha. Am I assuming and presuming too much that they are...

O, let’s not stretch an already farfetched explanation.

Here’s one for a visual blog(vlog):

We moved to a bar next to where we met the rowdy group. It was supposed to be a straight bar if not for a restroom assigned for gays only. Ok, now assume. Presume. Not even Malate's Bed has one.

Explain.

Ad Hoc Signo Scribit

Check the structure. Dropt it. Transpose it. Pull that dictionary off the shelf. That’s it. Well, no, delete it.

It hurts. But that’s writing.

June 13. Makati. Jenny on my mind.

Who’s Jenny? That’s my Bagbag’s sister in crime. A big gay guy I call Jenny for being as sweet as the name Jennifer. Only he’s just pa-sweet.

Jenny’s been an avid fan of my blog and had quite some flattering adulation from him. Gave me that pat on the back for continuing to write with dept without pay. More than just an encouragement, it made me think as to whether writing is really such a feat. Whether coming up with a blog is such an achievement. Whether writing can influence the rise and fall of the country’s GNP. But that’s a matter of divination if the economy is concerned.

Well, who said writing is fun? Lounging in the beach is fun. Being in Malate on Saturday night is fun. Dating Victor Krum is fun. So why do we write? I don’t know with you but for me writing is work. Once it occurred to me the doubtful significance of blogging since I seem to be giving away my craft for free. And so does Ryo who would freely hand prescription to friends. I have yet to hear of an engineer lending his algebraic opinion to someone attempting to build a bridge. Or an urban planner to solve Manila’s filthy streets. But that’s just probably the absence of the Metro Aids (where are they).

When I was still starting to learn how to write, I was already lifting weights with quite some results. That was way back my Abbey of Out Lady of Montserrat days. 21^st century monks don’t just sit around doodling translations of Marcus Aurelius or Bahya Ibn Pakuda. Once I came up with an essay and I laways tend to compare it with the writings of Ambeth Ocampo (that’s his real name) who happens to be a monk in the same monastery (because he is). Like Jenny, I get so verbal about how I admire his prose. And Jessica Z’s. And Danton's. His piece of advise: coming up with good lines is just as the same as coming up with sinuous arms, powerful pecs, bulging shoulders… o, stop!

Yes. Writing takes so much effort and overwrought excruciation. We writers don’t just sit around to wait for words to simply drop on our pad. Even John the Evangelist who, just like the rest of her sister evangelists, may have the inspiration to write down his version of the Gospel yet needs to hallucinate to come up with metaphors worth divine. I wonder how much hashish he has to take to come up with the Revelation.

When I was still taking my graduate courses in La Salle, people would get the wrong impression that I was a fines arts major. The degree, Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. Yes, because writing is a fine art. Like sculpture, photography, painting, and embroidery (o sorry, that last one is home economics). You write a line. You add some more. And a little more. Then you read it. You weight the stress. Rewrite it. Balance the statements. Add a dash of words to where it is needed; drop some off from where it is not. And like some French artist with a bad temper, you crumple the pages with unbridled distraught when you just don’t seem to see the art in it. You start again with infuriated countenance.

This is how I first made Ninghao get frustrated about writing. He was trying some luck at copywriting way back our agency days and he was attempting to do what I was doing so I gave him some lines to develop. He did some luck with the first two or three lines but somehow got stuck with the fourth. I told him to rewrite the first two to three lines so he could ultimately come up with that elusive fourth. He protested. According to him, he almost fucked the guard in the bathroom just to come up with those first lines. And now I’m telling him to rewrite these lines just to arrive at the fourth line?! He was frothing furious.

I sonorously laid my hands on his shoulders with feigned concern and said, ”Honey-Dearie, the first lines are just mere preamble. The fourth is essential. I guess you need to go fuck the driver in the parking lot.”

He didn’t write again.

The lesson of the story was, never get in-love with your lines. You write it, you find it bad, you wipe it off. Simple. A writer should be like a Machiavellian lover. If he doesn’t like his relationship, he dumps it. He lets go… and moves on. But then again, writers are not known for being unscrupulous when it comes to their relationships. Ows?

Most of the time some people would get to be inspired after reading a good one. It’s the same feeling one gets when, upon seeing an object d’art beyond his appreciation, exclaims, “What's with the thing? I can do that.” One has to consider the issue of talent. Either we have it, or we don’t. Or we could just pretend to have one. That reminds me of the new guy in the agency hired as a writer under me. Upon submitting some copywriting requirements the results don’t make sense, and I was not one to be gentle about it. He gave me a lengthy account on the history of how his copy came into being. I simply asked, “Have you been once, in this life, your previous not included, been a copywriter?” His quick reply, “Opo.”

I stooped down and whispered, “You don’t have it.” I swear I wasn’t belittling him. I can be solicitous enough to advise him to try medicine.

I had my dry spells too. You know, writer’s block. What’s bad about writing is that it requires the emotion to get involved in its process. Thus, one sees so much about somebody in his writing. The dept and the voice of the piece depends heavily on the writer’s passion. One could read something so dry, an arid land pales in comparison. Or read something so moist, you could feel yourself dripping.

It’s not enough for one to get inspired in order to write. That’s forgivably the excuse of those who write love letters. Or by some bloggers who end up writing, ahm, funny lines. It’s not even enough that one could write. Nah, much could be debated about that statement, though.

So how do we write? Or maybe, how could one start to write?

The driver…

Sed Libera Nos a Malo!

Where is it!? Just show me where it is so we can all have world peace!

June 11, 2006. Oriental Gardens, Makati. It's almost 5 AM and I'm still waiting for my muse's bite so I can blog my blog!

I think Rollo was right. Once I start to get settled with a boyfriend, I would begin to blog blah! blogs. No more angst. No more bitterness. No more loneliness to bitch about. I'd stop bullying my exes. Because that feeling of being in-love (gods, this is not so me and not so my blog!) makes cherry blossoms bloom in this humid country. I have to scour for that inspiration somewhere, somehow. Under the chair. The face on my screen. Last trip to Subic. Memoirs for friends. I miss those pains. They make me write so copiously. I miss those sleepless nights. Now it seems that blogging is like doing a copy for a commercial on a shampoo I have no use for. I felt like writing a composition for a class under a professor you could never please. I'm ranting. Can't you notice?!

Then I checked my Friendster hits. It says 13 views since 06/06/2006. Bad numbers. Hmmmmm... there's my stimuli. Evil numbers. I like.

Am I evil? I want to. At least, that's what I want everyone to believe. But Bagbag would passionately protest with "Aaawww, no Bagbag ko... You're my angel." Stop it, not now.

Two hours before blogging (I was in front of the PC for more than five hours now and it all started with browsing on the history of papal tiaras -- tiarae? -- on Google, I don't know why) I chatted with a friend from G4M, Doc Cryo. I inquired about this other friend of ours, Chocnut, who have become scarce after some misunderstandings I thought have long been mended out. But it seems not, according to Doc Cryo. So I supposed that he was simply pretending to have forgiven everyone the last time we had dinner at Bubba Gump. I added, "So there were about three hypocrites on that table. Him included." Doc Cryo said, "He might have also thought everyone in the table were hypocrites." I exclaimed, "Well, at least he was right on seeing me as a hypocrite. Because I was wrong in thinking that he was not."

Really. In every gathering with my friends, I lay down the stories of my life like an open book. That I am the slut. That I licked somebody’s ass to get myself inside Embassy (others are quite more evil; they enter Embassy first, then lick ass). That I caused the last earthquake in Indonesia. That I spawned infamy in East Timor. That I was actually Monica Lewinsky’s Oval Office double and that was my laundry Kenneth Starr was talking about, now it can be told. I have to make sure that at the end of that gathering, I get to have the title of The Evil One (The Evil Woman is reserved for Duffy D and the likes of her). So when things start to get disappointing, of which I am the catalyst, don’t say nobody warned nobody.

Why be evil? Why not? Ok, ok, ok… it doesn’t answer the question. Being evil is one idea that could not be simply configured by a simple sentence, albeit a technical one. In tagalog, hindi ito isang payak na simuno (if you can’t recall your balarila then don’t ask; because I don’t either). Let me explain, therefore, by recalling a true-to-my-life scenario.

Way back September last year, when wounds were still fresh from the pains of being deceived by an ex-lover and an ex-friend (unless some of my readers have not been amiss on my older blogs, my ex-lover took off with my ex-friend) I was profuse with tears cursing heavens as to “why me?! why me?!” I started to question whether it was really good to be good when all the while evil men (and in this case Evil Women) prosper. Is evil good, then? Or, with the subject transposed without being evasive to the sense of the previous sentence (I’m showing off), is it good to be evil? Rollo grew goose bumps as big as Mount Apo upon hearing me say that. Evil men don’t cry. Evil men laugh with fangs and all. If ever they suffer the consequences of their acts, they know they deserve the judgement. They're well prepared for the guillotine. The good ones wallow with only the Bible or Leo Buscaglia to comfort them while the evil ones run off with the prize. But the good… Yeah, yeah, yeah so the good ones go to heaven. But as Ecto said, bad girls go everywhere.

So, if I’m really evil, would I have the capacity to commit the most detestable act (we’re not talking about something heinous yet), say setting somebody’s house on fire? Ahm, are we talking of arson here? Because I know one who attempted to burn down a house after he got dumped by his lover. Some of my old and closest friends know about this story and the guy could still be seen carousing in Malate every weekends. In fact, we so mercilessly call him arsonista we forgot his real name. I heard it from a friend who knows the friend of the guy whose house almost gutted by fire. Now, if this is a rumour, I’m not the one who started it. Clear?

Yes I can. And Tamburong is lucky enough to have been dumped by me instead of me being the dumpee. Otherwise, I know where he lives.

Ok, would I be capable of a heinous crime, say murder? Categorically… ahm… err… that Duffy D is lucky enough as well. I don’t know where he lives.

If I am to follow the Aristotelian concept that man, by nature, is good then being evil is a talent. As a talent it is a gift, either one has it or he doesn’t. Wait. You know what, I don’t like that idea. It gives me little chances. I rather believe that being evil is a skill. And all that one has to do in order to have it is study and practice. Would you agree that this blog is my little study on being evil? Then tomorrow I’d be practicing down the street by bitching everyone and everything that cross my path. So don’t annoy me.

Honestly, my solemn resolve to become evil just got tested awhile past as I chatted with my niece. She was reminding me of our family reunion this coming Sunday. I said I’m not going, without batting an eyelash. Why, she asked?

Wala lang. Di ko type. I’d go if it’s a funeral.

Now, where is it?! Where?! That pillow! The sun is starting to rise and it’s time for the evil ones to sleep as the good ones churn the economy. Oh, shit, it’s a holiday.

Oh well, I’ll just dream of preparing for myself a roasted carcass of a dead duck (redundant statement in memory of my late elder brother’s funny English; unless you fail to spot it, you too is blessed with a funny English). As the carcass rotates on a skewer over some burning remain of what used to be a house, I reminisce with impassioned delight the process of killing the duck. Decapitation.

***This blog is for Ryo and Bagbag. For unconditionally loving an evil person.***

A Million Thanks To You (by Pilita C.)

Three weeks after my birthday, I was still contemplating on writing something about what transpired on the day I marked the 37th year of my so-called life on this earth. Have chronicled the events in my phone's camera and I thought a substantial blog to thank the people who surrounded me on that occasion would be quite sublime. But looking at them, I realized, these photos are already worth a thousand words. I have been thought to have written some of the longest blogs in the net but reaching into my innermost feelings to write something for my birthday just doesn't seem to make sense. These photographs quite say a lot. Can't seem to add anything on what they say. Susan Sonnetag, in her book Photographs, said that taking somebody's picture takes away a portion of that person's soul. I understand very well what she meant by such when I downeloaded these photos into my PC. Suddenly, everything came back to me. The laughter. The company. The faces of people so intelligent and true. And I thank God for surrounding me with such characters.

So let me simply post them here and cap them with little notes. This one is enough for a visual blog (I wish I could play Heather Small of M People's What Have You Done Today as you brouse through these pics):

It was a whole week's celebration. It started with making peace with Ryo and seeing him for the first time with a blackeye. His birthday is just a week earlier to mine. I owe him a good cheer after the Olongapo incident so Shinanigan and I met him at Bar Uno, Timog, for a much delayed shindig.

A couple of days after Zambales, I met my Bagbag (Bagong Baybag; Baybag is my babytalk version of baby for Ryo) at a bar. Drunk, he was never afraid to approach me and get to know my name. I have to let my readers know that I am not known to have a friendly countenance at the bars, or elsewhere for that matter. I'm The Bull, right? I ignored his requests for dates. Thanks to boredom, I finally went out with him and discovered a beautiful and extremely kind person inside him. On my birthday, we officially became an item. Now I'm human again.

Saisaki. What's a birthday without a sushi. You can plant a candle on raw fish and sing me Happy Birthday and I would thank you for the rest of my life. Bagbag didn't but he did take me to Saisaki. I craved for a balloon and party hats and one balloon from another birthday celebration being catered in the restaurant happend to stray beside me. Ahhhh... birthday magic happens.

On the eve of my birthday, I was deppressed. I canceled a trip to Boracay for a beach party i was organizing in Subic to be attended by friends and family. We could not get reservations. Beach party was canceled. Ryo and Porto came to the rescue. They took me to dinner at Gery's Grille, Morato, for BBT. There they met Bagbag who was simply then a mere oblivious suitor. Porto said Bagbag is nice. Ryo smircked. He still can't get over me. Nyak nyak nyak...

Old friends. New friends. Whether in the kitchen preparing carbonara or around a table downing bottles of beer... Ecto howling songs in Cubao like a demented songstress... they stick with me all these years. I am a good man after all.

We went out of Bed, Malate, with the sun rising. I felt like Lestat covering my eyes. While having breakfast along the street at Silya, Nakpil, emotions caught up on me. No, it was love bite. I grabbed Bagbag and kissed him right next to tables full of revelers. I don't know what they're being happy about, but I know exactly what I am celebrating. Sabel, this must be Looooove!

Two weeks after my birthday, the partying was still raging. In Ortigas, we showed the straight crowd how gays party at Side Bar Cafe where my bestfriend (Ryoichi) and my lover (Bagbag) had a great time together.

MARAMING MARAMING SALAMAT SA INYONG LAHAT

One Summer's Hit

Whew... I finally wrote it.

What makes temper ooze out of one’s nose and splatter up against an unsuspecting face? In summer time, it must be summer’s heat. Or was it an island curse?

April 26, 2006. Home. Giddy. I finally came to write this one.

Few changes have to be made for Holy Week this year. Skip Gallera. Remembrance-of-things-past is an eloquent title for a romantic novel but I could just be bitter with such. Whatever plans would turn out, I have to make sure I would be lounging in the beaches somehow. Two weeks prior to Holy Week, thanks to Ecto the Martian Flashlight, we rediscovered Zambales. It deserves a repeat. This time, I’ll make sure I’ll double the excitement. And things don’t get pretty ordinary when I’m in it.

"Ecto and me... side by siiide." Kanta yan.

So Zambales it was. More precisely on an island geographers call Capones Island, just off the shores of San Narciso in Pundaquit. I’m quite not sure which latitude and longitude it is situated on this part of the globe, but you can ask the natives and they’d never forget the island sands that have gone lucky to have been caressed by the heavenly bodies of Polo Ravales and Andrew Wolff for an episode of Extra Challenge. If only Pinoy Big Brother has those hunks cooking in Kuya’s kitchen, I’d watch the show.

What’s in the island? Nothing. No bars. No loud music. No dingy restaurants. No exuberant cottage rent (there are no cottages to speak of, in the first place). No peddlers. No “Jurassic Park”… oh, well, that’s debatable… No toilet. No fresh water. No nothing. Nothing special with this island but the lack of it all made this vacation special. Call it an escapade worthy of Lonely Planet. But as things turned out, call it a bizarre adventure on the Island of Dr. Moreau.

We left Manila on the eve of Holy Wednesday. I was with Ecto and Ryoichi. We had our seats booked early that morning. The thoughts of having to shove over people – old women and children included – and bludgeoning them to get a ride never affected us. But the unprepared travelers were sweating. They all wear a long face. They’re worried. They’ve all ran out of seats. Nyahahaha… and I just want to wave our tickets up so high and say, “Behlaaaat!”

Bus leaves at 11:05 PM. We arrived at the station thirty minutes earlier. We asked where the bus was parked and we were told it was just about to arrive. So we chatted outside the station where humidity was so high I think we were breathing water. And we chatted, and chatted… that guy is cute… Ecto, that guy in reck-reck shorts is yours… blah, blah, blah… 10:55 PM, I went back to the guard and asked WHEREISTHEBUS! It will be announced, was the reply in rocky tagalog syllabication. So we chatted again… went for C2 Iced Tea… yo, that guy in black sando... nice shoulders… yackity, yackity, yack… and we went for another C2 Iced Tea (I must remind you it’s the height of summer and we were drenched, not that we worried about not getting a ride but we just thought we were these sultry girls from Ipanema).

11:25 PM. As if we don’t care, Ecto and I were copiously drooling over a guy in flip-flops and backpack. No announcement. No bus. Ryo went inside the station to ask WHEREISTHEBUS. Five minutes later Ryo came back to where there was already a pool of drool. Ryo was wearing a long face. He was sweating. He doesn’t appear sultry. I mean, he was sweating real sweat.

Then the statement that sent me back to earth with a loud thud. “The bus already left.”

We’re not in it! Now we’re just like everyone else! We worried. No! We panicked!

I ran to the dispatcher. “When is the next bus!? What do we do with our tickets?! What’s a chance passenger?!” The dispatcher was mumbling answers as he noticeably pretending to busy himself over piles of papers and honking walkie-talkie. He is not answering the walkie-talkie and I don’t think he was answering me either. Then it dawned on me that the dispatcher was originally a grotesque alien from an indifferent universe, on earth he’s just a dispatcher in a revolting interpretation of the human form.

We all ran in different directions. Ryo went for the next available bus. I was torn between strangling a stupid guard and hijacking a bus bound for the south. Ecto went for the guy in flip-flops.

Ten minutes of hyperventilating, I was smoking outside the bus station and was on the verge of accepting the curse of Holy Week – Catholics are not supposed to be happy this time of the year. I was contemplating changing my religion when Ryo came to say that there was a bus leaving for our destination in fifteen minutes and the seats are up for grabs, no reservations necessary.

In the Lenten liturgies, the alleluias are suspended to emphasize the mournful state of the church over the suffering and death of the Christ. As the bus was running up north, alleluia was in the air. I swear.

Olongapo! Olongapo! Alleluia!

Ah, Olongapo… the air here was freer. Our host, Temptress Seamstress (happily single at 42, but can tempt a straight boy with a single hello), was all smiles to welcome us. He was accompanied by Patatim (he’s got the killer legs that can crack coconuts) and Patatim’s amore, Savant (twink, complicated, but quite a fast learner for his age; definitely not an idiot). We made a stop at another friend’s place, Sambo (name resembles nothing). He is engaged to the twin brother of ahm… err… boing… (systems malfunction; reboot). Sambo was extremely nice but his partner was playing the game of I’m-in-my-own-world-and-you’re-not-in-it. He was ignoring me so we cut the courtesies. I was all cranked up to begin my vacation anyway and I was anxious to commune with my ever-loyal friend, confidante, comrade in arms, ever-faithful lover… Red Horse. I will not let Maundy Thursday’s sun shine on a sober head. Back at Seamstress’s place we were joined by Nicka (pa-sweet at 22 when he doesn’t have to, because he is). At 4 AM I was drunk happy. Ryo introduced me to Red Horse’s silent partner, Plasil (spell?). One shut on the arm and a drunkard is ready to cook breakfast.

Patatim in the middle.

For God, Contry, and Red Horse!

Nica, you're such a hound dog!

With Her Majesty, Temptress Seamstress.

Maundy Thursday. On our way to San Narciso, another set of unfortunate events began to unveil: an elusive ice (we need to buy it, but we always drove pass over it), lost in waiting (my group was waiting outside the gates of a friend’s estate-like home, while inside, the rest of the group was feasting on pancit; cellphones were not being answered). Seamstress left his bag of gay things (for a gay guy, that’s everything). Flat tire!

Portents of a landmark event?

Welcome to the Island of Dr. Moreau.

Capones Island is a short boat ride from San Narciso. I hate to describe it. This is not a travelogue. Just think of words used in real estate brochures like respite, sojourn, paradise, sun-drenched pearly white sands… but never the word fine because this place is far from boring (remember, in my blogs, fine is a boring word). Familiar words like Abu Sayaff, Lost, stranded, hunger and thirst also come into mind but the thoughts are quite far from National Lampoon’s horrid vacation (or so I thought). We fear none of those. We had enough self-defense training watching all Charlie’s Angel movie episodes. As for hunger and thirst, Deborah Sun and her cohorts taught us more than enough in Gosiengfiao’s Temptation Island. And since everyone in the group is gay, there is plenty of food for everybody. Before I boarded the boat, I already downed three large bottles of Red Horse. Tipsy and a bit “a crazy” (mocked English courtesy of Ecto’s quips), I road the boat standing in front and yelling as I jump to jerk up the boat every time it shoots against the big waves, all to the consternation of the pilot. I would behave for a while just to do the same once a big wave comes up again.

“Sorry,” in apologetic pretense, “bakla lang po.”

"Bring on the waaaaaves!"

Still tipsy, I lead the group in setting up our enormous tent. Divided into two rooms, it fits eight with an awning for early morning and late afternoon lounging. With that complication of a tent, putting it up without a manual was a feat. At around 9 PM, I was drunk again. Hey, I never intended to buy a case of Red Horse and share them. I’m no longer into open-relationships. As a demonstration of my non-negotiable resolve to have fun, I swam naked in the middle of everyone (and now I’m letting everyone know so it appears that I swam naked just about to everybody) and some ten steps away from a group of cliques of straight guys and their girl dates. Well, I don’t live here so I don’t care. Besides, who does?

Savant challenged me to get out of the water while still naked. Before Ryo could put me back into my wits with another shot of Plasil, I unabashedly obliged Savant but I disappointed him by clowning around with my cocker spaniel tacked between my legs pulled quite painfully all the way to the back the way Rupaul would describe as an old-Chinese-secret. The pain proved one thing. I’m not Chinese.

The next morning, Good Friday, we all woke up to the sounds of SMS alerts. As if three hours of sleep is enough, we all jumped up to check on our messages. Everyone’s reaction was one for a good anthropological study: how man, in a desolate place, would interrupt a major biological need such as sleep in order to feed on information, no matter how short, coming from the civilized world; but would not do the same for breakfast.

Some of us were smiling. Some were disappointed for receiving forwarded messages, like finding a shiny bicycle instead of a rug doll from Dad and Mom one Christmas morning. As for me I was wearing a blank face. No, I was not reading a Bible quote. There was no cellphone inside the case that was left inside the water-resistant Ziploc that was left inside the bag. I was robbed! And the thief had the luxury to leave what he doesn’t need… inside my bag! It’s not that it was my first time to be robbed of something so dear to me. This is nothing. The last time I was robbed of someone dear to me, I was watching the thief in action. The way the rest of my things were left in place shows the thief was one of us. Wow, another correlation. In the previous robbery, the thief was also a friend.

One suggested searching everyone. I was a little passive about the suggestion. I may find out who stole my phone, gain the phone back, but lost a friend in return. I’m not trying to be benevolent about the situation. I’m not a hypocrite, that’s for sure. Hey, it’s a less-than-two-months old top-of-the-line Motorola, for crying out loud! But I find this vacation even more valuable than that cellphone. To discover a thief among my peers would be the ultimate blow to ruin a supposedly good vacation. Honestly, I can’t bear to confront the culprit. One can only expect to hear lies.

Liers. Thieves. In Filipino proverbs the two are said to be brothers. On the contrary, in my own knowledge, mag-joa sila.

A vacation is said to be a flight from reality. I’d buy that. I would like to believe, therefore, that the island is alive. That it gobbled up my cellphone. And Ryo’s slippers. And Patatim’s jar of bagoong. And Nicka’s two bottles of Emperador.

Island or not, I got even. While swimming behind the rocks, half submerged, I crapped. I spare you the lurid descriptions but it suffices to say that warm fresh crap floating in the waters is garishly unsightly. Even the fishes were afraid to touch it. Nyahahahaha… I am not going to apologize.

Back in the tent Nicka came to me with a freshly opened Frenzy wrapper (kid stuff) and EZ sachet (hmmm, a connoisseur) - Exhibit A and B of last night’s moral carnage. Ecto!

Bad Ecto! Bad!

Come afternoon, attitude took over Patatim. It wasn’t the lost jar of bagoong. Blame it solely on matrimonial trivialities. Patatim expected more attention from Savant. Hello! He’s your lover for over a year now. At this stage, attention is a mere pretension, an affectation instead of affection, and Savant is just a bad actor. So in an attempt to grab the, ahm, attention, Patatim wore itsy-bitsy-tiny-whiny loudly colored bikini. He got everybody’s attention, but still not Savant’s. Come late afternoon, we found Patatim flat drunk on his belly under an alcove of boulders. He wouldn’t budge so we let him be. Nicka later came back to find shit smeared all over him as the place he chose to stage his undying love for Savant is used by visitors as a toilet. He still wouldn’t budge. Come eve, while I was grilling slobs of ribs, the rest of the party went to fetch him. It was a dangerous trek going to that place. One needs both hands to hold on to rocks and stuffs for balance, not to mention carefully choosing which rock to step on to. Either one could be too slippery or razor-spiky. Seamstress had to bring a lamp so he has only one hand to spare for holding on to things. They came back empty handed. The Petromax cracked and the gauze was falling off. Black Mambo (he’s dark and always on the look for a prey; he’s strike,

"Dont get mad, Black Mambo, we all survived the Patatim attitude."

venomous) was furious. Nicka has bruises on his legs and its starting to swell. Worse, Patatim was nowhere to be found. We started to pray. Joke.

Just as frustration was starting to loom over the group, Nicka came to tell everyone he found Patatim having a drink with a group of guys close by. Yep, when he came to us, he was drunk alright. I flipped the ribs over.

Savant was still ignoring him. While gathered around Gilbey’s (I am entitled to some extramarital tryst from Red Horse), in a fit of I-don’t-know-what-came-over-him, Patatim grabbed Savant and dragged him on the sands like a swine crying for mercy. In case of a hitting incident, I asked everyone to go over them before I do as I would not respect a relationship that includes a battered twink. Patatim was squeezing Savant’s fingers too tightly that the hapless kid started to call for help. We all ran over to separate them and I have to literally pry Patatim’s fingers off Savant’s. Savant ran towards one corner with Patatim in chase. I was pushing Patatim; warning him that I will not hesitate to hit him if he does something stupid. They talked. I was standing in a distance watching… waiting… somebody might hurt somebody any moment now. Shit, I need more alcohol! Blood rushing up my head diluted Gilbey’s. And I ran out of cigarettes, too. Nicka went to the other group. They were already asleep so he took their remaining bottle of Grand Matador. Watt’a girl! Ecto handed me a stick of Winston. It’s not menthol but I sucked it anyway. I have to, otherwise, I’d suck the next fisherman that’d come by. I gulped Grand Matador like Coke. Jugog! I was a goner.

Before dawn I felt the tent shaking. Like somebody was doing somebody (later that Black Saturday it was confirmed that somebody was doing somebody). The tent fell on our faces. Ecto?!

Getting drunk outside Sibil.

Sibil in Subic on Black Saturday is a different kind of Holy Week irreverence. Flirting was high and it knows no gender or sexual preference. I just got off the car when a big guy called on me with a smiley HEY thrice. I hey-you back and flipped a hair, my nose hair. People were spilling out the doors and it’s not even Malate. Once inside, one has to be ready to breathe more water as humidity was up the tilt. Bodies converge in a manner which crunches molecules into a density of blackhole proportions. Everywhere one looks, an eye would stare back. Best of all, competition was low as Ecto already left for Manila ahead of us. Once tipsy I started to flirt with the nearest male specie. The victim was a straight guy (at least, that’s what my native friends told me) who let me rubbed my back against his chest. Ah-ah, honey, you gotta try it. A straight guy’s chest is far better than any of the gay guy’s chest I have rubbed with in my entire gay life. And there’s just so many and seems willing of them. I looooove Sibil!

The problem with too many choices is having too little time. Before I could make my choice all I had left was time, but not the boys. Straight people seem to have a curfew at 2 AM. So we moved to whichever bar Olongapo has to offer. Ryoichi was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t in the john the last time he said he would be. He wasn’t in the dance floor. He wasn’t anywhere I thought I could find him. I was pissed. I am no longer his lover and there’s no reason for him to catch my attention. He can wear itsy-bitsy-tiny-whiny multi-colored bikini for all I care but this hide and seek thingy is getting in the way of my plan of getting laid on Easter in this part of Zambales! Then Nicka came to tell me Ryo was at the parking lot talking to somebody. Nicka is a hound dog. He has the knock at looking for things that refuses to be found.

On the way to the next bar, I was still pissed. As temperature was rising, so does our temper (is temperature the etymology of temper). At Gigolo Bar I was ignoring Ryo as his whining was getting into my nerves. When he asked WHATISYOURPROBLEM, I simply replied U. The bar itself was a drab. If somebody in the bar would ask me WASSUP, I could simply say NOTHING since there was really nothing in the bar, just a couple of jologs. So we decided to leave. At the corridor Ryo was yelling at me on top of his voice with the same question, only this time his diction and voice have this certain twang and modulation, respectively, which I am sure I heard from the movies we both watched somewhere. Ryo’s English reminds me of my little niece’s. They seem to have learned their accent from television – once it’s Bugs Bunny, now it’s Will or Grace, but not Pepe Pimentel. But I digress.

Friends forever... blackeye and beyond.

Then, in a spate of I-don’t-know-what-came-over-him, he had his palms clasped on my chin, pinning me against the wall. I embraced him tightly, almost strangling him. Seamstress came to us, confounded… no, let’s just settle for dumbfounded… at what everything is starting to turn out. While he was talking to Ryo, I clinched a fist and hit Ryo on the face like I owe it to him; another on the cheek. And, as one waitress, Seamstress and a bouncer, were all pulling at my left arm, I swung my right and gave Ryo another hit on the back as he ran down the stairs. Enraged like the The Bull that I am, I chased Ryo down the street. But the running diluted the adrenaline in my body as it did to alcohol the other night. I realized I just hit my lover of eight years. Ex of two years. Bestfriend of ten years. Confidant for life… on the eve of his birthday. If only I knew I was to punch somebody during this vacation, I should have done it instead to Patatim. I slouched on the gutter while Nicka was pacifying me. Seamstress was on his way to follow Ryo. I sobbed.

My Beeeeestfriend

Easter Sunday. 8 AM. I was sitting at the front row of the bus. Alone. Ryo left for Manila four hours ahead of me in spite of the overwrought acts of contrition back at Seamstress’s place. I could see through the wide windshield some of the beachbod guys who tanned their bulges in Zambales’s numerous beaches. I should be salivating, but I was not. From the stereo I was hearing Wag Mong Sasabihin by Kitchie Nadal. As usual, my mouth should be frothing. But it was not. I was lost deep in oblivious space. That day was supposed to be special. I could have used a more ostentatious word to describe it. Look, it was Ryo’s birthday and it was meant to cap a fabulous summer vacation. Special is special. Nothing could be more descriptive than that. But that day simply went caput. Summer’s heat fizzled into summer’s hit. A blow that never happened all these ten years. But it happened.

Those crap I left in the waters of Capones Island! I knew the island will score back at me, 2 to 1. It’s ok. I’m crapping there again next year.

And as the sun mingles with the ocean, four friends contemplate

adventures that are yet to be configured.