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A year ago, Kicks invited me to a birthday party. It was during that period when the prospect of meeting a fellow blogger is… thrilling. So I went. Is it fat? Is it gorgeous? Does it wear a pink tee? These are important questions when deigning to meet people online. Up until that time, Kicks was the only person I’ve met within the blog community whom I felt at ease with. So I went to party even though I wasn’t planning to, and even managed to drag my usually undraggable friend Jose. Blogger attendees were commanded not to tell about it since the celebrant was a prominent Mafioso. I’m not sure if any of us are allowed to do it now that a year has passed but I’m thinking, no one among those guys is likely  to divulge undivulgeable personal business as I am.  By which I mean, no one among those guys will make a year old retrospective about how attending that stranger’s bash meant something other than being referred to by their real names by people who originally referred to them by their online names such as… I’ll divulge some other time. So if you could already see where this is going, quit already and I’ll just blah blah blah and celebrant and me hooked up and are still together, and it turned out that my attendance to that party meant more than just getting very drunk that Sunday night in Timog.

Ours is not a story Joyce Bernal flicks are made of as it is ostensibly from the Brillante Mendoza stockpile since it has Coco. And since you told me I’m corny sometimes, I might as well indulge. I’ll just set This to private when I feel like I have to, or if you command me to, since blog drama is very much part of our Brillante movie. I’m sorry, art film. And I’m telling these as if I won’t be cringing about this when we wrestle on the weekend and hopefully the weekends after that. 17 movies, 54 late night talks over beers, 29 fights, 18 flights, 1098 smooches and 1 war later, we’re still on. May we have more and still be on.

In short, I’m glad I went to your birthday party last year.

Oscar Wow

The day Junot Diaz decided to write the The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao probably went something like, I’m bored, but I have a terrific idea for a character which I’ll make out to be funny, and to which I’ll probably be able to devote an entire book to. He then went on to have these other character ideas with which to support the very endearing Oscar, and wrote and wrote and wrote until the sun came up, or it went down, depending on which time of the day he supposedly whimsically decided to write. Or maybe Junot Diaz did think about this novel, made extensive research, and carefully pieced together little bits of Dominican Republic historical details and stringed them together with certain pop culture personages and events (J.Lo, LOTR, X-Men, etc).  Either way, the resulting book is a very funny, unintentionally hip novel that is just as wondrous as its titular character, the very fat and very smart Oscar Wao. I don’t know how anyone could think of Oscar Wao as a work thought out of nowhere but it reads to me like one in spite of the many, many footnotes. The footnotes by themselves are very interesting and you’d find yourself Wikiing certain historical things like Rafael Trujillo which turns out to be Dominican Republic’s Ferdinand Marcos and Imelda Marcos times ten. The book will attempt to bore you momentarily by going back to Oscar’s family history but it will fail. Diaz momentarily stops Oscar’s tale to tell his sister’s and mother’s and they’re just as fascinating and fucked up so you won’t mind. Lola the sister is a tough bitch whose toughness and bitchiness were proabably a result of the even  bitchier mother. Basta. Magandang nobela ‘to. It won the Pulitzer Prize but the real reason to read this is for such gems as , ‘So you’re an album cover now?’ and ‘Negro, please.’ Lots of those. So bitches, please. Read it. Hehe.

Libya is Not Really Libya, Preggy is not Really Preggy, Etc.

Preggy, one of my favorite Healthy people, comes home on vacation from Libya. He says life is good in Libya. It’s not exactly paradise but people are disciplined and they drive like mad men, not unlike Pinoys. That at least makes him feel less homesick. He gets on the road to get to anywhere and it feels as if he was just in EDSA, only much cleaner and with zero MMDA. In Libya, they’re not allowed to eat pork which should make him even healthier because pork is teeming with cholesterol and no cholesterol is ever good. In Libya, according to Preggy, people don’t care for baths. Not only are Libyans practical, they’re also God’s gift to Earth’s water reservoirs. Who cares for bathing anyway when one is in Libya? No one.

So far, Libya = 3, Philippines = 0.

In Libya, according to Preggy, you have to get a personal, made-for-citizen liquor license before you consume liquor.

Libya = -0, Philippines and elsewhere = 10.

If you’re male and in Libya and you adore women, it might interest you to know that you won’t see much of them because they’re covered from head to toe. Sometimes not even the toes. But you can see their eyes. But if you’re a gay man and you like touching other guys’ hands, Libya awaits you.

Libya & Philippines = even.

Preggy does not have immediate plans of returning in stinking Philippines even though the women in Libya are heavily and eternally covered, which is okay because he is not a pervert. He’d stay in Middle East heaven even if he’s unable to surf the web for porn because the Libyan government blocks anything and everything that is obscene. This is also good as blockage of pornographic sites greatly fosters a Christian character, which arguably is of no use when you’re in the Middle East.

I, on the other hand, ambition Bangkok. It’s prettier and much, much better than Pasay. But nothing will come of this ambition because I don’t have half the ambition, talent, perseverance, skill, patience and character of Preggy. I don’t even have half his weight and there’s no point in trying.

I just heard from an obscene, porno-loving friend that there’s a Channing Tatum strip video currently circulating the web. If I were in Libya I never would have learned this. Which would have been fine because I myself am not a pervert. I like that I’m able to live in a country that trusts its citizens’ judgment, that allows its citizens to discern between smut and great web discoveries.

Rust

The bottles are surprisingly rust free tonight. It must have gone somewhere. In my soul, probably. What a very dramatic venue to be in but it must have been there. Or in the briefs. But I see no red or brown. I will get it there somehow, the rust, because I’m not strong enough to brave the Wednesday, this very uneventful, sorry, sorry day. Soon, every day will be a sorry day, and even sooner, the months will all be sorry months, and then the years. I know you’re rolling your eyes so majestically but there’s not much else I can say except these. I will get the rust in the briefs somehow because I am bored and I have to send the alert message throughout the immediate area and make it known. But as it happens, alertee A is with company. I fear the moment that this turns into tomorrow. It’s even more frightening tomorrow because there’s less energy and less sense left so there’d be more alert messages to be sent tomorrow than there were today. I’m not all about having really great Releases but it helps a lot that I do every once in a while. By release, I probably mean semen but since I’m still sensible, I probably mean all and any other sort of release but that which comes out of that really tiny but willing hole. This is all very disgusting but disgusting is what happens when you don’t think before you speak. Disgusting is what happens when you start speaking abstract. God, sometimes, you really just don’t come through. You just really don’t.

Doy,

What else could I be doing right this instant but that which you almost always catch me doing whenever you get home. But you’re never home that often because you have some serious landscaping affair at some crazy place at the oddest hours. I go to work at 7A whereas you get home at whatever hour so you couldn’t possibly catch me doing that which our other Friend taunt me for. I’ll give you a clue: it involves bottles. But it’s not such a big deal. It’s Sunday, the wrongest day to listen to Daft Punk but what the hell. It is 90% soothing to listen to incomprehensible stuff when you’re feeling so fucked. Yes, Doy, this is still addressed to you. I was thinking about My Future Plans and what I’m Supposed To Do About The Future and I got to think that maybe what I’m supposed to do is go abroad, some insane Middle Eastern country preferably, and work for exactly 2 years. There I’d meet an equally crazy Norwegian and have some Norway native marry me. And probably have kids. I have very loose grasp on reality but whatever. But all of that can wait. For now, I drink. The plans, those inane plans of mine can wait. What I really want to tell you is that I miss seeing you walk around the pad in just your underwear. I of course miss other things about you. Your wit, for example. Your obligatory absence. It’s obligatory because landscape architecture is a very demanding profession and that chosen profession means countless travels abroad. I don’t see you that often but everyday, I look forward to coming home and finding you crouched in the very filthy couch, just relaxing and maybe talking to your crazy but lucky Norwegian boy. That’s obviously not going to happen anymore because I got sad. I got sad and I had to move back. Back to where I stupidly belong. I definitely don’t belong to you and that smacks. It’s this year’s heartbreak. For me, mostly. I HAVE to return to the Lisbon house because I have to. It’s one of those unexplainable things that are actually explainable but I make them out like they’re complicated but they’re really not. It thrilled me that you texted just when I was going through the crazy process of moving my things out of the very classy closet that our classy Friend provided for me and it certainly felt like I was leaving something very valuable. The valuable just wasn’t there to witness the crazy. But the valuable definitely texted and I was very thrilled. I am now addressing the valuable and I’m half hopeful and half pitiful for thinking that you might stumble upon this. By the way, I’m a little sorry for having You know about the thing with the other friend which, if you think about it, was something any sad person would do, let someone know of an untrue admiration because it’s moderately depressing to be in a tower and be mostly alone. I hate it when people talk about things that are very vague, things that only they could understand and they sulk when they don’t get any sort of reaction, so I probably should be clear myself. Doy, I’m sorry that you think I’m into that other human, which may or may not affect how you perceive me as a deserting room mate. I’m totally in love with you and you alone. It’s very queer when someone says things like THESE, like totally in love with you and you alone but I am okay with queerness. I don’t suppose that that’s an issue. I have been through so many embarrassing shit and this one is hardly qualified. I am using your actual name for F’s sake. Something I shouldn’t have done when I did a certain diary. But this is something akin to love and I just can’t resist and it’s only partly because of the alcohol. Please stumble and help me recover. You can try.

Mush pit

What I’ve been telling almost everyone who cares to hear about it is that ALL that could ever make me feel contented about NOW is if I would have a syota. I didn’t even intend for IT to be everything I want in a syota. I just want one. Just a living, breathing person who’d text me shit in the morning and in the evening, when the day is coming to a close and there’s no one and nothing. I just wanted to be typical, lame and sexually sated. The present situation isn’t even that bad but I am gifted at doing this: imagining that things are worse than they actually are. Which should explain the mania for intoxication. And the sharing to people who may or may not know or care what I’m on about.

Enter Light345934590. The syota I never really want and need but got. We have a convenient set-up. He lives in the same neighborhood and was not lame enough to ask me on the first meet if I am a fucker of fuckee because I seriously, truly, deeply despise being asked that shit because really, it DEPENDS on the person. These days, no one ever admits to being a bottom. Fags are still boys after all. But the desire to dump the he-bitch is so intense. He doesn’t deserve the treatment I usually reserve for people that I normally say shit about which means everyone. He doesn’t deserve to be called a he-bitch though he sometimes does. I am probably going to text him after this and tell him I’m shit. I’d probably tell him my decision to lead a life of peace and once told, he might just get an idea of how much BS he’s going to get if he sticks with me. Maybe I could sing him Baker Baker baking a cake so he’d vomit and leave and we’d both be guilt free. Maybe I could not sing and make him read this and make him vomit. I like saying VOMIT.

I don’t know what happened but I suddenly had preferences for once. Porn over actual sex. Friends over syota. Drink alone over drink with syota on a Friday night. Being deaf over hearing you say really nice things or really awful things about your day at work, My Syota. I must be growing up. Or I must be getting sicker. Or I really don’t like kids. Kids with decent looking meatsticks are okay but them and their meatsticks can only do so much. It’s not that I think I’m very mature and so above ANYONE. It’s not a crime to choose. Maybe I just don’t know how to proceed.

Kalbo!

There’s an adorable bald guy working at Tower Records Makati. I think it was him whose briefs I saw the other time I was there. You can tell if somebody’s worth the pamboboso by the kind of underwear he wears. And the length by which he’s willing to show. If he wears his jeans too low, he’s probably meaning to show some stuff. If his work costume’s too tiny, like a shirt that’s too tight or pants that are too showy, it’s hard not to guess that maybe they want to show more than just customer service.

Tower Records in Glorietta used to be pretty. It now looks shabby and untended. It has become so unappealing that I now associate it with underwear. Not that underwear on people isn’t appealing. I mean they’re no good for CD hunting anymore. The MP3 revolution is partly to blame. And iPod and iTunes. It used to be a three floor store. Now it’s just a tiny hole in the fringes of Glorietta 2. If I hadn’t been a barista I would have wanted to work at a Tower Records and I don’t care if we have to wear silly aprons. It looks like a fun job.

I was not looking for a hook-up when I met with Al, a Tori Amos-obsessed, semi-kalbo, 30-something guy. We agreed to meet on account of he was going to give me copies of all of his Tori Amos live recordings. The night before we met, we agreed that This Is Not Going To Be An EB. And it wasn’t. He really just gave me the CDs and I was profuse with the thanks and I thought that maybe he was really looking for a hook-up and that I turned out to be a big (tiny) disappointment which made him stick to the pact. It was the second best relationship I had with someone I’ve met over you-know-where.

It was reassuring to know that certain people are actually interested in the stuff that they talk about in forums. He gave me After the Rain, Blood Girl, VH1, MTV Unplugged and other live albums which I could never afford. He also turned out to be a lucky charm because I found Air’s Moon Safari and Sneaker Pimps’ Bloodpsort on Tower’s pre-owned section. I offered to treat him to a coffee and he declined. What a great guy. He kind of reminded me of what I might become when I GROW OLD. A little sad but impressed with myself because of the CDs. A gay Lloyd Dobbler.

Nicer

It would have been really nice if I hadn’t known that certain people I know read this. I probably would have been twice as mean, twice as flamboyant and much, much less pretentious. If I were someone I know and I’m reading this, I’d probably call me the following day to tell me to fuck off and delete all the fakey, bloggey nonsense because it’s embarrassing. I wouldn’t feel the need to get at least slightly drunk when saying certain shit here so that if I read this the following morning, I wouldn’t have to convince me that It’s Okay Since I Wasn’t Myself last night, which is today. I find it hard to be embarrassed about this though. Most of the time, this seems like the kinds of things I’d say, the kind of thing I’d do in the streets if I wasn’t too busy being important. Tonight, for example, If I’m gonna be coy about it, which is how I should be about it, I wouldn’t admit to waiting for a certain boy to tell me he’s ready to be molested. But certain people I know, the ones who are likely to bother to call me and tell me to f off, might find that sick. So I say these instead and end the nonsense because molestee already called.

My sister has no tuition

I have funny looking acne growing in areas of the face that will make it doubly hard to meet up with tarquinn05 or toohotforu69. I’m not sure if they’d prefer personality over smell. But the real emergency today is the concealing of the hideous pus. I am panicking. I feel oppressed by these hormones. What if tarquinn05 is THE one? If the meet doesn’t turn out nice, should I just go Mason Verger on my face and end the misery? Why didn’t this happen in high school, the bad skin, when all I really worried about was physics? But if he goes for personality, what good will that do me anyway? I don’t think I have that too. All I really have are stained briefs which I love mentioning because briefs, mine or somebody else’s, are all I could think about. Should I just think about The Strokes and Air and why they’re never ever going to Manila to tour? Should I stop drinking na? Should I stop ending sentences with na na? Have I annoyed you na?

Should I also stop starting paragraphs that lead to really nothing?

I am actually shitting. I don’t particularly care for Air. They suck ass. And you don’t need to know that they’re a French duo who makes outrageous, sort of electric, occasionally awesome music. What I care about right now is my sister’s college tuition. She doesn’t have any. Tears are streaming down my fag face as I speak. It’s just not fair. If it were me who’s about to go to college without the funds, I’d whore my ass off. I’d outwhore everyone in sight. I’d do anything just to be educated and learn really good and proper English so that I could in turn, learn the art of finding stink in ANY job I land and blog about it. Good thing she’s not like me. She listens to The Used and I hate that stinking bull shit of theirs.

My good friend Pèdro just messaged me asking if me and him could go for a drink. I tell him I’m busy but what I’m really doing is listening to Mariah Carey’s E=MC2 which is the gayest thing. He does not suspect I’m a flaming fag even with the Mariah mention because I constantly remind of him the ‘really nice’ and ‘memorable’ time I had at Sparkle Bar, the girly strip bar we went to the last time ‘we’ got horny. I refer to it as a girly bar because it’s really girly, as in the bar has no balls. Not even one. The fucking straights don’t know what they’re missing.

I puzzle and amuse myself when I do this. When I tell outrageous lies and expect attention. This is why WordPress is so great. All the bullshit you can offload. I am drinking beer, admiring and feeling sorry for my sister, and thinking of briefs. It doesn’t take much to disgust and express really, really deep feelings. It’s just priceless.