And these happened so far.
After six years of staying wiht Livejournal, I am now moving to a new blog platform.
Please visit the new address
of my blog at Wordpress. I am now at keanoidd.wordpress.com
All the entries and comments here at LJ have been exported there.
We had a lovely time together, LJ. For many years, I nursed you like a lioness her tiny cub, and, now, it is time to move on.
Hanggang dito na lamang, at maraming salamat.
I discovered a new show, and it's available on iTunes.
Face Off is a competition for special effects make-up artists who are challenged to create different looks using make-up and prosthetics. Think RuPaul's Drag Race with a lot straightness involved and tons of budget thrown in.
What is appealing about the show is that the producers cast the authorities in the field for their judges. They have a three-time Oscar winner who did the effects for Pirates of the Carribean, the guy who designed for Buffy the Vampire SLayer, and the concept director of Independence Day and Underworld.
The contestants are an interesting bunch as well. They may all come from the same background, but it matters very little, especially since the show focuses so much on the actual work being done by the contestants. There is, of course, the gratuitous tension among contestants, but, at the end of the day, only the value of the contestants' work is evaluated.
I think it is a very well-thought out show, and it shows a lot of potential. I hope it picks up and gets mainstream attention.
I am very excited. We are having two big parties over the next couple of months!
This party will be all about lips. The best lipsticks will need to jump out of our stashes. Time to give our lip colors a last run right before we throw them out to make room for the new season's collections!Unleashed.
Inspired by the African wildlife, we unleash our wildest animals. Time to let the animal prints roam. Hunting season is on!
It has been a while since I talked on this page, so I will be very rusty.
Today, I filed my very first sick leave at work. It is a disappointing experience, since I take so much pride in keeping perfect attendance at work. Even when I was flying to Manila for chemo over weekends, I would be back at work the Monday immediately following, and people at work did not even notice that my bones felt like they had shards of broken glass being shoved into them.
Today was embarrassing, though. I cannot go to work because of sore throat. Yes, just my annoying throat prevented me from going to work. Not intense migraine, not spirit-breaking root canal, just sore throat. I know, it is terribly embarrassing.
You see, a significant chunk of my work involves constant meetings over the phone. I talk for half of my day just to get my job done. Bone pain only requires firm resolve on my end to keep the show going; however, a sore throat prevents talking altogether. I feel so amateur succumbing to a sick leave just because of a scratchy throat.
I will be back to work tomorrow, and I hope this blasted throat gets better. Staying healthy is part of what I am being paid to do, and I feel embarrassed that I allowed myself to get sick.
Happy Christmas, everyone.
This is a tribute to Ma'an Fara
's video for Christmas.
(Please ignore the horrible chest make-up. I did everything in under one hour, within my first hour of being up on Christmas Day. My chest surgeries will be the end of my drag stardom. Hahaha.)
“I’m speaking from the point of view of a teacher here in the Ateneo. As I grow older, I realize more and more over the past two or three years that you cannot do everything. You have to choose your battles, you have to choose the things that you want to focus on, you have to give up some, not because those things you give up aren’t important, but you have limited time and limited energy. When you are not focused, I have realized in myself that I don’t do the things that I do as well as I could have if only I have time and focus. Our energies are afraid, our energies are dissipated, and you end up being superficial. You are spread out too thinly and you realize it might give you the impression of being busy and being occupied… and you realize, ‘I think I’ve wasted my time.’ I think it’s a realization of somebody growing older.”
- Fr. Adolfo Dacanay, SJ on what he’s learned for the past year
by Fr. James Donelan, S.J.
The English poet John Milton once wrote that those who serve stand and wait. I think I would go further and say that those who wait render the highest form of service. Waiting requires more discipline, more self-control and emotional maturity, more unshakeable faith in our cause, more unwavering hope in the future, more sustaining love in our hearts than all the great deeds of derring-do that go by the name of action.
Waiting is a mystery—a natural sacrament of life. There is a meaning hidden in all the times we have to wait. It must be an important mystery because there is so much waiting in our lives.
Everyday is filled with those little moments of waiting—testing our patience and our nerves, schooling us in our self-control—pasensya na lang. We wait for meals to be served, for a letter to arrive, for a friend, concerts and circuses. Our airline terminals, railway stations, and bus depots are temples of waiting filled with men and women who wait in joy for the arrival of a loved one—or wait in sadness to say goodbye and to give that last wave of hand. We wait for birthdays and vacations; we wait for Christmas. We wait for spring to come or autumn—for the rains to begin or stop.
And we wait for ourselves to grow from childhood to maturity. We wait for those inner voices that tell us when we are ready for the next step. We wait for graduation, for our first job, our first promotion. We wait for success, and recognition. We wait to grow up—to reach the stage where we make our own decision.
We cannot remove this waiting from our lives. It is part of the tapestry of living—the fabric in which the threads are woven that tell the story of our lives.
Yet the current philosophies would have us forget the need to wait. “Grab all the gusto you can get.” So reads one of America’s great beer advertisements—Get it now. Instant pleasure—instant transcendence. Don’t wait for anything. Life is short—eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow you’ll die. And so they rationalize us into accepting unlicensed and irresponsible freedom—premarital sex and extramarital affairs—they warn against attachment and commitment, against expecting anything of anybody, or allowing them to expect anything of us, against vows and promises, against duty and responsibility, against dropping any anchors in the currents of our life that will cause us to hold and to wait.
This may be the correct prescription for pleasure—but even that is fleeting and doubtful. What was it Shakespeare said about the mad pursuit of pleasure? “Past reason hunted, and once had, past reason hated.” Now if we wish to be real human beings, spirit as well as flesh, souls as well as heart, we have to learn to love someone else other than ourselves.
For most of all waiting means waiting for someone else. It is a mystery brushing by our face everyday like stray wind or a leaf falling from a tree. Anyone who has ever loved knows how much waiting goes into it, how much waiting is important for love to grow, to flourish through a lifetime.
Why is this so? Why can’t we have love right now—two years, three years, five years—and seemingly waste so much time? You might as well ask why a tree should take so long to bear fruit, the seed to flower, carbon to change into a diamond.
There is no simple answer, no more than there is to life’s demands: having to say goodbye to someone you love because either you or they have already made other commitments, or because they have to grow and find the meaning of their own lives, having yourself to leave home and loved ones to find your path. Goodbyes, like waiting, are also sacraments of our lives.
All we know is that growth—the budding, the flowering of love needs patient waiting. We have to give each other time to grow. There is no way we can make someone else truly love us or we love them, except through time. So we give each other that mysterious gift of waiting—of being present without making demands or asking rewards. There is nothing harder to do than this. It tests the depth and sincerity of our love. But there is life in the gift we give.
So lovers wait for each other until they can see things the same way, or let each other freely see things in quite different ways. What do we lose when lovers hurt each other and cannot regain the balance and intimacy of the way they were? They have to wait—in silence—but still be present to each other until the pain subsides to an ache and then only a memory, and the threads of the tapestry can be woven together again in a single love story.
What do we lose when we refuse to wait? When we try to find short cuts through life, when we try to incubate love and rush blindly and foolishly into a commitment we are neither mature nor responsible enough to assume? We lose the hope of ever truly loving or being loved. Think of all the great love stories of history and literature. Isn’t it of their very essence that they are filled with the strange but common mystery—that waiting is part of the substance, the basic fabric—against which the story of that true love is written?
How can we ever find either life of love if we are too impatient to wait for it?
For all my fellow idiot-busters, this strip is for you!
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
I want to have another party here at home for the holidays, and I cannot decide what the theme would be. Last time's Eyelashes Party was such a success that the pressure for the next theme party is immense. Also, I haven't fully recovered yet from the financial damage of my dress, make-up, and wigs for that party.
Any thoughts, dear friends? The kitschier, the better!
2. Contact lenses?
4. Pregnant women?
5. Ball gowns?
6. Internet meme?
7. Impersonations? (My personal favourite.)
10. Gay Pride?
Seriously, any thoughts would be welcome!
I have been watching The A-List New York for the last few days, and I can say, with patent certainty, that this terrible show has become one of my guiltiest pleasures. It is a bad, bad reality show, but the level of entertainment it provides is sickening.
This show is cray-cray.
The show follows the lives of six gay men who are supposed to be the upper crust of New York's lifestyle circuit. They all claim to be the cream of the crop, but only two of the seven gay characters display an acceptable level of breeding. I also doubt that all of them are rich, because they all go to places none of the real socialites visit.
My favourites are Ryan and Derek. Ryan is a married salon owner, and Derek is a model turned casting agent. I think Ryan has money only because he is married to a finance manager, and Derek has money because, well, daddy has money. These are the two whom I think are better-bred (not necessarily well-bred).
I love Ryan because he is genuinely kind, and I love Derek because of his bone structure.
The conflicts of these men's lives are so ridiculously juvenile, I cannot help but find out how they resolve the matters or elevate them. Their dialogue is so dumb, it pains me to listen to them speak. However, like the putrid smell under my finger nail that I keep sniffing, I cannot part myself from watching this show.
This show is so gay, all pronouns must be changed to, "she." The characters are so gay, they fart rainbows. THis show makes me so gay, I exhale glitter.
January is as exciting as pie. Drag Race Season 3 will premier!
My, my, my. They are working it this season. The teaser is life-threateningly intense!
The cast of Season 3.
There is a Filipina in the mix! Her name is Manila Luzon! She is from New York, and she is the wife of RuPaul's Drag Race Season 2's Sahara Davenport! A real case of ki-ki!
She reminds me of Ciara Sotto and some beauty queen/actress whose name I cannot remember.
I haven't picked out my favourite yet, given that their interviews
aren't as meaty as I had hoped.
Her Majesty, RuPaul.
I don't know about you, but I am already going to lose sleep with excitement over Season 3!
I will be the first to tell anyone that Lost had a brilliant first season. The storylines were taut, and the characterizations made me imagine that I was watching the stories of close friends unfold. Season 1 of Lost got me hooked for the good direction, wonderful writing, and the amazing cinematography.
Fast forward to the suceeding seasons, and Lost has reduced itself to a money-making enterprise fueled by the writers' insipidity and the directors' pandering to pedestrian sensibilities. Episode after episode, the people behind Lost betray our confidence in their capability to deliver a decent show. At one point, they decide to take the direction to time travel and blowing the island up.
I have just started watching Season 6, and I am relieved that this is the last season. No more keeping us up at night for a catharsis that is not at all cathartic.
I have applied for a leave for the next two weeks, and I had intended to use the time to relax at work. I know, it sounds bizarre, but my idea of going on leave is to go very, very slow at work instead of staying at home or going on vacation, dying of paranoia at how many issues are bursting beyond my control until I get back.
I went in at 1.00PM today, and I was out before 4.00PM, and it felt so good. Going home early gives me the illusion that I am so good at my job, I can afford to leave before 5.00PM.
Yes, dear friends, I am on leave for the next two weeks. Issues, please stay away from me.
I am working with a non-native English speaker, and he is leaving the country in a few days. Our immigration contact advised, "Please be sure that your passport is valid until you are able to get back home to India."
To this, the Indian gentleman politely replied, "My passport is valid until 2017. I think that is enough time for me to reach India."
This time last year, I was shopping for my outfit at the office for Halloween. I came to work as a slutty feathered showgirl, and I had everyone's attention since I was the only one in drag. I can still remember the looks on those old women's eyes.
See my transition through my years of doing drag. I was never a beautiful drag queen, and I am still a work in progress.
My best drag performance still.
The 2010 Eyelashes Party.
Put it in a love song.
The family that drags together stays together.
Hush, hush. There is no other way. I got the final say.
She murdered Big Bird and soaked him in grease.
During chemo, with tristantrakand.
Wearing my sister's gown, styling mine.
For the Olongapo Pride March, hair and make-up by a friend.
Again with tristantrakand, Halloween 2006.
I am only sharing this because I am skinny in this pic. Yes, I used to be blond.
The very first time I ever did drag.
My birthday 2010.
Boobs inspired by Gina Pareno
She's got something dirty on her mind.
She's got more legs than a bucket of KFC.
I'm getting sexier by the minute.
My ugliest look in drag EVER. I was drunk here, anyway.
Waiting for midnight with Deutsche Bank's M.
Channeling Sporty Spice.
Christmas, and I decided to be the mirror ball.
She just got her cherry popped.
My passion for Procter and Gamble has been ablaze ever since I took a course at the Ateneo sponsored by P&G. The class was nothing more than sales management, but the gems I picked up from that class taught me what sets P&G apart from other multinationals. Working with the cream of P&G's crop, I feel nothing but pride to be interacting with people who are bringing improvements to our lives.
This morning, we were asked to attend online the 2010 Shareholders' Meeting of P&G. I personally think that it was a brilliant move from managment to let us into that meeting; the speeches made me feel very proud to be involved with the company's intelligent, responsible, and human endeavours. Every tiny action performed by every individual is geared toward touching people's lives, and improving life.
P&G is committed to saving one life every hour by 2020. Clean water will be provided to communities that have little to no potable water. Water cleansing tablets will be distributed at cost (10 cents per tablet) to save lives of millions of children, especially those communities in Central Asia. A factory is in the works in Singapore to address the needs of these communities.
P&G hires only the best people in every community, and lends their services toward improving life and touching millions of lives. The commitment to save one life every hour will happen, because the best people in the world, propelled by the most driven company in the universe, will make it happen.
I feel blessed to be involved with the best multinational organization in the world.
There is an unmistakable elegance about shoes: their unparalleled eloquence to express one's personality invites the world to peek into one's soul.
Brian Tenorio's Eight-leather Monster.
My love affair with shoes began from when I was a small boy. My mother would take me to the department store once every year to buy one pair of leather shoes. Those shoes had better last the entire year, or else I would upset my mother who worked on a budget calculated to the last centavo. Since the shoes were priced very modestly, this pilgrimage to the department store was guaranteed annually.
Every single year, I would face the gut-wrenching responsibility of picking, among the hundreds of options, just one pair of shoes. It was very difficult to pick; in my eyes, all the shoes were stunning. However, I could have only a pair, only one. It was then that I wondered, "How would it be like if I owned more than one pair of shoes?"
My first pair of designer shoes came as a birthday gift from a then-boyfriend. It was a pair of black leather shoes made with a single piece of leather, following a silhouette with an oblique edge. The shoes outlasted the relationship before they were lost to wear and tear. I have gotten over the loss of the relationship, but I still ache for the demise of those shoes.
Once, I travelled to Hong Kong for a vacation, and happened upon a store that made python skin shoes. It was my first time to actually see shoes made with python leather, and I had to still my beating heart. Within the few minutes that followed, I emptied my wallet commissioning the shoemaker to deliver three pairs. That purchase cost me half a year's rent, but those shoes and I had a wonderful run for many years.
My all-time favourite pair of shoes was made with python skin that was treated with indigo dye; the shoes wrapped around my feet better than the skin might have hugged the python. On top of the scandalous colour and the sinful material, the silhouette of that pair was made to slice shadows. It was the pointiest shoe I had ever worn, and it challenged flat surfaces with its hazardous toe. Despite its death-like grip on everyone's attention, I preferred to wear it even in my most mundane days.
Among the more notable pairs that I own are gold sheepskin, orange croc leather, and a Chelsea boot in black and chrome/silver. I attended a fashion show once, and practically had to beg my friend to get me the six of the eight pairs I wanted from the show. I got what I wanted, and wore all pairs in the first four days.(They were very cheap pairs, don't worry.)
My fascination for shoes is yet to take a back seat. It is a love growing in intensity as I advance in age and taste. Apparently, the boy in the department store from years ago is still longing to try on more shoes before he finds interest in other pursuits.
My shoes do not just have a personality, they bleed character. Every color, material, silhouette, and attribute of my shoes point to some truth about me. My shoes are an amplified reflection of everything that is me.
As I said, shoes have an unrelenting desire to betray one's personality. To see shoes that I wear is to accept an invitation to the insanity that is my life.
Writing is a pursuit not suitable for the happy; happy people have the most uninteresting stories to tell.
There is very little to write about happiness. When one is happy, one eventually stops drawing attention to one's internal struggles. The world seems like a bright and beautiful place, and the happy relish this slice of paradise and barely find anything worthy to discuss. Happiness draws one out, toward the world, as it were. Pain, on the other hand, reels world into one's center.
Pain is a writer's bedfellow. All writers search for that one point in every story that piques an audience's interest. What, pray tell, could be more evocative, than a broken heart or an unfulfilled desire? Writing inspired by the joys of curtain shopping hardly qualifies as evocative.
Writing must command its audience into participation; happiness stirs as much emotion as a wooden spatula hanging on a kitchen wall. Fear and hurt attack an audience like an wounded lioness her hunter; happiness glides through its audience like breezy air on a humid day.
Writing is a pursuit for those familiar with pain, those who, at some point, have spat pain in the face and lived to tell the story. The most poignant writing involves stories that are framed by an experience of despair, emptiness, meaninglessness, and unfathomable sadness.
The sad have the most to offer in writing. The writing of the sad are the most legible testaments of the human condition.
I may have tried the best chocolate in Asia. Pave Chocolates in 93 East Coast Road holds the darkest hot chocolate I have had in my life. It is heaven in a cup; it doesn't hurt that the staff are intensely friendly and accommodating.
My apologies to tristantrakand
for forgetting to take you there when you were here. Kisses to bubbletangle
for insisting on having a date tonight. [DATE???]
I am still ovulating from the sip of hot chocolate I had tonight.
Pave also sells the best hazelnut butter in the universe: it is sugar-free, and preservative-free. I can imagine how well it would go with warm pandesal.
OMG. I cannot wait to get pandesal. Hazelnut butter mixed with dark chocolate spread over warm pandesal. (Excuse me, I need a napkin.)
In the spirit of celebrating the 70th anniversary of P&G Philippines, I am sharing this quote from P&G's Director for Global Human Resources.
"Let me know when employees of P&G are rude. Rude people do not belong to this company."
I received my P&G access after waiting for almost six months! Well, compared to my friends at work, my application took much less time than most.
I now have absolute access to P&G systems! Back to the Proctoid groove!
I had a good deal with idiots at work today. I encountered extremely demanding morons who were practically snatching money from my company as if they were entitled to it. Given that I love my company as much as I do, I wanted to spit at their faces and tell them how embarrassed I am that they are behaving the way they do. If their managers saw how they were treating the company, they would feel ashamed that they hired these greedy cretins.
I just hate, hate, hate when people take advantage of someone being kind to them. Note to you, penny-starved social climbers: the company is too kind to you; you do not DESERVE any of these things. You have a job because the company is kind to you. If you feel like you have to steal from the company to compensate you for your services, hey, the competitor is hiring.
Anyway, I just needed to get that out of my system.
I was at the gym tonight, and there were a lot of men stripping buck naked like it was a nude beach. One of the things that caught me by surprise when I was new was the relentlessness of walking naked at the gym lockers. I know, I know. I'm being provincial for finding naked people in the locker room weird, but I am a Filipina raised conservatively by my mother. So I secretly watch these naked boys dangle their stuff. Ho hum.
I was cooking adobo tonight, and half of the pork ended up in the trash. I left the kitchen with the pork sauteing in its own fat, and, when I got back, the bottom pile was reduced to carbon.
I was fuming mad that the pork went to waste. It was really good meat that I picked out from the supermarket, with the fat perfectly layered between the skin and meat. It was the most perfect pork belly I have seen in a long time, and it burned.
Food has been wasting in this household for way too long. Tubs of rice have been thrown out because they spoiled, piles of vegetables have been sent to the garbage because they were rotten, and heaps of leftovers have have become the refuge of generations of mold.
My patience is at an end. I hate wasted food. Wasted food is money in the trash.
I work very intensely during weekdays. I pull my usual lazy self together, get dressed, put on a happy face, and work like a cow to make my company, my bosses, and my friends at work happy. I take my job seriously up to the point that I take it as a personal insult if other people make my job unnecessarily difficult.
With that intensity, I expect a reprieve when I get home. My house is where I regroup and decompress my tightly wound self; like a phone to its charger, I re-energize myself when I am at home.
This is the reason why I hate, hate, hate when there is trouble at home. If my sanctuary is disrupted to the point that it becomes stressful, I feel like going on a rampage. I feel like something I had worked so hard for during the week is stolen from me. I feel cheated of the prize that I had anticipated all week.
Today, I planned on going to the gym for a much-needed workout. I brought all my accoutrements, gym bag heavy with the whole workout enchilada. Then, we had a sudden change in plans due to a dinner guest. I decided to go home instead, hoping to relax. Imagine my disappointment when I was forced to deal with tantrums.
I do not really ask for special care when I get home. I do not want a slave at my beck and call. A simple let me be environment is more than enough.
Ugh, I was so annoyed that I skipped dinner, and now I cannot sleep, which annoys me more. Call me bratty, but this already threatens to become a sucky weekend.
We left early from work today, and made a hard stop at 5.00PM to throw a bridal shower for a friend at work. We skipped the predictable stripper, and decided to be the stripper ourselves. We took my first pole dancing class.
The instructor initially took us through hip throws, hair flips, steps around the pole, and all the basic steps. At this point, I had expiated my body of all moisture. As I wiped the pool of sweat around my pole, the instructor congratulated us for getting through the warm-up. (I went, "Seriously, bitch?")
We did a knee spin, the most basic pole move. This is the move that everyone attempts when provoked to harass a pole in clubs. We did pretty well, as the instructor noted that, usually, new students take one or two sessions to get through that basic move. We were promised another move in the same one hour session.
We gyrated our asses to En Vogue's Free Your Mind. No drag queen in her right mind would let go of the chance to be a tripper dancing to En Vogue, so out-whore everyone I tried. I was personally stunned that my friends from work, three of whom are strong contenders for Mother of the Year, put up challenging competition.
We were then taught how to do a Vanessa. (Why it's called a Vanessa, I am unclear about. I think there's this whore from the class who did it so perfectly, the move was named after her.) The entire body hangs from the right arm, and the full body weight is supported only by the back of the knee. Then, the other leg is taken up to mirror the supporting leg, forming a diamond shape between the legs. This pose also allows a good view of one's fallopian tubes.
The entire routine that took one hour to practice lasted for thirty seconds. I am bruised, skinned (I pelted my foot against an exposed bolt at the foot of the pole), and dead tired, but I am definitely signing up for this class.
Friends, please say hullo to Ms Mona Kee Kee Bonanza. She had her birthday a few weeks back.
I am terribly sorry.
Please pray for everyone who died yesterday, and for those who survived. Include their families in your prayers.
My friends were telling me yesterday that some people slept through Inception. They punctuated the statement with, "Ang bobo naman niyan." I love how Inception has become the latest IQ test among friends. Hahaha.
I finally got to see Inception, and I liked it. It was entertaining, and I spent the last few minutes at the edge of my seat. Occasionally, I would hold my breath, and I almost passed out in a couple of scenes. In terms of entertainment, I did get my fill with Inception.
The infinite loop that is the movie is a beautiful exercise, yes. I can understand why people feel so intelligent when they say they like the movie. As snotty as one would like to get, Christopher Nolan succeeds yet again in what Jessica Zafra would call, "pandering to the intelligent."
I know this will sound even snottier, but here goes: Inception was fun, but it did not exactly wring my head as much I had anticipated. It was complex, yes, but this is the sort of complexity we are trained to be good at in Philo classes in the university. Inception is good, yes, but it is not exactly life-changing. (In fairness to Inception, hardly any movie makes me compare it to my experience of philo classes at the Ateneo.)
Another bone to pick: Can we tone down on the blaring music? It was banging my head with a blunt object. It was lovely music, but it wasn't the right score. I would've felt more tension and swelling emotion if the silence took hold of most of the sequences.
The characters of the movie were under-developed or ignored; then again, they are not the star of the movie. Inception stars Christopher Nolan's brilliance at story-telling, and it shines in here.
We finally got a place to settle into. We moved to a bigger apartment, and our room is much, much more private this time. TO be honest, it feels like my house in Marikina (before it got flooded).
The layout is exactly the same as that house, only this time, the house is five times bigger. Our room is a little bigger than the Marikina house, but the layout is uncannily the same as the Marikina one. I am pretty excited, especially since I am a creature of habit, functioning only if my environment is familiar.
It has been three months since my husband and I moved in, albeit an unwitting arrangement. We have been doing well, and I am happy that things, however difficult now, are settling between us.
I have been chained to my BlackBerry for the last few months, and, I have to admit, it does not live up to the hype that promises it to be everything one ever wanted in a phone. My BB, in particular, fucks up almost everytime I have a critical need for it; while it is an entertaining gadget, it is hardly dependable. Well, either the unit I received is pretty fucked, or BB just fucked me over a hundred times.
Work has been -- well -- work. I missed the action our job has always entailed (having been away for a while), and working with bright people is very rewarding.
I have to say, though, that work has not exactly been a trip to the beach with shirtless surfer hotties. I have had my fair share of shitty times, and, most of the time, I owe it to my inability to adapt. I have been haunted by all shapes and sizes of insecurity, and it has been eating into me like carnivourous bacteria.
It has been a weird week; I barely had time to do anything, but I managed to do so much that I normally do not do. (Yes, I acknowledge that that has been a very confusing sentence.)
I have missed out on Twitter, FB, and my general internet presence. I have hardly had sleep, too. And now, I am already running late.
I hate this pace! I will catch up with everyone very soon. Tchao for now.
It is no secret that my sex life has always been, to say the least, anecdotal. I have had more than my fair share of sexual (mis)adventures, and I have been known to disclose more than I should about them.
The gorgeous Jake Gyllenhall and the brilliant Heath Ledger.
One of my favourite stories is when I had a series of major surgeries last year. I was diagnosed with cancer, and a huge lump was taken out of my chest. My chest was opened, the sternum cracked, and the lungs punched with three holes. My condition was eerily precarious. During the recovery period, I was told to stay in the hospital for about two weeks, where, every hour, a nurse would come in to check my vitals, i.e. my temperature, heart rate, and blood pressure.
I was in the bathroom a few days after my biggest surgery, and I heard the nurse coming into my room to check my vital signs. I rushed back from the bathroom into my bed before the nurse got there.
The nurse did his routine check of BP and pulse rate, and was terrified with the numbers he got. He immediately checked my eyes and my skin. "Sir Doni, your pupils are dilated and your skin is flushed and clammy. We need to call a doctor because your blood pressure and heart rate are alarmingly high. I think you are having a stroke."
I did not know how to break the news any more gently before he could call the doctor. "Nurse, please don't worry. I was just having sex in the bathroom right before you came in."
The nurse was stunned and did not know how to react; the look on his face was priceless. As soon as he recovered enough of his wits, he clumsily packed his implements, occasionally dropping an item or two in his haste to get out. He scampered out of my room so much faster than I could say, "Quickie."
I watched the poor soul awkwardly rush out. I was laughing so hard, I almost tore my stitches out.
I have amassed a sizeable collection of videos that a lot of you might find interesting. I do not have the patience to upload gigantic files, but I am still very eager to share copies with anyone who might be interested.
I am cataloguing some of the videos I have in my drive, and I am more than happy to send you copies. Just let me know how we can arrange for it. I can burn you copies on CDs, DVDs, or USB drives. If you have any other means, let me know. I would love to share these videos. All of the TV series have complete episodes.
I am giving copies out for free. Contact me via the comments section or over Twitter.
The videos I have are somehow difficult to find, seeing that it took me years before I actually found a copy of most of these. Some of the downloads took months, so I'd love to spare you the long wait.
1. MTV's Celebrity Deathmatch
2. MTV's Beavis and Butthead
3. Dexter's Lab
6. Avatar, the Last Airbender
7. Little Britain
8. Arrested Development
10. X-men, the Animated Series
I have lots more, so please let me know if you want others. There are up and coming videos; some of them are still downloading and should be ready in a week. (Daria! Frasier! Many more!)
I also have a wonderful collection of European films, mostly those the I have seen circulating international film festivals. (I have a special preference for Spanish-language films.)
I also have Pinoy films that are also hard to find. I will post a seaparate entry for those.
American films, I have in abundance. If you can think of the movie, I probably have it.
I've a few Asian films that are nice, too, but nothing too difficult to download. If you are tamad to download, I can still burn you a copy.
I have instructional videos, documentaries (Paris is Burning!), and TV features (Oscars, Grammies, Hope for Haiti, etc.).
Let me know what you want! I'll be happy to share.
I rarely have dreams, and, even more rarely, do I remember them enough to be able to retell the stories. I have always envied friends who can recount the dreams they had the night before; I am the sort that forgets his dreams the moment he wakes up.
For two consecutive nights, though, I have been having really vivid dreams. Since my computer is practically sitting on my bed 24/7, I have been able to document my dreams. Surprisingly, though, my dreams for the past two nights star legally_bald. (No, you filthy bitches. It's not that kind of dream.)
legally_baldDream sequence 1.
Last Thursday, I dreamt that I was playing tumbang preso and relay race with the cast of Eat Bulaga. We were in Eastwood, right in front of the Citibank building and Sbarro. While we were in the heat of the game, legally_bald
dropped by to say hullo to me. He was wearing loafers, shorts, a V-neck pink shirt, and a jacket, and he wasn't wearing his glasses. He was telling me that he just started working with Lonely Planet, and is on assignment in Eastwood. After the small chit-chat, he left.
For some reason, we found each other again at a sari-sari store as I was looking for a bottle of C2. He again made me chica, and I woke up.Dream sequence 2.
I was having a really terrible day yesterday, and I woke up in the middle of the night feeling really frustrated. I spent a couple of hours going online, and went back to sleep out of exhaustion. My dream sequence seamlessly blended from reality, and I actually thought I was talking to legally_bald
visited me in my house here in Eastwood. For some reason, he had keys to my apartment, so he just materialized in my room. I was wearing a ratty shirt, so I told him I just needed to change. When I got up from my bed, I noticed that there were splatters and drips of blue paint on my walls, even behind the many frames over my bed. I also noticed that a paint job was on its way in my room. I was so scared that something was happenning in my room, and I had no idea how it was happenning.
I was freaking out, and I told legally_bald
. He was just looking at me pitifully, but was not saying a word. It was like he knew what was going on, but could not tell me just yet.
I went to my closet to look for a nicer shirt; as I was going through my clothes, there was an intense feeling of deja vu: like I had done all that before. When I got out to sit with legally_bald
, my lola, my mum, my aunt, and the rest of my relatives were pouring into my room, giving me tearful hugs. legally_bald
had let them in. I had no idea what was going on.legally_bald
felt jahe to be in my house with my family, so he was excusing himself. I didn't want him to leave before we could chat, so I followed. My mum, then, grabbed my arm and told me, "Anak, ngayon ka lang nagising since Ondoy." Apparently, I had been in a coma since September, and I somehow knew what was happening around me even though I was not fully awake. Hence, the deja vu.
I felt a shiver all over my body, and the next moment, I was up and whimpering from the terror.
I told legally_bald
about my dreams, and, going beyond the sheer freakishness of some strange drag queen dreaming about him, he responded kindly.
There is nothing more addictive than seeing well-known celebrities (however washed out they may be) to be essaying into something they are not famous for. On top of the excellent showmanship and classic tastefulness of the show, this is the reason that Dancing with the Stars has been a big hit to me.
The tenth season of Dancing with the Stars features an array of big names: Buzz Aldrin the eighty year old astronaut, Kate Gosselin the divorced(?) mother, Evan Lysacek the (gay?) figure skater, Niecy Nash the hilariously chunky home improver, Pamela Anderson the eternal bombshell, and Nicole Scherzinger the Pussycat Doll, to name a few. (Digression: My mum said, "Anak, panoorin mo yung Dancing with the Stars. Kasali si Nicole, yung Pussycat." Me: "Ha?" Mama: "Si Nicole, yung bida ng Pussycat!" Me: "Ma, Pussycat Dolls.")
My favourites so far are the brilliant Evan Lysacek and Nicole Scherzinger. They really light up the dance floor with their presence! Every season, the producers get for the competition a really good dancer or two, and, this season, the best two are them. They nail their technique down, and give the dance their own flair.
Niecy Nash and Pamela Anderson are surprisingly very entertaining, too! They may not get their footwork down pat, but their gigantic personalities dominate the floor when they are dancing. I adore Niecy Nash's pre-performace interviews, and I die with Pamela Anderson's constant innuendoes!
The biggest disappointment this season are Beverly Hills 90210's Shannen Doherty and Kate Gosselin. Shannen, to my relief, got booted out after the first episode. That woman cannot dance even if her career depended on it. She puts on a straight face and says, "I did it for my dad," but one can see her gnashing her teeth for not understanding what the judges really wanted.
Kate Gosslin dancing takes a lot of endurance. *cue to get creative here* Kate wobbles on the dancefloor like a yeti pregnant with octuplets; she cannot move her hips, her arms, her legs, and her neck. She is so stiff that, without her sequined dresses, she could easily be mistaken for evidence that Big Foot is out there.
I love, love, love the perennials of this show. Tom Bergeron is pure genius of hilarity as a host of this very tasteful program. Brooke Burke is an intelligent choice as the sophisticated foil to Bergeron's classy humour.
Carrie Ann Inaba, Samantha Harris (co-host before Season 10), Tom Bergeron, and Brooke Burke
And the judges, oh the judges! They are nothing short of impressive and interestingly smart. Being accomplished dancers themselves, they are qualified to make comments on the contestants' performances.
Carrie Ann Inaba, Len Goodman, and Bruno Tonioli
A note to the professional dancers, though. I know that there is an adrenaline rush after your performances, and it is so easy to get very enthusiastic during interviews; curb this enthusiasm. You are there as a frame to the painting that is your celebrity partner; we are not watching the show for your wit and personality. Save your eloquence for the dancefloor. That being said, it won't hurt if you showed a bit more dignified intelligence during your interviews.
Dancing with the Stars airs every Monday and Tuesday in the US. My mum and I, separated by continents, are hooked on watching the show religiously.
To do HIV testing and monitoring, one is required to undergo counselling with a health care professional before the blood samples are taken. A doctor, nurse, or health care worker can brief one with the procedure, the meaning of the test results, and the options one has after getting the results. As a routine, sensitive questions about one's sex life are supposed to be asked.
Today, I encountered a fumbling nurse who was clearly not too familiar with her HIV education. I would be terribly angry if her situation were not too sad.
I was asked to tick which risky behaviour I was engaging in. My options were
1. heterosexual sex with HIV+ partner
2. heterosexual sex with multiple partners
3. homosexual sex with HIV+ partner
4. homosexual sex with multiple partners
5. drug use
6. blood transfusion
I refused to answer the form, and I declined to respond to the nurse who repeated the question. I did not tick any options because
1. I am not any of the above. I am a happily married man, and am more sexually monogamous than swans.
2. the options are politically incorrect and offensive to gay men. Being homosexual does not put me at greater risk. Engaging in homosexual sex does not expose me more to the HIV virus. Question: Why does this form distinguish between heterosexual and homosexual sex?
I told the nurse my concern, and she clumsily said, "Sir, we need to ask these questions to establish if you are promiscuous." Normally, I would scream, but this little girl just did not know any better.Promiscuous
is a relative, non-scientific term. It connotes judgment on the amount of sexual activity one is having. To call another promiscuous
suggests that he/she is a slut.
Personally, I have no issue being called promiscuous; I would wear that label proudly if I were. My issue with the situation is that the nurse is a health care professional; it is part of her job not to say things like promiscuous
. If I were made of weaker stuff, I would have left and missed my HIV test, never finding out if I were putting people around me at risk.
The nurse went on to say that she needs to know my sexuality for her to discuss my options with me. "Sir, are you bisexual?"
Again, I refused to answer.
1. I do not see how the particulars of my sexual activity are any different from those of my heterosexual peers. If the nurse wanted to educate me, she would have asked me if I had penetrative sex (giver or receiver), if I had anal sex (giver or receiver), if I swallowed, if I rimmed, if I engaged in oral sex. Asking me if I were gay and then assuming what I did during sex is prejudicial, politically incorrect, and tasteless.
2. I strongly believe in this mantra: Unless you are going to have sex with me or setting me up with someone, you have no business asking me if I were gay or not.
3. The nurse asked me if I were bisexual instead of asking me if I were gay is her attempt at "softening the blow." She was careful in offending me, so adding the presumption of heterosexual sex in an "Are you gay?" question is deemed less offensive. I appreciate the kindness, but I find it offensive when people think I sleep with women. Being gay is not lower than bisexuality in the hierarchy of sexual orientation. Newsflash: there is no hierarchy.
Health care professionals must always remember that HIV/AIDS is a very sensitive topic for many people, and utmost care is necessary in handling situations concerning a person's health. Patients, too, need to know what HIV testing and monitoring entails. The testing requires a lot of sensitive information, but not all sensitive information needs to be disclosed. If you are uncomfortable about any questions, ask about its value to the testing. Sensitive information should never be demanded if it serves no purpose other than satisfying curiosity.
Statement of Support of Ang Ladlad Partylist for the National HIV and AIDS Summit.
The December 2009 IHBSS report of the National Epidemiology Center of the Department of Health revealed that men who have sex with men (MSM) had the highest reported increase in HIV infections starting 2006. Of these, the most vulnerable age group are young people between 15-30 years old. The IHBSS also noted that an increasing number of men engage in sexual activities with other men, in exchange for monetary and non-monetary favours, and not necessarily because they are gay or bisexual.
Condom use during sexual contact between same-sex partners and opposite-sex partners is the best protection to combat HIV infection, as well as other sexually transmitted infections such as Hepatitis B, Syphilis, and Gonorrhea, among others. According to the United Nations Joint Program on HIV/AIDS (UNAIDS) and the World Health Organization (WHO), condoms are still “the best defense” in preventing HIV and other STIs. Despite sound scientific evidence on the efficacy of condoms for HIV/STI prevention, the Catholic Church, through the Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines (CBCP), continues to oppose any moves towards a condom use promotion policy. Meanwhile, the Government is mandated to provide basic, factual and effective health information and services to the public. Yet, in some instances and in certain areas, they have been threatened by the clergy of ex-communication, refused the holy communion or subjected to negative campaigns, particularly in this election season.
Ang Ladlad Partylist, a national organization of gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgenders (LGBT), unequivocally supports HIV prevention efforts to curb and arrest the increasing number of HIV infection among MSM, transgenders, injecting drug users, sex workers, and other key affected populations. The spread of HIV can be stopped and prevented through correct and factual education of young people and the rational- thinking public as whole.
One of the platforms of Ang Ladlad is to provide HIV and AIDS health information, counseling and legal aid to LGBTs. We support the HIV and AIDS response, under the leadership of DOH Secretary, Esperanza Cabral, and other like-minded partners from government agencies.
Ang Ladlad also calls on the CBCP to cease its theocratic imposition and respect the right to health of all people, including having access to safe and scientifically sound HIV prevention information and services.
Together with other civil society organizations, we support the call for a comprehensive national HIV and AIDS response.
Ms. Bemz Benedito: 0917-9984584
Mr. Danton Remoto: 09189793665
Since I have been playing catch with death for the last couple of months, I think it would be reasonable to list down what I would want to happen in case I get tagged. Please don't cry; pamahiin says that preparing for one's death actually upsets death's schedule and one gets to live longer.
I have attended more funerals than any party girl should ever have to, and I have been mortified by the posturing deemed necessary by the dearly departed's family. Most of the time, the services are so opposed to the person's character, I have to check if I were in the right funeral.
Needless to say, I would never want my final moment to be marred by the interpretation of "what Doni would have wanted" by people who barely know me. So here I go, listing down things I want, with details stated as explicitly as an acceptable blog entry will allow.
1. No loud crying in my wake and/or funeral, please. No wailing, throwing oneself at my coffin, or tearing of one's hair. I really hate grand displays of sorrow. A tear and a half mourned silently is more my thing. I hate crying at airports, so one can just imagine how much I would hate for anyone to caterwaul at my funeral.
2. Please do not spend big for my coffin or funeral service. I'm already dead; I don't think it would make a difference if I were in an expensive coffin or snuck into a rusty freezer. Besides, I am pretty sure the people around me could use the money more than I could use a lovely coffin.
3. No playing of Hindi Kita Malilimutan or Kenny Rankin's What Matters Most. I may have lived a cliche life, but this is one of the moments that I would rather be non-conformist.
4. I would appreciate it if all my friends could drop by for a visit. The funeral is not a requirement anymore, but a visit at the wake will be much appreciated.
5. If it's not too much to ask, I'd love to be cremated. If I can smell like the lechon I love so much, it would be so much better. (I won't mind going underground, either. If I could just have it my way, cremation would be better preferred.)
6. I do not want to wear a barong. I hardly wore it when I was living; I see no point in me wearing one for the rest of eternity. I'd prefer something I wore a lot while I was alive.
7. It's ok for guests to laugh. In fact, I'd prefer it. I enjoy hearing the laughter of friends and family; I don't think death will change that.
8. Let us keep the religious ceremonies at a minimum. I love praying and attending mass just as much as the next guy, but I just don't want my guests to feel forced into religious service just because I'm dead. If you must have a service, please be reminded that it will be more for you, not for me. I would probably be rolling my eyes as you are doing it. Hahaha.
9. Please have as many pictures as possible of me when I was alive. My last few days with my people had better be spent talking about me. Hahaha.
10. If my corpse looks ugly, close the goddamn casket. No make-up will ever EVER make me look good when I'm dead and ugly.
11. Please do not serve food. It's a wake, not pica-pica. No eating inside, please.
12. Please allow my family and friends to get very busy with preparations related to my death. They need that kind of stress to distract from the sadness.
13. Please donate my clothes to charity. It's freaky to wear your dead relative's or friend's clothes.
14. Garage sale of my things, perhaps? Sell my expensive stuff if possible; I understand that sentimental value is attached to my person, not anyone else's.
15. Please have someone attend to my online accounts. I spent a significant amount of my life online; it would only be proper if my online life was given the dignity it deserves.
16. Please light a candle or whisper a prayer for me whenever you can. I know it might be freaky to talk to a dead loved one, so prayers and candles are more than enough.
17. I will write a separate note detailing some instructions for my family and friends. It's just too embarrassing and potentially relationship-breaking to discuss some matters in this blog. Hahaha.
18. Please never forget me.
This makes me feel so proud being Atenean. People make mistakes there, and they take responsibility. MVP, Fr Ben is right; our respect for you has not diminished.
Dear Father Ben
I have been told last night that portions of my graduation remarks - in particular my address to the Schools of Humanities and Social Sciences - had been borrowed from certain other graduation speeches.
I had taken a look at the side-by-side comparison @ Facebook, and must admit to this mistake.
For this, I wish to express my sincerest apology to you, the University and to the 2010 graduating class.
I have had some help in the drafting of my remarks, but I take full and sole responsibility for them.
In mitigation perhaps, the body and substance of my speech represented my own story and my thoughts. And I have labored long hours to get those speeches done. It is my hope that their impact has not been lost on the graduates. That said, this post fact event I am certain has devalued the words I have uttered at graduation - whether original or copied.
I am told further that comments posted on Facebook have started to spill beyond graduation, and are now alluding to my misconduct with respect to Meralco, with former President Erap, and so forth. Under the circumstances, it is best for the Ateneo and myself to shorten the life of this controversy and prevent it from spinning out of control.
Fr Ben, this has been a source of deep personal embarrassment for me.
I am truly regretful for it. I already have too many battles to fight, and some of them I wish not to have to fight. In this instance, I do not want to, and would seek only the honourable and principled way out. The matter at hand may rest after this public apology, but it gives me a lot of personal discomfort to continue to be closely involved with Ateneo affairs after this incident. I am afraid the damage has been done - wala talaga akong mukhang ihaharap pagkatapos.
With much regret, Fr Ben, I would wish to retire from my official duties at the Ateneo.
With all good wishes to you and to our graduates.
M. V. P.
I received your apology just a few minutes ago and feel how deeply embarrassed and pained you are by this event. We realize that this was a mistake and we respect and appreciate your taking responsibility and your immediate apology.
At the same time, we know that this happened without your full awareness, though you take full and sole responsibility. Thus this does not diminish our admiration and respect for your person and for your care and accomplishments for our country and for the Ateneo. In fact, your acceptance of responsibility and apology command our utmost respect.
In reading again through your speeches, we also see that indeed the main part of your speeches were your story and your thoughts. We thank you for taking so much time to craft them and to share them with us and our graduates. We are deeply touched by this sharing of yourself.
Again I realize how profoundly embarrassed you are by this event and that you believe that resigning from official duties at the Ateneo is the principled thing for you to do. However, reflecting on the events and circumstances, I cannot quite agree, and I believe with many others that what is appropriate is the apology you have given. Neither can I agree with you that "wala talaga akong mukhang ihaharap pagkatapos." I would thus like to take up your retiring from official duties at the Ateneo with our officials and Board of Trustees and discuss it further with you.
It is Easter Vigil and may the Risen Christ be Light to you.
Fr. Ben, S.J.
If Adam Carolla were only Pinoy, he would not be called a racist. He would have a career as a courageous pundit. Aminin.
Like any other slur, take out the offensive stuff, Adam Carolla does have a point. Let's take a step back, and use this opportunity to reassess our stand as a nation.
If Manny Pacquiao loses, our country would spiral down into a national depression, and that
I have been absent online due to Globe not doing its job again. My internet died more than a week ago, and Globe still refuses to fix my connection. I am so tired of being angry. I have been crying due to the stress that is definitely uncalled for.
I have been sick recently. The cough and colds wouldn't go away. I'm also rattled because my 2010 flu shot probably needs to get done, too.
If anyone can help me get my internet back, please do. My disappointment with Globe is intense; I do not deserve to feel this terrible if I am paying Globe for its services.
ETA: My internet got back four hours after I wrote this post. Thank you, dear friends, for pulling strings. Globe, it is embarrassing that your customers have to know people for you to do your job.
Heto ang limang piso. Bili kayo ng tig-iisang kausap ninyo.
In other news, I saw a small concert in UP last night. (I will post pics as soon as my office friend uploads.) The performance of the choir was good, and I think they should travel more so they get to learn from other groups. They have a long way to go, but they are already good as they are.
One can clearly see that the group was having fun. They performed classic choral adaptations of Manila, Mahirap Talagang Magmahal ng Syota ng Iba, Bridge Over Troubled Water, and Let It Be. They enjoyed their performance, and they danced for their life.
The mothers behind me gave me a live blow by blow commentary on the performance. At one point, one mum said, "Ay, ang taba-taba naman niyan. Ay, aba! Kakanta na si Roderick Paulate!" pertaining to a big girl and one gay guy who was about to sing.
When Bridge Over Troubled Water played toward the end of the program, the other mum gushed, "Wow! Favourite song ko! Ayan, sulit na ang Php 100.00 ko [na ipinambili ng ticket]."
Mother, sana sinabi mo na Bridge Over Troubled Water lang ang hinihintay mo. Tinext na lang sina kita. (You would've spared me two hours of your insipid commentary.)
Sweet Lord, I was wearing my Gucci to the event, and this mum was practically heckling behind me. Kaloka.
Recently, I revived my love affair with classical music, particularly arias performed by women. I have always loved the Korean Sumi Jo, and the hair-raising Cecilia Bartoli. Recently, I have noted the performances of Danielle de Niese and Katherine Jenkins.
The Royal Variety Show 2009 performance of Katherine Jenkins stole my heart. The singing was not particularly good (in fact, it was horrendous), but the stage performance was to die for. The bakla levels were so over the top, I think my pancreas imploded. Watch until the end, because I assure you, fellow gay men, that your panties will be wrung.
I love living here in Eastwood. I've been here only a couple of months, but the feeling of familiarity is already very reassuring. I always, always bump into somebody I know whenever I go out, and I love it. Everybody knows where I live, and I do not need to give detailed instructions on how to get here. I love it that most of my friends are just a call away from having dinner at my house. I love having friends over! And I love cooking for them!
Clearly, my sense of essay construction is dead, but you all get the point that I like it here.