Lutong Macau

I've never really enjoyed Macau until my last visit.

Perhaps because I have never really explored it as extensively. Or maybe because in my previous trips, I wasn't privileged enough to sleep at the Venetian. Or maybe simply because, this time I was with T. And being with him made all the difference.

Pre-departure.

At the elevator landing of the 14th floor,
just before we started the hunt for Rm. 14-003.
We weren't warned that the whole south wing of the Venetian
was as huge as Megamall Bldg. A.
(Guy, BTW, is one of Jason's best friends. It was
my first time to meet him but it felt like we've known
each other in our teens. Err... well, in his teenage and my toddler years.)


the main event.
Belle, you made me very proud of you again.

our first round of drinks.
Sparkling sangria for me, Rose sangria for T,
and ice-cold beer for Guy.
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
who's the bitchest of them all?

She brought us carrot cake, inside scoop and lots of fun.

Pineapple barbecue with cinnamon sugar
for breakfast at Fogo Samba

AUMULU-ing at the Ven

T being such a good tourist.

the Macau landmark.
We didn't go any closer than this.
"What's the point?", I quipped.
"I was able to get it by zooming in anyway."

The most sumptuous lunch and
the most refreshing
noontime sangria (they use lemons instead of oranges)
at Fernando's

*Thanks, Miss Jamesy for lending my your Cybershot! Full album to be posted soon, with the official video documentation.

Outside The Rain Begins

Jethro walks into the dining area from the kitchen, shirtless and his hands, wet. He stands there for a minute, waiting for the conversation he has walked into to come to a pause. He doesn't want to interrupt his kuya and his nanay. As soon as an opportunity presents itself, he jumps in. "Kuya Law, do you have a strainer?"

Law turns to him and stares blankly, trying to think whether he has any.

Rye stops what he is doing, looks to their direction and bows his head. He was putting down the wicker magazine racks that hang by the windows to let the cool breeze in.

After a beat, Law replies, "Uhmm... I don't."

"Strainers, we don't have any in this house. But strangers, we have a lot in our lives. Real strangers whom we've never really met, and the other kind of strangers: people who were once important parts of our lives that we chose to become strangers, because if we allow them to linger any longer, they might hurt us again," Rye says, still looking down.

Ryan Lee, who is in the living room, previewing "The Love Of Siam", hears all these and solicits, "Who are they, nay?"

"I don't know, 'nak. I don't know them anymore," Rye claims.

They take a moment to let the energy die down and then they burst into corpulent laughters, applauding themselves for another spontaneous dramatic improvisation. Afterwhich, each one of them goes back doing his own thing. Jethro to the kitchen to solve the absence-of-strainer issue; Law to his chopping board, slicing the veggies for his kare-kare; Ryan Lee to "Love Of Siam", Rye to the window.

It is a stormy Friday. The previous night, at 8pm, Rye overheard from his colleagues that the HK Observatory was predicting that Typhoon 8 would be hoisted by dawn and probably even to 9 mid midday. He knew that this would be a non-working Friday. He packed his getaway bag, called Jethro, organized a get-together at Law's even before Law agreed, and headed to Causeway Bay. They kept themselves up all night, monitoring the direction and the speed of the winds, hoping that the storm doesn't decide to take a re-route.

Albeit a few hours delayed, the storm finally settled in at 7 in the morning, and the suspension of work was made official. Ryan Lee arrived. Those were the circumstances that led them here. Now.

The color of the peanut sauce and that of the achuete start to meld, as the oxtail becomes too tender, it begins to disintegrate. The buzzer sounds off, and Jethro gets up from the couch, where he and his brother, Ryan Lee, have been sitting over the last 2 hours, watching the foreign film that Ryan Lee was previewing since he got here. He opens the door to let Enan and Steve in. They have with them a pot of champorado and a hefty amount of fried danggit.

Later on, Josh, Miro and Dan arrive and the party gets started. Jethro gets on the computer and invites some more friends who, after about an hour, come with enough supply of alcohol to feed the whole household until the storm subsides.

On the 18th floor of Pearl Mansion on Patterson Street, the Beckies get lost in oblivion--- celebrating friendship, sharing love, toasting to an extra dayoff, and making a complete fool of themselves while outside, the rain begins. They pray that it never ends.

I Wish For 27-Hour Saturdays

Saturday came and saw us--- me and Dan--- sitting on the couch, discussing about life and everything that it has thrown on us in the past couple of weeks. For almost six hours, we just sat there reminiscing, smiling, laughing at ourselves, hoping. It had been too long since we last did this. Hours passed, and as they did, our eyes became heavier and our bodies grew tired, but we fought sleep. The spirit was very willing, and so we forced the body to cooperate.

At some point, we looked out the window. Saturday has already settled in and another visitor was coming: aurora. Finally, and unwillingly, we relented to the call of slumber.

Lunchtime. I heard a knock at the door and after quickly inspecting my phone to check the time, I opened up. It was my foster son, Jethro. He came by to pay his foster mom and foster aunt a visit before flying to Manila for his birthday. And as if that wasn't sweet enough, he brought us Korean takeout for lunch. After ringing us both at least four times each in the morning and being redirected to voicemail every single time, he figured Dan & I were gonna wake up late with no food on the table. He wanted us to start the day right, and took the initiative to start it right for us. Oh, bless! A little over half an hour later, he received a call from his biological sister. That was his cue to leave. We kissed him goodbye, wished him a happy birthday, and watched him trail off like moms sending their kid off to school.

By mid-afternoon, I was in Central with my Pink Becky and a 7-kg weekend bag. I was gonna meet up with T at Mix on Hollywood Road. That plan instantly changed when I called Enan, who was on his way out but had nowhere to go. He originally had plans for the afternoon but they were cancelled just right before I called him. I urged him to come with me to my ocular instead. "We'll go on a filed trip!," I told him excitedly. An hour and a venti serving of Caramel Macchiato later, our Saturday troop was complete and ready to go: me, T, and Enan (E to some people, actually, to one person).

As we were getting ready to face the task at hand, I received news that the upcoming photoshoot had already been called off, so there was no more need to do an ocular. We were in such a field trip mode and we didn't want to waste that. We decided to explore the Sun Yat-Sen Museum in T's neighborhood.

the wax display that scared me

Enan and Dr. Sun Yat-Sen

then it was my turn

post-its as guestbook

After accomplishing the educational pamphlet that they gave us at the museum, we decided to cap the field trip with a round of happy hour drinks at Volume. But of course, a round of drinks at happy hour means two rounds of drinks. Later on, we settled the bill and found out it was happiER hour. Joseph, the owner of Volume and a good friend of ours, gave us an even bigger discount on top of the 2-4-1 deal. Such an angel!

E & T while waiting for drinks

From V0lume, we--- all three of us--- headed to the grocery store o pick up stuff for dinner. I had brought Cabanatuan longganiza over to T's earlier in the afternoon, but I thought I needed another dish to go with it. Besides the fact that there were only 5 pieces and there were 3 of us, T wasn't really fond of pork. The second dish would be my back-up. Tinola. Chicken simmered and tenderized in garlic and ginger broth, seasoned with fish sauce, pepper and, to give it a western feel, served with broccoli. T liked them, thank God, so did E.

It was almost midnight when we finished eating.

I was pouring chardonnay into my glass when we received a call from Corky. He wanted to go out and see us, and we delightfully said yes.

By midnight, T, E, Corky and I were walking down the hill from Caine to Hollywood, excited of the night ahead, while sadly waving Saturday goodbye.

Sunday was coming, and there was no stopping her. In a few hours, I would have to detach myself from the weekend that just went by so swiftly, and prepare myself for the coming of Monday. I paused for a while and wished to the stars that Saturdays were a little longer than all other other days of the week.

Dizizit Pt. 4- Really, Dizizit.

The plane hadn't stopped taxiing yet and the fasten seatbelt sign was still on when I turned my mobile phones on: that which had my HK sim and that which had my Philippine sim. As soon as they let out their respective sounds, the other passengers around me turned their heads towards me and gave me a persecutive look. Embarassing. I got out of the plane as soon as the doors opened.

I was in line for the immigration when I realized none of my phones worked. I forgot to turn the my HK roaming on, and my Philippine sim was out of credits. I ran to the nearest call card dispensing machine which was, lo and behold, defective. It ate up my two hundred pesos and refused to accept the last hundred. After hitting the machine twice, I gave up and said goodbye to my money. Thank God there was a phone booth nearby; close to it, were two of the passengers that weren't amused when I turned my phones on earlier. With much delight and pride, they gave me a demeaning look. I tried to ignore them, dropped the coins and dialled Bibe. She said she was on the way; but I knew it would take her long.

I parked myself close to the passenger exit, so that Bibe would easily spot me when she arrived. Thirty minutes later, I realized that it had been almost 4 hours since I last had a cigarette. I decided to have one, but didn't know where to go. "Manong, san pwede mag-yosi? (Sir, where may I smoke?)," I asked the first security guard I saw.

"Dyan. (Right there.)," His answer was quick, as though my question was stupid.

I looked around but didn't find an ashtray. Instantly, an incident that happened at the domestic airport during my last Manila visit, back in 2007, flashed in my mind.

Towards my last three puffs, I saw a security person and politley asked, "Manong, san pwede magtapon nito (Sir, where can I throw this)?" referring to my cigarette butt.

"Dyan. (Right there.)" He pointed to the ground.

(Bonne Vacances, November 16, 2007)

I wondered whether I'd see a deja vu. I tried, and I did see a deja vu.

Few more minutes later, Bibe and her endearing boyfriend, Pusoy arrived. As soon as I hopped in the car, we started yakking relentlessly. We didn't stop until we got to the Ayala underpass. Bibe was talking about her mom and I rudely cut her with a big gasp.

"What happened, babe?", she asked.

"Black smoke. I missed this. Pollution at its finest," I smiled.

It had already been a long day for me, and it wasn't even past lunchtime yet. It was my first day. There was a longer day ahead of me, and in order to prepare myself for that, we decided to go for lunch--- my first Manila meal. JT's pecho, chicken tail, garlic rice and San Mig Strong Ice.

There couldn't have been a better welcome.

In her album, Bibe captioned this photo,
"Oscar (that's me, of course) and his old friend."

Bibe, the girl whom Rems wished I would marry,
and her boyfriend Pusoy, the man whom I wish I could marry.

Same Time, Last Year

Exactly a year ago, I was at the HK International Airport, excited about my trip to Bohol.



Today, I'm not even sure of my itinerary yet. Enan has already left. Dan and Steve are leaving tonight. My other friends have already packed and are just killing time. My itinerary hasn't been confirmed. Ugh!

So help me God.

Of Duvets, Curtains & Tips

Hoping to find the perfect duvet and sheets to suit his needs, and the perfect closet that will keep my room organized, Enan and I walked into Ikea yesterday with an overflowing sense of excitement.

Halfway through our spontaneous field trip, I had already made my choice and the picture of what my room will be like in a few weeks was already very vivid in my mind. Enan, on the other hand, was starting to have second thoughts about the purchases that, about an hour ago, he was so willing to make. It dawned on him that he would be spending about a thousand dollars for a set of bedding and a pair of curtains.

My take on his dilemma is this:

In this world that we live in, where technological advancements and overpopulation make it almost impossible to draw the line that defines where privacy and personal space begin, it is the bedroom that remains our own. It is our sanctuary. It's what cradles us when night falls and all the other avenues of comfort are no longer accessible. It's our sole companion in our slumber, when all our friends (and/or lovers) have gone away. It's what energizes and revitalizes us. It keeps us safe so that we can succumb to vulnerability and sleep soundly at night. In our weakest moments, it remains sturdy . It has to be affectionate and warm. Personal and comfortable. It has to have what you want it to have. It has to look the way you want it to. It has to have a part of you. While it's true that no amount of money can pay for a peaceful sleep, it is also true that a little bit of money can bring you closer to it.

---

When I was a few years younger, I didn't really understand the concept of tips. I always questioned the idea of giving your hairstylist, or your waiter tips, because they did their job. I often retorted, "Why am I not given tips whenever I finish a show? I did my job too! And why do we not give teachers tips after a class? Or a bank teller after we're given our withdrawal?"

When my good friend, James made a career shift from performance to F&B, I began to understand the dynamics of service and how, as patrons and consumers, we have the natural (almost innate) desire to be treated special. We pay for service, after all.

So without even deliberately deciding to, I started giving my favorite bartenders (those who know my drink, those who know the special drink that Eben has concocted for me, and those who pour an extra ounce of wine in my glass --- and do it with a smile) tips. And then my newly-cultivated generosity got extended to taxi drivers: those that do not talk on their cellphones at the top of their voices while driving, and those that try to speak English and start a conversation with me. (Unlike in the Philippines, taxi drivers here do not demand for tips. In fact, they don't expect to receive it more often than not.) And then of course, and they are the ones that deserve it the most, salon assistants.

I have so much respect (almost to the point of adulation) to salon assistants here in HK. They are very attentive, always smiling, and always willing to go the extra mile. They will shampoo your hair, blowdry, brush the fallen hair off your face, give you a massage, tell you you're gorgeous, and even pick up the magazine that you accidentally dropped. They're almost like PA's. Once, while I was being shampooed and my phone rang, the salon assistant attending on me even went to my station to get my phone, without me asking.

Because of my fondness with them (not in a malicious way), I have come up with certain standards to measure the efficiency of salon assistants. And since tipping is rewarding them for a job well done, I thought it was but fair to give them what I think is commensurate with their efforts. The standards that I set, I realized, are an effective way to decide how much they will get from me.

It's very simple. As soon as I am assigned my salon assistant for the day, I already value him at $30. For every minor mistake that he makes, like getting my collar wet, or not rinsing my ear well, he gets a deduction of $2.00. For every major blunder, like exposing a specific spot of my head to heat for a long time because he's busy gossiping the other assistants, he the deduction is $5.00.

For every kind or helpful gesture he does that he is not obliged to do, he gets a $2.00 reward.

When my session is over, I round off the total amount to the nearest 5. The least I've given is $5.00, and the most is $45.00.

Now, when my assistant is someone who is far beyond twinkness, and he has biceps and pecs that make small beads of sweat appear on my forehead, and he knows how to stare and smile at me like a man, then he gets a $200. voucher for drinks. But he has to redeem his prize with me, not with anyone else.

If, during drinks, he shows exemplary niceness and he is willing to go beyond the call of duty, then he is rewarded free board and lodging at my place for one night, where he is assured to sleep tight, because the duvet, the curtains, and the sheets are warm and accommodating.

Remembering A Lesson Learned

Because I had two hours to kill today, I decided to go to the gym.

Because I loved how it felt parading naked in front of strangers the last time I did it, I decided to do it again today.

Because I almost forgot the lesson I learned from my previous experience, I am reposting this piece to remind me.

Lord, please make me not forget again.

I walked into the locker room and found two men: one, probably in his early 40's and the other, in his late 20's. Judging on body language, they didn't know each other. One was just getting ready for his tennis game while the other was still damp from the shower. They were both chinese, and both naked.

As soon as I deposited my stuff in my assigned locker, I marched into the shower cubicle. I was in my trunks and a towel hung in my shoulder. Twenty minutes later, I was wiping myself dry. I was going to wrap the towel around my loin but it was too small for one end to even reach the other. I decided to wear my trunks again. And then I decided otherwise. Come to think of it, I have never experienced parading in any changing room completely naked. Not in the dressing rooms of the company I used to work for, not in any public changing room I have ever been. Other people can do it, why can't I?

With much pride and dignity, I swung the shower curtain open and walked to the locker stark naked. The two men I had walked into weren't around anymore, but another character had appeared: the boy who, about an hour ago got me pissed because he moved the dumbells I was using for my Arnold Press. Few minutes later, I heard somebody walking out of the steam room. And another one coming out of the toilet. We were all bare-assed. Nothing to be coy about.

Although I didn't pretend to be straight, I also didn't announce I was gay. Maybe they knew and didn't mind at all. Or maybe they were too busy to even examine. Or maybe, they really thought I was straight even though my blonde lock screamed faggotry. Here in HK, I have learned that to judge a book by its cover is truly unwise; because here in HK, metrosexuals do exist.

Everything was going well. By that, I meant I wasn't having trouble co-existing in an enclosed space with other men in such vulnerable state. Neither were they. I could say so because none of them made me feel they were uncomfortable. Well, until I headed to the sink, and, out of habit, applied my cheek tint right after applying my moisturizer.

Convincing Dan

I'm a feline lover. But Dan is not. I wanna adopt a cat but I can't do it without Dan's consent.

Although Dan and I are not a couple, but his opinions on domestic matters are essential because we share a common roof. We are technically domestic partners, besides being best friends.

Tonight, I intend to talk to him again about adopting a cat. The animal welfare has a package that might make him say "yes".



Dan, don't we need to get our windows washed too?

The Boy Scout Vs. The Drama Queen

"I'm gonna need to call in today," the drama queen exclaimed in frustration.

"No, stupid!"

"Ok, maybe I won't. I'll just call them and tell the truth."

"Tell them what?" the boy scout, close to the end of his patience, asked, almost in a condescending manner.

"That I can't come to work because I don't have dancewear today. And I don't have access to all my essentials: my wallet, my Ipod, my Octopus, my phone even.. (Oh shit! How will I call them anyway?) ...because everything's inside the house, and..."

"And we locked ourselves out. You think they'd think that's cute?"

After just a beat, the Drama Queen's face lit up as an idea suddenly popped up. "Oh my God! Maybe I should just go and meet up with Dan in Disney so I can borrow his housekeys. Do I have time? If I go now..."

"In boxers? You're actually thinking to travel to Disney in boxers?" The boy scout was now torn. They were standing behind Kenny, the landlord's son who was relentlessly trying to open the steel door with two pieces of 3-foot iron wire. He slid both wires between the grills which were on the same level as their heads and painstakingly tried to get their hooked ends to clasp onto the door latch inside. It had been 10 minutes, and still, there was absolutely no sign of salvation. Kenny was in his mid-30's, a bit chubby and quite nerdy too. His fashion sense was what a lot of people might consider passe; and his english vocabulary was limited to "hi" and "sorry". He certainly was not, in fact he was not even remotely close to being, the drama queen's type of guy. And this only made the situation worse, because the boy scout knew that if the drama queen fancied Kenny, even the slightest bit, she wouldn't be as panicky as she was at that moment. Standing beside the drama queen, the boy scout was having a hard time deciding which of his urges to act on first: the urge to mock and belittle her concerns by laughing at her, or the urge to put her bickering to a screeching halt by spanking her in the head.

"You're right. I can't take the train to Disney. My Octopus is inside the flat." Her voice started to shake as if her world was about to shatter to a million pieces and she was ready for a major breakdown scene. Like the way she did when she was 9 and her grandma refused to buy her a toy iron and ironing board because they were for girls.

At this point, the boy scout had already moved from where his was standing over the past 15 minutes. He looked out the window that was on the other end of the hall. "Kenny!", he called out enthusiastically. "Don't bother anymore. I think I know what to do."

Kenny stopped what he was doing and stared at him. He obviously didn't understand what the boy scout said.

"What are you gonna do?!" the drama queen asked with both excitement and fear, and she was ignored by the boy scout.

" I. Go. Out. Here. Go There. Go. In." In the most elementary of words and the biggest, most indicating of gestures, the boy scout spelled out the plan to Kenny. He was gonna go out of the window, onto the hanging ledge and into their balcony, where the door was unlocked. He smiled at Kenny and waited for him to reciprocate, as a sign of approval, but Kenny just stared at him, dumbfounded. He smiled at the drama queen briefly and looked away before she could even try to stop him.

Without hestitation, the boy scout raised his left foot chest-high, climbed the windowsill and pushed himself out. The drama queen clutched his pearls in horror and gasped, praying that the wind wouldn't blow and throw him off-balance. Less than two minutes later, the front door opened and the boy scout showed himself to Kenny who was still holding the wires and didn't seem to know what was happening.

"Oh, good!" Kenny said, which surprised the boy and the drama queen. They didn't know Kenny knew a third word in english.

"No sweat," the boy scout affirmed. And he wasn't lying. Contrary to what the drama queen might have projected, it wasn't that dangerous. The ledge was about 2 feet wide and the concrete fence that separated their balcony from the ledge wasn't more than 4 feet tall. And their flat was only on the second (first floor, in HK) floor. Even if he fell, the worst that could happen was a sprain.

Still, the drama queen thought it was a scene from "Mission: Impossible". So as soon as I got my hands on my computer, the drama queen in me defied the boy scout in me and typed: "Rye did the unthinkable" in my Facebook status.

Locker Room Field Trip

I walked in the locker room and found two men: one, probably in his early 40's and the other, in his late 20's. Judging on body language, they didn't know each other. One was just getting ready for his tennis game while the other was still damp from the shower. They were both chinese, and both naked.

As soon as I deposited my stuff in my assigned locker, I marched into the shower cubicle. I was in my trunks and a towel hung in my shoulder. Twenty minutes later, I was wiping myself dry. I was going to wrap the towel around my loin but it was too small for one end to even reach the other. I decided to wear my trunks again. And then I decided otherwise. Come to think of it, I have never experienced parading in any changing room completely naked. Not in the dressing rooms of the company I used to work for, not in any public changing room I have ever been. Other people can do it, why can't I?

With much pride and dignity, I swung the shower curtain open and walked to the locker stark naked. The two men I had walked into weren't around anymore, but another character had appeared: the boy who, about an hour ago got me pissed because he moved the dumbells I was using for my Arnold Press. Few minutes later, I heard somebody walking out of the steam room. And another one coming out of the toilet. We were all bare-assed. Nothing to be coy about.

Although I didn't pretend to be straight, I also didn't announce I was gay. Maybe they knew and didn't mind at all. Or maybe they were too busy to even examine. Or maybe, they really thought I was straight even though my blonde lock screamed faggotry. Here in HK, I have learned that to judge a book by its cover is truly unwise; because here in HK, metrosexuals do exist.

Everything was going well. By that, I meant I wasn't having trouble co-existing in an enclosed space with other men in such vulnerable state. Neither were they. I could say so because none of them made me feel they were uncomfortable. Well, until I headed to the sink, and, out of habit, applied my cheek tint right after applying my moisturizer.

About A Boy Crossing The Border

For the first time in his current journey, the road seemed bleak and uncertain.

For the first time, he felt his arrogance -- the arrogance that he always depended on to conceal his weak, vulnerable, human self -- abandon him as the rest of his defenses melt away and disappear in a heartbeat.

For the first time in his current journey, he wasn't too proud to admit what he was feeling. He wasn't scared or ashamed to say, "Please forgive me. Give me one more chance. And the only reason that I need that one more chance is that I love you."

The boy was, for the first time in so long, at that point where something ends and something bigger begins. He knew what lay ahead beyond that point. And with much hope and faith, he decided to do what felt right for him. What felt good for him.

It was past midnight. Just a few minutes before that, he was on a cab racing against time, crossing the tunnel that connected Lantau and Hong Kong Islands. Then without him noticing, in just a few minutes, half the world transitioned from Jan. 22 to Jan. 23 --- from Thursday to Friday. At about the same time, he crossed another border: that where fascination ends and love begins.

It was the beginning of a new journey.

Anatomy Of Hang-Over

It wasn't even past lunchtime yet when I got an sms from James, asking whether our cookout plans would push through. I eagerly replied in the affirmative. We then agreed to meet up at 3pm.

At 5pm, his kitchen was still quiet and the only activity that was happening was his fixing of two tall glasses of vodka tonic. (I later found out that the drinks that he had mixed for us were more like "vodka with a hint of tonic" rather than "vodka tonic".)

6pm, we were headed to Staunton's to meet up with his best friend, the beautiful, ever-glowing Tricia for two rounds of drinks. We thought of coming up with a 2-drink limit plan. We didn't intend to get smashed at Staunton's because it was a Wednesday night and we wanted to partake in the free vodka that Volume was rationing its patrons with, from 7-9:30. We were quite successful trying to stick to the plan, until James's movie night commitment was cancelled because Madagascar 2 wasn't showing yet. He called his beau, Chris, to tell him the bad news. And as soon as he got off the phone, we yelled for a pitcher of margarita like prisoners demanding food.

7:30pm, James and I had already transformed from young-and-cosmopolitan to juvenile-slurring-and-obnoxious. 7:30! Our fellow Volume parishioners hadn't even arrived in the area and we have completely lost the ability to walk in a straight line. Somehow, we managed to get to Jashan, now made more famous because of the Michelin Guide Bib Gourmand awarded to them, to get our fill of Indian dinner. "So what should I expect from a Michelin-recognized restaurant?", I asked James as we were on the lift.

"Service, food, ambience", he enumerated. He then bolstered his answer impressively, by giving me a 3-minute crash course on the substantial lessons he's learned, quite fast, in less than 2 years of of working in the F&B and hospitality industry.

Few minutes past 8, we were settling our bill. Was Jashan everything Michelin made us to expect? I don't even know. I ordered a plate of dum biryani and a glass of red wine. Until now, that's all I remember: my biryani and my wine. I don't even know which variety of red wine I had. Oh, and yes, I do remember the quotation printed on the drink menu:

"I have two lips, one devoted to wine and
the other apologizing for drunkenness."

From Jashan, James and I decided to give another friend of ours a surprise visit. We knew he was recuperating from a flu and that he was sleeping at that very moment. It was the perfect time to show up unannounced at his doorstep, our main objective, being the compelling desire to pester him. We got there after a 10-minute cab ride and as soon as we were let in, James dove into bed. Before I could even warn him to not fall asleep, he dozed off. Few minutes later, I did too.

I opened my eyes from a 30-minute nap to see James recharged and ready to go for a few more rounds. So after a few rounds of Ice Vodka, we left and headed to Volume. We got there past 10. We laughed at the thought that we didn't make it to free vodka, when it was the main goal that we set for the night. But that didn't stop us from having more cosmopolitans and chardonnays at Volume.

...and a beer at Beyrouth, while James munched down his kebab;

...and champagne at Gecko, while I sat and filmed the first performance of James that I had seen in ages;

...and nothings at Propaganda, where James got reunited with the jacket that he didn't even know he had left there in his drunken stupor on New Year's Eve;

...and to Drop where the infamous "Sad!!! Sad!!!" line was delivered;

...and to 711 where I learned the different intensities by which "Dim ar?!" can be said.

At 4am (I think), our rational selves, finally made an apparition and we called it a night.

I was thinking of ending this post with "...and so the night ended with champagne, candles and all that jazz",

but it would be a lie. It sure was a fun, debauched night, but it didn't end happily ever after. Because an hour after we gave an à tout à l'heure peck on each other's cheek, reality set in. I had to run to the bathroom to kiss the porcelain god.

And even more bitter realities the following day, when I woke up with the worst headache that even 2 Excedrins couldn't cure and the most horrible case of hyperacidity I've ever had. Hangover at its peak.

Morning Has Broken

I am anything but a morning person.

I hate getting up in the morning. It's too much of a chore for me.

But, when one has to get up at 9am to be able to teach an 11am dance class that ends with a student telling him, "As usual, all the girls in the dressing room are talking about how good they feel after your class. We really enjoyed it. Your Tuesday morning classes are something we look forward to week after week";

or when he has to get up at 830am to pick up stuff from the grocery, and he finds out that someone had scribbled on the shopping list that he left posted on the fridge door;

or when he gets a call from a friend inviting him for an indulgent Sunday breakfast;

or when he gets up early and accomplishes enough by midday to deserve afternoon cocktails at Red with one of closest friends and confidante, while watching the color of the skies change from blue to orange to gray;

or when he gets up at 7am to be able to get freshest prawns in the wet market for the garlic aligue pasta that he's making for a dear friend who lives a block away but whom he hadn't seen for a while;

or when he gets up at 10am to make lunch for his boyfriend who spent the night at his place and he calls him to the table and discovers, as he enters his own bedroom, that his bed has been made;
or when he gets up before lunch to find out that someone is making lunch for him;

then it's all worth saying goodbye to snooze. It's all worth the trouble of rising and greeting the morning that has broken.

Christmas Has Begun!

And I Ejaculated

Ok, so I was catching up on 3 weeks' worth of internet task backlogs while listening to the OST of Il Postino (deciding which track I will use for my performance engagement on Sunday), when, from my headphones, I started hearing short, faint beeps. About four of them. I got a bit panicky, because I knew for sure they weren't from Julia Roberts's reading of "Poor Fellows". I then clicked on all the 8 tabs that I had opened to check where the peculiar (but awfully familiar) beeps were coming from.

I found out that a good friend of mine, whom we will refer to as "VF", had started a chat session with me. Reading what she had written almost felt like hearing her say the actual words spoken three octaves higher than her normal speaking voice. Kilig. Wotir wotir. Nagtutubig.

Then she shared the e-love letter that she recently received from a gentleman she's been spending a little of her time with. After reading it, all I could type was---

Gasp.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow na reaction ko dyan.

Because I was fucking lost for words! And how would I not be? As soon as my sight landed on the first word of the letter, my Itunes started playing "The Postman (Guitar and Bandoneon Version)". And, just a beat after the word "key", I ejaculated.

Without asking her for permission, I decided to post the letter on my blog---

I went to a wedding today. Many guys from Disneyland. My friend J was getting married.
And if you were there, I could have easily sneaked you out for a drink on the veranda,
it was in Gold Coast, the picturesque harbor, light breeze,
and palm trees (yes, palm trees), were all so readily at hand,
creating the perfect, or should I say,
it was not heaven, but you could see it from there...
and I would have looked into your eyes,
seen my own soul in them,
and devour your flesh like bees devour a flower,
and our love-making would have been sweeter than honey,
for we would have found paradise in a few precious moments.
But you didn't come.
You failed to know a mutual friend, or neglected his invitation.
And now look at you... still the same girl, always looking,
always one step to heaven's gate, but never having the key.

The Postman/Il Postino [Guitar and Bandoneon Version] - Original Score

With Pride & Feathers

It was the 13th of December. With clear skies and a thousand participants, the first-ever Pride March of Hong Kong was realized. And with much pride and some feathers, I was there, taking part as the gay men and women of Hong Kong marched their way from Causeway Bay to Wan Chai and made history.

Everybody, genuflect. It's the Pride flag.

Dan said, "If you wanna attract attention,
which really is the point of Pride march,
wear the follies headdress that we used for Halloween last year."
And boy, was he right!
The attention whore that I am could never wish
for so much attention in the streets, in broad daylight!

Crowd was too thick, it was difficult to find me at certain times.

A Pride card for La Rems. On it, I wrote --
"I am proud to be gay because my momma loves me!"

Birds of a feather
With Glenn and OutinHK's Antonio Licon

The silk rainbow flags prepared by Eric of Fruits in Suits

photos courtesy of Ad Takumi, Rey Asis, Prash Prashoun, Bhisan Rai

Sat -Through Day

The past month and a half can probably be chronicled as my busiest 6-weekends-in-a-row for 2008.

November 1
was the day Dan, I and a couple of other friends brought our beloved ex-flat mate to the airport. Mamu was flying back to Manila after his stint here in Hong Kong --- another landmark in my HK lifeline, since it was the end of our 3 and a half years of bahay-bahayan. It was the final "Bye! I love you, Dan & Rye!" that he exclaimed as he was getting in the immigration, that marked that finality. It was, however, that finality that marked the beginning of yet another long, rocking night. As soon as Mamu disappeared from our sight, Dan and I wiped the miss-you-already tears off our eyes and took the bus to the city. Lugging our weekend getaway bags and looking forward to a very promising evening, we showed up at Law's doorstep where the rest of the guys were waiting for us. Forty minutes later, we were already being frisked by the bouncers that guarded the door of Cliq. Another Saturday night that went by unnoticed, because we were busy dancing our butts off to the music of DJ Chris and DJ Thomas C of Party Demon.

November 8
started rather early. Even before the clock went past the thin red midnight line, Enan, Steve, Law & I were already painting the town pink. Around 3am, all four of us headed to Law's for some sinigang then we evacuated to Steve's to continue on with our intimate bonding. We couldn't abuse Law's hospitality because we didn't want to wake his parents (whom we were to have lunch with that day) who were visiting from Manila and were dead-tired after spending a whole day at Disney. After a while, Enan got tired and slept. So did Steve about three hours later. I tried to keep my eyes shut so I could eventually succumb to sleep, but it never came. It was 10 in the morning when I got a surprise sms from a good friend, Christy. She wanted to meet up for coffee. Wasting no time, I hurriedly put on the same clothes I wore the previous night and hailed a cab that brought me to Central. Later that afternoon, I got a call from James and he invited me over to his. "I have company though," I warned him.

"Huh?!" He seemed to be disappointed. He probably thought it would be an afternoon spent exclusively for us two.

"Christy."

"Whaaaa?!?! Get that bitch over to my place!" He sounded more excited that he was two minutes back.

By sunset, I had to leave and meet up with T. I spent that next few hours at his place, trying to catch up on sleep but excitement won me over. We'd been invited for dinner at his Italian neighbor's place. Who wouldn't be excited? Italian. That meant a splendid full-set meal. And boy, was I not disappointed!

November 15 started with me and my anak, Jethro running around my flat like goats trying to flee castration. It was Volume's 2-year anniversary, and we were putting together the perfect outfit for the night. The three perfect outfits for the night: the cocktails ensemble, the costume, and the after-party attire. After cutting the low-turtleneck of one of my most antiquated articles of clothing into a low-V, he laced the boots that he wanted me to wear after the show and packed them in my bag. Then I set off for Central, trying to get there before my 4pm-call time. The last run for the release of DJ Stonedog's Rainbows finished a few minutes earlier than scheduled. That meant that drinking started earlier than anticipated as well. By midnight, as we were going up the stairs to the dressing room to change into our Rainbows costume, I was already a few kilometers ahead of tipsy. Lucky, we got through the whole number blunder-free.

November 22 was when, for a few hours I thought I didn't want to be a rockstar anymore. That time, being a groupie started to seem more appealing to me. It was the night of the Party that a good friend, Brad Schofield, had organized for a quaint but sophisticated restaurant on Gough Street called Palate. It was also the night I had been too excited about for many days --- Hed Kandi night at Club JJ's. I almost decided not to go to either party for so many reasons. But that's another post altogether, so allow me to digress. The Palate party was fun, because it gave me (and the rest of the familiar guests) a chance to interact in a totally different atmosphere. It wasn't too late in the evening and people were sharply dressed, so there was very little drunken talk, if there ever was any. The crowd was neither too big that people were encouraged to shove one another to get to the bar or to the john; nor too little that people were encouraged to talk things less sensible than rumors. By midnight, T and I walked up the hill to Dragon-I to catch the Hed Kandi shuttle that would take us to the Grand Hyatt. But after two minutes of looking around, the impatient Virgos that we were just decided to take a cab. As soon as the Club JJ's lift opened, I was just shot with extreme gladness that I didn't give in to my bratinella attack. I would've regretted it for months had I decided to snub the Hed Kandi party. Duh! I was a fucking groupie for the night, for Chrissakes! I (and T) drank from the Hed Kandi Moet bottle and partook in their refreshments. Thanks to the graciousness of our dear friends, James and Noel who led the team to make that event possible and oh-so-fucking-successful!

The November 29
gaiety started on November 27, the KylieX night. It was Law's birthday weekend. Enough said. (P.s. I didn't like KylieX. But, again, that's another entry altogether. So moving on…)

December 6
was the day I sat Saturday through, for a change. An excerpt:

(Around 2AM)

Rye: Chardonnay?

T: Sure.

Rye: What time is it anyway?

T (teasingly): It's the time you normally would only be starting to have fun on a Saturday night.

Rye: Oh! By now, I would guess, the guys are drunk already.

T: You would be too if you were out tonight.

I would be too if I was out that night. But I wasn't. I had no internet connection and my phone was disconnected. I was neither dressed in my clubber outfit nor in my champagne-and-strawberries smarts. I was in faraway Tung Chung, totally disjointed from the islands that lie beneath the boundaries of Lantau. I was in my boxers and robe. All I had was a half-empty bottle of shiraz, a fresh bottle of chardonnay, a can of beer, some crisps, the complete first season of Lipstick Jungle and T, whose arms kept me warm all night. I was having more fun than I thought I would, sitting my Saturday through than dancing it away on oblivion. There was no party I'd rather be than were I was.

It's All A Matter Of Perspective

*inspired by the insightful la vite e bella-themed blog entry written by Pau

Friday night. Volume.
The boy sees an old acquaintance, the Entrepreneur, and playfully pokes him on the shoulder.

Entrepreneur: Hey! It's been so long. What do you do now?

Boy: I'm a fitness instructor now. I teach group exercise classes. And a few technique dance classes on the side.

Entrepreneur: You enjoy your new career?

Boy: Immensely.

Entrepreneur: Nice to hear that. Looks like you're the only person in Hong Kong that life's been treating kindly.

Boy: I'm just thankful that, in this time of recession, I am caught in a city where people invest a lot on health and vanity. They may cut down on other things, but there will always be enough budget set aside for an-hour-a-day fitness classes.

___________________

"Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact.
Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth."
-Marcus Aurelius

"...So I guess it won't hurt
to form our own opinion
and see things from our own perspective,
if only to make life less difficult to bear."
-Ryeness

Seeking Answers In Central One Friday Afternoon

Sometimes I just want to hate myself for always thinking I am privileged enough that I can get what I want at anytime that I want, in any way that I want it.

Like last Friday. I needed an emergency haircut and color touch-up badly for the Volume Anniversary show which I was gonna perform for. So I browsed through my phonebook and dialled Paul Gerrard. As soon as the guy on the other end of the line said, "Hello?", I inquired: "Hi! I was wondering whether you can accommodate my last-minute appointment booking for Brad?"

With Brad,
my post-Disney makeover hairstylist,
after my first ever session with him

The guy, trying to be polite, answered, "Well, you'll have to call the salon." It was Paul Gerrard himself.

My stupid ass dialled Paul Gerrard the person, instead of Paul Gerrard Salon. How humiliating is that?

Then he said, "And Brad won't be in until the 17th."

In an instant, my world shattered.

So I went to see another hairstylist. I told him what I wanted with my hair and what my problems with it were. I thought I had already told him everything when I asked him for suggestions. He spoke rather eloquently and described what would become of my hair, with utmost pride and confidence, as if he was one fine chef and I was his sumptuous 7-course dinner claim to fame. I got excited, and with sparkling, dreamy eyes and a million-dollar Hollywood diva smile, I commanded him to commence.

Two minutes into the session, I looked away from the mirror as he started to razor the sides of my head. Brad and I were growing my hair! He was supposed to make it thin, not short. But he's done the right side already so I just decided to keep my mouth shut. We all know that more often than not, I unintentionally piss people off when I go by the impulse of verbalizing the first words that come to my mind. He had a pair of scissors, a razor and huge hair clips in his hand. I wasn't gonna risk it. In my mind, I just told myself, I could always go back to the shaved head look (which my very good friend Christian Glassl insists to be the best look he's seen on me) if it didn't work.

Twenty minutes later, he was brushing hair off my neck and unhooking my salon gown. I looked in the mirror and realized it wasn't so bad as I had foreseen it would be. He looked at me in the mirror and with a satisfied smile, he said to me, "It frames your face." Then he asked his assistant to lead me to the wet area and have my hair rinsed.

He started applying the bleach solution to the roots of my hair and when he finished, he put me under the ring of heat and gave me some magazines to spend my idle time on, which I gracefully turned down. I had my own stash: "Me Talk Pretty One Day" by David Sedaris, which Steve gave me on the eve of my birthday as a prelude to the expensive main gift. I was roasted for 10 minutes. And another 10. And another 10.

With Steve,
a very dear friend who Me Talk Pretty One Day was from;
and my blonde lock with their black roots

The next part, that where he took off the foil and rinsed my hair, was when I realized the mistake of forgetting the most important problem with my hair that Brad and I learned the hard way. My hair strands are thick and they are way too black. They have too much melanin that they require long hours to be bleached, and even so, they could only be bleached so far. In other words, the roots of my hair didn't lighten so much as the ends. He wanted to reapply the bleach but if he did, I was gonna be late for work. So I said, "Never mind, we'll color it green anyway."

"It will probably take almost an hour for the color to settle," predicted Nostradamus' soul which had entered his mortal body at that particular moment.

"Oh? I don't have that much time. I'll be late for work." So I decided that, over the next two or three weeks, I will just pretend that the gradient in my hair was done deliberately and that I am happy about it.

I was quite content with my haircut. That, I had to admit as I was staring at myself in the mirror while settling my bill. That satisfaction would later be fueled by my students, colleagues and friends who think that the 'do actually framed my face and made my cheekbones more prominent, thereby highlighting my smile. (Although personally, I think it's my ever-reliable weight loss program that actually made my cheekbones more prominent. So I deserve the credit for that, not my new second-fiddle hairstylist.) BUT...

Looking at myself at the elevator mirror, I noticed something peculiar. I knew, deep in my heart of hearts that he more or less achieved what he wanted to do with my hair, but I knew too that I wasn't quite getting the overall look that the hairstyle promised. With the thickness of the top section and the thinness of the sides --- something that looks like a fusion of the conservative mohawk and the clean military cut --- I was supposed to look more butch. (I know... I know... High hopes, yeah! But I can try, dammit! And stop rolling your eyes, my beloved reader!)

So I walked the busy streets of Hong Kong Central, trying to seek answers to my questions, "Why not?" and "How?" Half an hour later, I still couldn't find the answer to the former. But to the latter, the answer stared at me directly in the eye. So how? Here's how ---

A dogtag.


For the butch in me.

How To Lose A Ghost In 10 Minutes

For about 6 minutes, the ghost went on and on convincing the boy to go out to dinner or coffee or some drinks with him. And for about 6 minutes, the boy just kept declining. Finally, the ghost gave the boy a window to say what he really feels about the whole thing. He said, "Isn't there anything I can say to make you say yes to one harmless dinner? Or coffee? Or chardonnay?"

The boy frankly replied, "You know what, I'm a busy person. And I am so over you. Maybe I would say yes if I had so much free time in my hands, but I just don't. And I won't make an effort to make time for you."

Taken aback, the ghost asked, "That's it? You're gonna brush me off just like that without even an apology?"

"For what? For being busy or for being so over you?"

"You're mean," the ghost remarked after a breath.

"I know. I've been told many times," with an overflowing dose of self-assurance and self-esteem, the boy punctuated their conversation and hailed a cab. He didn't say goodbye. He was mean, after all.